by Lucy Diamond
‘Not really.’
‘That’s fine. I understand. I’m sorry. You’re not really going to quit, are you? Please don’t.’
Saffron’s fury was ebbing away as quickly as it had flared up. She couldn’t exactly afford to quit right now, however badly her client behaved. ‘No, I’m not going to quit,’ she mumbled, looking at the floor. She gritted her teeth. ‘And I’m sorry I shouted at you. I’m a bit hormonal.’
‘Of course you are. Anyway, I asked for it. I’ve been too wrapped up in myself lately. Wasn’t thinking straight.’ Bunty took another slug of the gin, or whatever it was in her hip flask, wincing as she swallowed. ‘Now, look. It’s getting on for seven o’clock, and I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. How about I take you out for dinner somewhere lovely? My treat. You do look a bit pale, you know. You could probably do with some good hot food. What do you say?’
It was on the tip of Saffron’s tongue to say a polite No, thank you, and can you go now, please, but then she thought about the dull ingredients she’d bought from the shop earlier – some pasta, packets of rubbery-looking cheese and shiny pink ham, plus a slightly flabby lettuce. Given the choice, ‘dinner somewhere lovely’ was winning, hands down. ‘Okay. Thanks,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s a pub along the road – we could go there.’
‘Marvellous! And then I promise I’ll be on my way and I’ll leave you in peace. Right, then. Shall we?’
The Partridge didn’t have any of the fancy-dress and glitter of New Year’s Eve, but it did have a real fire, an excellent list of food chalked up on a blackboard, and Gemma behind the bar. She raised her eyebrows in surprise to see Saffron walking in with Bunty, but Saffron gave her a little nod to say, It’s okay.
As soon as they stepped foot in the pub, Bunty put on her mingling-with-the-public face. She walked taller, tossed her hair and declared, ‘What a charming place’ in such a loud voice that everyone stopped to look. Just as she’d intended, no doubt. Saffron rolled her eyes surreptitiously at Gemma. Ever the professional, Bunty knew when to switch it up a gear.
Gemma looked better than she had done earlier that afternoon at least. She was wearing a glorious scarlet dress, which gave her a dramatic cleavage, and her hair was pinned up, revealing dangly gold earrings. ‘Evening, ladies, what can I get you?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to see our menu?’
‘Yes, please,’ Bunty said, taking charge. She bestowed a toothy smile on Gemma. ‘What a splendid dress that is, if I may say so.’
Gemma looked rather star-struck. ‘Oh! Gosh. Thank you very much,’ she said, blushing. ‘It was my Valentine’s dress. Not that I ever got to . . . ’ She stopped herself. ‘Anyway. What would you like to drink?’
A mischievous thought struck Saffron. ‘Is that one of your own creations?’ she asked, then turned back to Bunty. ‘Gemma here is an up-and-coming fashion designer. You know that gorgeous black dress Nigella wore in her last show? Well . . . ’ She tilted her head meaningfully at Gemma.
Bunty’s eyes lit up. ‘No! You dress Nigella?’
Gemma shot Saffron an agonized look. ‘Um . . . ’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Pretend I didn’t, okay? Gemma’s rightfully very discreet about her clients,’ Saffron said quickly. ‘I’m just proud of her, that’s all. She’s done really well.’
‘Thank you,’ Gemma said in rather a strangled voice.
‘Well, good for you, darling, good for you. I could tell, as soon as I looked at it, that your dress was quality. Very flattering.’
‘Thanks very much.’ Gemma smoothed her hands down the fabric, looking chuffed. ‘I’ve made my own clothes for years,’ she went on, ‘because I got so sick of nothing fitting me on the high street. When you’ve got a figure like mine – all hips and boobs – it’s not that easy to buy clothes that actually fit properly, let alone flatter your shape.’ She was warming to her theme now. ‘The way I see it, every woman can look a million dollars in the right clothes. And it’s the best thing ever when someone puts on one of my dresses and I can see they feel really gorgeous in it.’
‘How wonderful!’ Bunty cried, clapping her hands. ‘And I know exactly what you mean. All woman, that’s me, but most designers seem to think we’re built like stick insects. Well, all power to you, darling. And do you know, I think that particular style of dress would suit me, too.’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I came in for a glass of wine and some dinner – I had no idea I was going to find myself tempted into a new frock while I was at it!’
