The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  Claudine touches my arm. ‘And we need the opinion of a young woman like you.’

  We make our way along the pebbled path and into the house, one of those classic French homes, square and solid with powder blue shutters and a thatched roof. I already know that the sisters inherited the former farmhouse from their parents. Neither woman has ever married, nor had children; from the very beginning, when they were blending plant extracts and concocting lotions to sell at markets, they have dedicated their lives to their brand.

  ‘We should explain,’ Claudine says as the three of us climb the steep wooden staircase, ‘that we’re starting something new. A new baby, at our age!’

  ‘Really?’ I hope I have managed to mask the note of surprise in my voice as Mimi leads us into a large, light-filled studio. The bare floorboards are painted white, the walls almost completely covered with huge pinboards adorned with sketches of women’s faces, elegant and loosely drawn, reminiscent of the pictures in the La Beauté colouring books.

  ‘What a beautiful room!’ I exclaim. ‘What are all these drawings for?’

  Mimi perches on a stool at a drawing board on which two more sketches are attached. Again, they depict women’s faces, one with a generous mouth and a tumble of dark curls, the other with a short, chic bob. ‘It’s us,’ she says with a small laugh. ‘At least, us when we were much, much younger. Hardly recognisable now!’ Both of the sisters are still strikingly beautiful, the result of impeccable bone structure and, perhaps, a lifelong dedication to skincare. Claudine opens a drawer in a chest, lifts out a stack of sketches and, on her knees now, proceeds to spread them messily all over the floor. These drawings seem to depict some kind of shop. From the outside it looks like a chic boutique, its sign reading Claudine & Mimi Beauté. Baskets of flowers and rows of elegant bottles fill the window. The drawings of the interior show inviting sofas, squashy armchairs and dressing tables adorned with cut-glass bottles and make-up, a haven for any lover of beauty.

  ‘Is it a beauty salon?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Mimi says. ‘It’s an escape – somewhere for any woman to go when she needs a little time, perhaps to have a manicure, or simply to sit and have coffee with her friend and browse the make-up …’

  ‘… She might have a facial,’ Claudine adds, ‘or perhaps she wants to talk about the kind of make-up colours she might wear for a wedding, a party, any special occasion …’

  ‘So, you’re launching a new range of products too?’ I ask, aware of a palpable sense of excitement from the sisters.

  Mimi nods. ‘It’s almost ready, the shops too – at least, we have the interior design just about right. To start with, there’ll be one here in Grasse, another in Paris and one in London, of course – our most loyal customers live there.’ She beams at me.

  ‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’

  ‘But we must make sure they look and feel absolutely right.’ She jabs at one of the sketches. ‘That’s the most important thing, not to sell, sell, sell – women see through that, they feel panicked and pressurised and just want to run away.’

  I laugh. ‘Yes, I’ve seen that happen.’

  ‘And that will never be the case at Claudine & Mimi Beauté,’ she adds, ‘because the most important thing – the whole reason for doing it really – is to create a place for women to just be.’

  We browse more drawings, and photographs of the prototype shop at various stages of development. There are mood boards showing scraps of pretty floral-printed fabric, and more sketches of elegant women having manicures, or their lips painted red. It’s all thrillingly feminine and beautiful.

  ‘We’re launching a perfume too,’ Mimi adds, ‘to evoke the essences of the new brand. It’ll be light and pretty, very delicate …’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ I marvel, ‘coming up with the whole vision. It all hangs together so beautifully, I can just imagine it now.’

  Claudine smiles, her cheeks flushing pink. ‘That’s so kind of you to say, Lorrie.’ Although the women seem eager for me to fire difficult questions about their venture, this seems different from when Stu and I sat around my kitchen table, discussing whether North Londoners might be persuaded to have porcini mushrooms delivered to their door. It just feels right, and I tell them so again, as Anne pops her head around the door to say goodnight.

  We spend the rest of the evening watching a little TV, and by 11 p.m. both Claudine and Mimi are ready for bed. We say goodnight, with Claudine already having insisted on driving me to Nice airport tomorrow.

