Sins. PENNY JORDAN
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hired for the feature he had been commissioned to photograph on ‘The Fabled Train Journey to Venice on the Orient-Express’, as well as in Venice itself.
It was the largest commission he had received from Vogue, and it would be worth toeing the line just to get the money. The trouble was that once he got behind his camera he almost always had trouble reminding himself of the need to earn money and instead became totally lost in his own imagination.
God, but he rated what he had done with Rose and Josh. Sometimes he could hardly believe himself what a genius he actually was.
He couldn’t wait for Josh to see what he had done. He looked at his watch, frowning in disbelief and shaking his wrist when he saw that the time was four o’clock, thinking that the watch must have stopped during the afternoon, and then realising that it had not and that it actually was four o’clock in the morning.
He was tired and hungry–very hungry. Stifling a yawn, he padded barefoot across to open the door.
The place he was renting was the first he had had all to himself. He had seized on it because the single large room that, along with a long narrow bathroom, comprised the flat, had access to the roof space, and he had been able to persuade the landlord to let him turn part of it into a darkroom.
When he could afford it he planned to move into somewhere where he could have a proper studio, but that was still just a pipe dream at the moment.
In his living quarters, he opened the food safe and removed several rashers of bacon, dropping them into the blackened frying pan, which he then put on top of his single-ring gas cooker, turning the heat up high and adding a dollop of lard. Whilst the bacon sizzled and spat noisily, depositing fat on the double row of tiles stuck haphazardly onto the bright yellow painted wall behind the cooker, Ollie removed an already started loaf from the breadbin on the tin dresser that held his meagre supply of china and kitchen utensils. The dresser was a gift from his mother, who had nearly cried when she saw what her son had given up his room in her lovely immaculate terraced house to live in, denouncing the flat as ‘a hovel’.
Cutting himself a couple of thick slices, Ollie buttered them generously and then removed the rashers of bacon from the frying pan, flattening them firmly between the thick wedges of bread.
By the time he took his first bite he was practically drooling with hungry anticipation. A bacon butty, there was nothing better. Except the sweet taste of success. It was something he hoped would become a regular event for him now.
They were travelling from the Vogue office to pick up the boat train to Paris, where they would transfer to the Orient-Express, and Ella had naturally been up early, checking her small case over and over again in nervous anticipation. This trip meant so much to her–the opportunity to be noticed, to be given a senior assignment. She had everything crossed it would all work out as well as she hoped.
She didn’t have to be at Vogue’s offices until ten, but she was too anxious to sleep, sitting instead in the kitchen in her dressing gown, her feet tucked into her slippers whilst she sipped a cup of tea. The thought of eating made her feel even more nauseous.
She could hear Janey and Rose coming down the stairs. Soon it would be time for her to leave. She stood up, carrying her now empty cup over to the sink as Janey burst into the kitchen, complaining about the cold floor.
From the minute she had seen Rose’s new hairstyle on Saturday, Janey had not stopped demanding that Rose tell Josh that she wanted her own hair cutting in exactly the same style, and she was still doing so now, only breaking off to say to Ella enviously, ‘Lucky you, going to Venice, where the sun will be shining and it will be warm.’
‘I shall be working, not sunbathing,’ Ella pointed out, checking her watch. Yes, it was definitely time for her to leave, but first she must make one last check of her handbag, just to make sure that she really hadn’t forgotten anything.
Seated on the opposite side of the heavy old-fashioned mahogany partners’ desk in Mr Melrose’s office, Dougie tried hard not to stare too obviously at Emerald’s mother.
Physically she presented no surprises to him. He had not worked for Lew for several months without learning something, and it hadn’t taken him much effort to source some reasonably recent newspaper photographs of Amber. If he had been asked to describe her in one word, that word would have been ‘classy’. From the top of her elegantly styled chignon to the toes of her navy-blue leather shoes, Amber almost glowed with a special patina of good looks, good manners and a gentleness that spoke of the kindness that Dougie was sure he could see in her eyes.
It was that softness and the kindness allied to it that had surprised him. It hadn’t been obvious from the press photographs he had seen, and it had taken him off guard. All the more so because Emerald was her daughter. How could two women so closely related be so very different?
Amber eyed the young Australian seated opposite her sympathetically. She had warmed to him instantly, feeling rather sorry for him as he explained the chain of events that had led to him being orphaned. It had been interesting to learn about his life in Australia. He was a wealthy young man in his own right, and from one or two comments he had let drop, it had been plain that he had been brought up to look unfavourably on the British upper class, with its archaic practices.
‘I’ll admit that when I first got your letters I didn’t altogether like the thought of me being this duke bloke,’ he had told them.
So what had made him change his mind, Amber wondered. He had told them that he worked for a society photographer and the young Australian had admitted himself that he often felt ill at ease amongst the upper-class set. His admission had increased Amber’s sympathy for him, reminding her of how out of place she herself had sometimes felt as a young woman growing up amid wealth but not aristocracy. Despite his rough edges, though, Dougie had a natural pride in himself that Amber admired, even whilst she acknowledged that if he did prove to be the duke he would need a lot of help getting used to his new role.
He would, she felt, bring a freshness to the dukedom, like a clean gust of air blowing into a dusty room that had been closed up for too long. Robert would have liked and approved of him, she thought, considering her late husband. Jay would like him too. They would be able to talk together about farming matters. As those thoughts formed, Amber knew that she had already accepted him as part of her extended family, and equally that she already felt a maternal sense of protectiveness towards him.
He was obviously used to standing up for himself and living his own life, but he would be vulnerable in his new role, and the sharks that would swim close to him would not always be easily recognisable. He would need support, and who better to provide that, Amber decided, than the family he already had.
‘Well, there are several things that need to be confirmed before a formal announcement can be made,’ Mr Melrose was saying, ‘but…’
He looked at Amber, who smiled back at him before turning to Dougie to say warmly, ‘I don’t quite know whether to congratulate you or commiserate with you, Dougie. Or should I say, Your Grace?’ she added, teasing him gently.
Dougie shook his head, half bemused and half embarrassed.
‘You’ll want to see the Eaton Square house, I expect, and Osterby, of course,’ Amber continued. ‘I have a confession to make with regard to the London house. I’m afraid that I’ve allowed my daughter to move into it for the duration of her season and that her coming-out ball is to be held there.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Dougie began, and then stopped as both Mr Melrose and Amber looked curiously at him. ‘That is to say, I remember reading about it,’ he amended, ‘and of course I’m delighted. That is, I mean that I don’t…well, there’s no problem at all with your plans, so far as I’m concerned.’
‘That is very generous of you,’ Amber told him. ‘I know you’ll