Czytaj książkę: «And The Bride Wore Prada»

To my wonderful readers, who've supported me, encouraged me, and told me how much they enjoy my stories, this one's for you. With thanks to Clio Cornish, my fabulous editor, and to the writers at HQ Digital UK for their unstinting support and friendship.

Chapter 1

‘Flight 6072 to Inverness – Two-Hour Delay.’

Natalie clutched her Vuitton cosmetics case and stared at the electronic arrivals and departures board in dismay. She glanced over at her husband Rhys. ‘That’s us, then.’

Rhys took her arm and led her over to a row of seats – horrible, crowded, uncomfortable seats – in Heathrow’s British Airways departures lounge.

‘Nothing for it but to wait,’ he told her. ‘Have a seat and I’ll go and fetch us a coffee.’

With a sigh, she sank into a chair. The skies outside the airport were a gloomy, lowering grey, and despite her warm coat and boots and the promise of Christmas in the air, Natalie felt the chill in her very bones.

‘You know, Rhys,’ she grumbled, ‘we could be in the Galleries lounge right now, drinking martinis, if we’d only flown first class.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘You could still upgrade our tickets.’

‘It’s a short flight,’ Rhys pointed out. ‘Hardly worth paying double. And it’s a bit early for martinis. Besides,’ he reminded her as he glanced round the crowded airport, ‘we can’t be extravagant with our expenditures. Dashwood and James department stores are still regaining their footing. We don’t want the press saying that we’re wasting company money.’

‘But it’s our bloody money,’ Natalie said crossly, and sneezed. ‘Yours and mine! We own half the company.’

‘Twenty-five percent,’ Rhys corrected her. ‘And don’t forget ‒ public perception is very important. It’s all about financial restraint.’ He lifted his brow. ‘What’ll you have, coffee, or tea?’

‘Coffee,’ Natalie answered, her expression sulky. ‘Cream. One sugar. If you think we can afford it.’

He didn’t answer; he’d already turned and plunged into the crowds to fetch their coffees.

Public perception. Financial restraint. Crikey, Natalie thought irritably as she fished out a wodge of tissue from her jacket pocket and blew her nose – bloody allergies – she and Rhys had been married less than six months, and already she was beyond tired of those words. It was annoying, living one’s life under a glass dome, having one’s every move watched and criticised—

A commotion just ahead caught Natalie’s attention, and she glanced up. The click and whirr of flashbulbs and the sound of raised voices carried across the airport.

Natalie frowned. What in the world—?

Through the crowd she glimpsed a woman with a glossy fall of dark-red hair and a tiny black dress clicking purposefully across the airport in a pair of dagger-sharp heels. Next to her, a man, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses and his dark hair stylishly cut, linked his arm through hers.

Oh my God, Natalie thought, startled. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was Gemma Astley and Dominic Heath!

‘Dominic,’ one of the reporters called out as he lunged in front of the rock star, microphone outstretched, ‘is it true that you and Gemma are getting married soon?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’ a female reporter shouted. ‘Have you set a date?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is it true there’s to be a secret wedding at your Scottish estate in Inverness?’

‘Not much of a secret if you lot know about it, is it?’ Dominic shot back. ‘Now fuck off.’

Natalie stood and waved to catch his eye – he and Gemma were headed for the VIP lounge, no doubt – but the throngs of people and camera-wielding paparazzi around them made eye contact all but impossible.

‘Dominic!’ she called out. ‘Gemma!’

But they neither saw nor heard as they swept past. Disappointed, Natalie sank back down in her seat and wondered if it were true.

Were Gemma and Dom finally getting married?

If so – and if they’d be on same the flight to Scotland with her and Rhys – then perhaps the four of them could get together for a drink, or dinner.

Or perhaps not. After all, Natalie reflected with a frown, Gemma hadn’t bothered to share this latest news with her, nor had she invited them to the wedding. No surprise there, really; after all, she and Gem hadn’t spoken in nearly four months. But they used to tell each other everything.

And it really hurt to be excluded.

Oh well, Nat reminded herself, at least she and Rhys would be spending the holidays with her good friend Tarquin at his family’s castle in the tiny village of Loch Draemar in the Scottish Highlands.

It promised to be a fun and relaxing few weeks of roaring fires, delicious food (hopefully minus turnips or haggis), and brisk walks across the heath, not to mention nice long fireside chats with Tark and Wren, and she was really looking forward to it.

She looked up as a family trundling wheeled suitcases behind them trudged past in Gemma and Dominic’s wake. ‘I want a sweet, Mummy,’ a little girl with ginger hair complained. ‘You said I could have an ice lolly.’

