Fancy Pants by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

her
bewildering financial problems.

But to her dismay, Steward had told her she was too short. "No matter
how beautiful a model is, she simply has to be five feet eight inches
if she's to do fashion," he had said. "You're barely five feet two.
Of
course, I might be able to get you some beauty work—close-ups, you
know, but you'll need some
test shots done first."

That was when she had lost her temper, shouting at him that she had
been photographed for some of
the most important magazines in the world
and that she hardly needed to do test shots like some rank amateur. Now
she realized that it had been foolish of her to become so upset, but at
the time she simply hadn't been able to help herself.

Although it had been a year since Chloe's death, Francesca still found
it difficult to accept the loss of her mother. Sometimes her grief
seemed to be alive, a tangible object that had twisted itself around
her. At first her friends had been sympathetic, but after a few months,
they seemed to believe that she should
set her sadness aside like last
year's hem length. She was afraid they would stop issuing invitations
if she didn't become a more cheerful companion, and she hated being
alone, so she had finally learned to tuck her grief away. When she was
in public, she laughed and flirted as if nothing were wrong.

Surprisingly, the laughter had begun to help, and in the last few
months she had felt that she was finally healing.

Sometimes she even experienced vague stirrings of anger against Chloe.
How could her mother have deserted her like this, with an army of
creditors waiting like a plague of locusts to snatch up everything they
owned? But the anger never lasted for long. Now that it was too late,
Francesca understood why Chloe had seemed so tired and distracted in
those months before she had been hit by the taxi.

Within weeks of Chloe's death, men in three-piece suits had begun to
appear at the door with legal documents and greedy eyes. First Chloe's
jewelry had disappeared, then the Aston Martin and the paintings.
Finally the house itself had been sold. That had settled the last of
the debts, but it had left Francesca with only a few hundred pounds,
most of which was gone now, and temporarily lodged at the home of Cissy
Kavendish, one of Chloe's oldest friends. Unfortunately, Francesca and
Cissy had never gotten along all that well, and since the beginning of
September, Cissy had made it clear that she wanted Francesca to move
out. Francesca wasn't certain how much longer she could hold her off
with vague promises.

She forced herself to laugh at Talmedge Butler's joke and tried to find
comfort in the idea that being without money was a bore, but merely a
temporary situation. She caught sight of Nicholas across the room in
his navy Gieves and Hawkes blazer and knife-pleated gray trousers. If
she married him, she could have all the money she would ever possibly
need, but she had only seriously entertained the idea
for the absolute
briefest of moments one afternoon a few weeks ago after she'd received
a telephone call from a perfectly odious man who had threatened her
with all sorts of unpleasant things if she didn't make a payment on her
credit cards. No, Nicholas Gwynwyck wasn't a solution to her problems.
She despised women who were so desperate, so unsure of themselves, that
they married for money. She was only twenty-one. Her future was too
special, too bright with promise, to ruin because of a temporary upset.
Something would happen soon. All she had to do was wait.

". . . is a piece of trash that I shall transform into art." The snag
of conversation spoken by an elegant Noel Cowardish man with a short
cigarette holder and manicured hair caught Francesca's attention. He
broke away from Miranda Gwynwyck to materialize at her side. "Hello, my
dear," he said.
"You are incredibly lovely, and I've been waiting all evening to have
you to myself. Miranda said I would enjoy you."

She smiled and placed her hand in his