Prada And Prejudice. Katie Oliver

Natalie fumed. “At least…I don’t think so. Well, perhaps,” she admitted, remembering the designer dresses she’d bought for Tark’s wedding. Not to mention that Waterford chandelier… “But that’s not the problem – the accounts have been closed! On all of my cards.”

      The ladies behind them in line edged away from Natalie as though she had a rare – and highly contagious – retail disease.

      “Oh, Caro – this means I can’t buy your gown!” Natalie’s eyes welled with tears. “Your beautiful, perfect wedding gown—”

      Caroline slipped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s OK, Natty, it’s only a dress,” she soothed. “I’ll find something off the rack, don’t worry.” She glared at the clerk. “Probably cost much less, too.”

      “I’m such a numpty,” Natalie mumbled, and turned away to hide the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Everything I do turns into a disaster.”

      “Nat, that’s not true!” Caroline looked at her in surprise and pulled her aside. “What makes you say such a thing?”

      “It is true! Look at my relationship with Dominic – he cheated on me with his ex-wife, and he’s marrying her again – today! Not that I give a toss, honestly – but I hate being the object of everyone’s pity. My credit’s a disaster. I have no career, I can’t remember to put petrol in my car, and it’s all over the tabloids that I’m having an affair with R-Rhys Gordon—”

      “Yes, I saw the article in the Daily Mail.”

      “Even grandfather had a go at me,” Natalie went on. “He ordered me to find a job, and a ‘more suitable young man.’ Of course he meant I should get married, to some doddering old viscount, no doubt. He disapproves of my ‘bohemian lifestyle’.”

      “Well, Nat, he has a point. You haven’t done much of anything since you took up with Dominic. Why is that?”

      “I thought we’d get married, eventually,” Natalie said defensively. “And I liked touring with him and the boys. It was a lark! I couldn’t have done that if I’d had a job.”

      “Right, so you put your life on hold for two years for that half-baked rocker,” Caro said, disapproval plain in her voice. “Oh, well, Dominic is about to become Keeley’s problem now, till death do them part.”

      “I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”

      Caroline took her arm and drew her out of the shop. “Why would you even want to go? You’re well shed of him, Natty.”

      “I know that. And I don’t want to go. It just hurts a bit to be excluded, that’s all. We were together for longer than two years, you know.”

      It was true. They’d practically grown up together in Warwickshire. But of course, Dom was a different person then…

      …a very different person.

      Natalie followed her sister out the door. “I start work at Dashwood and James on Monday. I’ll be assisting Rhys.”

      “Doesn’t he have a PA? That terrifying redheaded girl?”

      “Yes, her name is Gemma. I’ll be helping with marketing, and things.” She bit her lip. “I’ll probably make a mess of it, like I do everything else.”

      “None of that, now,” Caroline said firmly, and grabbed her hand. “What you need is an ice cream. Come on.”

      When they were settled at a marble-topped table with dishes of ice cream, Natalie dug her spoon in. “Dad used to bring us here, remember?”

      Caro nodded. “I was always planning my wedding. I was determined to get married in Windsor Castle, on a pink pony.”

      “No, I’m sure it was a pink unicorn.” Natalie smiled. As she thought of the gown they’d just left behind at Vera Wang, her smile faded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get your dress, Caro.”

      Caroline squeezed her hand. “Wanting to get that dress was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me…even if you couldn’t actually buy it.”

      The sting of having her credit declined filled Natalie with renewed anger. She’d never been so embarrassed in all her life. Well, except for the humiliation she’d endured when Dominic announced his engagement to Keeley.

      Nat scowled. She knew how Cinderella must’ve felt when her gown changed back into rags and nothing waited to take her home but a useless old pumpkin.

      And she’d bet her granny’s knickers that Rhys Gordon was to blame.