‘Sam, it’s two degrees outside,’ her mother said, exasperated. ‘You can’t possibly want an ice lolly.’

‘But, Mummy, I do. And you promised.’

‘You did promise,’ a slightly older boy pointed out. ‘In the car, you said Sam might have one if she only stopped singing “The Wheels on the Bus” for five bloody minutes—’

‘That’s enough out of both of you,’ their father interjected. ‘Come along, or we’ll be late boarding our flight.’

As they walked by and merged into the crowds, the ginger-haired girl still sulking, Natalie eyed them wistfully. How lovely to have a family of your own, she thought. A sweet little girl or boy – or perhaps, one of each – for whom she could buy lots of darling little outfits, and lots of darling little shoes, and lots of darling little toys...

She sighed. She really, really wanted a baby. And although Rhys was amenable to the idea, he thought it best that they wait a bit, and enjoy being a couple before they started a family. After all, he’d pointed out, they’d only just got married. And although Natalie knew he was right in theory ‒ that they should travel and dine out and enjoy one another’s company before they added children to the mix – still, the pull of motherhood grew stronger within her every day.

Her sister Caro had a new baby. Such a sweet lamb little Phillipa was, too – so soft and cuddly and smelling of baby powder and...well, to be honest, Natalie thought as she wrinkled her nose, of poo, sometimes. She didn’t much look forward to that. Still – the image of Rhys, bent over a changing table as he put a nappy on their baby girl or boy, made her absolutely melt...

‘Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but...aren’t you Natalie Dashwood?’

Startled out of her reverie, Natalie looked up to see a woman with short-cut brownish hair and blue eyes regarding her quizzically. A laptop bag hung off her shoulder.

‘Well, I was,’ Natalie said, her expression guarded. ‘I’m Natalie Dashwood-Gordon, now. Sorry, have we met—?’

She smiled in apology. ‘Oh, no. Only...I spotted you across the way and thought I recognized you. I saw you waving to Dominic Heath just now.’

Natalie nodded. ‘I tried to catch his eye, but with all the paparazzi...’

‘Yes, horrible buggers, aren’t they?’ The woman indicated the empty seat next to hers. ‘Do you mind? It took me two bloody hours to get through the security lines.’

‘Of course not. Please, sit down. My husband’s just gone to fetch some coffee.’

‘Ah, yes. Rhys Gordon. You two are married now, aren’t you? I read about it in the tabs,’ she added as she slid the laptop strap from her shoulder and sat down.

Natalie nodded politely. ‘Yes. We got married five months ago.’ She sneezed again. ‘Sorry,’ she apologized as she withdrew another tissue from her pocket. ‘Allergies.’

‘Quite all right, I have them too. So you’re still practically newlyweds! How lovely.’

‘Yes. It’s almost five months now.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman leant forward. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you tied the knot at Dominic’s family home in – oh, where was it—? Warwickshire?’

‘Yes. We had a lovely wedding at Mansfield Hall.’

‘The photo spread in Town and Country was gorgeous,’ she agreed. ‘Still,’ she added with a tiny frown, ‘getting married at your ex-boyfriend’s family home... That must’ve been a bit awkward.’

‘Not really,’ Natalie said, with a trace of defensiveness. ‘It’s true Rhys and Dom don’t like each other, but they managed to be civil for the duration of the wedding reception.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ The woman glanced in the direction of the VIP lounge. ‘Rumour has it that Dominic and Gemma are off to Scotland to get married in a secret wedding ceremony.’

‘Is that right? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Really?’ She regarded Nat in mild surprise. ‘But I thought...well, aren’t you and Dominic’s fiancée good friends?’

Natalie hesitated. ‘We are. Well, we were. But we’ve...lost touch.’

‘Ah,’ she said, her face etched in sympathy. ‘Running in loftier circles now, is she?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s it, exactly.’

‘Here we are, darling ‒ coffee, cream, one sugar.’

Rhys stood before her, holding out a Costa cup.

‘Thank you,’ Nat murmured, and took the cup. ‘While you were gone, Gemma and Dominic went past with a boatload of paparazzi in their wake.’

He grimaced. ‘Glad I missed that.’

‘Oh – where are my manners? Rhys, let me introduce you to... I’m sorry,’ Natalie apologized as she turned back to speak to the woman in the seat next to hers, ‘but I didn’t catch your name—?’

But the seat was empty. The woman with the short brown hair and the laptop was gone.

Natalie frowned, perplexed. ‘That’s odd. She was just here, sitting next to me, chatting. She was very nice. But she’s gone now.’

‘They probably called her flight. Or she went to the loo.’ He sat down and sipped his coffee. ‘The queue at Costa was ridiculous, that’s what took me so long.’

