From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) (3 page)

How deep the fall is I’ve yet to ascertain.

I just hope this isn’t the beginning of the end. 

Christ, I hate parties. Always have and always will. No matter how many I attend and be they in my honour or somebody else’s, I hate them.

Bernard, the devious old bastard, has managed to turn this into a PR event. I’d expected a small office party, one that took place in the boardroom and consisted of the upper echelons of management drinking champagne and devouring over-priced canapés. All of this as Juliet wafted around, fussing over her father, while making sure that everyone had enough thousand-pound-an-ounce caviar on perfectly formed blinis.

Instead, I’ve been driven out of London, forced into the grounds of Bernard’s country pile and been thrown to the lions.

The Press.

Shuddering at the idea of the tortures I’ve had to suffer tonight, I allow my eyes to wander over the event that Bernard wants to hit the early pages of many a paper and magazine.

The party is a thousand-strong and even though I’m bored out of my mind, Juliet has done a fabulous job. Poisonous Poppy, Bernard’s PR guru, is on hand so Jules did have some help, but still, there’s a gentility to the bash that isn’t Poppy’s style.

Bernard’s country digs consist of a Grade One, Georgian Manor House. It wouldn’t suit graffiti being sprayed all over the Palladian façade; as Poppy had done for the last catwalk showing of
Modiste
’s latest collection. Not that that wouldn’t have stopped her from doing something outrageous to the two hundred year old house!

Jule’s breeding bleeds through every inch of this party. From the dinner-suited men -the majority in bow ties- to the women dressed in gowns and jewels that wouldn’t look out of place at an award ceremony; it just screams class.

The gently rolling hills of grass that are Bernard’s front garden have been overtaken with tables and chairs, a catwalk, huge bouquets of flowers and a thousand or so men, women and staff- the latter all dressed in
Modiste
’s latest gear.

Modiste
is the haute couture line of Bernard’s tailoring conglomerate. He’d recently urged Julian Alexander on to the payroll and the fashion world had been abuzz at such a signing.

Alexander’s extensive background and experience at other fashion houses is evident in the clean sharp lines of exquisite tailoring that bleeds into both his For Him and For Her collections. Expensive high quality fabric cut into shapes that screamed money were his forte.

Years of working my way through the different departments of Bernard’s company has given me quite the eye. Contracting Alexander for the next two years had been a bloody brilliant idea.

My own, of course.

I think that decision is why Bernard finally promoted me. Alexander has already radicalized the haute couture line and profits have shot through the roof. Because of it, for being a good boy, I have to endure this party.

God, I hate parties.

I’ve already asked one of the guests to top up my champagne glass and received a haughty look for my troubles! Is it my fault that all the staff and guests look alike?
No.
I’ll bet it was Poppy’s idea. Anything to push for publicity and she was there.

Poppy, officially known as my arch-nemesis, is a media-hungry whore and general pain in the arse.

But, she’s good at what she does and Bernard only hires the best.

Because everything she touches turns into publicity gold, the management have to turn a blind eye to the fact she’s about an inch away from being an alcoholic. Nearly every party she oversees ends with her sloshing about, wobbling and falling over the place. She does like to indulge in the free drinks, does poisonous, PR Poppy.

The catwalk show, I’ll admit, went down a storm. The Press and Moda TV filmed and snapped up tons of images; I don’t doubt that the occasion will have a heavy presence in the social and business sections of the papers and its own slot on the fashion-dedicated channel. It’s all for the good, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been ducking and diving, trying to avoid the cameras. Publicity isn’t my thing and I’ll never be comfortable with it.

As much as this party is to celebrate my promotion, I’ve been allowed to fade into the background. And I’m not disappointed by that.

“So this is where you’re hiding, is it?”

