It was six o’clock when Natalie finally slung her handbag over her shoulder and headed, exhausted, out the door.
Not only hadn’t she done her laundry yesterday – too busy rolling in the sheets with Rhys, she reflected guiltily – but she had nothing in her fridge for dinner…unless you counted a month-old stalk of asparagus and a half-bottle of Krug.
God, what she’d give for a nice, juicy takeaway burger right now…
A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to see Ian standing before her. Natalie came to an abrupt stop.
“Keep walking.” He took her elbow and propelled her forward; in his free hand he held a folder. “The park’s just ahead. Let’s find a bench and chat, shall we?”
Wordlessly Natalie walked with him, across the street and into Hyde Park, to an empty bench shaded by a lime tree. No one was about; only a young woman, walking her dog and talking on a mobile further along the path.
When they were seated, Ian handed her the folder. “Have a look. This should allay any doubts you might have about your father’s guilt.”
With trembling fingers, Natalie took the folder. She opened it and paged slowly through the photocopied ledger account entries. The method was clever. Small amounts of money – a hundred pounds here, fifty quid there – were paid out to various vendors.
“The vendors with tick marks—” Ian pointed to several entries “—billed the store and were paid, some in cash. But the vendors didn’t exist, and the cash went straight into your father’s pockets.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her expression confused. “Why would he risk everything for such small amounts of money?”
“It added up over time – two years, and almost £100,000 before he was found out. As to why—” he paused “—the money went to support his mistress.” He leaned back against the bench and rested his arm along the back. “I do hope she was worth it.”
Natalie stared at him in dismay. Everyone, including her mother, must have known that Roger Dashwood was having an affair.
Natalie clutched the folder. “I can’t do this.” She looked at Ian, her expression troubled. “I’ll get you money, a car, whatever you want. But I can’t do this to Alexa.”
“You don’t have a choice, Natalie. I thought you understood that.” His expression hardened. “I’m divorcing my wife just as soon as she has the baby. After a decent interval, we can announce our engagement. You might want to talk to Sir Richard and mention that I be considered for a partnership.”
“Grandfather will never make you a partner, Ian! You’re mad if you think he will.”
“Convince him. It shouldn’t be difficult. He adores you, after all.”
“There’s Alastair to consider, and the board will have to vote on it—”
“I’ve reserved a room at the Savoy on the night of the re-launch.” Ian went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “That’s two weeks from now. We can celebrate, you and I. Alexa will be in hospital having the baby. The doctors have scheduled her for a Caesarean.” He smiled. “Isn’t modern medicine wonderful?”
“Ian, you can’t really mean to do this—”
“Sorry, but it’s already done.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers; she was too numb to react. “I’ll see you at eight-thirty. Go to the desk and ask for Mr. Gordon’s room.” He smirked. “You have to appreciate the irony, surely?”
She glared at him. “I promise you, Ian, Rhys has nothing to worry about on your account.”
His laugh was low and ugly. “Got there first, did he? Well, Gordon might be first, but I’ll be the last.” Just before he stood, he added, “By the way – wear something sexy on the night. I like black heels and a short skirt, something a bit – tarty.” With another smirk, he turned and walked away.
Natalie shouldered her handbag and stood, her legs trembling and her thoughts racing.
What to do? She had to tell Rhys, she couldn’t let Ian do this. Being forced to sleep with him was bad enough; but she knew it wouldn’t end there. He’d force her to play out his twisted little game until he tired of her.
Ian Clarkson had to be stopped. But how? How?
The next morning, Alexa Clarkson left the obstetrician’s office after her appointment and went to the newsagents. She rang Ian’s mobile and got his voicemail.
“It’s me. I just got back from Dr. Assam’s office. Everything’s fine; I’m still on for the Caesarean next Saturday. Call me.”
Alexa put away her mobile. She had a sudden craving for a Cadbury Flake. She sighed. No wonder she was bigger than a Range Rover.
“Good morning,” she said as she entered the shop. She picked up a Flake bar, shrugged and added a Dairy Milk, and set them on the counter. “I’ll be right back.”
The Indian woman behind the till nodded but didn’t look up from her well-thumbed copy of Hello!.
Alexa studied the racks of publications. Klaus von Richter, the German designer, had assaulted a store clerk. The Sun caught her eye. ‘Natalie’s New Mystery Man?’ the headline read. Curious, she picked it up.
The grainy photo showed Natalie sitting on a park bench next to a tallish man in sunglasses. Although his back faced the camera, he definitely wasn’t Rhys. And they were kissing.
“Oho,” Alexa murmured, surprised. “Rhys isn’t enough for you, then, Nat?”
She tucked the Sun under her arm and scanned the other tabloids. When she saw the Daily Mirror, time ground to a halt. She picked it up with an unsteady hand. The photo showed Natalie sitting on the same park bench, her head bent forward in conversation with the same tall, brown-haired man. This photograph, however, was much sharper than the others.
The newsprint slipped from her nerveless fingers. She felt the baby move in her abdomen, and she let out a short, startled gasp. It couldn’t be. Yet there was no mistake.
The man in the photo with Natalie was her husband. Ian.
“Are you all right, miss?” the clerk asked, clucking with concern as she put aside her magazine and hurried over.
“I’m fine. I had a…contraction. It was probably one of those Braxton-Hicks things.” Alexa took the tabloid the clerk handed her. Methodically, she grabbed every tabloid with a photo of Natalie and Ian and carried them to the till.
The woman rang everything up. “Will this be all?”
“Yes,” Alexa said grimly. “This will be quite enough.”
Just before noon, Natalie arrived at Phillip Pryce’s atelier on Great Portland Street and went up to his workroom. Phillip was marking a bias-cut skirt with tailor’s chalk as the Scissor Sisters played at full volume.
He looked up as Natalie entered. “Well, hello, chickpea! I see our friend Klaus is in the news this morning.” He set aside his tailor’s chalk and lowered the stereo volume.
“Yes, he’s in a bit of hot water, isn’t he?”
“More like a vat, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer prick,” Phillip agreed. “But he’s not the only one who’s all over the tabs this morning. You are, too.”
Dismayed, Natalie set her handbag down atop a teetering pile of bolts of fabric. “I am? Why, what have I done now?”
“You’ve been a naughty girl. You were caught snogging a man on a park