“I’m sure he’s just nipped out for a fag,” her mum reassured her. “He seemed a bit edgy.” Drunk as a sailor on payday, more like, she almost added; but there was no point in upsetting Keeley any more than she already was.
“I’ll kill him if he messes this up,” Keeley fumed. It’d be just like Dominic to do a runner and embarrass her in front of everyone. She gathered up her voluminous Balenciaga skirts and sailed out of the dressing room to hunt him down.
But Dominic was nowhere to be found.
Furious, Keeley stopped near the broom closet to calm her shattered nerves and decide what to do next, when she heard a strange sound. It was rhythmic and steady, punctuated with whispery giggles and the odd moan. She stared at the closed closet door in dawning horror. Surely not even Dominic would be so bold, so brazen, and on their wedding day—?
Grimly Keeley flung the closet door open. At the sight that met her eyes, she screamed.
Dominic stood, mid-bonk with one of her bridesmaids, whose legs were wrapped round his waist. He looked over his shoulder at Keeley and blanched. “Sorry, love,” he mumbled to the girl as he pulled away and fumbled with his fly. “Gotta go. The bride’s just arrived.”
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Keeley said icily. “By all means, continue. Finish shagging the bridesmaid. Take all the time you need, because we’re not getting married, you skeevy bastard. Not today, not ever!” She turned and stalked away.
As the other bridesmaids emerged from the church and hurried towards her, clucking like outraged hens, Dominic finished doing up his trousers and staggered out into the vestibule. “Keels, wait!”
She cast a scalding glare over her shoulder. “Piss off, Dominic! It’s over between us!”
“Yeah, OK, it’s over, I get that.” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “Um…the thing is, what about the honeymoon, then?”
She came to a stop and turned slowly around. “What?”
“I mean, since it’s paid for and all, I thought I’d take—” he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the bridesmaid, smoothing down her skirts in the closet “—er, Victoria, right? Take Vicks with me to the Maldives instead. I mean, no sense in lettin’ the trip go to waste, is there—”
He never finished the sentence, because Keeley flew at him, shrieking like a demented banshee, and it took all five of the wedding party’s efforts to pull her off.
Alerted by the commotion, the tabloid reporters in attendance spilled out into the vestibule, and flashbulbs began popping. Blood was in the air. The story of Keeley and Dominic’s disastrous celebrity non-wedding, accompanied by lurid four-colour photos, would be the biggest, juiciest scandal to hit the UK since…well, since ever.
“I hate you, Dominic!” Keeley screamed. “I’ll make you pay for this, you bastard!”
Dominic staggered back towards the broom closet, momentarily blinded by flashbulbs. Shouldn’t have drunk that entire bottle of Chivas…probably not my best idea, upon reflection…
Too bad no one had any drugs on offer, he thought. He could really do with a bit of oblivion right about now.
Then he passed out.
Natalie sank into one of the chairs arranged in front of Rhys’s desk. “I can’t believe it,” she murmured, stricken. “How did things get so bad?”
He leaned back in his chair. “A lot of reasons…over-spending being only one of them.” He glanced pointedly at Natalie, and she flushed. “But mainly because Sir Richard wants things done as they’ve always been done.”
“He’s stubborn,” Natalie admitted. “I’m sure it’s hard for him, keeping pace with technology. His grandfather started D&J as a market stall in Portobello, did you know that?”
“Yes. And I know Dashwood and James received the royal warrant from Queen Elizabeth in 1956, which it still carries today.” He drew his brows together. “That’s something to be proud of. That’s why it’s imperative we keep these doors open.”
“Grandfather despises change.”
“Sir Richard is old, and tired,” Rhys said. He laced his hands behind his head. “Like Henry, he should have retired long ago. But with your father gone, there’s no one to take over. Of course…” He eyed her. “There’s you.”
“Me?”
“God knows why, but Sir Richard trusts you implicitly. You might be the answer to D&J’s troubles.”
Natalie stared at him in astonishment. “But I don’t know the first thing about the stores, or how they’re run.”
“Of course you do. You told me yourself you worked here every summer, in every department.” Rhys picked up his pen and toyed with it. “You can start with your grandfather. Show him some department store websites, and explain how D&J would benefit from a more robust presence on the internet. See if Dominic will do a television advert for the store, as a favour to you. I’ve no doubt he would.”
After slamming her door in Dominic’s face and telling him in no uncertain terms to piss off, Natalie wasn’t so sure. “Well,” she said slowly, “I know a few people. Poppy Simone, Keeley…”
“Poppy Simone…the supermodel?” Rhys was suitably impressed. “Good. We need to attract younger customers.”
“Maybe she’ll model a few outfits.”
“That’s an excellent idea. Of course we can’t afford to pay anything at this stage.”
“Oh, she’ll do it for me,” Natalie assured him. “I’ve known her and Pen for yonks.”
“Pen?”
“Her sister, Penelope. Pen’s very arty; she designs her own jewellery. Poppy’s the goofy one. Perhaps I can persuade Pen to design a few pieces for the store.” She beamed at him. “I never knew work could be so much fun!”
“It can be, if you’re motivated. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
The unexpectedness of the question left Natalie blinking. “I…erm, yes, I am.”
She imagined sitting across from him in a posh restaurant, sharing smouldering glances across a candlelit table as he fed her prawns and ripe, juicy strawberries…and then she imagined him leaning forward to kiss her, murmuring, ‘Miss Dashwood, you bewitching creature, you taste enticingly of strawberries…’
“I’ll have Gemma order takeaway,” Rhys announced. “Chinese, or Indian if you prefer. We can discuss our plans in the conference room.”
Her visions of candlelight and chateaubriand in a romantic French bistro vanished abruptly, replaced with takeaway cartons, plastic cutlery, and grease-spotted bags. A business dinner…why on earth had she expected anything more?
“I don’t like Indian takeaway.” She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling suddenly like a petulant child.
“Then Chinese it is.” Rhys leaned forward and pressed his intercom. “Gemma, order in some shrimp lo mein for me, and—” he paused to glance inquiringly at Natalie.
“Garlic broccoli,” she murmured sulkily.
“—garlic broccoli for Miss Dashwood, please. And spring rolls. You can leave once it arrives. Thanks.”
“Are you quite sure we can afford