Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (4 page)

‘Are you sure you want to go out?’ I call through to the bathroom where Piers is having the longest shower ever.

I don’t know why he just doesn’t admit defeat and go to sleep – that’s what I’d do – but he’s very precious about how he recovers from jet lag. When you’ve been jet-setting as long as he has, you get into a certain routine.

I hear something from the bathroom but I’m not sure what he says. I’m pretty certain though that we’re still going to Tabi’s. A good job, but only because it’s notoriously difficult to get a table there and Tabitha-Rose would give us serious stink eye if we failed to show up after making a reservation. 

Piers caught a red eye yesterday back from the States, landing at Heathrow this morning. I had him home for three days last week before he had to fly back out again. Once upon a time I would have gone with him, making the most of the dollar (and the shopping), but now I have too much to do.

The shop is taking over everything, but it’s all signed and sealed officially with Felicity. We’re equal partners, but as she has put up all the capital, I’ll start paying for my half once we start making a profit. I won’t have a wage for the time being, but it will be worth it.

I had hoped that Piers or Dad would cast an eye over the paperwork but Piers was in the US, and Dad was away in Paris when I was in Hampshire. It all looked pretty straightforward to me though, and this is Felicity. She might waffle on or think she’s already made her point in person, but on paper she is shrewd and exact. The terms are fair.

We’ll be packing up Arielle’s in Bournemouth soon, and we’re set to launch in Camden at the end of February. The wedding on the other hand...

Other than agreeing to get married the year after next and picking the wedding party, we’ve done nothing. Maybe that’s a topic of conversation for tonight? I imagine Piers will want a big white wedding but, then again, he’s not
actually
said that to me.

I hold my ring up to the light and watch it glisten. Strangely, I’m less bothered about the wedding than I am about the launch, but I guess that’s because the launch is
soon
. My inner Bridezilla will eventually kick in and I’ll become a wedding nightmare, and bore, for the next sixteen months.

‘Hello Mrs Bramley-to-be.’

I can’t help but smile at that as I turn to look at Piers. It’s not that I’m not bothered about the wedding – I am, I can’t wait to marry him – it’s just that I really want to prove I’m more than the trophy girlfriend he first met, prove I’m his hard-working career-focused fiancée.

I’ll feel a lot more comfortable – and worthy – of marrying Piers when I do. Even though they were stupid remarks from Nigel, I can’t shake his taunts that I’m nothing more than a “kept” woman. I feel ashamed that I never worked when Piers and I first started going out, except for that disastrous stint at the art gallery, but a person can change and redeem themselves... right? I’d like to think so.

‘Hello Mr Bramley,’ I chirp at him.

‘Would you like your present?’

Please let him drop the towel he’s wearing around his waist and throw me onto the bed. I can’t remember the last time we had sex, and he looks all clean, hot and Piers-like. Just look at that six-pack. Grrrrrrrrr!

I smile mischievously.

‘No, not that.’

Oh.

‘But it will make you smile, I promise.’

In fact, I
can
remember the last time we had sex. It was when we were in Paris last November to celebrate our engagement, so three months ago! Since then Piers has either been too tired or poorly, or I’ve not been in the mood. I hope it’s not a sign of what married life is going to be like. Shouldn’t our engagement have revitalised us in the bedroom department? Maybe I should buy some spicy new lingerie.

I wiggle suggestively as he walks towards me, but he walks straight past me, over to the black Tod’s grained-leather laptop bag that I bought him for Christmas. I pout, not that he can see me, and flop down on the bed. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I don’t want a present. I have far too many things as it is.

Rather than a present, I want sex with my fiancé, followed by snuggles on the sofa and slobbing out with a takeaway in front of the telly. I don’t want to be part of the “scene” tonight and make pointless small talk. I want to talk to Piers, catch up properly with him, and then I want us to go to bed so I can reacquaint myself intimately with his body.
Is that too much to ask?

‘Pony?’

Oh bugger. I was miles away. Piers is sitting on the bed, holding out a jewellery-shaped gift box.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ I say softly, sitting up.

‘No, but I always–’

He breaks off, coughing again. It still sounds like he’s trying to cough up his lungs, so that’s killed off that mood. Like I said, he’s always poorly or tired.

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘I’m absolutely fine.’ He’s dismissive, but I know he’s not fine. That’s not just a regular cough you have when you’re under the weather, or even a
man-flu
cough. That’s a serious cough.

