The Duke's Proposal

by Sophie Weston

  ‘It’s so easy to get a bad name in this business. You’re just going to have to be a bit more careful.’

  Molly said nothing. Loudly.

  Jemima looked at her sardonically. ‘Go on, Molly. Spit it out. I can take it.’

  Molly clearly agreed. ‘Abby’s too easy on you. You’re getting a name for being a spoilt brat because you’re behaving like a spoilt brat.’

  Abby groaned.

  The other two ignored her.

  ‘Your demands are getting out of control. It’s not just the other models who think you’ve lost the plot.’ Molly started to tick a list off on her fingers. ‘You’ve got to have a limousine you’ve travelled in before. Drivers you happen to fancy. Private planes instead of scheduled flights. Then refusing to stay in the best hotel in New York because you wanted to be alone, and that meant a private apartment at vast cost…’ She glared. ‘I’ve got news for you, Jemima. You’re not Greta Garbo. Wake up and smell the coffee.’

  Jemima looked stunned.

  Abby and Molly looked at each other, relieved. At least they had got through this time.

  ‘Drivers I happen to fancy?’ said Jemima, outraged.

  Or not. Abby dropped her head in her hands.

  Molly’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Fine. Don’t take our advice. See where you end up.’

  Jemima said coolly, ‘I pay your company a whole lot of money to run my PR and analyse the results. I didn’t take you on as a life coach.’

  Molly put down her margarita so hard that some of it slopped onto the highly polished table. Abby mopped at it with one of the paper cocktail napkins. Neither Jemima nor Molly took any notice.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you the truth—since nobody else will,’ said Molly with heat. ‘Your agent is too scared you’ll dump her, like you did the one before her. And your sister treats you with kid gloves. God knows why.’

  Jemima’s famously melting golden-brown eyes flickered.

  ‘When Belinda went looking for their new face, they told everyone they wanted someone the professional girl about town could relate to. No more elegant skeletons. No more untouchable celebrities. They wanted a girl who had a family and friends and did normal things. I put some cuttings in your folder,’ she added with bite.

  ‘Thank you.’ No one could describe Jemima’s eyes as melting at the moment. They glittered.

  ‘I thought it would help to remind you. When you got the job, you fulfilled the job description. Now you don’t. I’m just betting the people at Belinda are beginning to notice.’

  Did she know that Madame was sitting in the Dorchester like a black widow, waiting to crunch her bones?

  Jemima’s jaw was rigid. But she said nothing.

  ‘Oh, please yourself,’ said Molly in disgust.

  Her eyes met Abby’s. The message was clear, even to Jemima: I give up! She stood up. ‘Abby, you’d better finish up here. I’ve got real work to do back in the office.’

  She stamped off.

  Left behind, Abby said apologetically, ‘Molly gets very passionate about her work.’

  Jemima swallowed. ‘Doesn’t she just?’ But her light tone sounded strained.

  Just for a moment Abby thought the beautiful mask might crack. Just for a moment it seemed as if Jemima would come off her pedestal. Abby didn’t care what she did—laugh, cry, swear at Molly, throw things…. Just as long as she stopped looking poised and bored and totally, totally indifferent.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead she leaned back in her deep chair, pinned on the famous smile and drawled, ‘So, tell me about my family. The last time I spoke to Izzy she said they couldn’t finalise the date until Dominic had sorted out his training schedule.’

  Abby gave up too.

  Over lunch Jemima was barbed and witty, and as defensive as a killer crab. She was charming to the waiters, indifferent to the covert stares of several of their fellow diners. But when one of them got up and came over to their table she tensed visibly, Abby saw.

  He turned out to be a lively barrister, with a copy of Elegance Magazine in his briefcase and a niece who wanted to be a model. Jemima gave him the slow up-and-under smile that had made her famous, signed the cover of the magazine as he asked, and told him to tell his niece to finish her exams before she tried out for any of the respectable model agencies. Delighted, he gave her his business card and went back to his table.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t think you’re a spoiled brat?’ asked Abby shrewdly.

  Jemima was cool. ‘Yup.’ She tore his card into tiny pieces and dropped them onto the pristine tablecloth. Abby saw that her fingers were shaking.

  Suddenly Abby was concerned. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course.’ But the golden eyes looked blind, almost as if she were afraid.

  Abby leaned forward. ‘Are you sure? You looked like a ghost when he came over.’

  The beautiful shoulders gave that arrogant shrug. ‘I—thought he might be someone I knew.’

  ‘But he wasn’t?’

  The blind look went out of Jemima’s eyes. For a moment she looked rueful, almost the friendly girl Belinda Cosmetics had thought they were getting for their campaign.

  ‘No, he was a complete stranger.’ She added almost under her breath, ‘Thank God.’

  More and more worried, Abby said, ‘Jemima, what’s wrong? Have you been overdoing it again?’

