Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (31 page)

“Not hands-on enough, it seems,” Rhys bit off.

“But…he toured the factory himself! He told me so. He said everything was fine – the facility was clean, wages were fair, the bathrooms were modern—”

“Tell, me, Natalie — was Phillip’s visit to the factory in Nepal a surprise?” Rhys asked evenly. “Or was it planned?”

“Planned, of course,” Natalie said with a frown. “He arranged it beforehand with the factory manager.”

“Then I’ve no doubt he was given a nice dog-and-pony show. Management had time enough to pretty everything up before Phillip’s arrival.”

“But that’s sneaky and dishonest and…reprehensible.”

“Phillip was tricked, yes. But he should’ve been more careful. According to the tabloids, he’s surpassed Klaus von Richter
and
Dominic as the most hated man in Britain.”

Natalie sank down in the nearest chair. “Poor Phillip.”

“Poor Phillip?” he bit off. “Poor us, more like. The conditions in the factory are substandard. The workers are given one bathroom break in ten hours, and they work six days a week. And for every skirt we sell for £50, the workers make less than 20 pence.”

“Crikey,” Natalie said in a small voice.

“‘Crikey’,” Rhys said savagely, “doesn’t begin to describe it. This is a fucking public relations nightmare.” He glared at her. “And we have only one week before the re-launch to somehow make things right.”

Natalie’s mobile rang. “Jacques! How’s Phillip?” She listened, nodded somberly, and lowered the phone. “He’s gutted. This completely blindsided him.”

“Tell him to get his arse in here straightaway.” Rhys reached across his desk for the phone. “We need to work out a strategy, and fast. And tell Gemma to get me the best PR firm in London on the phone. It’ll take nothing short of a miracle to repair Dashwood and James’s tarnished image now.”

“Well, Hannah,” Cherie pronounced on Friday morning as she held up the thermometer, “you’ve got a slight fever.” She touched her daughter’s cheek. “I’ll tell your father you’re not going in to work with him today.”

“Thanks, mum,” Hannah murmured. Guilt swamped her for lying to her mother. But the thought of sharing the ride in to work with her father today was more than she could bear.

She’d never forgive him for getting Jago sacked.

With the store’s re-launch scheduled just a week from tomorrow, her father would be crazy busy all day; and it was mum’s day to do the weekly grocery shop, so she’d be gone all morning. But most importantly, Jago was home today. It was his birthday, and his uncle had given him the day off.

Hannah listened to her father getting ready in the guest bedroom across the hall. She heard the hiss of the shower, the hum of his electric shaver, then his footsteps – pausing briefly outside her closed door – before he moved on down the hall and descended the stairs. The smell of coffee drifted upstairs, as well as the sound of the BBC morning news presenter on the TV; but there was little conversation.

Her parents barely spoke to one another these days.

Hannah’s fingers tightened on the edge of her blanket. Even before their row, they’d acted like strangers. She knew her father was sleeping in the guest bedroom.

She wondered if her parents, like Duncan’s, would divorce. Where would she live if that happened? Not with her father, Hannah thought determinedly, no way. She heard the whine of the garage door as he drove off to work.

She pushed back the covers and crept to the door to listen. Her mother’s footsteps, light and quick, came up the stairs. She dived back under the covers just as Cherie tapped on the door and edged it open.

“Hannah? Bad news for your father, I’m afraid. That designer the store hired, Phillip Pryce, is in serious trouble. The BBC says his clothing line is manufactured in a sweatshop. It’s all over the media.”

Hannah sat up. “A sweatshop…oh, that’s awful! Poor dad.” Despite herself, she felt a stab of sympathy for him.

“Yes, it’s a nightmare. Good thing you’re home today, there’s already a half a dozen news vans outside.”

Shit
. Hannah bit her lip. How was she to leave the house and get past a bunch of nosy reporters without being seen?

“I’m off. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Will you be all right?”

Hannah nodded. “I’ll just sleep for a while longer.”

“Yes, get some rest, darling. Don’t answer the door. You have my mobile number; call if you need anything.”

“I will,” Hannah promised. She waited impatiently as her mother gathered up her keys and purse, and went back downstairs and out the front door.