  I sleep soundly in a powder pink room, the window ajar with soft floral scents drifting in, and in the morning we have hot chocolate and croissants at the sun-bleached garden table. The sisters take me into the centre of Grasse, where we stroll around the dappled squares filled with market stalls and cafe tables, before I am whisked to the airport, where we part with hugs and promises to stay in touch.

  Mimi touches my arm before I head for the departure gate. ‘I hope your visit to France hasn’t been all bad …’

  I shake my head, impressed by her perceptiveness. ‘Oh no, it’s been wonderful!’

  She smiles. ‘Remember that change can be a good thing, won’t you? Babies grow up and life moves on, and that’s fine – it’s what keeps us young and engaged with life.’ She looks at her sister and they both chuckle as if enjoying a private joke. ‘We firmly believe,’ she adds, ‘that it’s more effective than anything you can buy in a pot.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Perhaps Stu feels that living with Bob is a new opportunity too. He’s certainly jumped at the chance, so desperate was he to get away from us, apparently having taken just a small overnight bag earlier this afternoon. ‘Just for a few days, he said,’ Cam explains, hunched against the washing machine and looking rather bewildered. ‘Why’s he moving out again, Mum?’

  I grimace. ‘Says it’ll be better for the business.’ I shrug. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Cam. Sounds like a flimsy excuse to me. It’ll be okay, though. It was only ever meant to be a temporary thing, him staying here, and it’s his choice.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll change his mind?’ He picks at a fingernail. ‘I’ll miss him. I like him being around—’

  ‘I do too, darling …’

  ‘Anyway, he said he’ll be back in the week. He wants to sort out his stuff before he heads off to Venice for his sister’s party …’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, trying to make light of the fact that he’s clearly not planning to hang around. ‘So, anyway, how have you been?’

  ‘Yeah, great!’

  ‘What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘Just working and seeing people. This and that.’ He smiles awkwardly. ‘So, how was your trip?’

  ‘Oh, fantastic,’ I say, glossing over the Antoine part and focusing instead on my time spent with Claudine and Mimi.

  ‘They’re opening their own shops? You should do that, Mum!’

  I can’t help chuckling at that. ‘The difference is, they’ve just been paid millions for their company.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I s’pose there is that.’ He chuckles. ‘So, what are you going to do? Have you decided yet?’

  Hauling my wheelie case up onto the table, I start to fish out clothes to be washed on a gentle setting: the red dress, linen skirt, floral top. ‘No, not yet, but I saw a lawyer before I went to France.’

  ‘Aw, that’s great, Mum!’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t official. She’s a friend of Pearl’s and it was just a chat really. But, you know – she made me feel differently about the situation, and Claudine and Mimi did too, about the age thing. I mean, they’re in their seventies. Can you imagine starting a new business at that age?’

  ‘Yeah, uh, amazing …’ His phone pings on the table and I see him twitching to check it, mentally wrestling between giving me the requisite attention and the clearly enticing communications of his friends. Ping! Ping! Another twitch. ‘Well, I’m glad you had a good time, Mum.’

  I smile, sensing his agitation.
‘Thanks darling, and it’s okay – it’s good to be home actually. And now you can check your phone.’

  *

  Saying ‘my lawyer’ sounds strange coming from my mouth, but the more often I say it, the more it starts to feel as if I really have hired one properly, using the official channels instead of having a quick coffee with my friend’s employer.

  It’s Monday afternoon, and Sonia was happy – no, delighted – to clear space in her diary for a meeting with me at Geddes and Cox Towers. Just the two of us this time, Nigel being unavailable and Dennis caught up in some kind of ‘hideous nightmare’ at the Tomo-Gro production plant. We are installed in the same bleak, windowless room, the documents outlining my ‘choices’ laid out on the table between us.

  ‘So,’ I start, ‘my lawyer and I have been through my contract’ – a small fib, as my contract was gobbled up long ago in the cupboard, along with the kids’ drawings, school reports and ancient toy catalogues – ‘and we discussed the fact that I am of course employed as a counter manager, specifically for La Beauté. There’s nothing to stipulate that I can be moved to a different role, for a different brand, without my agreement.’

