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‘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.