The second that Cherie’s red Fiat roared off past the reporters and their news vans, Hannah leapt out of bed and dragged her duffel bag down from the closet shelf. She’d packed a few things, and now she tossed in some toiletries. She pulled on capris and a T-shirt and hastily slicked on lip tint.

After ensuring she had money for the bus fare to Holborn, Hannah eased her window open. Luckily, her room faced the back garden. She dropped her duffel bag to the ground, wincing at the loud thunk it made, and climbed onto the nearest branch of the ash tree outside her window. In a couple of minutes she dropped to the grass, retrieved her duffel, and hurried out through the back garden gate.

Chapter 40

Alastair James called a press conference on Friday afternoon, to meet the sweatshop issue head-on.

“Why haven’t you shut down the factory in Nepal?” one of the reporters demanded.

“Closing the factory would eliminate jobs. We want to keep the workers employed and ensure they receive fair and humane working conditions going forward.”

“How could Dashwood and James be unaware of the working conditions at the factory?” a BBC reporter called out.

Rhys took the microphone. “Phillip Pryce was given a false impression of working conditions when he toured the factory. The managers cleaned up the premises; when the inspectors and visitors left, they returned to business as usual. Unfortunately, it’s a common occurrence.”

“How do you know it won’t happen again?”

“We’ve hired an independent monitor,” Rhys replied, “to conduct random inspections of the facilities of all of our manufacturers.” His expression was steely. “We stand behind Phillip Pryce. He’s learnt a hard lesson, one that I daresay he’ll never forget. None of us will. But the problem has been corrected. Thank you all.”

As the press dispersed, Rhys shook Alastair’s hand. “Well done.” He glanced at Phillip – white-faced and silent – and Natalie. “All of you.”

“Thank you for standing behind me,” Phillip said quietly.

“You couldn’t have known.” Rhys shrugged. “You made a mistake. Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Alastair, standing alongside Rhys, looked at him sharply.
Don’t make the same mistake twice
. The words jogged a long-forgotten memory in his mind.

“So that’s it, then?” Fiona demanded, her face swollen from crying. “You’re engaged now, to someone else. Out with the old, in with the new, isn’t that what they say?”

“I’m sorry, Fi, but you knew this couldn’t last.” He glanced uneasily around the office. Thank God everyone had left for the day. “You knew I was seeing Cherie—”

“While you kept right on seeing
me
,” she hissed. “You dated her, pleasing your father no end, I’m sure, while you carried on screwing me.” She pummelled his chest, weeping. “You bastard! And now…” Her words trailed away.

“Now, what?” he prodded as he caught her by the wrists.

A look – secretive, fleeting – passed over her face. “Nothing,” she answered, and pushed him away. “It’s over between us. I shan’t bother you again. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

And suddenly, he knew. Alastair knew why Rhys Gordon looked vaguely familiar.

Natalie’s mobile buzzed. “Dominic’s just texted me. He wants to do a duet with Keeley at the re-launch, for the encore. They wrote a song together before they split up.”

“Is he mad?” Rhys demanded, incredulous. “The two of them haven’t spoken except through solicitors since Wedding-gate.”

“But that’s just it. They’ll be together publicly for the first time at the re-launch. And they’ve never performed together before. People will flock to the re-launch just to see them. It’ll be a huge draw.”

Rhys didn’t look convinced.

“There’s only one problem,” Natalie added. “Keeley hasn’t agreed yet. But Dominic is sure he can convince her.”

Rhys closed his eyes briefly. He felt a headache coming on. “I see. Is everything else on schedule, with no other surprises waiting to jump out and bite me on the arse?”

“Only the usual things,” Nat assured him. “Dominic is rehearsing with the band this afternoon. He’s worried about performing now that his identity as Rupert Locksley is out.”

Rhys snorted. “He should be. I only hope his aristocratic notoriety works in our favour. Either way, we have no choice but to put up with the manky little sod.”

“I know you don’t like him,” Natalie said sharply, “but he’s done all of this – the adverts, the concert, the song download – for free. We owe him a lot.”

“Perhaps. But he’s still a manky little sod.”

She smirked. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“I understand he stayed with you last night.”

Natalie blinked. “Yes. No!” she added hastily. “He slept on the sofa. How did you know about that?”

“I stopped by to talk to you after the sweatshop story broke, and Dominic answered the buzzer. He said he’d ‘worn you out’ and you’d gone to bed.”

