by Fiona Gibson
‘Aw, Lorrie. You’re a genius. Thanks.’ He examines his now flawless neck in my compact mirror.
‘Any time,’ I say lightly. ‘Spots, blemishes, neck bites – you know where I am.’ With that, I step out into the bright, clear morning, still stunned over Stu and Posh Cheese Ginny, and wondering why the thought of his little adventure is making me feel rather odd.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As it turns out, that’s the only make-up I apply today as a new directive has come from head office that ‘full make-overs are to be offered on a strictly appointments-only basis’.
‘We can still do them,’ Andi says, rebelliously. ‘No one will ever know.’
‘But what if someone from management drops by?’ Helena asks, frowning, and I understand her concern; since the takeover it’s felt as if we are under surveillance.
‘Let’s just concentrate on shifting products,’ I say, alarmed at how the phrase has popped into my lexicon. ‘We need to go all out to sell today. Traffic stop as if our lives depend on it. Push the travel kit, the cream blushers, the men’s range …’
‘You know it’s virtually impossible to get men to the counter,’ Helena points out.
‘Well, we’ll just need to try.’ I exhale loudly. It hardly seems possible that yesterday I was lying in Hyde Park, my head fizzing with fireworks as I kissed a beautiful Frenchman and strolled along the edge of the Serpentine, holding his hand.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Andi says, loyally, immediately trotting across the floor and swooping on a sharply dressed older man with neat greying hair. He shakes his head tersely and marches on.
However, we manage to shift product all right. Interested in the mascara, you say? Well, how about our creamy base for eyes – to make eye shadow glide on beautifully – and perhaps a pot of sparkly highlighter which, admittedly, isn’t essential, but lights up the face for a night out? Or, you need a blusher? Well, how about a foundation to show off said blusher to maximum effect? A flurry of sales flies through the till.
I grab a quick sandwich for lunch, eaten on a bench in the leafy square around the corner, and consider texting Antoine … but to say what exactly? That I’m thinking about him? Then I’ll be waiting for a reply, wanting to constantly phone-check when I need to be working flat out to show our new bosses that we are definitely ‘on message’, and hard-selling is our priority now.
Back at the counter, I rev myself up for the afternoon shift, my spirits lifting when Gilda appears, all smiles, at the counter. ‘I’m looking for something for my friend,’ she explains. ‘The one I brought in with me—’
‘Oh, yes, Kathryn …’
‘Gosh, you have a good memory. Well, her birthday’s coming up. What d’you think she might need?’
It’s a difficult question, because one woman might feel that all she ‘needs’ is a little translucent powder, whilst another will consider the entire kit pretty much essential in order to sustain life. ‘Her colouring’s similar to yours,’ I remark.
‘You remember that too. You are good at your job …’
I smile, and show her a selection of products for eyes and lips and then, ignoring a twinge of guilt, I suggest that a blusher would be useful, plus a powder and, hell, why not throw in a BB cream too?
Gilda surveys the make-up I’ve set out on the counter and pulls a startled face. ‘Oh, that’s a bit too much, I’m afraid …’ Her gaze scans the products. I’ve done this all wrong; she is overwhelmed by the choice.
‘The blusher?’ I suggest.
She exhales heavily. ‘Would that seem odd, do you think? As a present, I mean – a little pot of pink stuff, all on its own?’
‘Well, you could add a lipstick,’ I suggest, aware of her enthusiasm waning as she glances around the store, perhaps surveying the floor for a less pushy salesperson, before adding, ‘Tell you what, I’ll mull it over and come back later.’
‘Great,’ I say with a bright smile. But of course she doesn’t, and after a bustling morning there’s a distinct lack of activity around our counter as the afternoon crawls on. A couple of teenage girls fiddle about with our testers, covering their wrists with lipstick and enquiring about prices, but baulk when Helena tells them.
Stu floats into my mind, and I wonder how his concealer is holding up.
My mobile rings in the pocket of my tunic. So boggled was I by Stu’s love bite this morning, I forgot to put it on silent as is required for work; I glance around quickly and, with no customers nearby, decide to answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Lorrie? Hi, it’s Sonia Richardson here. Got your number from files. Hope now’s a good time … d’you have a minute?’