  She knew that Jemima had worked herself into exhaustion six months ago. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Jemima diving out of sight for a couple of weeks and Izzy stepping into her shoes Izzy and Dom would never have met.

  Jemima looked away, her face expressionless.

  ‘I wish Izzy was around,’ said Abby worriedly. Izzy was with Dom in Norway, and wouldn’t be back for two weeks. But at least she had got a reaction at last. Jemima bristled.

  ‘I don’t need my big sister to take care of me. I can look after myself. As Molly has just been pointing out, I only have to pick up the phone and somebody jumps. It’s great.’

  Abby sank back in her seat, disapproving and trying to hide it.

  She moved the subject firmly away from the professional. Fortunately they had family to get them through the next course.

  They agreed that it was a bore that Izzy and Dom wouldn’t confirm the date for their wedding. Yes, it was great to see how happy they were.

  And then Abby snapped her fingers, relaxing again. ‘That reminds me. I’ve got the Christmas photographs to show you.’

  She fished in her bag and brought out an untidy handful. She sorted through them rapidly, extracted a couple, then handed the rest across with a reminiscent smile.

  ‘I’ll get you copies of anything you want.’

  Jemima did not figure in any of the cheerful pictures. She had managed Christmas Day with the family, but she had been off on a big shoot in the Seychelles on Boxing Day. She flipped through them with the speed of one who spent much of her professional life looking at sheets of photographs.

  ‘All matching pairs,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  Jemima fanned out four and turned them to face Abby. There was Abby herself, dancing with her tall, elegant husband, Izzy and Dom, tumbling on the floor under the Christmas tree and laughing madly, and Jemima’s cousin Pepper leaning dreamily against her Steven’s shoulder.

  ‘Even my parents are holding hands.’ Jemima pointed at the fourth.

  They were too.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ admitted Abby.

  ‘Just as well I’d moved on. I would have unbalanced the party.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’d have been the star.’

  Jemima said in an odd voice, ‘Same thing. Stars don’t come in matching pairs.’

  Abby looked up, instantly alert. ‘Still no man in your life, then?’

  There was the tiniest pause.

  Then, ‘Not one I’d take home to Mother.’

  The irony was very nicely done. It said, You and I are women of the world; we know that I’m beautiful
and sophisticated and my relationships are very, very modern. Much too modern for my hand-holding parents to get their heads around.

  But Abby was not quite convinced. ‘Are you telling me you’re one for the wild men?’ she said doubtfully.

  Jemima narrowed her eyes at her. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Jemima hesitated. At last she said, ‘Put it this way—I’m not looking for a man to follow me round the world.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I see. It’s not easy keeping a relationship on the rails when your work makes you travel,’ allowed Abby. Her husband had business ventures in four continents. Even so, he did not travel as much as a top international model. She looked at Jemima curiously. ‘Is it lonely?’

  Jemima snorted. ‘Who has time to get lonely?’ It seemed to burst out of her. ‘So far this year I’ve done Madrid, Milan, Barcelona, Paris, London. Now I’m off to New York and Milan again. Then back to New York.’

  It sounded grim to Abby. ‘You could still be lonely,’ she pointed out. ‘Do you ever want to do something else with your life?’

  But Jemima was flicking through the pictures again and did not seem to hear.

  ‘Hello—what’s this one? Been away?’

  Diverted, Abby held out her hand for the photograph. Unlike the others, it was 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 the pithy response that sprang to mind.

  When Elegance Magazine had first discovered Jemima Dare, one besotted staff columnist had described her as having ‘gut-wrenching sensuality allied to Titania’s ethereal provocation’. He would not have recognised her at the moment, golden-brown eyes narrowed and spitting mad. But then that had been four years ago. In the interim she had done a lot of growing up—not all of it pleasant.

  Madame President was a new experience. But Jemima was a fast learner. And one of the things she had learned was that in confrontations you had to take control.

  Right. Give the old bat something to worry about. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out of here right now,’ she said.

  Silvio nearly dropped the phone. Even Madame President looked taken aback for a moment. Then she gave another of those disconcertingly approving nods.

  ‘Because you and I can do business together,’ she said simply.

  Jemima’s eyes skimmed the worried Silvio. ‘Not if you were thinking of picking my boyfriends,’ she said dryly. ‘We don’t seem to have the same taste in men.’

  Madame’s eyes gleamed. ‘Silvio, get out,’ she said without looking at him.

  He went.

  Madame was talking before the door closed behind him. ‘Okay. Cards on the table. We have a problem.’

  Jemima raised perfect eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, sit down,’ said Madame irritably. ‘It is like talking to a lamp post. Why are models so damned tall these days? When I was a girl in Paris, they were human-sized.’

  In spite of herself, Jemima gave a choke of laughter. And sat.

  ‘That’s better.’

  Madame leaned forward and propped her chin on her steepled fingers. The rings glittered but Jemima hardly noticed. The eyes were not a lizard’s any more. They were dark and expressive—and shrewd.