Trapped by Isla Whitcroft

Nancy.
    â€˜Wow,’ whispered Bill who together with Marcus had come out to greet their boss.
    â€˜Ahoy there, beautiful people. I’m back.’
    Bill, Wendy and Marcus all made a rush for the gangway. Bill got there first and offered Nancy his hand, Wendy got a kiss and Marcus definitely an admiring glance. Cate was entranced by the whole spectacle, but in the general mêlée Marcus grabbed her by the elbow and suddenly the racket faded into the background.
    â€˜You and I need to talk,’ he said ominously. And with that he was gone, leaving Cate feeling deflated and anxious.
    An hour later, as the heat climbed to its midday high, Nancy summoned her entire staff to the top deck. Lying flat on her back on a teak sun lounger, her long legs covered in sun cream and her pale face protected by a parasol, she waved for them to sit down.
    â€˜Hi, guys,’ said Nancy quietly, keeping her eyes firmly closed. ‘I want a really chilled time in the next week or so, OK? No visitors, no fans and definitely no horrible paparazzi. It’s been catwalk, catwalk, magazine covers, interviews, aeroplanes, kids, God knows what since January and I’m bloody shattered. All I want is sleep, sunshine, good nosh, peace and quiet. Got it?’
    Everyone nodded vehemently. A bit of a waste of time, thought Cate, as Nancy still hadn’t bothered to open her eyes. Suddenly the strains of a mobile phone rang out harshly, cutting through the hot silence like a bullet. Nancy grabbed her diamond-encrusted BlackBerry and sat bolt up right.
    â€˜Darling,’ she said loudly, valiantly trying to tone down her Essex accent. ‘Darling, why didn’t you tell me you were at theRoc? How fabulous, I’d love to. Tonight? You know me, always ready to party – especially with you lovely, lively Irish lads. See you tonight, darling – later!’
    She lay back down again. ‘The Irish Saint,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘Can someone book me a car for ten tonight? And Marcus, I’m hungry; I want some chips. Those fat ones not the thin ones. Proper British chips. No salt. Tomato ketchup – Heinz, no French muck. And still water. I don’t want to bloat.’
    â€˜On its way,’ said Marcus cheerfully, heading off towards the stairway. ‘By the way, can I borrow Cate for an hour or so later, Wendy?’ he said as he passed her. ‘Just need help with some shopping and forward planning.’
    â€˜Yeah, OK,’ said Wendy. ‘But she has to unpack Nancy’s clothes first, all right?’
    â€˜Perfect,’ said Marcus, without even looking in Cate’s direction.
    Cate was soon standing in the vast walk-in wardrobe of the master bedroom suite. Six suitcases worth of clothes had been laid out on the bed and she was surrounded by a chaotic mass of tissue paper and other packing paraphernalia, but for all that, she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven.
    Dresses from every designer in every hue lay on the vast bed. There was a midnight blue Roland Mouret cocktail dress and a flamboyant Roberto Cavalli evening number. Nestling underneath them, Cate spotted a tiny scrap of a Dolce and Gabbana skirt in asymmetrical orange and lemon and next to that lay a Jill Birkin multi-coloured kaftan and a vivid pink Versace shift dress.
    She counted twenty Jil Sander T-shirts in an entire spectrum of colours, four swimsuits and eight bikinis, ranging from teeny bits of string to Fifties-styled short briefs. There were Hermès scarves and Mulberry beach bags. And then there were the shoes! Cate took them pair by pair and laid them reverentially on the floor.
    Impossibly tall Jimmy Choos competed with red-soled Louboutins for attention, whilst several pairs of strappy peep-toes by Manolo Blahnik mingled with gorgeously frivolous flip flops from Miu Miu. Cate had a brief flashback of trying on eight pound flip flops in Accessorize with Louisa and felt slightly