Betrayed - By Ellie Jones Page 0,13
and this is my cousin.”
***
It was another of Francine’s parties. Francine liked nothing better than rooms heaving with people. Several of their old friends had been invited. Fran said regard it as a reunion. A lot were married now, and although Katrina ought to have been glad to see them, she could have done without. She flopped onto her haunches in a niche beneath the stairs, and reached for a toy car that had been left there. A little boy came to shyly claim it and pushed it back and forth. She wondered for a moment whose son he was. Did she know the mother, an old friend perhaps? The manoeuvring of the car was obviously a serious task to be conducted in an appropriate manner, and she was coerced into playing with it for a while.
Kat didn’t feel like partying. Normally she did, she’d be in middle; dancing, flinging herself around the room, but not now. She was more exhausted than she could remember, felt like the biggest party-pooper born, which was why she was tucked under the stairs.
Fran said the get-together would help bring her out of herself. She was wrong. All these shuffling people made her feel more isolated than ever.
The little boy snuggled against her, his eyes drooping a shade, a tiny smile on his lips. The house was crowded with bodies and noise, the party existing on two independent levels. At the top it was populated with laughing, drinking adults, speaking in loud voices and not listening to what others said. At the bottom, by children dodging between adult’s legs, or stuffing food into whatever crevice they could, ears, mouths...
Kat preferred the lower level with the children. It seemed safest. Kids she could cope with, adults were a different matter. They might make inquiries, and she didn’t want to share her thoughts. Predominant among those thoughts were Las Modas Ibéricas. Dad had taken Rafael around the factory yet Rafael hadn’t contacted them to take it further. What the hell was the matter?
Was there a problem? Were they going to back out?
“Fancy a drink? I saw you hiding, and squeezed the last drop of chardonnay from the box.” Francine squatted by Kat’s side. She wobbled little. “Phew! I’ve had too many cocktails.”
“You’ve a right to. It’s your party.”
“I think I shall rinse some glasses soon. This is the last one.” Fran waggled the wineglass for her to take. “Why are you down here? You’re usually letting it hang out by now.”
“I’m enjoying the kids.”
“Meaning you’re already pissed. Everyone else is.”
“Not really.” Kat’s lips fluttered into a smile “Your parties generally end that way though. You’re way too generous. I’ve noticed most people drink more than they bring.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way… Now what’s the problem with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Must be something. Not enough male bottoms to squeeze?”
“More than enough.”
“So?”
“I can’t stop thinking about work.”
“Well you should. Work isn’t the be all and end all, you know.”
“It is when it’s the only thing you’ve got. I’m worried Ibéricas might withdraw from the equation.”
“Ah! We’re talking Rafael?” Fran patted her hand. “He’s an absolute hunk isn’t he; though he can be a tartar. He phoned me the other day. I hadn’t realised you were dealing with him. You never mentioned it was our Rafael.”
“Our Rafael?”
“Our man of the moment.”
“He phoned you… about me?”
“Of course not, idiot. Why should he phone me about you?”
“How do you know Rafael?”
Francine propped her back against the wall against the wall. “Rafael, I’ve worked with him several times. He’s talking about using me to source models for a catwalk, back in Spain. He might want me to stage-manage the whole show.” She sat back thoughtfully. “I think that’s the way I want to go, a total package. What’s the new buzzword… turnkey? You know the thing.”
“You never told me you’d met.”
“Was I supposed to?” Francine eyed her curiously. “Is there something I should know?”
Fran was right, of course, there was no reason she should have mentioned it. Since Kat found Rafael was involved with Las Modas Ibéricas, he’d got inside her skin. She fiddled with the toy car. “Come on,” she said abruptly. “I’ll help you wash a few things. I know there must be stacks.”
Francine waved her hand, dismissing the idea. “And crap to that. There’s a dishwasher to handle dirty glasses.”
“I’ll help collect them.”
“Now this smacks of trying to steer the conversation away from where I want to go.”
“Of course, it isn’t.”
“Are you up to something with our Rafael? If you’ve