The By Request Collection. Kate HardyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Alex—or rather Alex’s firm—to buy her the thermal turtle neck and leggings, the waterproof padded trousers and jacket, the fleece neck warmer, hat and gloves but had felt the whole time like a tomboy toddler being forced into a frilly bridesmaid dress. At least she had talked him out of the hot pink and gone for a less garish turquoise and white look. But she was pretty sure she’d still look and feel like a child playing dress up.
At least she was fairly happy with the dresses she had bought, even the formal dress for the ball. Actually, if she was honest with herself, she was secretly delighted with it—although whether she’d actually have the courage to wear it in public was a whole other matter. The sales assistants had been enthusiastic but then again that was their job. Just look how gushing the saleswoman had been when she had tried on the Bavarian-barmaid-inspired bridesmaid dress for Minerva’s wedding. Even her father hadn’t been able to summon up a heartfelt compliment for that particular outfit.
A little part of her wished she hadn’t sent Alex away for what he rather insultingly called ‘a restorative coffee’ when she had started dress shopping, But it had been bad enough having him there assessing her while she tried on padded trousers. The thought of his eyes skimming over her in dress after dress was far too uncomfortable an image.
Innsbruck had no shortage of designer boutiques and stores but Flora had felt even more out of place in them than she had in the bustling board shops. It had been such a relief when she had stumbled on the vintage shop with floors and floors of second-hand and reproduction clothes. Usually she felt too self-conscious to wear anything that drew attention to herself—and with her height vintage always made a statement—but in this town of winter glamour it had been a choice between vintage inspired or designer glitz. No choice at all.
And it was a glamorous town. The old, medieval streets surrounded by snow-capped mountains gave Innsbruck a quaint, old-fashioned air but there was a cosmopolitan beat to the old Tyrolean town. People came here to shop at the Christmas markets and to enjoy the myriad winter sports aimed at all levels. There was a palpable sense of money, of entitlement, of health and vigour.
‘Look at them all.’ Flora stared down the main street at what seemed like a sea of glowing, youthful faces. ‘It’s like they’ve been ordered out of a catalogue. I’ve never seen so many gorgeous people.’
‘Even him?’ Alex indicated a man sitting in the window of a café, his sunglasses perched high on his unnaturally smooth face, his skin the colour of a ripened orange. Flora bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
‘Or her?’ He nudged her in the direction of a skeletally thin woman, swathed from neck to ankle in what Flora devoutly hoped were fake furs, incongruously bright yellow hair topping her wrinkled face.
‘Maybe not everyone,’ she conceded. ‘But most people seem so at home, like they belong.’ No one else bulged out of quilted jackets, or had hair flattened by their hats. The girls looked wholesomely winsome in thick jumpers and gilets, their hair cascading from underneath their knitted hats, their cheeks pink from the cold. The men were like Norse gods: tall, confident as they strode down the snow-filled medieval streets. Alex fitted the scene like the last piece of a jigsaw. Flora? She was the missing piece from a different jigsaw that had somehow got put in the wrong box.
‘What did I tell you, Flora? No one really belongs, they just act like they do. You just need to stand tall and look people in the eye.’
‘Not easy when everyone is wearing shades.’ It was a feeble joke and Alex just looked at her, concern in his eyes. She winced; somehow she had managed to provoke almost every response going in the last forty-eight hours. She made herself smile. See, joking.
‘We don’t have to be back at the hotel for a few hours yet, you’re respectably kitted out and I have even managed to clear my emails while you were dress hunting. What do you fancy doing?’
Flora pulled at her coat. ‘I should work. What if Camilla wants to see my ideas? All I have are a few online mood boards.’
‘That’s all she wants at this stage. I can promise you, she’ll change her mind a million times and in the end your first concept will be the winner.’
‘Then why drag me here for the week?’ Oh, no. He hadn’t forced her over here as some sort of intervention, had he? He could just imagine him on the phone to her mother, reassuring her that he had it all in hand. That he would put an end to this temping nonsense quick smart.
‘Not that I’m not grateful...’ she added unconvincingly. Just think, if he’d left her alone she could have been cosying up to the man on the train again tomorrow morning. Maybe she’d misjudged him and his grabby hands. He might just be plain-speaking and tactile. They could have told their kids and grandkids about how they’d met on an overcrowded commuter train a week before Christmas. Just like a film.
‘Flora, Camilla can snap her fingers and have the best at the touch of a button. It’s the story, the package that she needs to see. She loves that I’m young, terribly English, well educated, have my own firm and I’m tipped for the top.’ His laugh was a little self-conscious. ‘It’s an easy sell, makes a good interview, adds that extra little detail when she’s publicising the hotel. You’re here so she can see that you can do the same—that’s why it’s so important that you look right, that you say the right things.’
That she what? Panic churned in her stomach, the snow dazzling as she stared at the ground, her eyes swimming. ‘I’m here to schmooze? You didn’t tell me that!’
‘I didn’t hide it. You know who the invited guests are. Look, Camilla knows I wouldn’t recommend anyone who wasn’t talented and creative. She needs to see that you can mingle with the right people, chat to journalists, help sell her creations. And, Flora, you can.’
‘But I can’t...’ He wanted her to what? Chat to journalists? Sell? Flora gulped in air, rooted to the spot, oblivious to the crowds passing her by.
‘You’ve done it before.’ He didn’t add Many times but the words hung in the air. ‘At least this time you won’t have to baste chickens or pipe icing while you’re talking.’
Flora still couldn’t joke about her childhood spots in front of the camera. To be honest she wasn’t sure she ever would reach that state. ‘Can you imagine what it was like going into school after Dad’s shows aired? Me this tall and this...’ She sketched an arc around her chest. She had been the tallest in her class from nursery onwards—and the most developed from the end of primary school. ‘The last thing I want to do is talk about me, you know that. And if I chat to journalists they’ll know who I am...’
‘And they’ll love it. Youngest daughter of food writer and TV chef, Ted Buckingham and TV doctor Jane Buckingham? They won’t try and catch you out, Flora. We’re talking travel sections, maybe some lifestyle blogs. I promise you. It’ll be a lot less stressful than your dad’s Internet videos of family get-togethers.’
‘Horry says neurosurgery is less stressful than the Internet get-togethers.’
‘All you have to do this week is have fun. Try to ski, chat to people, talk colours and materials and be enthusiastic. If Camilla offers you the commission then you can worry about the other side of it later, but if I were you I’d think about how a little publicity in the right places could send your stock sky-high. Come on, Flora. You never know, you might even enjoy it. Now, Christmas markets or ice skating? Your choice.’
Flora took in a deep shuddering breath. Alex was right, if he’d mentioned any of this before she would have hightailed it back to London before he could say prost. Minerva positively fed off their parents’ fame, using it as a springboard when she opened her PR firm, and Horry was oblivious. Flora, on the other hand, had always found it mortifying, whether appearing on her dad’s cookery programme or listening to her mother talk about Flora’s first period on national TV. She wasn’t sure the scars from that particular episode would ever fade.
Still, silver linings and all that—she hadn’t thought about the kiss or their sleeping arrangements once in the last half-hour.