  Sonia’s mouth twitches. ‘Yes, but you must understand that we’re having to implement changes here in order to achieve market leadership as swiftly as possible.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, ‘but you must understand that I am not prepared to move into the PR department, for Crumble Cubes, or anyone else for that matter, and if your reason for presenting me with the severance offer is due to my age, then—’

  ‘We didn’t say that exactly,’ she says, turning a little pink.

  My palms start to sweat. I inhale slowly, trying to conjure up the image of Romilly Connaught-Jones in her kitchen, scoffing at my boss’s audacity at presenting me with such an offer in the first place. ‘You did actually,’ I say firmly. ‘You said you had to consider how the brand was coming across to the younger demographic.’

  She coughs. ‘I think we should ask someone from HR to sit in on this.’ She picks up the rather grubby-looking desk phone and stabs at a button with a burgundy nail. ‘Jennifer? Get Nigel here, would you? Or Jim, Sarita, anyone?’ She purses her lips and replaces the phone.

  As Sonia seems unwilling to proceed until an HR person joins us, the wait is excruciating. ‘I should ask your advice,’ she says, attempting a more jovial tone, ‘about make-up. This lipstick specifically …’ Ah yes, I’ve noticed your matching lips and nails approach; terribly dated, if I might say so, for a young person like yourself.

  ‘It looks great,’ I remark. ‘It’s quite a statement. In a good way, I mean …’

  ‘Really? I guess it’s my trademark, but one doesn’t want to get stuck in a rut, does one?’ Absolutely not, one doesn’t want to stagnate … ‘Ah, Deborah!’ she exclaims as the door opens. ‘I didn’t expect you. Thanks so much for joining us.’ Immediately, the atmosphere changes as Sonia scrambles out of her chair. With her cropped greying hair and rangy build, the newcomer exudes the no-nonsense air of a gym teacher.

  ‘I can spare a few minutes,’ Deborah says briskly, taking the seat beside me.

  ‘Thank you so, so much.’ Sonia’s cheeks flush even pinker as she sits back down and turns to me. ‘Deborah Stonehouse is head of HR across the entire company. Deborah, this is Lorrie Foster, one of La Beauté’s counter managers, we’ve been involved in discussions about her next move—’

  ‘Yes, Nigel filled me in with the options you’ve put on the table.’ Dressed in a sharp grey trouser suit, she gives Sonia a brief, brittle smile, which thaws slightly as she shakes my hand. ‘So, how long have you worked for the company? I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to look into this—’

  ‘Ten years,’ I reply.

  ‘Right. And the issue here is?’ She spears Sonia with a sharp look across the table.

  ‘The issue is restructuring,’ Sonia says quickly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, and you’ll be aware that we’re shifting the brand younger—’

  ‘Seems rather hasty in my opinion,’ Deborah says tersely. ‘I mean, we’ve owned La Beauté for less than two weeks. Surely, a major asset of the brand is the expertise that comes with it?’

  I clear my throat, momentarily stunned by the fact that she seems to be on my side.

  ‘Well, you know how it is,’ Sonia murmurs. ‘Move fast, seize the moment …’

  ‘Yes, but in my experience fools rush in.’ Deborah smirks. ‘So, Lorrie, I gather you’ve been offered either an equivalent role in another division, or redundancy?’

  ‘Well, not exactly equivalent.’

  ‘And you say this is due to restructuring, Sonia?’ Deborah’s finely arched eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘That’s right.’ She nods vigorously.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say again. ‘At our last meeting it was suggested that my age might be an issue which, as my lawyer pointed out, is clearly discriminatory—’

  ‘Oh, we didn’t mean—’ Sonia blusters.

  ‘… which,’ I cut in, ‘clearly goes against Geddes and Cox company policy, wouldn’t you say?’

  Deborah nods. ‘Yes, of course it does. We are an inclusive company, it’s very clearly stated in our recruitment policy.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read that,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve read it?’ Sonia frowns.

  ‘Of course I’ve read it. In fact, I have it right here.’ I delve into the bag at my feet and pull out my laptop.