‘You’ve been poorly since
December
,’ I point out.

If I was the one who was coughing, he would have bundled me into the car and had me in front of a doctor within a nano-second. OK, maybe not that quick but he would have insisted that I see a doctor, probably more for his sanity than my own. He’s terrible with his own health – not that he isn’t usually healthy as a horse – but he can’t stand the smallest of splutters not being dealt with in others.

‘It’s a tickle.’

‘Piers,’ I say warningly.

‘It’s nothing.’ He tries to pass me my present but I don’t take it from him.

‘It’s not nothing,’ I retort. ‘You’ve had this cough on and off for over a month. It’s not going away.’

‘It’s just a seasonal thing – everyone gets ill at this time of year.’

He hasn’t though, not in the five years I’ve known him. Sure, he’s had a cold or two, a headache here and there, but he’s never called in sick. He reminds me of Ob in that respect.

‘I’ll be fine once spring arrives,’ he adds.

I am not listening to him cough like that for the next few months. With how the weather is in this country, it could be snowing in May. Besides, so far I’ve miraculously not caught these germs from him and I’d like to keep it that way. Two of us doing the coughing chorus would be enough to break off this engagement before we’ve even begun planning the wedding.

‘Well, I’m staying in then.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You heard.’ I sound confrontational, like I’m auditioning for a part on
EastEnders
. ‘I’ll go out with you, but only if you make an appointment first thing on Monday.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Fine, but now will you open your sodding present?’

This is exactly how I imagined our tender reunion to go.
Not
.

‘Go on then.’

I say it rather ungratefully, but he shouldn’t have rolled his eyes at me. I know he’s jet lagged, but he would feel better if he just stayed in and got some rest.

I take the box from him, and rip off the paper to reveal that familiar distinctive egg-blue box that makes my heart sing. It’s another token from Tiffany & Co.

‘It matches your ring, see.’

He takes the box from me and pops it open. I gasp. Nestled inside is a beautiful black diamond pear drop necklace, flanked by smaller, square-cut white diamonds. It’s perfect.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I squeal. ‘Too much, but utterly gorgeous.’

‘I thought you could wear it tonight,’ he says tenderly. ‘My delicious fiancée.’

I move my hair to one side so Piers can fasten the necklace around my neck, not that it will go well with the Cath Kidston flannel pyjamas I’m wearing. Diamonds were not meant to be worn with twee flowery prints, as cute as they are.

‘The funny thing was though, when I tried to buy it, the AmEx got declined. You don’t know why it’s not working, do you?’

Uh-oh. He asks that casually, but he’s not stupid. Does he know what I’ve done? I had hoped that the money from Felicity would have cleared before Piers got home.

Sod the cough and my fear of catching his germs, I pull him to me and kiss him deeply in thanks. Hopefully that will make him forget about the card, but I suspect it won’t.
Bugger
.

‘Shouldn’t you be on the King’s Road, darling?’

‘That’s exactly what I said, Tabitha!’

Funny that he agrees with that, but if Tabitha had told Piers to go and see a doctor about his cough – not that she would because acknowledging other’s ailments in public isn’t the “done” thing – he wouldn’t be so quick to agree with her. It’s my own fault however; I never should have confessed to using his card. He’s been cranky, even more so, ever since I admitted that.

‘Camden is trendy,’ I point out. ‘It’s got a hustle and bustle to it that the King’s Road simply does not have.’

Tabitha scrunches up her face, which makes her button nose look even cuter. With her dimpled cheeks, wide green eyes and perfectly blow-dried red hair, she shouldn’t be allowed to look better than she already does from a mere scrunch of her face.

‘That’s exactly my point, darling,’ she argues. ‘Surely you want to be based somewhere refined, without a sense of urgency? Shopping should be a relaxing experience, not some elbows out affair where you have to push through tourists and want-to-be rock stars to get to where you need to be.’

She couldn’t just say “wannabe”, could she? 

‘Ramone, come here,’ she calls out.

Her voice carries across from where we are sitting, in our dark brown leather booth, to the stainless steel bar where Ramone is sipping a lurid green cocktail with a crowd of identical blonde Sloaney-types. Did she really have to call
Ramone
over, of all people?

Ramone is Tabitha’s best friend, gay fashion designer extraordinaire, proven by the way he minces his way across from the bar in his tight mauve leather trousers, which I bet are Roberto Cavalli. He’s also wearing a black tee bearing the statement “God”. I suspect that’s from his own collection; he’s certainly arrogant enough.

