We start at nine o’clock, in the fourth floor conference room. Mind you’re not late.” And he rang off.
Blast. She flung her mobile aside and turned back to her customer – he looked more than a bit irate now, actually – and fixed a polite smile to her lips. “Sorry. How may I help you?”
“Ah, help at last! How very kind. I thought I might have to chew my own arm off or relieve myself on the carpet to get a bit of attention.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Natalie said, her words frosty. “Did you wish to buy a gift for someone?”
“That was my intention, but God knows, I don’t wish to inconvenience you.” He scowled. “I’m looking for something upscale, and suitable for a lady.”
“Upscale?” She glanced doubtfully around the department, which hadn’t changed since 1982. “I’d go to Agent Provocateur, then. You won’t find much that’s upscale here.”
“But I’m here now, so let me see what you have, please.” His mobile vibrated; he thrust a hand in his jacket pocket to retrieve it. “Yes, Tom,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Sorry. I’m dealing with a store clerk at the moment.”
She glared at him. He plainly equated store clerks with lower life forms…single-celled organisms incapable of thought or, God forbid, intelligence.
She turned away and strode across the carpeted floor to the glass display case where the better lingerie was located. There was no ring on his finger, so the gift must be for a girlfriend. As she bent down to unlock the case and pulled out some lacy, sexy underclothes, she tried (and failed) to ignore the jackhammer pounding of her head.
Back at the counter, she laid out a half-dozen bras and knickers for his inspection. “These are very nice,” she informed him. “Notice the lace detailing.”
He prodded at a pair of knickers with his free hand and, with a cursory glance, shoved them aside as if they were £1.99 cotton pants. “These won’t do. Let me see your nightgowns.”
She bent down with a put-upon sigh and withdrew several negligees from beneath the counter. “These ones are lovely—”
“I need those cost overrun estimates ASAP,” he said into the phone, and dropped the mobile back into his Barbour. “Haven’t you anything that doesn’t look as if it came out of a stripper’s closet? The lady’s tastes are conservative.”
“Well in that case,” Natalie said with barely concealed irritation, “we have a nice assortment of flannel granny gowns.”
He leaned forward, his expression combative. “Show me something else.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
As Natalie glared back, her mobile came to life, vibrating on the counter behind her. “Excuse me.” Before he could object, she dove back under the counter to (1) look for the least sexy nightgown she could find and (2) take her call.
The moment she saw Dominic’s name on the screen, Nat pressed ‘Answer’. “Dom!” she hissed. “Where were you last night?” His side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.
“Went back to mine,” he said, and yawned. “I had a few pints with the boys, got pissed, passed out.”
This, Natalie knew, was probably a lie. Not the ‘went back to mine’ part, but the ‘passed out’ part. He’d likely spent the night in bed with his latest slag du jour.
“Don’t forget, Alastair’s anniversary party is tomorrow night,” she reminded him.
“Oh, shit,” he groaned. “All right, just be ready when I pick you up.” He paused and added ominously, “We need to talk.”
She frowned. “Talk? About what?”
“I can’t go into it on the phone, can I?” he snapped.
Natalie sighed. When Dom was in One of His Moods, a single cross word from her could easily escalate into a shouting match. She hadn’t the energy – or time – to deal with him now.
He might be playing Glastonbury this summer, and he might rock a guitar, but on a day-to-day basis Dominic Heath was a nightmare. His temper was legendary. Last week he’d trashed a curry house in Soho because the vindaloo wasn’t spicy enough.
Nor had two years of therapy cured his sex addiction; Natalie recently discovered he was shagging his sex therapist.
Good thing she planned to dump him at Alastair’s party tomorrow night.
Her customer leaned over the counter. “What are you doing down there, having a chat with the bras and knickers?”
“I’m on the phone,” Natalie retorted. “Do you mind?”
“Actually,” he replied, his expression grim, “I do.”
She glared up at him and returned to her call. “We’ll talk later,” she hissed, and rang off.
Natalie rummaged under the counter until she found a negligee and a matching dressing gown of apricot silk. She stood and tossed both on the counter. “I think the Queen herself would approve of these.”
He studied the items with a frown. “Very well, ring them up. And hurry. I haven’t got all day.”
Wordlessly she complied. He paid the entire bill – just over £250 – in cash.
“Oh, and I want them gift-wrapped,” he added as Natalie pulled out a carrier bag. “Can you manage that, do you think?”
“Sorry, but I haven’t any boxes.”
“You do,” he retorted. “I see them, there—” he pointed to the shelf behind her “—and I see tissue paper, as well.”
“Oh, fancy that! Right you are.” Natalie grabbed up a couple of flat boxes and tissue, flung the items inside, and thrust the boxes in the bag. “Here you go. Happy Christmas.”
“What about wrapping paper? Bows? Ribbons?”
“You have to go to the gifting counter for that.” She glanced at the Guardian Mrs. Tuttle had left under the counter. “I could wrap it in yesterday’s newspaper, if you like. Is the Guardian all right? Or do you prefer the Telegraph?”
“We’re talking about an overpriced Christmas gift,” he said, his jaw set in a tight line, “not yesterday’s cod. And I haven’t time to wait in another queue. Just give me the damned boxes so I can be on my bloody way.”
Natalie held the carrier bag out. “Here you go. Have a lovely day,” she gritted out. “Hope to see you again soon!”
“Oh, you will,” he promised her grimly. “Count on it.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” she muttered as he departed, carrier bag in hand. “Like the plague. Or my next gyno exam.”
Thank God, Natalie consoled herself as she rang up a bra and a pair of Wolford tights for the next customer in the queue, I’ll never, ever see him again.
