by Liz Fielding
‘You truly were Cinderella,’ he said, getting it.
‘I truly was,’ she confirmed.
The hot dog was gone and she reached for her coffee. Took a sip. It was hot.
‘Second?’ he prompted.
‘I had ambition. I worked in a day-care nursery from eight-thirty until six, then evenings as a waitress to put myself through night school to get a diploma in business studies.’
‘Cinderella, but not one sitting around waiting for her fairy godmother to come along with her magic wand.’
He was quick.
‘Cinderella doing it for herself,’ she confirmed. ‘Not that it did me much good. I didn’t get a single interview until I applied for the Henshawe job.’
‘It’s tough out there.’
‘Tell me about it. I really, really needed that job and when they asked me why I wanted to work for the company I didn’t hold back. I let them have it with both barrels. The whole determination to make something of my life speech. Oscar-winning stuff, Nathaniel. They actually applauded.’
‘They were from the PR company, I take it?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘HR managers tend to be a little less impressionable. You said you had three things.’
‘My third lucky break was that some woman on the team was bright enough to realise that I was exactly the kind of woman who would be walking in off the street, desperate for something to make her look fabulous. Let’s face it, if the gold-standard was a size-zero, six-foot supermodel, the reflection in the dressing room mirror was always going to be a disappointment.’
‘But if they compared themselves with you… Who is this PR company? I could use that kind of out of the box thinking.’
‘Oh, I don’t deny they’re good.’
‘Sorry. Your story. So, having applauded your audition, they told you what the part would be?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘You’re missing the point. I was going to be a genuine “ordinary” girl who had been picked from among his staff. I had to believe in the story before I could sell it.’
‘Did I say they were good?’
‘Oh, there’s more. Someone added a note on the bottom of their report to the effect that this was going to be a real fairy tale. And then they started thinking so far out of the box they were on another planet.’
His hand tightened on hers. ‘It was all a set-up? Not just the job, the discovery…’
‘I had a phone call the day after my interview, offering me the job. I started the following week and I have to tell you that it was the most boring week of my life. I was climbing the walls by Friday afternoon, wondering how long I could stand it. Then I was sent up to the top floor with a pile of files, got knocked off my feet by a speeding executive and there was Rupert Henshawe, perfectly placed to pick me up, sit me in his office, give me coffee from his personal coffee-maker while his chauffeur was summoned to take me home. And, while we waited, he asked me about my job, whether I liked working for the company. I’d heard he was as hard as nails. Terrifying if you made a mistake. But he was so kind. Utterly…’ she shrugged ‘…charming.’
‘I’d heard he was a smooth operator.’
‘I had flowers and a note on Saturday. Lunch in the country on Sunday. Picture in the tabloids on Monday.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘ARE you telling me that you didn’t have a clue?’
‘Not until today,’ she admitted. ‘Dumb or what?’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You saw what he wanted you to see.’
‘What I wanted to believe. Until today. I was late and, since I didn’t have time to go home and pick up my copy of the wedding file, I decided to borrow the one in Rupert’s office. That’s when I stumbled across the one labelled “The Cinderella Project”.’
She still remembered the little prickle at the base of her neck when she’d seen it.
‘But the romance, the engagement?’
She understood what he was asking. ‘There is no sex in fairy tales, Nathaniel. My Prince Charming okayed the plan, but only with the proviso…’ written in his own hand ‘…that he didn’t have to “sleep with the girl”.’ More of those quote marks.
‘So he’s gay?’
She blinked. ‘Why would you say that?’
He shook his head. ‘Just thinking out loud.’
She stared at him for a moment. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? That the only reason a man wouldn’t want to sleep with her was because…?
‘No…’
He responded with a lift of those expressive eyebrows. ‘You’d have thought someone so good at the details would have made a little more effort. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Yes… No…’ She blushed. ‘I wasn’t exactly throwing myself at him.’
‘No? How come I got so lucky?’ She dug him in the ribs with her elbow. In response, he put his arm around her. ‘You throw, I’ll catch,’ he said and, without stopping to think, she stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck. He didn’t let her down, scooping her up so that she was off the ground, grinning as he spun her around, kissing her before he set her back on her feet.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Entirely my pleasure,’ he assured her, still holding her close. ‘But I don’t understand. If there was no great romance, no passion, why did you accept his proposal, Lucy?’
‘Because I bought the fairy story.’
She was still buying it, she thought, glancing up at Nathaniel. She really needed to get a grip on reality.
‘The breakup scenario is already written, by the way,’ she said, before he could say anything. Pulling away. ‘Apparently, I’m going to call the wedding off because Rupert is a workaholic, too absorbed in business to spend time with me. True, as it happens. Sadness, but no recriminations. Nothing sordid. Just a quiet fade out of the relationship once the stores are open and the brand established.’
‘You went seriously off message this afternoon.’
‘I lost the plot big time, but that’s what you get for employing amateurs.’
‘I can see why he’s desperate to get the file back. The tabloids would have a field day with this.’ And, from looking deep into her eyes, he was suddenly looking at something in the distance above her head. ‘I’m not just talking about his underactive libido.’ She didn’t miss the edge to his voice as he added, ‘You could make a fortune.’