Gemma flushed pink. ‘Oh! I wasn’t trying to give you the hard sell,’ she said, embarrassed.
Saffron couldn’t resist egging on her client. ‘It would be nice to have something special for the TV awards next week, though, Bunty,’ she said. Hell, Bunty owed her, she figured, and Gemma could do with a lucky break. ‘And this is an extremely flattering style, as you say.’ She paused delicately. ‘Are you very busy right now, Gemma?’
Bunty, however, was frowning as if something had struck her as odd. ‘So wait . . . You’re a full-time dress designer . . . but working here, as well?’ she asked, gesturing around the pub.
Ah. Bollocks. That was where fibbing got you. Luckily Gemma had her wits about her and let out a peal of laughter. ‘Goodness, no! Bernie, the landlord, is an old friend of the family. I said I’d help out, you know, just as a favour tonight. I don’t actually work here. What a thought!’
Bunty laughed too, thankfully. ‘I was going to say! You don’t see the likes of Stella McCartney working behind a bar, do you?’
They all chuckled at the very idea of Gemma being employed somewhere so lowly. ‘Anyway,’ Saffron went on, keen to steer away from the subject, ‘I say: go for it, Bunty. As a friend and colleague’ – here came that lightning again – ‘my advice is to jolly well treat yourself to a new dress. At times like these you need a pick-me-up. Am I right, or am I right?’
‘You are right,’ Bunty said immediately. She glanced quickly down at the menu, then beamed up at Gemma. ‘I’ll have a glass of red wine, the beef stew, and a frock just like yours in a size sixteen, please.’ She clapped her hands with glee. ‘How exciting! Do you think I can get away with that colour, or will it be a bit mutton on me? And how much do you charge, if you don’t mind me asking? Will I need to take out a second mortgage to afford you?’
‘God, no,’ Gemma replied, seemingly forgetting that she was supposedly a designer to the stars. ‘I could do you one like this for . . . fifty?’
Saffron had an emergency coughing fit to drown out this pathetically low price. Her client was the sort of person who would go off an outfit if she thought for a second that it was too cheap for the likes of her.
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ Bunty asked, ferreting around in her bag for her e-cigarette.
‘Three hundred and fifty,’ Saffron said swiftly. ‘Sounds like a bargain to me. Cheaper than Stella, by a mile.’
Gemma let out a gasp, but recovered herself valiantly. ‘And obviously I’d do a personal fitting with you, in my . . . studio,’ she said, her eyes flashing a mix of panic and excitement to Saffron. ‘Every dress is made-to-measure, you see. Here, let me write down my number. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and I can book you in?’
Bunty looked up, e-cigarette retrieved, and reached across the bar. ‘Marvellous,’ she said, shaking Gemma by the hand. ‘Marvellous! You’ve got yourself a deal.’
Chapter Twenty-One
After the alarming experience of searching through her parents’ photos and finding the one that had freaked her out so badly, a whole week went by when Caitlin worked savagely, day after day, painting and decorating like a woman possessed. Just don’t think about it, she kept telling herself. Forget you ever saw that stupid photo. What photo? Exactly.
While she was not thinking about the photo she stripped all the wallpaper from the living room and painted it a soft, pearlescent dove-grey, with white gloss around the skirting boards and cornicing. She cleaned up the floorboar
ds and slapped on two coats of golden varnish. She polished the windows with vinegar, until light poured into the house and her muscles ached.
She did not go back in the dining room, or anywhere near the photo albums, in all this time. The whole thing was a silly misunderstanding, she told herself. She’d got it wrong as usual, leapt to ridiculous conclusions – there was absolutely nothing sinister about that photograph of her and her mum.
A special day! Jane had written on the back. No, it wasn’t. It was just an ordinary day in their lives. It was.
At the end of the week the living room looked completely different: spacious, minimalist and serene, more art gallery than lounge. It was hard to imagine her and her parents ever sitting companionably in there together, playing Scrabble or watching Doctor Who. Good, she thought blackly, before she could stop herself. If only it was as easy to paint over your worries.