‘I wonder if it’s true?’ Natalie mused as she resumed her seat next to him.

‘If what’s true?’

‘I wonder if Dominic and Gemma are finally getting married? I tried to catch Dom’s eye, but he never noticed me with all the reporters and photographers clustered round.’

‘Is Gemma still engaged to that rock star twit?’

‘Of course she is! Why wouldn’t she be?’

‘I’d hoped she’d come to her senses. Besides, they’ve been engaged for a donkey’s age, haven’t they?’ Rhys observed as he sipped his coffee.

‘Only five months,’ Natalie pointed out, ‘as long as we’ve been married. That’s not so long. And knowing Dominic, I’m sure he’s in no hurry to tie the knot.’

He lifted his brow. ‘Haven’t you talked to Gemma, then? What does she say?’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ Natalie admitted, and frowned down at the lid of her coffee. ‘I haven’t spoken to her, really, since she and Dom got engaged.’

It’d been four months since they’d talked, to be exact. Four whole months! Gemma, Rhys’s very capable personal assistant at Dashwood and James, had quit her job shortly after Dominic asked her to marry him. Although Gemma and Natalie had gotten off to a rocky start – Gemma thought Nat was a posh, pampered princess, and Nat thought Gemma was a rude cow – they’d eventually become, if not best mates, at least good friends.

Yet it seemed all that had changed, now.

Gemma, as her father Milo would say, had come right up in the world. She’d gone from being Rhys’s PA (and an underage topless model in Ladz magazine) to become Dominic Heath’s now-famous fiancée. Her photograph appeared with equal frequency in the pages of high-end fashion magazines and tabloids. She ran in altogether different circles now – circles that included rock stars, Brazilian models, former Spice Girls, and paparazzi...

...circles that plainly didn’t include her any longer, Natalie thought, hurt by Gemma’s exclusion a bit more than she cared to admit.

‘Not put out with you, is she?’ Rhys asked.

‘No!’ Nat said indignantly. ‘Why would she be? I’m sure Gemma’s just...busy, with lots to do now that she’s engaged to Dom.’

‘Yes,’ Rhys said, although he didn’t sound particularly convinced as he opened the latest issue of Top Gear he’d bought and began to flick through the pages. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

And as Natalie stood up and went to toss her half-empty coffee cup in the bin, she had to agree – she wasn’t completely convinced, either.

Chapter 2

‘Bloody hell, babes – please, no more perfume,’ Dominic Heath grumbled. ‘You’ve bought out the entire duty-free shop as it is! You’re fucking bankrupting me.’

Gemma ignored him and reached for a purple bottle of scent. ‘Ooh, look, it’s your ex-wife’s new scent, Positively Posh!’ She paused to squeeze the atomizer and took an appreciative sniff. ‘It’s nice. It smells like freesias and roses.’

‘It ought to smell like disappointment and an empty wallet,’ Dom retorted, ‘because that’s all I ever had when we were together.’

‘That’s not what Keeley said,’ Gemma pointed out as she put the bottle back on the shelf. ‘She said you were always borrowing money from her—’

‘Never mind that,’ Dominic cut in, annoyed. ‘Can we talk about something besides my cow of an ex-wife?’

‘Fine.’ She dumped her purchases on the counter in front of the till and fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘Let’s talk about our wedding, then.’

Dominic let out a long-suffering sigh and handed over his AmEx black card to the clerk at the till. ‘I told you, babes, I’m leaving all that wedding crap up to you.’

‘It’s your wedding, too,’ Gemma pointed out, ‘and so I need your input. I mean it, Dom,’ she warned him as she gathered up her purchases and thrust them into his arms, ‘this isn’t only about me, you know. You’re the groom. You have certain responsibilities.’

‘Responsibilities? Like what? I say ‘I do,’ slap a ring on your finger, get bladdered afterwards, and have an X-rated honeymoon with my new bride. Job done.’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that!’ she snapped. ‘There’s the wedding toast, and choosing a best man, and then there’s your boutonnière—’

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled. ‘No need to go on about it endlessly. We’ll talk about it on the jet.’

Normally, ‘the jet’ referred to Dominic’s private Lear. But since it was side-lined with mechanical problems, they’d been reduced to flying to Inverness for the holidays on a commercial flight. They were flying first class, of course, Gemma consoled herself as she trailed after Dominic into the VIP lounge, but still...it wasn’t the same as having your own private plane, was it?

No. It bloody well wasn’t.

‘And what about our children?’ she added when they were seated in side-by-side, heated massage chairs.

