The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy. Katie Oliver

walking her dog and talking on her mobile. She’d used her phone’s camera to snap a picture, of course.

      Natalie remembered Rhys’s remark, the first time they’d had lunch together.

       You never know when a photographer might be around, or someone with a camera phone.

      “So?” Phillip prodded as she stared at the tabloid. “Who is he?”

      “A friend,” Natalie said, hoping her voice sounded sufficiently casual, and tossed the Sun aside. “His wife’s pregnant, they’ve been trying for a baby for a long time. He was so happy that he got a bit carried away and kissed me. That’s all.”

      “Hmm.” Phillip didn’t look particularly convinced. “Well, if that’s your story… What can I do for you today?”

      “It’s about the clutch you’re making for the dress I’m wearing in the fashion show. I wondered…can you make an opening, in the lining? So I can slip something in behind it?”

      “I could,” he said doubtfully, “but why? Planning on hiding your vial of ecstasy in there? I didn’t think you were an ‘E’ sort of girl.”

      “I’m not! I just thought it might be a handy way to stash some extra cash. Or to hide one’s credit card if one’s in a dodgy neighbourhood.”

      Phillip raised a brow skeptically. “And does one often frequent dodgy neighbourhoods?”

      “One never knows,” Natalie said evasively.

      “I’ll do it for the sample,” he agreed, “but not for the production line. If I do, costs will triple, and Rhys Gordon will have my arse.” He smirked. “Ooh, now there’s a visual…”

      “You’re an angel – tarnished, but an angel.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Thanks. I love you, Phillip.”

      “Careful,” Jacques called out from the adjoining room, “I might get jealous.”

      “What size for the opening?” Phillip asked.

      She held up her mobile. “About this size, actually.”

      He nodded, a straight pin in his mouth as he readied a side seam for stitching. He removed the pin and thrust it in place. “You’re not telling me what this is really about, are you?”

      “No, Phillip. I’m not. I can’t.”

      “You’re not a spy, are you? Not concealing a Luger or a Walther PPK in there, perhaps?”

      “I’m not Lara bloody Croft. You have an overactive imagination.”

      “It keeps our dull lives interesting,” Jacques remarked.

      “Come in here, please,” Phillip called out to him. “I want you to alter the sample clutch for Nat’s cocktail dress.” Briefly he explained to Jacques what Natalie wanted.

      “So much for the House of Holland party tonight, then,” Jacques groused. “Instead, I’ll be up to my elbows in grape leather.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. You can do it tomorrow. We’re not missing Henry’s party tonight.” Phillip winked at Natalie. “Not even for you, chickpea.”

      At seven that evening, the door buzzer echoed through Natalie’s flat. She got up from her laptop – damn Rhys and his damned budgeting spreadsheet – and went into the front hallway to press the button. “Yes?” she inquired.

      “It’s Alexa.”

      Nat gazed at the intercom in dismay. “Oh! Come on up.”

      As she pressed the button to let Ian’s wife in downstairs, Natalie wondered uneasily if she’d seen the photographs of Ian and her in the tabloids. Of course she had. You couldn’t walk past the newsagents without seeing the lurid headlines.

      Natalie swung the door open a few minutes later. “Hello, Alexa. It’s great to see you! Due soon, aren’t you?”

      Alexa regarded her as one might regard a poisonous insect.

      “Please…come in.” Nat’s heart quickened as she led the way into the lounge. “Can I get you a cup of tea? Won’t you sit down—?”

      “No, I won’t.” Alexa brandished a copy of the Mirror. “And I don’t want a cup of bloody tea. I want you to tell me what the hell’s going on. That’s what I want.”

      Natalie took the tabloid Alexa thrust at her and stared at the cover photo for the second time that day. It showed her walking with Ian in the park, their heads close together in conversation.

      “Oh, yes…that,” she managed to stammer eventually. Her thoughts raced. “It was nothing. Really—”

      “Nothing?” Alexa asked softly. “In the Mirror, you’re having a cosy chat with my husband; in the Sun, you’re sitting on a park bench snogging, and it was nothing?”

      “It isn’t what you think.”

      “Oh, it is, there’s no question of that. You called Ian not long ago, late on Sunday night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t deny it. I saw your name listed in his mobile.”

      “I had a question about work.” Natalie’s throat tightened. This was awful. How to explain without telling Alexa the truth – that her husband planned to divorce her and cast her aside like an empty sweet wrapper?

      “A question about work, so late on a Sunday night? Right. You must think I’m not only pregnant, but stupid.” Alexa eyed her with contempt. “You’re screwing my husband, aren’t you?”

      “No!” Shock sharpened her voice. “I’m seeing Rhys, and I have been for weeks. I have no interest in Ian, Alexa! You know how the tabloids are, how they distort the truth—”

      “It’s hard to argue with a photo, though, isn’t it?” She slapped her hand hard against the picture. “The two of you are kissing, Natalie. Right here in black and white. You slag. You cheap, lying slag.”

      Natalie’s eyes widened. “Alexa, please, if you’d just let me explain—”

      “I don’t need you to explain that you’re fucking my husband,” Alexa said succinctly. “It’s plain enough, even to a stupid, trusting cow like me.”

      “Listen to me.” Natalie reached out to touch her, to try and reason with her. “We’ve been friends for a long time—”

      Alexa knocked her hand aside. “No longer. You’re welcome to Ian, because he and I are through. I don’t need him, and this baby doesn’t need him. And I most certainly don’t need friends—” the word was laced with rancour “—like you.”

      So saying, she flung the tabloids at Natalie in a wild flutter of newsprint, and left.