Later, after a hot bath and a large glass of wine, she gave herself a brisk talking-to. She was stir crazy, that was all, from being cooped up in the house for so long. Switching on her laptop, she reconnected with the rest of the world for the first time in days and saw that an email from Saffron had arrived more than a week ago:
From: Saffron@PhoenixPR
To: CaitlinF@fridaymail
Subject: Another website request
Hi Caitlin,
We all LOVE the Yummy Mummy site – the clients are absolutely thrilled. They are happy to green-light your idea of the animated fruit and vegetables, and I’m attaching details of the artist they’ve used for their labelling etc. herewith. Would you be able to commission/direct him on this work? They have included details of a pretty generous budget and more information on their brief/spec. THANK YOU!
The other thing to mention is that another client of mine, Bunty Halsom, is keen to have some work done on her website, if we could schedule that in, too. We could talk about perhaps sorting out a monthly retainer for, say, the next six months, so that the site can be kept fresh and up-to-date on a regular basis. Is this something that would interest you?
It’s really great to work with you – you are my new secret weapon! So glad we met at the New Year. Talking of which . . . any news on the tall, dark stranger you were hoping for? Don’t suppose this has anything to do with the ‘taking action’ that you hinted so cryptically about last time??
Otherwise, I’m still on for the girl band . . . I reckon an arena tour would be a laugh?!
Love Saff xx
Caitlin felt instantly cheered to be somebody’s secret weapon. And more work, too! Proper, paid, interesting work with . . . whoa, yes, another stonking budget, she saw, opening the client’s brief. She’d enjoyed the design jobs she’d had previously in her career – bits and bobs for the university and small businesses back in Cambridge – but this felt like the jackpot, the big time.
From: CaitlinF@fridaymail
To: Saffron@PhoenixPR
Subject: Another website request
Dear Saffron,
Apologies for the radio silence, I have been awash with paint and varnish all week, trying to get Mum’s house in order before I sell it. Back in action now, albeit smelling slightly of Eau de Turps.
That’s no problem re the Yummy Mummy animation; I’ll get on the case immediately. And I’m happy to work on Bunty Halsom’s site, too – a monthly retainer sounds great. Thank YOU. I’m glad we met as well.
Sadly, I have failed on the ‘taking action’ front – because the dude in question announced, out of the blue, that he’s about to become a father. D’oh! I am convinced that the Fortune-Cookie Guru is actually the Wizard of Oz, a nobody behind a curtain, who doesn’t have a clue what he is on about . . .
She hesitated, reliving that awkward moment in her kitchen as Harry broke the news. Oh, right. A baby. Instant recalibration of expectations to ZERO. She should have known: he was far too sexy and handsome for an oddbod like her.
Speak to you soon, and thanks again.
Caitlin xx
She sent the email and rubbed her eyes, feeling wrung out. She’d spent too much time on her own recently; it wasn’t good for anyone. It was all very well receiving and sending friendly emails, but she needed to get out of the house and speak to another human being for a change, before full-blown cabin fever set in. The thought perked her up. Yes, she would like that. Maybe she could catch up with Gemma again soon, for a chat.
On impulse she picked up her phone, snapped a photo of the empty, revamped living room and texted it to her new friend. Look what I’ve been doing! she typed. How are things with you guys? Hope all well, let’s meet up soon.
Message sent, she put down the phone, shut her eyes and breathed deeply. Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow she’d dredge up the courage to start delving into her mum’s paperwork, in the hope that she’d find the answers that lay behind that strange, unsettling photograph.
Right now she was going to get completely trolleyed on this bottle of wine, though. So there.
She was woken from a deep sleep the next morning by the phone ringing. The curtains were edged with pink-gold daylight and she was surprised to see it was almost nine o’clock. Her head pulsed with a beating hangover and her mouth felt as dry as a Gobi sandstorm. Urgh. Go away, daylight. Go away, phone.
‘Cait, it’s me, Gem,’ came her friend’s voice when she answered. ‘Oh my God. You won’t believe what happened to me last night.’
‘What? Are you okay?’ Caitlin opened one eye a crack and then shut it again. Blaaarggh. She was never drinking again. Seriously: never.