My gaze skims our Marie Celeste-like counter. ‘Yes, of course …’
‘Just a follow-up really, to our little chat the other day. Thought it might be useful for us to get together again,’ she continues in an overly perky tone, the kind a doctor’s receptionist uses to deliver terrible news. Your test results are back. There’s just one small issue we’re concerned about …
‘Okay, no problem …’
‘Great. Just so we’re all clear on everything. So, perhaps you could pop into head office?’
‘Of course.’
‘I was thinking tomorrow morning, shall we say ten o’clock?’
‘Tomorrow?’ I exclaim. ‘But I don’t even know where—’
‘262 Liverpool Street,’ she chirps. ‘Come up to the fourteenth-floor reception and I’ll meet you there.’
My mouth seems to have completely dried out. ‘Sonia, could I just ask what this is about? I mean, it seems quite unusual and at such short notice …’
‘Oh, not at all. We’re a major operation, Lorrie, not the cosy little set-up you’ve been used to, run by two little old ladies in the South of France.’ She laughs humourlessly. ‘We do things properly here – appraisals, staff development …’
‘I’m having an appraisal?’
‘Oh, nothing as formal as that … so, see you in the morning?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, trying to normalise my voice. ‘I’ll be there at ten.’
We finish the call, and I glance at Helena, who’s giving me an alarmed look. ‘You okay?’
I smooth down my tunic and wipe the perfectly gleaming counter with a tissue. ‘I’m not sure. That was Sonia. She wants me to go to head office tomorrow for, well, a sort of follow-up, she said …’
‘Oh.’ Helena pulls a face, then quickly corrects it. ‘It’s probably just something about company policy – stuff you need to know as counter manager …’
‘Yes, maybe,’ I say, realising with no small wave of relief that my shift is over.
I leave the store, determined not to spend the whole evening fretting about what might lie ahead. What I need is a drink and, as I travel home on the tube, I’m willing Stu to be around and in the mood for a stroll to the pub. However, when I get home there’s no sign of him; perhaps he’s out on deliveries, or sloshing truffle oil all over Ginny’s naked stomach – who knows anymore? With Cam out at Mo’s, only Amy is home, cross-legged on her bedroom floor, packing for her week’s holiday with Bella’s family. ‘Hi, darling, how’s it all going?’
She frowns at the open suitcase. ‘I keep taking stuff out and putting it back in again.’
I survey the numerous rolled-up T-shirts in rainbow hues. ‘That’s a lot of T-shirts …’
‘There’s about fifteen.’
‘Fifteen, for a week?’
‘Yeah, you know what Bella’s like. She’ll be taking twice as many as this …’
I smile and plant a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll miss you, darling. You will text me, won’t you?’
She screws up her face. ‘Might not have time.’
‘Oh, surely you can manage—’
‘I’m joking,’ she exclaims. ‘’Course I’ll text you …’ She looks up and narrows her eyes. ‘You look a bit upset. It’s not about me going away, is it?’
The front door opens, and Ca
m and Mo’s giddy laughter ricochets around the hallway. ‘Hi,’ I call down, but they either fail to hear me or can’t be bothered to answer. I look back at Amy. ‘No, it’s not about you going away, love. I’m happy for you, especially as we haven’t been away this summer. I just, well, you know my company’s been taken over?’ She nods. ‘Well, my new boss wants me to go straight to head office tomorrow morning for some kind of appraisal.’
‘They’re probably just going to offer you another job,’ she says breezily. ‘Maybe even a promotion? Wouldn’t that be great?’
I frown. ‘It sounds awful but it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be something positive.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? What are you scared of?’
‘I’m not scared, love, it’s just been quite stressful—’
‘C’mon, Mum. You’ve been there ages – years and years and years. You’re always getting best sales person-of-the-whatever, aren’t you?’
I shrug. ‘Well, a few times, yes …’
‘You won that magnifying mirror, the one that shows up all the horrible pores?’
