At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding. India Grey
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goodness’ sake—we all make mistakes and do things we regret when we’re young.’
‘You didn’t,’ Tamsin snapped, making islands of bubbles on the surface of the water. ‘You played it so cool that Simon was virtually on his knees with a ring before you’d kissed him. I, on the other hand, was so deranged with infatuation for Alejandro that I dressed like I was charging for it and didn’t even take the time to tell him my name before I threw myself at him.’
‘So? It’s in the past. Like I said, we make mistakes, and we move on.’
‘I know, but…’ Tamsin knew Serena was right. In theory. ‘Moving on’ sounded so simple and logical. So why had she never been able to do it? Even Serena had no idea of the extent to which what had happened that night had affected her in the years that followed. And was still affecting her now. ‘I can’t.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to stop you right there. I thought tonight was about your work not our sex life.’ Ouch. ‘I thought that you were going to the party to unveil the England team suits?’ Serena gave a breezy laugh. ‘Gosh, just think: all those people who said you were flaky and you only got the commission because of Dad will love it if you don’t turn up because of some bloke!’
Tamsin stood up in a rush of water.
‘What? Who said that?’
‘Oh, well, no one in particular,’ soothed Serena. ‘Not in so many words, anyway, although Simon said that article in last week’s Sports Journal sort of implied—’
‘God, I hate that!’ Snatching a towel, Tamsin stepped out of the bath and stormed into the bedroom, stepping over the chaos of discarded clothes and piles of magazines, and leaving a trail of wet footprints on her polished wooden floorboards. ‘How dare they say that? Don’t they do their research? Don’t they know I have a first-class degree in textiles, and that I was up against some of the stiffest competition in the business to get this commission? Don’t they know that Coronet won “best new label” at last year’s British Fashion Awards?’
‘I’m not sure, but I do,’ said Serena placidly. ‘It’s the press pack at the party that you need to be haranguing, not me. Although, of course, if you’re not there I don’t suppose you can. You’ll just have to let the clothes speak for themselves. The suits are exquisite, and from what I gathered from Simon the new shirts were very—’
Tamsin, who had flung herself down on top of the mountain of clothes piled on her un-made bed, gave a cry of dismay and slithered to her feet. ‘Oh, my God, the shirt! I’d almost forgotten about that. I have to get it back. If I don’t, by the end of tomorrow’s press conference my reputation is going to be toast, and on top of everything else that’s the last thing I need.’
‘How are things at Coronet?’ asked Serena carefully.
‘Bad. While I was dealing with the shirt crisis, Sally left a message on my answerphone to say that another buyer had pulled out because of loss of exclusivity, since the designs have been so widely copied on the high street.’
‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, darling,’ Serena said weakly. ‘And the shirt crisis wasn’t your fault. The factory messed up the dye process, and it’s entirely to your credit that you thought to test the shirts for colour-fastness ahead of the game.’ Serena giggled. ‘Otherwise England would have been playing in pink by half time.’
‘Given that the press are out for my blood already, I don’t think they’ll see it that way.’ Tamsin threw open her wardrobe and began to rifle through the rails. ‘Which is why I can’t afford for it to get out.’
‘What’s that noise? What are you doing?’
‘Looking for something to wear.’
‘Ah. Does that mean you’re going?’
‘Oh yes, I’m going all right,’ Tamsin said grimly, pulling out a sea-green silk dress, grimacing and putting it back. ‘I’m fed up of being taken advantage of. Alejandro bloody D’Arienzo picked the wrong day to mess with me. He screwed me up enough last time, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of doing it again. He took something that belongs to me.’ She paused, frowning. ‘And I intend to take it back.’
‘Are we talking about the England shirt now?’ said Serena gently.
‘Amongst other things.’ Let’s see: my pride, my sense of worth, my self-confidence… ‘God, Serena, when I think about that night—about how it felt when I realised he wasn’t coming back… I thought nothing could be worse than knowing that he found me so unattractive back then, but you should have seen the expression on his face this afternoon. It’s like he hates me, like he has nothing but contempt for me. Like I’m worthless.’
‘Don’t say that, Tam.’ Serena’s voice hardened slightly. ‘He was the one in the wrong back then. You’re brilliant. And beautiful.’
Tamsin stopped, catching sight of herself suddenly in the wardrobe mirror. Wrapped only in a towel, her newly washed hair was slicked back from a face that was flushed from the bath. So far, so OK, but her eyes automatically travelled downwards to her right arm.
She grimaced and turned away.
‘Yeah, right. And you’re clearly suffering from pregnancy hormones,’ Tamsin said with a rueful grin. ‘Go and eat another pickled onion and chocolate-spread sandwich and leave me alone. Don’t you know I have a party to get ready for?’
‘Not so fast. I need to know what you’re wearing first. You can keep your weird sandwich combinations; now that I know I’m condemned to spending the next six months in a maternity smock, my only craving is for tailored clothes, so I’ll have to indulge myself through you. You need something that screams “successful, glamorous, assured, mysterious, sexy, but completely unavailable”.’
Tamsin pulled out a narrow slither of light-as-air ash-grey chiffon and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Exactly.’
‘You look lovely, darling,’ Henry Calthorpe said stiffly, barely glancing up from the evening paper in his hand as Tamsin slid into the back of the car beside him. ‘Nice dress.’
‘Thank you, Daddy.’
Tamsin suppressed a smile. She was grateful for the senti¬ ment—sort of—but it would be great if for once he’d actually looked. Then he would have seen that the dress wasn’t nice—it was a triumph. It was her favourite design for the new season’s collection; the whisper-fine chiffon was generously gathered from a low V-neck, crisscrossed by bands of silver ribbon which fitted snugly under the bust and swept downwards at the back, giving the whole thing a slightly Greek feel. The long semi- sheer sleeves fell down over her hands, covering her arms. Of course; fashion wasn’t her father’s thing, but he certainly would have noticed if she’d left her arms bare.
‘Initial comment on the strip seems to be fairly positive, you’ll be pleased to know,’ Henry continued acidly. ‘It’s just a shame they didn’t manage to get a picture of one of our players wearing it.’
He closed the paper and put it down quickly, but not before Tamsin had caught a glimpse of a full-page photograph of Alejandro walking from the pitch in the England shirt beneath the headline: Barbarian Conqueror.
She picked up the newspaper and opened it. In the hushed interior of the Mercedes, her heart was beating so loudly she was surprised her father couldn’t hear it. Trying to keep her hand from shaking as she held the paper, she began to read.
Former England hero Alejandro D’Arienzo made a welcome return to Twickenham this afternoon in a closely fought match between England and the Barbarians. In a stunning display of skill, the Argentine Adonis helped the Barbarians to a surprise 36-32 victory, after which an outclassed Ben Saunders handed D’Arienzo his new shirt in a gesture of well-deserved respect.