Judging by what Tabitha’s wearing – not much – I bet they’re hitting somewhere decadently trendy and exclusive tonight, not that her place isn’t that. Tabi’s an eclectic space, and there’s always a queue outside. Luckily – or unluckily depending on how you look at it – Piers has donated enough to Tabitha’s charitable causes over the years to earn us the right to skip the queue, and usually reserve one of the comfy booths as well. 

Tabitha tonight is wearing a tiny pair of khaki tailored shorts with brown peep-hole ankle boots and a cream suede wrap jacket. I don’t think she’s wearing anything underneath that jacket... I feel like a Victorian governess in comparison, even though I’m wearing my black, fringed leather jacket with dark skinny jeans and a floaty wisp of a camisole that’s see-through enough to show off my lacy black Agent Provocateur underwear. I was hoping it might inspire Piers not to want to leave the house, but no such luck. 

‘Look at that ice!’

Ramone is positively drooling as he plonks himself down next to me. If I didn’t know how into men Ramone is, I would be seriously freaked out by how much attention he’s currently paying to the top of my cleavage, which is where the black diamond is resting.

‘And,’ he grabs my left hand, ‘it matches! You ought to think about getting better manicures, dear,’ he whispers loudly. ‘You shouldn’t display that sort of bling with
those
nails.’

Ramone mock shudders whilst throatily giggling. It’s really disturbing coming from a six-foot-odd, shaved-head, ripped black guy wearing mauve leather pants, believe me. Though, of course, Ramone can go fuck himself because there’s nothing wrong with my nails. I had a manicure three days ago.

‘Letting herself go now she’s got that ice on her finger,’ Ramone says, winking at Piers. ‘I really would give her a good spanking for that Mr Bramley.’

Thankfully Piers is too straight-laced to get into this sort of conversation with Ramone. I know from previous encounters that Ramone has a slight crush on my fiancé, not that I blame him. Piers is looking tired but hot tonight, as always, even though he’s just thrown on an emerald green v-neck sweater to go with his dark Jacob
Cohën
jeans. Men have it so much easier.

‘And–’ Ramone continues before anyone can get a word in edgeways. He tends to dominate conversations, but also has the attention span of a gnat. He should be disappearing any second to talk to someone who is shinier and far more exciting than the likes of us. ‘You should come and see me about your dress. I’m finishing off Tiggy Boodles’ dress at the moment, but you’re way classier than her.’

Uh-oh. What dress would this be?

‘I had her and Geli in the other month. Between you and me, she looked like a fucking pyramid.’

I have no idea what he’s talking about, although I do know who he is referring to. Tiggy Boodles and Geli Voyante are both columnists who write “Hot or Not” pieces, and I quite like Geli’s column. I wonder if I could get her to include the shop in it. How do I make that happen? Publicity and press is another thing I should stick on my ever-expanding to-do list.

‘Anyway,’ he stands up, ‘call me. I’d love to make it.’ And with that he flounces back off to the bar.

‘Wedding dress,’ Tabitha explains.

I couldn’t think of anything worse.

‘Don’t worry.’ She must have seen my face. ‘He just got back from New York Fashion Week this morning and he’s a bit, errrr, buzzed let’s say. He won’t even remember that he spoke to you in the morning.’

That’s one way of getting over jet lag. I’m grateful that Piers’ method is so normal, and legal, in comparison.

‘Shouldn’t he be doing London Fashion Week?’ I ask.

Ramone, after all, is one of Britain’s top designers. Not that I’d agree with that plaudit but some people, regardless of my opinion, have bestowed that label upon him. Fashion is fickle and quite often phony, my friends.

‘He never does, darling. Doesn’t go to any of the shows either.’

Such a Brit traitor.

‘But, that does mean I have a spare ticket going for the shows next week, if you fancy it?’

I try not to visibly cringe because I really don’t fancy it. Tabitha is not one of my favourite people, if I’m honest, and I find conversations with her tedious enough when we’re in Tabi’s, let alone
choosing
to spend time with her. OK, I don’t really know her, but from what I do know I’m not a fan.

On the other hand, it
is
a great opportunity to mingle with the industry and maybe make some key press contacts for the shop... Think of the shop, think of the shop.

I smile. ‘I’d
love
to.’

I’m such a bitch.