The Duke's Proposal. Sophie Weston
a commercial postcard: a standard view of tropical palms with wild surf beyond. She turned it over and smiled as she read the message on the back.
‘Oh, that. It’s just a postcard from a friend.’ She gave it back. ‘He stays out of England, but every so often he sends me a postcard to show me what I’m missing.’ Her smile was warmly reminiscent. ‘Those palm trees look good on a wet Friday in London, don’t they?’
Jemima looked at those foaming waves and shook her head. ‘Bit energetic for me,’ she said dryly, and turned the card over to look at the legend. ‘“Pentecost Island”,’ she read. ‘Where’s that? South Seas?’
Abby shook her head. ‘Who knows? Could be. He gets around.’
‘He?’ teased Jemima. In the square left for messages on the back of the postcard someone had written ‘Time you tried the white horses!’ and signed it with an arrogant black N. ‘Should Emilio be worried?’
Abby grinned suddenly. ‘Not for a moment. He’s known me since I had spots and braces on my teeth. If there’s one man in the world for whom I have no mystery it’s him.’
Jemima pulled a face. ‘Sounds dull.’
Abby laughed aloud. ‘He’s a professional gambler and gorgeous with it. Whatever else he is, dull he isn’t.’
Jemima shuffled all the photographs together neatly and gave them back to her.
‘So you won’t be taking off to Pentecost Island for a dashing weekend with an old flame?’
Abby was serene. ‘Not a chance. I’ve never even heard of it before.’
‘Nor me. Must be pretty remote.’
‘Not that remote,’ said Abby dryly. ‘If he’s there, it must have a casino.’ She put the photographs in her bag and signalled for the bill. ‘Where are you going now? Can I give you a lift?’
‘The Dorchester.’
‘Nice,’ said Abby, her eyes dancing.
Jemima grinned suddenly. ‘Not so nice. I’m in for a grilling from Madame.’
Abby’s expression changed instantly. She shuddered.
‘Now, that woman scares me. I’m so glad we work for you, not Belinda.’
Jemima shrugged again. ‘She doesn’t scare me.’
‘You’re really brave, aren’t you?’
‘Hell, why? She’s my employer, not the Emperor Nero.’
‘But she can be so nasty. And she always looks so—immaculate.’
‘So do I,’ said Jemima coolly. ‘And I can walk away. She can’t. It’s her company.’
Abby was admiring. But still she shook her head. ‘Doesn’t she press your buttons at all?’
‘Not a one,’ said Jemima, her eyes glittering. ‘There are things worth getting worked up about. Madame Belinda isn’t one of them.’
If she had been at the Dorchester an hour later Abby would have seen that that was not the whole truth. Jemima was getting worked up, all right. But not with fear. With rage.
Jemima shook back her famous red hair as she felt the fury rise. It felt glorious. It had taken a long time. Too long. But now she was angry.
She stood up and glared at Madame, the President of Belinda Cosmetics.
‘Are you telling me you flew the Atlantic and made me find a space in the busiest week in the year to complain that I haven’t got a boyfriend?’
The Vice-President, seated at Madame’s right hand at the impressive boardroom table, blenched.
Madame President was unmoved. ‘Sit down, Jemima.’
But Jemima was on a roll. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
Madame President’s eyes held hers. They had about as much expression as a lizard’s. They clearly scared the hell out of the Vice-President.
‘The woman who pays your considerable bills.’
The Vice-President was theoretically tall, dark and handsome—and very sophisticated. Suave Silvio, they called him on the circuit. Jemima had been on a couple of ultra-cool dates with him, and she knew that his advance publicity was fully deserved.
But now he gulped audibly. Man or mouse? No contest, thought Jemima. She ignored him.
‘You don’t own me,’ she told Madame. ‘I have other contracts.’
Jemima looked straight into Madame’s lizard eyes, like a duellist facing the enemy.
There was a long pause. Neither blinked.
‘And how long will you keep them if I tell the world I sacked you?’ asked Madame icily.
Jemima did not let herself remember that she’d already thought of that. She was too intent on the battle.
‘And that means you can order me to take a boyfriend?’ She was scornful. ‘I don’t think so.’
Madame President stood up. It was scary. She was five foot nothing of concentrated power and purpose. She slapped her hands down on the table in front of her and leaned forward. Her voice went up to a roar, astonishing for her size. ‘You will do what I say!’
It was intimidating. It was meant to be.
But Jemima was in full duellist mode by now. She stood her ground. ‘I joined an advertising campaign. Not a harem.’
Suave Silvio moaned.
It reminded her. ‘Did Silvio date me on orders?’
Madame made a dismissive gesture.
‘He did,’ said Jemima on a note of discovery. She was so furious she had gone utterly calm. ‘And I suppose it was you who put poor old Francis Hale-Smith up to asking me out, wasn’t it? I told him to get lost, by the way.’
Madame went puce. ‘You are the face of Belinda. If I say you have a boyfriend, you will have a boyfriend!’
‘Nope.’
‘I pay you!’ yelled Madame.
It was the last straw. ‘Then I quit,’ said Jemima, very, very quietly.
Their eyes locked for electric seconds.
This time Madame President blinked.
Then she straightened and sat down again. The red subsided from her exquisitely made-up cheeks.
‘Coffee, I think,’ she said, quite as if nothing had happened. ‘Silvio, tell them to bring coffee at once.’
The Vice-President leaped to his feet, looking relieved. ‘Yes, Madame.’ He rushed to a phone in the corner and spoke into it urgently.
What was the old bat up to now? thought Jemima, deeply suspicious. ‘Not for me,’ she said coldly. ‘I just quit.’
Madame waved a hand so heavily encrusted with rings it could have set several small fires if the sun had been shining. Only this was London in February, and the sky was solid grey cloud. Even with lavish windows, the penthouse was safe.
‘Good. Good.’ She beamed at Jemima, nodding as approvingly as if a promising pupil had just made a breakthrough. ‘Sit. Take a coffee with me. We will talk about this.’
She’s going mad, thought Jemima. Either that or I am.
As much to steady herself as anything, she said levelly, ‘When I signed up to be the face of Belinda I agreed to do four photo shoots a year and various PR jobs. I’ve kept my side of the bargain.’
Madame President snorted loudly.
With a supreme effort of will, Jemima bit back