The Duke's Proposal. Sophie Weston
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Belinda blows her whistle first.’
‘What it is to be a supermodel.’ He was only half joking.
‘Semi-super. The days of the big celebrity are gone,’ said Jemima, pulling on slim tobacco leather trousers and a black cut-away top.
‘You could just be bringing them back.’
‘Some hope!’
She shrugged rapidly into the matching jacket. It was as soft as glove leather. It would be freezing outside in a London February—but what the hell. There might be photographers out there. The Queen of Top Models couldn’t bundle up in winter linings and woolly mittens. However much she might want to.
‘And then what? Back to Paris?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got a shoot in New York. Fly out tomorrow morning.’ At least in theory, she thought, but didn’t say.
If Madame Belinda was on the warpath she was quite capable of cancelling a contract at twenty-four hours’ notice.
Jemima gave a little shiver. If she lost the high-profile Belinda contract her career was over and she knew it. And then what?
No point in thinking about it. She would have to deal with it when it happened. So she concentrated on the most important thing she could deal with now.
She snapped huge gypsy hoops into her ears and fluffed out her swirl of shining fox-red hair. Casting one quick, professional look into the mirror, she paused for barely a moment.
‘Good,’ she told her image. ‘Very good. High pneumonia risk, but good.’
The designer laughed. He should have been out among his audience, schmoozing the fashion correspondents. But for some reason he still lingered.
‘I mean it, Jemima. You’re a real star.’
She fished her big shoulder-bag out from among the chaos of bags and shoes on the floor.
‘Well, don’t hold it against me,’ she said flippantly. ‘It won’t last.’
He goggled. ‘What?’
Jemima was already regretting her momentary impulse to honesty. She gave him a wide, photogenic smile. ‘Forget it. I’ve got to scoot. The limo is waiting.’
They air-kissed.
‘You really made the show—’ he called after her.
But the door was already closing behind her.
The street was crowded with slow-moving traffic, but Jemima spotted her limousine at once. She knew the car. Knew the driver. Insisted that she always had the same one when she was in London. It was one of the reasons she was beginning to get a name for being demanding.
Behind her back they called her the Beast, the Dreaded Diva, the prima donna of pointless demands. They said there was no reason for her list of requirements on transport and lodging and entertainment, that she just did it because she liked to keep people jumping. Because she could.
If they only knew.
She slid into the back seat, stretched out her long legs and fished the mobile phone out of her designer bag. She bit her lip. Braced herself. Switched it on.
She ran through the voice messages quickly. She was summoned to Madame Belinda at the Dorchester at three. Well, it could be worse. She did not look at the text messages.
The PR agency were taking her to lunch at the Savoy. Two women, hardly less elegant than she was herself, were waiting on low, luxurious sofas, with a dish of canapés already on the polished wooden table between them. They offered wine, a cocktail, champagne. Jemima declined the lot.
‘Bad for the skin.’ She sank into a deep armchair with model-girl grace. ‘I’ll have a glass of water.’
The other two exchanged resigned glances. Difficult, they said without words.
Jemima winced inwardly. She had worked with these women for over a year. Her sister Izzy was even going to marry the brother of Abby, the junior on the team. And they still treated her as something between royalty and a delinquent five-year-old. They satisfied her every whim because she was Jemima Dare, the face of Belinda, and every magazine in the world wanted her to work for them. But they didn’t have to pretend that they liked it.
Be careful what you wish for…
They exchanged glances again, with purpose. A prepared attack, interpreted Jemima. She braced herself.
‘Do you want to check your messages before we start?’ asked Abby, confirming her suspicions.
Jemima tensed inwardly. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Then would you mind turning off your phone? We don’t want to be interrupted.’
‘It’s off,’ she said curtly.
They exchanged another one of those looks. Definitely a prepared attack.
Silently Abby handed her a folder.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first?’ asked Molly di Perretti. Not being family, even remotely, she didn’t have to mince her words.
Jemima put the folder on the table and sipped sparking water from a crystal glass. ‘Good. I’m an optimist.’
Molly tapped the folder. ‘Column inches up again. You were the model most talked about in the international press last month.’
‘Great.’
‘The bad news,’ pursued Molly hardily, ‘is what they’re saying.’
Jemima raised her eyebrows.
‘You work less, demand more. You’re an arrogant cow and everyone hates you.’ Molly’s tone was forensic.
Jemima did not blink. ‘I see.’
Lady Abigail, who was going to have to walk side by side down the aisle with Jemima behind Izzy Dare one day in autumn, and was not looking forward to it, tried a softer approach.
‘It’s so easy to get a bad name in this business. You’re just going to have to be a bit more careful.’
Molly said nothing. Loudly.
Jemima looked at her sardonically. ‘Go on, Molly. Spit it out. I can take it.’
Molly clearly agreed. ‘Abby’s too easy on you. You’re getting a name for being a spoilt brat because you’re behaving like a spoilt brat.’
Abby groaned.
The other two ignored her.
‘Your demands are getting out of control. It’s not just the other models who think you’ve lost the plot.’ Molly started to tick a list off on her fingers. ‘You’ve got to have a limousine you’ve travelled in before. Drivers you happen to fancy. Private planes instead of scheduled flights. Then refusing to stay in the best hotel in New York because you wanted to be alone, and that meant a private apartment at vast cost…’ She glared. ‘I’ve got news for you, Jemima. You’re not Greta Garbo. Wake up and smell the coffee.’
Jemima looked stunned.
Abby and Molly looked at each other, relieved. At least they had got through this time.
‘Drivers I happen to fancy?’ said Jemima, outraged.
Or not. Abby dropped her head in her hands.
Molly’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Fine. Don’t take our advice. See where you end up.’
Jemima said coolly, ‘I pay your company a whole lot of money to run my PR and analyse the results. I didn’t take you on as a life coach.’
Molly put down her margarita so hard that some of it slopped onto the highly polished table. Abby mopped at it with one of the paper cocktail napkins. Neither Jemima nor Molly took any notice.
‘Okay,