Natalie gasped in outrage. “The little shit! He showed up drunk, so I let him sleep on the sofa. That’s all.”

“I knew he was taking the piss.” Rhys ran a hand over his face. “But we’ve more serious matters to deal with. I spoke to the central London police this morning. They want you to meet with Ian tomorrow night as planned.”

Natalie suddenly knew how a balloon must feel when all the air is let out. “Oh. I see.”

“Sorry, but I told you they’d want proof.” He took hold of her arm. “You’re upset. Here, sit down.”

Dazed, she complied, and lowered herself into a chair. “What…what else did the police say?”

“You’re to wear a wire. You’ll meet Ian at the Savoy at eight-thirty; a couple of plainclothes detectives will be in an unmarked vehicle outside, monitoring your conversation. Another will be inside the hotel, in the next room.”

“A wire?” Natalie looked at Rhys with real fear in her eyes. “What if Ian finds it? He’ll be furious! He’ll know I’ve lied to him—”

“The police will be listening in. They’ll show up the minute, the
second
something goes wrong. At least—” his expression was grim “—that’s the plan.”

“He was in my flat yesterday,” Natalie said.

Stunned, Rhys stared at her. “What? How did he get in? Why didn’t you tell me? Did he hurt you—?”

“No,” Natalie said, “he only wanted to show me how easy it was. He told the landlord he was my brother. When I came in he was on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.”

“I fucking hate this.” Rhys paced the conference room like a restless tiger, fury stamped on his face. “I’d kill him right now if I could.”

“Well, you can’t. I’ll just go through with it and hope that nothing goes wrong.”

“Nothing will.” Rhys reached out and pulled her up into his arms. “You’ll stay with me tonight, until this is sorted. I won’t let anything happen to you, Natalie,” he said fiercely into her hair. “I promise you that.”

As she nestled against him, steadied by his arms around her, Natalie hoped – really hoped – that Rhys was right.

Cherie’s mobile rang as she pulled into a parking space on the Kilburn High Road. She glanced at the screen and sighed.
Neil
. She’d avoided him since the night they’d kissed, torn between wanting to see him and equally determined to stay away.

“Why won’t you see me?” he asked in a low, measured voice.

“I’m married, Neil!” She grabbed her handbag and unlocked the car door. “I have a great deal more to lose than you.”

“You have a right to be happy, Cherie. If we’re to have any chance together—”

“We don’t,” Cherie said firmly. “I
am
happy. I love Alastair.” She got out of the car.

“You’re lying. You’re not happy, I know it. You told me yourself that he’s moved into the spare room—”

“He saw us, Neil. He suspects there’s something between us, something more than friendship. It can’t continue. It’s too risky.” Resolutely she locked the car and put her keys away. Her hand was shaking.

“Please, Cherie,” Neil implored her, “I need to see you again. There
is
something between us. You know I’m right.”

The thing was, much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to see him again, too. Once more wouldn’t hurt, surely? Cherie waited for a van to pass by and walked quickly across the road. “I’m not at home,” she said finally. “I’ll be back by noon. Perhaps I’ll see you then.”

She pressed ‘end call’ with a trembling finger and went into the grocery store, ashamed at how quickly her resolve had crumbled.

Jago’s building was halfway down Little Russell Street. Hannah went inside and trudged up the stairs to the second floor. She found flat 2B at the end of the hall and stood in front of the door uncertainly. The strap of her duffel bag cut into her shoulder. Suppose Jago wasn’t here?

Well, she’d sit in the hall and wait.

After a moment’s hesitation she lifted her hand and knocked. A minute passed, then another. She knocked again. ‘Coronation Street’ was blaring into the silence from behind the neighbour’s door, and the smell of bacon hung in the air. She was about to turn away when the door opened.

A tall, leggy girl with black hair and kohl-rimmed eyes regarded Hannah coolly. “Yes?”

Disconcerted, Hannah blinked. “Um – I’m looking for Jago. Jago Sullivan. This is his flat, isn’t it?”

For some reason, Miss Kohl-Eyes found this amusing. “
His
flat, is it?” She continued to stare at Hannah. “He might be here. And who are you?”

“Hannah James. We – we work together, he and I. Or we did,” she amended.