‘Yes,’ I laugh bashfully, ‘I did.’
‘And these new bosses have come along and realised they don’t know anything about creams and serums – and you do, your head’s full of that stuff, you think of nothing else …’
‘Thanks,’ I say, laughing.
‘So they want you to move out of the store and into a more, uh, management thing …’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I murmur, wondering now if my head really is full of serum, slopping around all the brain cells. It would explain a lot: my inability to stand up to my mother, my apparent reluctance to embrace change.
Amy grins. ‘You might even get to develop new products!’
‘Well, that would be great …’
She drops a bundle of underwear into her suitcase. ‘So they’re going to offer you a better job, and loads more money and then me and you, and Cam if he wants to – we can all go away on holiday together next summer, or maybe even sooner, maybe Christmas …’
‘I guess we could …’
‘I mean, in a year or so I’ll probably start going on holiday on my own,’ she adds, giving me a significant look.
I raise a brow. ‘If I say you can.’
‘Mum, I’ll be sixteen! You went away then. You went to France with a list of instructions on how to get there done on Grandma’s old typewriter …’
I smile and brush a strand of dark hair from her eyes. ‘Yes, I know I did, darling, and I realise you’re growing up and will want to do things with your friends. I understand that and I’m not planning to stop you …’
Amy squeezes my hand. ‘So you’d better make the most of me while I’m here.’
I smile and re-roll some of her T-shirts so they fit neatly into her suitcase. Just being in my lovely, sunny daughter’s company convinces me that everything’s going to be okay or, at the very least, that I can handle whatever Sonia throws at me. ‘I plan to, darling,’ I say, ‘and yes, maybe we can all go away together. Let’s see, shall we? Let’s see what tomorrow’s meeting brings.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Geddes and Cox’s headquarters are situated on the top four floors of an enormous blue-tinted glass block close to Liverpool Street station. Although my appointment is at ten, I have somehow wound up outside the building forty-five minutes early so I nip into Pret for a coffee – already my third cup of the day – plus a croissant, and perch on a high stool by the window, telling myself it’ll be all right because I know my job inside out, all the while scattering croissant crumbs all over myself.
I finish my coffee, dust myself down and text Stu, seeing as our paths didn’t cross last night; I heard him coming in long after I’d gone to bed. Scary meeting with new big gun at head office this morning, I type. Wish me luck!
I pause, waiting for a reply, and when one doesn’t come I make my way back through the brisk-walking morning crowds. As I take big, assured strides, I am conscious of acting the part of the breezy businesswoman, perhaps one of those women in the photos with Antoine at corporate events. We’re always being told that French women don’t get fat, and that their children don’t throw food or misbehave in any way whatsoever, suggesting that these immaculate beings are somehow better equipped than we are in dealing with life’s tricky issues. Perhaps I could pretend to be French? Would that be in keeping with the brand?
My phone bleeps with a text: it’s Stu. Hey missed you this morning. Didn’t hear you leave. Good luck!!
Thanks, I reply. Crapping myself.
Aw don’t do that, he teases. Unprofessional.
I slip my phone back into my bag and, almost at the main entrance now, glance upwards nervously. Although I know I’m being ridiculous, I can’t shake off the fear that Sonia is spying from on high, sniggering with binoculars jammed at her eyes. Although I am wearing my La Beauté tunic, black trousers and smartest jacket, I still feel rather dishevelled. It’s a cool, breezy day, and my hair keeps escaping its neat ponytail. I’d like to whip out my compact mirror and check my lipstick’s okay, but what if Sonia is studying me from up there on the fourteenth floor?
Instead, I step straight in through the revolving doors and make for the lifts at the far end of the marble-floored foyer.
‘Excuse me!’ barks a mustachioed man from the front desk.
I swing around. ‘I have an appointment with Sonia Richardson at Geddes and Cox …’
‘You need to sign in.’
