‘To see who that was on the phone. Don’t go anywhere.’
Oh, good Lord. Phoebe stood in the bathroom and stared at her reflection in absolute horror.
When Alex had said he liked her hair like this he had to be lying. Frizzy didn’t even begin to describe the mess. Her hair stuck out at bizarre angles, as a result of her going to sleep with it wet and Alex’s fingers tangling through it all night. Her poor overworked straighteners would never be able to tame this. She needed an industrial tool kit, the likes of which she’d only ever found in a handful of London salons. She’d head to the nearest one just as soon as they landed back on British soil.
And then what? Would Alex suggest dinner? Should she suggest a drink? Nervous excitement fizzled around her stomach. Or might that be too clingy for something which was only about hot sex? She was sailing into uncharted territory here, she realised, frowning at her reflection. She’d better figure out the rules. Maybe she’d ask Alex. He was bound to have a whole string of them.
‘Phoebe.’
The sound of his voice jerked her out of her thoughts. She couldn’t let him see her like this. Horizontal, with her hair spread out over a pillow or his chest was one thing. Vertical was quite another.
‘Just a minute.’
He flung the bathroom door open and as she swung round every niggle about her hair and rules flew from her head. Alex looked absolutely terrible. His face was white. His eyes were stormy grey and filled with concern.
Phoebe’s heart lurched. ‘What’s happened?’
‘We need to leave.’
‘Now?’
‘Immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘That was Jo on the phone.’
Fear gripped her stomach and she clutched at the basin. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Physically she’s fine. Mentally I’m not sure. The press have got hold of a story about her.’
Oh, no. Phoebe went very still. ‘What about?’
‘How much has she told you about her life before design college?’
‘Not a lot. I guess I’d imagined she’d been at school.’
‘She was. While she was there she became anorexic and ended up in a psychiatric hospital.’
Her stomach churned. ‘How long for?’
‘A year.’
God, how awful. Phoebe could barely begin to imagine
what Jo must have gone through. ‘And that’s the story?’
‘In a nutshell.’
So much for her rash assumption that weekends in PR were quiet. She should never have tempted fate like that. Feeling as if the walls were closing in on her Phoebe dragged in a shaky breath. ‘Can I use the phone? I’d like to check my messages.’
Alex nodded briefly. ‘It’s in the study. As soon as you’re ready we’ll leave.’
Thirty-five missed calls.
Fifteen messages before the time had run out.
Messages from Jo. Growing increasingly frantic. From the fashion house wondering what the hell was going on. From journalists asking for comments and verification of the facts. From potential clients cancelling meetings and postponing lunches.