Fiddling with my collar, I jerk it from my throat. In the presence of Bernard’s wife, I’m always uncomfortable. I know from past dealings that she’s always loaded up on Valium and that no amount of rehab can get her off the anti-depressant. She’s always vague, almost ethereal as she wanders around, stars in her eyes. There’s a pureness to her though. Whenever she approaches me, I always feel as though I’ve just been caught with my hand in the biscuit barrel and she’s armed with a wooden spoon, ready to slap my wrist for my bad behaviour.

That’s probably explained by the fact that once upon a time, Mrs. Rebecca Rustin had been a schoolteacher.

Expecting to be sent to the corner with a Dunce hat on my head, I cease fiddling with the collar that suddenly seems too tight and murmur, “Rebecca. You’re looking lovely this evening.”

At my compliment, she curtsies. Honest to God curtsied. The woman is absolutely batty.

“Thank you, Joseph. I wanted to congratulate you personally on your promotion. Bernard says that he has high hopes for you.”

Now
that
is a compliment. With all Bernard has accomplished, that he believes in me, is really quite touching.

“Thanks for telling me, Rebecca. I appreciate that. Bernard knows I’ll always do what I can to see the company right.”

She smiles that vague smile that tells me she might be standing right in front of me, but nobody is actually there. As fireworks begin popping overhead, her head falls back as though it’s too heavy for her slender throat and the vague smile is replaced with a dreamy one.

It’s a shame that she’s nuttier than a bag of peanuts, because to be quite frank, Rebecca could be a MILF. Thirty years Bernard’s junior, she’s tone, trimmed and taut. Probably because she pops pills like most women eat a bar of chocolate and subsists on nervous energy.

In one of Alexander’s signature gowns, a tailored number of white silk that cups her curves and somehow enhances the inner delicacy Rebecca seems to emit, she looks, to phrase it indelicately,
hot
.

“I’ve always loved fireworks,” she murmurs and I only just catch her words as another round explodes into the stratosphere, sending the crowd into oohs and aahs of rapture.

Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of fireworks. Noisy, dangerous and the crick in the neck that comes after gawping at the boring profusions of colour is never worth it. They always leave me with a faint sense of dissatisfaction and disappointment.

“Mum, I wondered where I’d find you.”

Bo, Bernard’s eldest daughter, suddenly pops up out of nowhere. As ugly as Bernard is, somehow, he managed to create two beautiful daughters. Although that was probably to do with their mother’s genes. All I know is that Bernard’s first wife had been a model prior to her marriage and she’d died in a car crash. A few years down the line, Bo and Juliet had a new stepmother.

Apparently the relationship was a good one. For Bo to call her mum that seemed apparent at any rate. “I was just talking to Joe. Such a good boy. Bernard always did like him.”

Bo grimaces as her gaze flickers between Rebecca and I. There was an apology there and I shake my head, frowning slightly at her. Whatever Rebecca was, as mad as she is, she doesn’t need to be apologized for. There is an innocence about her that is refreshing; especially in these circles, where everybody deals in bullshit and arse licking. It’s like talking to a child amidst a crowd of sharks.

“I’m glad he did; he showed a lot of faith in me by giving me the opportunities he has.” My words are soft and I receive a beatific smile from Rebecca, who lifts a hand to cup my cheek and pat it, like my grandmother used to do, when I was a young kid.

“Such a good boy,” she repeats and with that, wanders off.

“See you later, Joe. Juliet’s looking for you; she’s on the warpath.”

Bo, apparently on Rebecca’s security detail, immediately sets off after her stepmother but I call out, “Thanks for the warning.”

The cheeky grin she shoots my way as she half-turned has me smiling in response. Bo would never be the traditional elder daughter figure that Bernard wants. Juliet is traditional from her expensively-coiffured head to her pedicured toes. Bo is more of a hippy, a wild child. She’d foregone all attempts at polish and wore a floaty silk dress that wafts around her as she moves. It’s an expensive gown nevertheless; the raw silk alone had probably cost a fortune! But not for Bo the structured tailoring that was at the very heart of Bernard’s fashion empire. No, she had deconstructed lines and no shoes on her feet!