Gemma giggled, a glorious, gleeful sound. ‘Get this: I’ve just sold a dress to Bunty bloody Halsom – you know, that awful old bag off the telly. Three hundred and fifty quid she’s going to pay me, Cait. Three hundred and fifty big ones!’
Caitlin wondered for a second if her friend was on drugs. What was she on about? ‘Bunty Halsom? I might be doing her website,’ she said, befuddled. ‘I don’t understand what you mean, though. What dress?’
‘She was in The Partridge last night with that Saffron, who was here for New Year, remember? Anyway. She liked my dress and I said I’d made it, and then Saffron started blagging that I had all these celebrity clients, like Nigella – can you believe? I didn’t know what to say, but before I knew what was happening, she’d talked Bunty into buying one herself!’
‘Oh my God.’ It took Caitlin a moment to digest all of this, then she laughed, forgetting her hangover for a moment. ‘That’s hilarious. Brilliant!’
‘I know. It’s the best news I’ve had all year. Anyway, the only thing is, then I started blagging it a bit, too. God knows what got into me, but I only went and told her I had my own studio! But I can’t let her come here and see where I really work – I mean, if she steps a single foot in our dumpy old house, I’ll be rumbled in a second. She was already kind of suspicious about me working in the pub, but I just about got away with that one. So I’m ringing because I saw that photo you texted me – of your shamazing new living room – and had a little light-bulb moment . . . ’
‘Bring her here,’ Caitlin said, reading her friend’s mind. She suddenly felt wide awake; Gemma’s excitement was contagious. ‘Yes – do it. We could totally make this look like Fashion Empire HQ, if you bring along your sewing machine and a rail of clothes.’
You could almost hear the smile on Gemma’s face as she replied. ‘Are you sure? That would be fantastic. Thank you! I can’t let an opportunity like this slip through my fingers, I just can’t.’
Absolutely not.’ Caitlin was perking up by the second, her mind already busily transforming the space downstairs into Gemma’s design studio. Good – a distraction. Just what she needed. ‘Come over whenever you want,’ she said, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘This is going to be fun.’
Thankfully her hangover wasn’t the sort to stick around doggedly, and after a hot shower and a kick-ass mug of coffee, Caitlin felt almost human. It was just as well, because two minutes later Gemma was there ringing the doorbell
. Somehow or other she’d crammed all manner of equipment into the back of the family car – a folding trestle table, her sewing machine, a huge sketch pad and easel, a laptop, a tailor’s dummy and a rail of beautiful clothes she’d made.
Gemma had so much nervous energy crackling from her, she didn’t seem to know what to do with herself. She hugged Caitlin, exclaimed over how gorgeous the living room looked, then actually bounced up and down on the floorboards, clapping her hands. ‘This is perfect!’ she cried.
Caitlin took the lead, suggesting that they create an office ‘area’ at one end of the room, with the laptop and phone perched on an old card table. They also set up a ‘design area’, with the tailor’s dummy wearing a teal-coloured satin cocktail dress, alongside a rail of other outfits, and Caitlin ran up to her mum’s bedroom to unhook Jane’s full-length mirror and bring it downstairs. They unfolded the trestle table and positioned the sewing machine on top of it, then Gemma hunted through her pile of fabrics for a Liberty-print square that she draped over the card table, just to add some prettiness. The final touch consisted of the jars of buttons, cotton reels, zips and beads that she arranged artfully along the mantelpiece.
‘It looks like a shop,’ she said afterwards, standing back and gazing around. ‘A really beautiful shop. The kind of shop I could actually live in.’
‘It looks gorgeous,’ Caitlin agreed, putting a wooden chair at each of the tables. ‘So now what do we do?’
‘We wait for her to call,’ said Gemma. ‘And hope that she hasn’t already rumbled me.’ Her face fell at the thought. ‘All it will take is a few clicks online for her to discover that I’m a complete fraud . . . ’
‘Courage, mon amie,’ Caitlin told her, sitting down at the laptop. ‘Tell you what: if you make some more coffee, I’ll get cracking on a temporary website. What shall we call you?’
‘What do you mean? Oh – my company?’
‘Yes, Gemma: your highly successful, celebrity-dressing company. I can do a quick holding page for a site, just in case she decides to check you out. Any ideas for a brand name?’