‘Yes, I could. I could have phoned one of the tabloids this afternoon. But I don’t want a drama, Nathaniel. I just want to disappear. Get my life back. Be ordinary.’
‘But you’re Lucy B,’ he pointed out.
‘I know. That’s why I can’t let him get away with what he’s doing. Why I can’t just disappear. Because that’s not the end of it.’
‘There’s more?’
‘He wants his file back because all that lovely stuff about fair trade fashion is a bunch of baloney.’
‘Baloney?’
‘Lies, falsehoods, untruths. There is a fair trade company, but it’s just a front. The actual clothes, shoes, accessories will still be made by the same sweatshop workers he used for the old stuff. That’s why he’s desperate to retrieve the file.’
He said just one word. Then, ‘I’m sorry…’
‘No need to apologise. You’ve got it. The man has all the morals of a cowpat.’ She stuffed her hands deep in her pockets. ‘That’s why I was so angry. Why I couldn’t think straight. When the media circus took off like a rocket, bigger than anything they had imagined, and a headline writer shortened my name to Lucy B, Marketing ditched the names they’d been playing with and grabbed it. He’s going to use my name-on the shop fronts, on the labels, everywhere-use me to sell his lie. That’s what today’s press conference was about. To unveil the look of the stores. Tell the world about the jobs he’s creating, both here and in the Third World. Impress the public with his new caring image, impress the shareholders with profit forecasts.’
&
nbsp; ‘That’s…’ For a moment he didn’t seem to be able to find a word. And then he did. ‘Dangerous.’
Not reassuring-she’d been a lot less bothered by the expletive-and, despite the down jacket, she shivered.
‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home. Get you back in the warm.’
Diary update: I have to admit that when Nathaniel asked me if I was hungry I didn’t anticipate a hot dog from a stall on the Strand, but it was junk food at its finest. And the onions were piled up high enough to bring tears of joy to the eyes of the government’s diet Tsar. But then it’s been that sort of day. Surprises all round. Horrible ones, delicious ones and a man a girl could love. Not fairy tale falling in love, but the genuine article.
Will everything be back to normal tomorrow?
Can anything ever be normal again?
What is normal?
Nathaniel didn’t say anything until they were near the store, then he reached out and, hand on her arm, said, ‘Out of sight, I think.’
She didn’t argue, but ducked down until the barrier clanged behind them and he’d pulled into a parking bay and switched off the engine. Released his seat belt.
‘You saw something?’ she asked as she slid down from the seat without waiting for him to help her.
Nat shook his head, put his arm around her shoulders and swept her towards the lift, wanting her inside, out of sight. Regretting the crazy impulse to go out in the snow. Anyone might have seen her.
The guy at the hot dog stall wouldn’t forget two idiots who’d gone out to play in the snow, stood for ever, eating hot dogs and talking.
‘What’s bothering you?’ she asked.
‘I hadn’t realised… This is a lot more serious than I thought, Lucy.’
He keyed in the code and breathed more easily when the door clicked shut behind them, shedding his coat and gloves, kicking off his boots. It was probably the first time he’d actually been glad to be home since he’d moved into the apartment. The first time it had felt like home. A sanctuary.
‘You’re scaring me,’ Lucy said, cold hands fumbling with her zip.
He stopped her. Not cold, just shaking, he discovered and, instead of unzipping it for her, he put his arms around her, held her, because he was scared for her.
This wasn’t simply some romance gone wrong. It wasn’t even just an amoral PR campaign that meant heads would roll right up to boardroom level.
‘Nathaniel? Now you’re really worrying me!’
He let her go, unzipped her jacket, helped her out of it. ‘Okay. While the fake romance would be an embarrassment to Henshawe, I’ve no doubt he could contain the damage, but the fair trade thing is fraud.’
‘Fraud?’
‘It’s going to seriously damage him and the Henshawe Corporation when it gets out. The Lucy B chain will be history, his shareholders will want blood and he’ll be facing a police investigation.’
‘You’re talking jail time?’ she asked, shocked.
‘He’s probably shredding papers as fast as he can right now. Talking to his suppliers to cover his tracks. But, while you’ve got his file, written proof of what he did, he’s not safe and I believe that a man who has the morals of a cowpat would go to any lengths to stop that from happening.’
‘You’re saying that I’m in danger?’
Before he could answer, the phone rang and he unhooked it from the wall. ‘Hart.’
‘Nat, it’s Bryan. Sorry to disturb you, but I’ve just had a call from the police.’
His heart rate picked up. ‘And?’
‘It seems they’ve had a missing person report. A woman called Lucy Bright. The WAG of some billionaire. She was last seen heading this way just after four this afternoon and appears to have vanished off the face of the earth. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but the timing is right and the description matches the woman you saw this afternoon.’
‘Did you mention that to the police?’ he asked, reaching out a hand as he saw the colour drain from Lucy’s face.
‘No. It might not have been her and I assumed that you wouldn’t want policemen crawling all over the store talking to the staff. Or the ensuing press invasion. Not until we’re sure, anyway.’
