‘I’m sure you’re a highly intelligent woman, and maybe if you used your brain, instead of wasting your time in a dead-end job like cold-calling, you might be a lot happier and less desperate to hide yourself away in a book the whole time.’
I feel as though he’s hit me, his words sting my very being, as intense as a real physical pain.
‘You’re totally wrong,’ I say defiantly. ‘I’m just biding my time in Sales until a better position arises in Editorial.’ (Oops, I didn’t want to tell him that, it was supposed to be my secret until I’m a bit more integrated.)
‘If you think those bitchy girls in Editorial are going to let you in, you are very much mistaken,’ Darcy states firmly. ‘You know better than anyone else how it works in Modiste. More to the point, you’re getting yourself into very hot water being involved with that group of social climbers. Sophie, you’re so naïve.’
‘What’s it to do with you anyway?’ I demand. ‘Why do you care? Or am I too much of an embarrassment to you and your agency?’
Darcy pauses, seemingly about to say something, then stops himself.
‘Not at all. I leave membership issues to Jessica and Emma. It’s nothing to do with that – why would we be embarrassed of someone like you? Your problem is you lack confidence and keep pitching yourself too low.’
‘And your problem is your propensity to think you’re above everyone and everything. And you’re not, not at all. One day it’ll all catch up with you and you’ll see how hard it can be to try to fit into a world different from your own.’
‘Er, would anyone like another glass of Pimms?’ the colonel asks politely, shifting about awkwardly from one foot to the other.
‘No thank you, Colonel, I’m not feeling very well. I’m going to return to the house,’ I reply.
‘Are you all right, Miss Johnson? Would you like me to walk with you?’ The Colonel looks concerned.
‘No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine – it’s just a headache – I’ll be better for a bit of quiet, thank you all the same.’
I stumble off towards the house, not caring if my heels sink into the grass or not. I need to get away to think.
Chapter 22
‘Can I help you, madam?’ A sombre-looking butler steps into the path of my rapid stomping into the house.
‘I need the ladies if you could please tell me where it is?’ I ask, hastily dabbing at my tear-blotched eyes. I hope my mascara hasn’t run. Bloody Darcy Drummond, he knows just how to get under my skin. I hate him.
‘Straight on and round to the left, madam.’ The butler ignores my tear stains and scruffy appearance in a truly professional manner and waddles off on his way. From the back, he looks rather like a penguin.
Once in the elegantly tiled and over-the-top bathroom, I clean my face and take some deep breaths. I mustn’t let Darcy get to me, he’s not worth it. Next thing is to get hold of Mel, wherever she is, and get out of here. I don’t want to stay one more minute. Perhaps she can drive Rob’s car home and we might be able to pick him up later, or never, with any luck.
Feeling extremely furtive, I begin the task of searching for Mel. I’ve already tried her phone several times but it’s going straight to answerphone. She’d said she was returning to the house so she can’t be outside – I would have passed her anyway as I came back in. So that narrows it down to about a hundred rooms or so – I should be done before… well, either way, I figure I had better get on with it.
Half an hour later I’m fed up and tired, my feet hurt from my heels digging in, so I decide to take them off and tiptoe in my bare feet. I hope to goodness I won’t bump into anyone as I probably look like a complete and utter weirdo. Fortunately, however, the place seems to be deserted as most of the staff are out helping with the garden party.
The house itself is simply vast; I trail past room after room, not liking to call for Mel as I have a feeling she’s up to something she shouldn’t be.
Suddenly, as I’m passing yet another large oak door on the third floor, I hear a noise from within. I haven’t liked to wander in and out of the rooms in someone else’s house when the door is shut, so have tried to listen out for any sounds instead. There’s definitely a rustling inside this one. I creep to the door and gently push it with a couple of fingers, just a little, and poke my head round.
It’s a large boudoir with a great curtained bed in the centre, with thick velvet drapes. I could swear as I came in there was a tiny movement from behind the bed.
Taking all my courage, and hoping against hope there are no ghosts or vermin in the house, I tiptoe towards the end of the bed and peer round the other side. There, crouched on the floor, with her head partly hidden under the bed sheet, is Mel.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask incredulously.
‘Shhhh! What are you doing, more like? You frightened the life out of me. I thought you were Lady Constance!’ Mel scrambles to her feet, brushing bits of fluff off her clothes.
‘For goodness sake, of all the bizarre things to do. This looks like Lady Constance’s room. What the heck are you doing in it? She’ll go mad if she catches you.’
‘I was checking to see if she has any vintage outfits designed by Vivienne d’Artois of course.’
‘Oh, of course, silly me. I should have guessed! And what are you going to do with them if you find any, nick them?’
‘Of course not. What sort of person do you think I am?’
‘I don’t know what sort of person you are when I come across you stealing about in other people’s bedrooms without permission, especially when that person is one iota as scary as Lady Constance. You must be crazy!’
‘No, just desperate. I don’t seem to be getting anywhere talking to the woman, so I’m going to have to check out her gear, and research the competition when no-one’s around.’
‘Good grief, Mel. Can’t you just ask her to look at them?’ I ask naively. I take one look at the expression on her face. ‘Okay, maybe not. But this is going to end in tears, I can tell you.’
‘Pssst, Mel… Pssst!’ I look to see where the noise is coming from, then catch sight of Mel’s face – she looks definitely sheepish.
‘Come on out – it’s only Sophie!’ she whispers loudly.
‘Sophie, darling, what are you doing here?’ It’s Mark, draped in a 1920s feather boa with a fascinator in his hair.
‘God, I wish you people would stop asking me that when I’m only here because of you lot,’ I snap. ‘Why on earth are you involved in this, Mark? Don’t tell me you know Lady Constance as well.’
‘No, darling, never met her before, but your friend Mel here got in touch to ask me to help her out with a little fashion detective work, and who am I to refuse an adventure?’ Mark looks so hilarious, I smile in spite of the stressful situation.
‘I needed Mark to help me identify the really popular stuff. I found his details on your phone,’ Mel whispers defiantly. ‘I’m not copying the designs, but I must check out the opposition first hand if I’m going to be really successful in this industry.’