From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) Read Online Free Page A

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