‘Good call.’
‘I searched the name on the internet and I’m about to send you a photograph as an email attachment. In the meantime, I’ve initiated a sweep of the premises, just to cover ourselves.’
‘Right…’ Then, ‘You were in the force, Bryan. Isn’t it unusual for them to get involved in something like this so quickly?’
‘It depends who’s missing. And why.’
Nat listened as he detailed all the likely reasons why the police had got involved so quickly. Suspected violence, theft… He never took his eyes off Lucy who, her free hand to her mouth, was watching him with growing apprehension.
‘I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, keep me posted.’
Lucy was numb. The minute Nathaniel had picked up the phone she’d known something was wrong. And when she’d heard him say the word police she’d known the game was up.
‘The police? They’ve been here? Looking for me?’
‘Just a phone call.’ Just!
‘You’ve been reported missing and they’re following up on a suggestion that you were last seen entering the store.’
‘They’re not going to give up, are they? I’m so sorry to have involved you in this, Nathaniel, but I can’t believe that Rupert had the nerve to involve the police.’
‘You stole a file,’ he pointed out. ‘One filled with sensitive commercial information.’
‘I know, but…’ Then, ‘Are you saying that he’s had the nerve to accuse me of stealing?’
‘Not officially.’
‘So what?’
‘He could be using the fact that there has been a campaign by your fans on the social media sites to put pressure on them. Apparently, the most used hashtag in the last few hours has been #findLucyB.’
‘Well, colour me surprised.’
‘You’re not impressed that you inspire such devotion?’
‘Not desperately. I have no doubt that it was instigated by the Henshawe PR team. Why waste time looking for someone when you can persuade half a million people to do it for you? Get a little hysteria going. But I still don’t understand. The police don’t normally bother about missing persons unless there’s blood on the carpet. Do they?’ she pressed when he didn’t immediately answer.
‘Not normally. Not this soon. It must have been the call from your mother that did the trick.’
Lucy froze.
‘My mother?’
‘She gave an emotional doorstep interview, pleading with anyone who knows where you are to call her. It’s probably online if you want to see it.’
‘No! I don’t. She’s not my mother,’ she said. ‘I told you. I don’t have a mother.’
‘Lucy-’
‘She’s a fake,’ she said quickly, all the peace, the pleasure of their evening together dissipating in that bitter reality. ‘Just another lie dreamed up to keep the press engaged.’ The worst one. The cruellest one. The rest she might abhor, but they, at least, had a purpose. ‘What’s a fairy tale without a wicked witch…?’
Except that she hadn’t been wicked. She’d been fifteen. Abandoned by an abusive boyfriend. Alone and afraid. Lies…
Before she could move, Nathaniel had his arms around her, holding her rigid body, murmuring soft calming sounds that purred through her until she finally stopped shaking. He held her while her silent, angry tears soaked his T-shirt. Held her until the tension seeped from her limbs and she melted against him.
Just held her.
It was a technique she used to calm distraught children, holding them tight so that they’d feel safe even when they fought her-her promise that, whatever they did, she would not let go. And, even as she broke down, buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed like a baby while his hands gently stroked her back, in the dark recesses of her mind, she reco
gnized that this was something he’d done before.
That she shouldn’t read more into it than a simple gesture of comfort and gradually she began to withdraw. Ease away.
She was a survivor. She’d taken everything that life could throw at her and she’d take this, come through it. She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders, putting herself back together, piece by piece, something she’d done times without number.
But never before had the loss of contact felt so personal, the empty space between two bodies quite so cold.
Then, as she brushed her fingers, palms over her cheeks to dry them, Nathaniel took away her hands, tugged up the edge of his T-shirt and used it to very tenderly dab them dry.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, pulling away from him before the tears began to fall again. ‘I didn’t plan to weep all over you.’
His response was a crooked smile and, making a pretence of wringing out his T-shirt between his hands, making a joke of it, he said, ‘Is that the worst you’ve got?’
She felt an answering tug at the corner of her own lips. She was still embarrassed at bawling her eyes out, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter so much. Nothing seemed to matter when Nathaniel smiled at her.
And that was dangerous.
Not because he was trying to fool her, but because she was capable of fooling herself. Seeing only what she wanted to see. Hearing only what she wanted to hear.
‘You have to call the police, Nathaniel. Tell them I’m here.’
‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking a policeman in the eyes and telling him that you’re not in the store.’
‘No lies,’ she insisted. ‘Nobody lies…’
‘So long as I do it before the store opens tomorrow, it will be the truth.’
‘But it wouldn’t be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, would it?’
‘You care about that?’
‘I’ve been living a lie for the last six months. This afternoon I lied to Pam…’
‘You didn’t actually lie to her.’
‘I didn’t tell her the truth, which is the same thing.’ She’d actually congratulated herself on her cleverness, which, considering the way she’d berated Rupert for doing the same thing, was double standards any way you looked at it. ‘You’ve been kind, Nathaniel. Not some fairy tale Prince Charming; you’re the real thing. A “parfit gentil knyght”. But you have the store to think about, your reputation. This is going to be messy and I don’t want you involved.’