Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [74]
“Bloody hell,” she screamed, “look at my dress! It cost four hundred last month at Harvey Nichols—how could you be so stupid as to leave the dish on the edge of the table?”
Venetia watched the spreading red-purple patch on the dress, horrified—four hundred pounds! Ruined! But it wasn’t her fault, the dress was the floaty sort that caught on everything, she must have flung out her arm and just caught the dish.
“I’m sorry about the dress, Mrs. Fox-Lawten,” she said, “but the dish was where it should be. I’m afraid your dress wasn’t.”
“I shall speak to the agency about this,” threatened Sondra Fox-Lawten, stopping herself just in time from saying that she wouldn’t pay—that had better wait until later, after the girl had cooked the meals. She didn’t want to be left stranded, and at least she’d get some value out of her for the ruined dress.
Sondra flounced out of the kitchen and Mrs. Jones, busy with the silverware for the table, commented, “She’s a bit difficult, Mrs. Fox-Lawten, but don’t you worry yourself, love, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” replied Venetia wearily.
Mrs. Jones disappeared to do her table and Vennie slumped against the fridge, tears stinging her eyes. Damn it, she wanted to make a success of this. Why were there always so many problems? Her vision of an exclusive catering company with herself as its head, supervising all of London’s smart parties, began to dwindle.
Tony Fox-Lawten appeared in the doorway, a bottle of gin in one hand and a bottle of tonic in the other.
“Here we go,” he said. “I thought you might need a drop of this after I saw Sondra’s dress—that puree has gone right through everything, she swears she’s stained purple and has to have a bath.” He laughed at the idea of a purple Sondra, and despite herself, so did Venetia.
“I’d love a drink,” she agreed, “but it really was her own fault, you know. The dish was on the table and she brushed it off with her sleeve.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said, handing her a drink and omitting to tell her that Sondra had no intention of paying her. “Cheers, then—here’s to us.”
Venetia’s eyes met his over the top of her glass. She could see the pass coming a mile off.
He put down his glass and threaded his fingers through the strings of her blue-striped apron where she had tied them at the front. “Come a little closer,” he murmured. “I want to ask you something.”
“What?” Venetia hung back as he put an arm on her shoulders, pulling her toward him.
“I’m in London every day, you know. We could see each other there—have dinner perhaps? Maybe at your place?”
“My family wouldn’t like it,” said Venetia.
“Then somewhere else—you know what I mean. It could be fun—and no Sondra to worry about.”
His breath smelled of gin and Venetia averted her face, vainly attempting to prise his hands from her apron strings, as he bore down on her.
Sondra Fox-Lawten stood in the kitchen doorway in her pink satin housecoat observing her husband making advances toward the help.
“You little tart!” Her voice cut shrilly through the quiet kitchen and Tony jumped back from Venetia as though shot.
“Oh, now, Sondra, it’s not what it seemed. She just had something in her eye, that’s all. The girl didn’t mean anything by it.”
Sondra was caught in a dilemma. Sod it, she thought, I should have tackled her about it later—I can’t tell her to leave now or whatever will I do about dinner? And there’s Sunday lunch, and all those breakfasts.
“We’ll talk about this later,” she said icily, “but I shall make sure to report your behavior to the agency.”
Venetia untied her apron. “Call them now, Mrs. Fox-Lawten,” she said, walking toward her, “and ask them to send you someone else. I’m leaving.”
“But you can’t!” gasped Sondra.
An American expression fluttered through Vennie’s head. “Wanna bet?” she asked as she brushed past on her way through the door.
11
Something was getting on Fitz McBain’s nerves. Was it the filthy New York weather? Was it the constant stalling on the petrochemical deal in Latin America? Or