Even though I’m allowed a bit of wine now and then, it gives me terrible indigestion.”
“‘His’?” Nat queried. “Are you having a boy, then?”
“Don’t know. Don’t want to know, I want to be surprised. But I’ve a feeling it’s a boy. He kicks like a punter for West Ham.”
“Seriously, though, you look beautiful. Pregnancy suits you.”
Alexa snorted. “I look like a right cow, but thanks for the compliment. I’ll take any I can get, these days.” She moved the bag to her other hand. “Is Ian in, then?”
Natalie’s smile faded. “Yes.”
“I’d best get this curry upstairs before it goes cold. I’ll call you next week,” she promised. “We’ll meet up for lunch, or something.”
“I’d love that. Let’s do it.”
They hugged, and Natalie watched, smiling, as Alexa made her way up the steps and pushed her way through the revolving doors.
Her smile faded. Alexa was her oldest, dearest friend. They’d been through so much together – the loneliness they’d shared their first year at boarding school, boyfriend trouble, Nat’s father’s suicide – that saying nothing to Alexa while Ian played out this strange little game made her feel conflicted, ashamed – and guilty as hell.
She hated Ian for doing this, not just to her, but to Alexa.
You need to be nicer to me, Natalie.
Abruptly she shook her misgivings aside and made her way to the Underground station. The hell with Ian Clarkson, she decided. This was probably all just a tempest in a coffee carafe, or whatever that old saying was.
Nevertheless, as she touched her Oyster card to the reader and sat on a bench to wait for the next train, her thoughts remained troubled.
The Connaught hotel was quiet when Natalie arrived that evening. She’d tried on and discarded a dozen outfits, determined to dress as primly as possible, before settling on a knee-length skirt and a black, high-necked cashmere sweater. She gripped her Chanel clutch tightly and walked into the bar.
She paused in the doorway. The walls were panelled in soft green, and low armchairs upholstered in jewel-toned velvets were grouped around tables throughout the room. A fireplace burned invitingly at one end. Ian, seated at a corner table nearest the fire, stood as she approached.
“Natalie! Please, sit down.” He indicated a chair upholstered in ruby velvet.
“Do I have a choice?” she bit off as she tossed her clutch on the table and sat down.
“You always have a choice. You’ve obviously made yours.”
A waiter materialised at her elbow. “May I bring you a drink, madam?”
“Sparkling water, please,” Natalie told him. She was keeping a clear head. “Thanks.”
“I’ll have another martini.” Ian nudged the bowl of olives towards her. “I like it here. It’s very intimate.” His gaze drifted over her. “You look lovely tonight.”
“I saw Alexa earlier.” Natalie met his eyes. “She brought you lunch. Chicken curry, she said. How was it?”
He smiled, unperturbed. “It was good, but a bit cold.”
They were silent as the waiter brought their drinks. When he left, Natalie took a sip of her Perrier and met Ian’s gaze. “Let’s cut the crap, Ian. What is it you want?”
“You do get straight to the point, don’t you?” He smiled and thrust an olive in his mouth. “I like that. First, I’ll give you a bit of history. My stepfather was the senior accountant at Dashwood and James.” His words were measured. “He was blackmailing your father. It’s one of the reasons why the company began its unfortunate tailspin into the red…and why your father eventually killed himself.”
“And you know this how, exactly? You were just a child then, like me.”
“I didn’t know then, obviously. I overheard a conversation my father had. It made no sense at the time, but I remember that afterwards, I got a new bike. And we no longer went for a week’s holiday in Blackpool. Instead, we went to Belize, or Ibiza – much nicer than spending a week on a rocky Cornwall beach.”
Natalie pressed her lips together but said nothing.
He smiled briefly and moved his whiskey glass, leaving a damp ring on the table. “I was going through some boxes in storage, and I found a stack of my stepfather’s old Dashwood and James account books…books that implicated your father in an embezzlement scheme. It cost a lot to keep a mistress, even then. The affair was all over the press, mostly gossip and innuendo, and a couple of photographs of your father and his mystery woman – but it stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble for him, and for the store. Shame, to dredge it all up again.”
Natalie recalled her classmates’ whispers, the neighbours’ curious glances, the unexpected and frightening pop of flashbulbs that plagued their family outings when she was nine.
Now, she understood. Her father’s affair must have become public knowledge. Poor mum.
She met Ian’s eyes. “I’ll go straight to the police and tell them you’re blackmailing me—”
“And I’ll go to the tabloids.” His smile was cold. “Your father’s name will be smeared like shit all over the media.” He sighed in regret. “And with the store’s re-launch just around the corner, it’s not the ideal time for a scandal. Is it?”
Natalie felt as if the ground were dissolving beneath her feet. He’d planned this all, right from the start.
She raised her eyes to his. “What is it you want?” she asked finally, her voice a thread. “Money? A new car?”
“God, no. How pedestrian.” He leaned forward. “I want something else altogether, Natalie.” He paused. “I want you.”
She let out a sharp, slow breath. “You’re married, your wife is pregnant, for God’s sake—”She stopped. He was plainly unmoved by her moral outrage.
He shrugged. “We’re not close, Alexa and I. We go through the motions. I married her for financial rather than romantic reasons. It was all rather calculated on my part, I suppose.”
“And does Alexa know that you don’t love her? She’s expecting your first child, Ian!”
His expression darkened. “I never wanted children. That was her doing, getting pregnant to trap me into staying with her. But it doesn’t matter.” He leaned forward. “I’m divorcing her, Natalie, and I want to start over, with you. We can get married.” He glanced up. “And then you can recommend me for a partnership in Dashwood and James.”
As the muted sounds of conversation and clinking ice cubes went on around them, Natalie stared at him. “Ian, that’s absurd! If you divorce