  ‘Oh, no, it’s fine,’ Sonia says quickly. ‘I think we’re all familiar—’

  ‘No, I’d just like to read it again, if that’s okay.’ I flip my laptop open, click onto the screenshot I’ve saved and begin to read: ‘“At Geddes and Cox we take pride in offering a stimulating and nurturing environment in which every employee is valued and respected, regardless of gender, race, religion, disability, sexual orientation or age.”’ I stop and look up. ‘Or age,’ I repeat, and Deborah nods. ‘“We are fervently opposed to discrimination in any shape or form,”’ I continue, ‘“and firmly hold the belief that our inclusive approach benefits each and every valued employee.”’ I pause for effect, picturing Romilly Connaught-Jones smiling with approval. “‘At Geddes and Cox, our people are our lifeblood and deserve the utmost respect.”’

  A hush falls over the room as I close my laptop. I clear my throat and try to wrestle my thoughts into order. ‘So,’ I conclude, ‘as my lawyer pointed out, such an esteemed company, which is so proud of their non-discriminatory policy, would certainly not want to be seen to be forcing out someone purely due to—’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Deborah retorts, turning to give Sonia an exasperated look. Sonia purses her lips and shuffles in her seat.

  ‘Because,’ I add, the tension leaving my jaw now, ‘La Beauté is for all ages. I mean, that is our slogan, isn’t it? “Because every woman is beautiful.” Not, “Because every woman is beautiful as long as she is under thirty-five.”’

  ‘Ha, yes, I don’t think that would be a very positive message,’ Deborah says with a wry smile. ‘So, look, here’s the thing. I think we might be rushing in here.’ She flicks Sonia another quick, vexed look, then turns back to me. ‘Lorrie, let’s take it that you will remain in your current role for the time being. Well, no – you’ll just remain for as long as you wish. I assume there are no other issues?’

  ‘Er, no …’ Sonia fiddles with the gold band on her middle finger.

  ‘Nothing else I should know about? No disciplinary matters, no performance-related concerns?’

  ‘No, that’s it,’ she mumbles as Deborah gets up, shakes my hand again and makes for the door.

  ‘Okay. Well, that’s that, then.’

  I, too, am out of my seat. ‘Great. Thank you for your time—’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she says, already striding out of the door, leaving Sonia and I looking at each other like two school enemies forced to be on the same netball team.

  ‘Well, that was interes
ting.’ She grimaces.

  ‘Yes, it was. Thanks for seeing me, Sonia.’ I slip my laptop into my bag and loop the strap over my shoulder. ‘So, I’ll be back at work as normal tomorrow, okay? I mean, I think I’d like to end my gardening leave now, if that’s all right with you. I’ve never had terribly green fingers.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, failing to acknowledge my joke. ‘Just out of interest, did you really consult a lawyer over this?’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to Romilly Connaught-Jones—’

  Her eyes widen. ‘The Romilly Connaught-Jones? From Connaught-Jones-Evans? Gosh. Friends in high places. I wouldn’t have expected—’

  ‘She’s not a friend exactly.’

  Sonia flushes again. Perhaps I should recommend our colour-corrective base? ‘No, I mean excellent contacts,’ she adds, quickly regaining her composure. ‘I’m impressed, actually, about how you handled our meeting today. We are always looking for strong, forthright types to promote in this company. Perhaps, when things have settled down, we should have another chat about where you might like to go from here?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I ask, still not entirely trusting her.

  ‘Oh, you know. Opportunities, training, the chance to further your career …’ She pauses. ‘I assume you don’t want to spend the rest of your life selling make-up?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply, ‘but if it’s okay with you, right now I’d just like to get back to work.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Back home, with Cam out with his friends, I unpack the rest of my case as my mind starts running through the events at Antoine’s. You’re not a slim woman. I just mean you were shouting quite a lot. Although his comments still rankle, I am so buoyed up by my meeting with Sonia and Deborah, I decide right now not to allow them to put me off meeting anyone ever again. Fuelled by a surge of rebellion, I open my laptop and Google ‘over-40s dating sites’.