‘Hmm?’ Dom murmured, his eyes half closed and his thoughts lingering on that morning’s Page Three girl. Candi, her name was, and her tits had been very sweet indeed...

‘I want kids. Two. Possibly three,’ Gemma mused, ‘a girl, a boy, and another girl. Rafaella, I think, and Dylan, and Phoebe.’

‘Dylan? I’m not naming my kid Dylan! That’s a naff name,’ Dominic objected. ‘I’m not wild about Phoebe, either. I’ve got an Aunt Phoebe, and she’s a right bitch.’

‘And we’ll need to get the baby registered for Wetherby as soon as it’s born,’ Gemma went on, oblivious. ‘The waiting list is miles long.’

‘What? Is the waiting list so long we’ve got to register the baby for school before it’s even in bloody utero?’ Dominic demanded. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘That’s what we have to do if our baby’s to have a proper education.’

‘Poor little mite. Not even conceived yet, and the wheels are already in motion.’

‘Are you saying I’m wrong to want our baby to have a proper education?’

‘No. I’m just saying that you barely got through the local comprehensive, Gems, and I ‒’ he paused ‘‒ well, I’m not exactly a Man Booker prize candidate, am I?’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed, ‘but you’re a famous rock singer, with lots of fans and hit records to your credit.’

‘And lots of dosh, too,’ he added with a satisfied smirk. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘But we don’t know if little Rafaella or Dylan or Phoebe will have your artistic talents, do we? So we need to make sure they receive an excellent education.’

‘I had an excellent education,’ Dom pointed out, ‘and it didn’t do me much good.’

‘That’s because you didn’t apply yourself. And you wanted more out of life than being the next Locksley heir.’

‘True,’ he agreed, and sat up. ‘Well – at least the old man’ll be happy to know he’ll soon have a little heir-in-waiting in the old bun-warmer. He’s always banging on at me and Liam, wanting to know when we plan to produce a grandchild.’

Gemma leant forward and brushed her lips against his. ‘We can get started on making a baby tonight, if you like,’ she murmured, and smiled seductively.

‘How about sooner, babes, like...on the plane?’

Gemma giggled. ‘And tell our little girl or boy that they were conceived in an airplane loo? No!’

‘Why not? We can christen the kid...Lufthansa. Or Ryanair. Or if it’s a girl, EasyJet.’

Gemma slapped his hand away from her thigh. ‘I want our baby to be conceived in romantic surroundings, Dom, in a canopy bed piled with blankets, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, and snow coming down outside... not inside an airline loo, balanced atop a stainless-steel sink with a faucet up my arse.’

‘Every detail can’t always be perfect, you know,’ he grumbled. ‘What’ll you do ‒ post a picture to FacePage before we do the deed? I can see it now: ‘Look, everyone ‒ here’s the bed where Dom and I are about to conceive little Lufthansa’? Or maybe you can add a new relationship status – ‘currently being roundly shagged’?’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ Gemma said crossly as she picked up her mobile and thumbed through her text messages. ‘I’m not that bad.’

‘No. You’re worse. You’re obsessed with social media. The only way I can get your attention lately is to send you a bloody text message.’

But Gemma didn’t hear him. She was too busy posting a status update to FacePage to notice.

Thank God they haven’t cancelled the flight, the woman thought as she shoved her laptop into the already crowded overhead bin and squeezed into the last remaining seat in economy class. Otherwise I wouldn’t get to Scotland until after Christmas.

She glanced out the window. Snow fell steadily and had just begun to cover the Tarmac. Another hour of this and all flights out of Heathrow would be cancelled.

A family came down the aisle and sat across from her. The mother settled into a seat with her little girl beside her, and her husband sat just in front with their son. The girl had ginger hair and was perhaps nine or ten, complaining about the injustice of being denied a promised sweet. Her brother ignored her and played a game on his father’s mobile phone.

The woman reached for her iPod and earphones. Thank God for noise-blocking technology. She had far too much work to be doing to sit here and listen to children complaining and video games beeping and parents shushing their little darlings for two-plus hours.

Still, as she busied herself drafting a few notes on her mobile before the flight attendant asked them to shut off all electronic devices, her glance strayed once again to the girl and her brother. They were cute kids, she thought. For a moment – just for a moment – she allowed herself to imagine having a little ginger-haired girl, or a tow-headed little boy, of her own...

She pressed her lips together and turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. Work. She had plenty to be doing, she reminded herself firmly, and a deadline to meet. She forced her attention back to her mobile screen.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The little girl just behind her was kicking the back of her seat in time as she sang a (very loud) CBeebies song.

She let out a long, aggrieved sigh.

Bloody deadlines. Bloody economy. Bloody children.