Natalie grabbed her arm. “You know him?” she demanded.
“He did a shoot last month for the magazine. We featured his envelope clutch.” Holly sighed. “It’s brilliant.”
Natalie squealed in excitement. “I need to set up a meeting with him. Do you have his mobile number?”
“Hang on.” Holly picked up her mobile and scrolled to a number. “Phillip!” she said brightly after a moment. “Hi, it’s Holly James. Yes, the intern from BritTEEN. You remembered!” She beamed. “I’m sitting here with Natalie Dashwood. What? Yes, that Natalie Dashwood!” She covered the phone. “He knows who you are, from the tabloids.”
“Oh, my God,” Natalie groaned. “Tell him I’m NOT having an affair with Rhys!”
Holly obligingly relayed the info to Phillip. She giggled. “Phillip says if you’re not interested, he is. He says Rhys’s quite the gay icon… What? Well, Natalie wants to discuss a possible business partnership with you—”
They all heard an ear-splitting shriek of excitement emanate from Holly’s mobile.
“Great Portland Street? Okay, see you soon – and thanks!” Holly said goodbye and disconnected. “The party’s at his atelier, it’s on right now, and we’re all invited.”
“Oh, Hols, thanks!” Natalie leaned over and kissed her. “You’re brilliant. You’ve just solved my problem. Well, one of them, anyway. Now I just have to convince Phillip to partner with Dashwood and James on his first clothing line.”
“It won’t take much convincing. Phillip’s desperate to get his own line started, but he doesn’t have financial backing yet. You’ll be the answer to his prayers.”
They finished their drinks and stood up to leave, and Natalie’s gaze flickered to the bar. Nina and Rhys were gone.
She didn’t know whether she was disappointed or relieved.
They arrived at Phillip’s warehouse on Great Portland Street twenty minutes later. They heard the party before they found it; thumping bass emanated from the ground floor of the three-story building. Phillip wore black leather trousers and a jacket with skinny lapels, and his trademark Louboutin trainers.
“Lovely to meet you!” he shouted at Natalie as Holly introduced her. “Come upstairs, it’s quieter there.”
“I’ve followed you in the tabloids, Natalie,” Phillip said as they trooped after him up the narrow stairs to his top-floor workroom. He beamed at her over his shoulder. “I’m inspired by you. You’re even on a couple of my mood boards.”
She blinked. “Inspired by…me?” Blimey.
“Oh, yes. Your style – it’s refreshing, very Audrey-Hepburn-meets-Charlotte Gainsbourg.”
“Thanks,” she managed lamely. “I do my best.”
The truth was, mixing off-the-rack pieces with designer ones was a financial necessity. She had Gemma Astley – and several afternoons spent in High Street shops – to thank for her eclectic new look. Although their shopping expeditions began out of necessity – Rhys ordered Gemma to show Nat how to shop more frugally – by the time they’d hit Zara and Topshop and H&M, their frosty relationship thawed into a cautious friendship.
Phillip grabbed a bottle of champagne as his partner, Jacques, brought glasses and poured them all drinks. “Von Richter’s a genius, no question. When it comes to fashion, he’s not only brilliant; he’s an icon.” Phillip paused. “But he’s also a vindictive prick. And he hates me.”
“Why?” Natalie asked, surprised. “He was your mentor, after all. You interned with him at Maison Laroche, didn’t you?”
Phillip nodded. “Klaus designs haute couture pieces that cost thousands of pounds. The workmanship is superb and the materials are exquisite, and there’s a tiny group of women who can afford his clothing. But my fashion philosophy is quite different to his.”
“I see. And what’s yours?” Natalie asked, intrigued.
“I believe everyone should have access to beautiful, wearable clothes, not just the ladies-who-lunch set. There’s no reason clothing can’t be well made without costing the earth. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t put my name on a watered-down collection, and I don’t like cheap clothing or knock-offs, either. If you were to sum up my philosophy, I suppose you could say I’m a fashion egalitarian.”
“Liberté, égalité, Rodarte,” Jacques said dryly.
“Ooh, I like that!” Phillip exclaimed. He held up his glass in a mock salute. “Liberté, égalité, Versace!”
“What Phillip hasn’t told you,” Jacques added, “aside from the fact that he’s had a bit too much to drink, is that he dumped the old German queen to set up shop – and house – with me. So neither of us is at the top of Klaus’s hit parade.”
Natalie winced. “Oh. No wonder he looked like a thundercloud about to rupture when I mentioned Phillip’s name.”
“Don’t worry, chickpea.” Phillip clinked his glass of champagne against hers. “You and I will make beautiful clothes together…with or without Klaus von Arsehole’s approval.”
After concluding his business with Nina, Rhys accompanied her outside and flagged down a taxi. “Where to?” he asked her as he held the door open.
“My hotel room,” she said, and slid inside the cab. She eyed him expectantly. The invitation was plain.
“St. Giles Hotel, Heathrow,” he instructed the driver, and leaned back down. “Sorry, love. I’m…involved with someone. I’ll see you on Friday.” He shut the door.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” she pouted.
He nodded. “I’m sure. Goodnight.”
“Bonne nuit.” With a sigh of regret, she rolled the window up, and the taxi pulled away.
As he re-entered the Bull and Feathers for a nightcap before he returned to his hotel room, Rhys’s glance skimmed over the crowded interior.
He squeezed in at the bar and his glance strayed to the back corner table. A rowdy group of young men and women had replaced Natalie and her friends.
As he signalled the publican for his bill, Rhys couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved that she was gone.
Relieved, he told himself as he paid his tab. He could’ve had Nina in his bed tonight; that was plain enough. She was young, certainly, and lovely, and undeniably willing; but there was one thing she wasn’t.
She wasn’t Natalie.
“Are you free on Sunday?” Rhys asked as Natalie gathered up her things to leave the following Friday.
She picked up her sunglasses. “I might be,” she said cautiously. “I can’t work, if that’s what you’re asking—”
“I never work on Sunday. It’s my ironclad rule. No, I wondered if perhaps you’d go shopping with me.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re asking me to go shopping? You’re always on at me for overspending!”
“It’s my money we’ll be spending, not yours.”
“Well in that case, OK. Why are