More Than A Millionaire. Sophie Weston
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look amazing, Ab,’ Sam assured her.
Abigail Templeton Burke did a little jig in front of the full-length mirror. It was an experimental jig. When Abby turned into Abigail Templeton Burke, socialite and PR person, she sometimes did not feel quite like herself. It took a mirror and waving her long legs around to remind her.
Mind you, at least these days she could stand upright on high heels, she thought. It had taken her time to get used to it. At home she strode around in trainers or boots most of the time. Wearing heels was second nature to her now but it was a skill she had largely learned in this very cloakroom.
Now she turned to the side to inspect herself.
‘Yup,’ she said without vanity. ‘But would you call it tasteful?’
Tall and broad-shouldered as a model, she wore her clothes well. Today it was silky black pants that flopped around her four-inch heels as she walked. The square of black silk she wore over her breasts to complement the trousers was only turned into a garment by the shoelaces criss-crossing her tanned back.
Molly lounged to her feet and joined Sam in circling round her. They considered the outfit with critical professionalism. Dressing the part was a requirement of the job at Culp and Christopher Public Relations. Finding the right gear to hit the catwalk shows of the London Fashion Week had not been easy.
‘Tasteful, schmasteful,’ pronounced Molly. ‘It will do the business. That’s a real lust bucket of a top.’
Sam took longer to make up her mind.
‘Brilliant,’ said she at last, on a long breath. Her sigh was at least three-quarters relief. Left to herself, Abby had a tendency to dress as if she was just about to go out to the stables. She said so.
‘Give me a break.’ Abby was not offended. ‘Up to six months ago that was exactly what I would have been doing.’
They knew it. The other girls in the agency were even sympathetic, against all the odds. They decided to take Abby in hand almost as soon as she arrived in the PR consultancy. As a result, today’s look was the result of group consultation. It had involved half the office and at least one up-and-coming designer.
‘Maybe not brilliant,’ Abby demurred now. Her golden-brown eyes twinkled. ‘Ravi said I needed to make more of a statement.’ She wafted her hands through the air in a very good imitation of the languid designer.
The others laughed. But Sam said soberly, ‘You stay just as you are now. Any more of a statement and you’ll be putting the client in the shade.’
‘In your dreams.’ said Abby cheerfully. Glancing back at the mirror, she pushed a hand through her soft dark hair and thrust out a hip, posing. After a moment, she shook her head regretfully and straightened.
‘Nah. Diane Ladrot’s safe. Nice enough but dull. No competition there.’
She said it without regret. She had had boyfriends. They did not last and when they went their way, Abby was almost relieved. Perhaps it was spending so long in the comparative isolation of the country. Perhaps it was because she instinctively responded to men the way she did to her brothers. But one way and another she had never seemed to get the hang of dating. Looking at the disasters that the other girls at C&C went through, she was secretly not too anxious to try.
No doubt it would happen at some point. When it did, she would do her best. But she was certainly not looking to set up in competition to Diane Ladrot or any other man magnet. Abby did not regret her lack of pulling power.
The other two exchanged glances. They knew she believed it. Abby had absolutely no idea of her own appeal. Or that, if she put her mind to it, she could have been quite as stunning as their most glamorous client.
Originally the staff at Culp and Christopher had greeted the appointment of the Earl of Nunnington’s only daughter with dismay. ‘Another deb mucking about so she can get her name in the papers,’ was the general consensus. But Lady Abigail, though inexperienced and appallingly unstylish, had neither mucked about nor shown any desire at all to feature in the gossip columns of the national daily papers. It had taken a great deal of concerted work by her new friends to get the sort of coverage that she was picking up today.
Not that Abby was aware of it, as both Sam and Molly knew. She thought it was chance, and did not take much notice of it. She did not realise that the agency found it very useful to have a girl on the strength that the press were already interested in. Abby, though, thought her job was exactly the same as anyone else’s at the agency. She worked hard and did her fair share of the dull stuff.
Indeed, Molly, her closest friend at the agency, sometimes thought that the dull stuff was what Abby preferred.
Take today, for instance. For anyone else, accompanying a Hollywood film star to fashion shows would have been a rare and welcome perk. Sure, there was a job to do. You had to make sure that the client got maximum coverage from whichever media turned up. But the shows were buzzy and exciting.
As Molly herself said, it beat sitting on the phone for hours trying to persuade world-weary radio editors in Scunthorpe to run your story. But Abby didn’t see it like that. In fact, Molly had the distinct impression that to Abby it was a chore—and not a very welcome one.
Which was odd, given the way she looked now that Ravi Kamasarian had done his bit.
‘You could give Diane all the competition she could handle if you wanted to,’ Sam said flatly. ‘Thank God, you don’t.’
‘It’s a shame, really,’ Molly said now. ‘Bit of sparkle and that outfit could be really glamorous. But Sam’s right. Best not.’
Abby turned away from the mirror without sparing her reflection another glance. ‘Just as long as I fit in.’ She flexed her shoulders under the criss-crossing.
‘You’ll be cold though,’ said Sam, ever practical.
Abby shrugged. ‘Oh, these shows are always overheated.’
Sam and Molly exchanged looks.
‘You’ve been before?’
It seemed unlikely, given her attitude to clothes. But they were constantly disconcerted to discover the things unsophisticated Abby turned out to have done without them having any noticeable affect on her life skills.
Abby had a wide, mobile mouth. When she wanted she could make a clown’s face. She did so now.
‘You’d be amazed at what I’ll do for charity,’ she said with a grin. ‘At least, what I used to do.’ The grin faded a bit.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Abigail had never been disloyal. She never mentioned her family in any way. But it did not take a mathematical genius to calculate that the time between her father’s spur of the moment wedding and Abigail’s departure from the Palladian mansion in which she had been her father’s hostess since she was twelve, was a matter of days. Just about enough time for the newlyweds to get back from their luxury safari and the new Lady Nunnington to turn her stepdaughter out of doors, in fact.
So, Abigail Templeton Burke, aged twenty-five and untrained except in the running of thirty-room houses and organising the social life of a jet-setting aristocrat businessman, had suddenly come on the market. Culp and Christopher reckoned themselves lucky to be the first in the race to get her title, her contacts and her cheerful common sense. Abby reckoned herself lucky to get a job.
Now Sam said, ‘Do you think there’s any chance of you getting back for the meeting with Traynors this afternoon?’
That balanced common sense would come in really useful on this one, Sam reflected. To say nothing of the soothing effect of the title on a bunch of a nouveau riche property developers.
Molly looked wise. ‘Think it’s going to be sticky, Sam?’
‘I’d put money on it. Traynors have been getting terrible publicity for weeks. It wasn’t great to begin with. But then they got into this take-over battle and there’s been