‘Oh …’ Three beautifully groomed women stride by as I scuttle over to sign the sheet on the man’s clipboard. He hands me a laminated visitor’s badge, which I pin onto the lapel of my jacket, despite wanting to say, ‘I work for this company, I’m part of this. I am a counter manager for La Beauté, don’t you know!’ Ridiculously, I want to text Stu again: something short and to the point, like: HELP! Or, SEND GIN!!! But what could he say? ‘Chin up’? or ’You’re bloody great, stop worrying’?
I wait for the lift, focusing hard on Amy’s theory that it’s probably good news, and my breathing lightens as it arrives.
The three women all stride in with me, bringing a heady merging of their perfumes. ‘Fourteenth,’ barks the one with an Amazonian build and tautly muscled legs, the kind of woman you could imagine nailing the 200-metre butterfly race. I jab the button like a lift operator. ‘So,’ she turns to her colleagues, ‘I hope she knows what she’s taken on because there’s no way we’re going to hit forecast.’
Her petite colleague, auburn hair pulled into a tight chignon, nods gravely. ‘I don’t know what they were thinking, taking on that tired old brand …’
‘Tired? It’s positively knackered!’
‘Still, if anyone can turn things around—’
‘You-know-who can …’
‘Yes, and Dennis—’
‘It’s hysterical,’ Amazonian chips in, ‘him having anything to do with make-up. I mean, what does he know?’
‘You know why they’ve bought it, of course,’ says the shortest of the three, clutching her leather briefcase to her chest.
‘For the name,’ says the auburn one.
‘Yep,’ agrees Amazonian. ‘Keep the name but totally rebrand it. Drag it kicking and screaming into the twenty- first century …’
The lift doors open and the women march out. Feeling quite sick now, I step out into a grey-carpeted corridor. The women have trotted into the glass-walled office ahead, where there is another reception area. This is it: the control centre of Geddes and Cox. Claudine and Mimi flash into my mind; that sweet letter they sent after David died, the bouquet of flowers delivered to my home, the spa voucher I never got around to using. I take a deep, audible inhalation and walk in.
‘Can I help you?’ A short-haired girl in a stiff-looking blue shirt looks up from the desk.
‘Hello, I’m here to see Sonia Richardson.’
She casts me a doubtful look. ‘And you are?’
‘Lorrie Foster �
�’
‘Ah, here you are!’ Sonia has appeared around a partition and smiles tightly as if I am late, which I am not; it’s bang on ten o’clock.
‘Hi, Sonia.’ I force an eager smile.
‘Thanks for coming over. Come this way.’
I scuttle behind her as she marches through the vast open-plan office, in which highly professional types are already making calls and tap-tapping at keyboards. The mood is serious, productive; I’ve always wondered what goes on in these sky-scraper office blocks, and this is it. My mouth feels dry and tastes sourly of coffee. From the windowed side of the building, London shimmers, proud and enticing, beneath a cloudless sky.
We swerve into a corridor which smells of new carpet, where Sonia opens a door into a windowless office. Two men immediately leap up to greet me.
‘Lorrie, hi! Thanks for coming.’ Dennis Clatterbrock beams and shakes my hand firmly.
‘Oh! Hello.’
‘Nigel Wareing …’ The other man – a portly chap whose white shirt strains across his stomach – grasps my hand with his rather clammy one. ‘I’m from HR. Just thought I’d sit in on this if it’s all right with you.’
‘Yes, of course it is …’ Why the heck is he here, and what do they expect me to say? ‘No, it’s not all right, please remove this man immediately’? He flashes large, protruding front teeth and sits down again.
‘Coffee? tea?’ A young blonde girl has poked her head around the door.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ Sonia replies, and both men shake their heads as Nigel-from-HR pours everyone a glass of water from the jug on the table.
Sonia looks at me. ‘Would you like coffee, Lorrie?’
‘Oh, no thanks, I’ve had about three cups already, I’m completely caffeined up …’ Great – give the impression that I’m a jangle of nerves before we’ve even started.
‘Need a bit of a kick-start in the morning?’ she asks, smirking.
‘Don’t we all?’ I mutter, silently chastising myself as I take a seat. For Christ’s sake, calm down. You’re here for a meeting, not to have your fingernails torn off.