I’d hazard a guess that Bernard hasn’t noticed that.

Or if that isn’t the case, then there’d probably been a major row before the party started.

Tucked between some topiary, I thought I’d been in a strategic place. One that hid me from view of the major hustle and bustle of the crowd, but at the same time, gave me an ample view of everything that was going on.

Apparently my calculations had been out. Not only have I been spotted by two of Bernard’s relations, the third one soon appears in my line of sight. And Bo wasn’t wrong. Juliet is most definitely on the warpath. But Christ, it looks good on her.

Boadicea eat your heart out.

“What the hell are you doing down in the garden?” she hisses at me as she comes to a stomping halt; although how she manages that in four inch spiked stilettos without breaking her neck, I don’t know.

It’s a miracle only achieved by the opposite sex. Making standing on needles look easy and sexy.  

In a dress that has my blood pressure surging, for a few minutes, I just stand there and gawp. In the shadows, hidden from all the candles and the strands of lights that illuminate the party, I doubt she’ll notice that I’m quite literally star struck.

Red.

Top to toe in scarlet.

A colour so vibrant that Juliet’s raven hair seems even darker. Even blacker in contrast to the passionate hue that moulds her form from wrist to hip, where flounces of fabric cascade down to her ankles. Her top half is covered in the silky-jersey knit, which I recognize as one of the materials Rustin’s weaves, and it clings to her every inch. Cupping her breasts in an intimate hold that makes my own hands feel envious. Clasping her waist and hips with a silken caress before a profusion of fabric clouds my view of her legs and almost like a petticoat, swirls about her ankles.

I don’t think I’ve seen a sexier dress in all of my life.

And don’t get me wrong, I’ve already been knocked asunder by seeing Juliet in this dress tonight.  But backlit as she is, she’s hotter than hell. Like a fiery minx that tempts me more than any other woman ever has.

Juliet has always been beautiful. Her face isn’t classically so, but she’s exotically handsome. Strong features that pronounce her character and make a statement as soon as she walks into a room. But in this dress, she’s killer.

Thank Christ I’m not Bernard’s age; she’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous. And I’m far too young to die.

“Anybody would think that you’re ashamed to be here!” she spits as I remain silent, something that apparently irritates her. I can do that a lot. Sometimes I think by breathing, I annoy Juliet.

We have that effect on each other.

Still she’s not to know that I’m drooling over her. I prefer her to think I’m being ignorant rather than lusting over her like a horny teenager.

We were supposed to come together; she’s my partner for the evening after all, but thanks to her duties as host I’ve seen her but a handful of times. Usually half hidden by a table or a podium, but mostly, I think she’s been in the kitchen organizing the vast amount of food that has been dished out tonight.

This is the first time I’ve seen all of her. Every single inch.

What a stunner.

“It’s a beautiful party; you’ve done yourself proud, Juliet.”

She huffs at that. “Then why are you hiding out here?”

“Your mother said that. I’m not hiding. Just ducking out of sight.”

“Mum was here?” she asked, her attention abruptly switching away from me.

“Yeah. She walked off, but Bo was following her.”

She sighs in obvious relief and unfortunately for me, returns to her original argument. “Ducking out of sight is the same as hiding. I think you are ashamed. What? Is this party not good enough for you?”

Shaking my head, I reach out for her hand. As soon as our fingers brush, she tries to pull away, but I hold fast. It’s the first time I’ve touched her, really touched her tonight and the heat from that slight connection doesn’t altogether shock me. If she ever let me in, if she ever opened up to me, I think we’d be pretty explosive together.

Such thoughts had two things occurring. One thing that makes me glad I’m wearing black and standing in the shadows. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake. Not a teenager. Unexpected hard-ons aren’t my usual style. And the other has me tightening my hold on her wrist, tugging her forwards into my personal space.