by Carmen Reid
‘I’m just going to speak to Ren Pearce over there,’ Annie blurted out, hoping Svetlana and Dominic didn’t think she was being rude. ‘I just have to say a quick hello. Then I promise I’m going to come right back to you.’
Annie hurried through the crowd towards the pale-blue-clad shoulders which were definitely heading at pace towards the exit now.
As soon as she was close enough, she cleared her throat and mumbled: ‘Ren, hi, I’m sorry … I’m such a fan I just wanted to say …’
The shoulders turned and suddenly she was face to face with one of the most able designers to have come out of London in the last decade.
Ren smiled – and not just a polite smile, a really friendly one.
Annie felt her throat dry up a little. ‘I love your dresses,’ she stumbled, ‘in fact, I even have one. Purple, 2003 winter collection.’
‘Yeah,’ Ren was nodding, ‘I think I remember that.’
‘I used to work at The Store,’ Annie went on.
‘Oh right … yeah, The Store’ – his smile widened – ‘they took my stuff from really early days.’
‘Yes.’ Annie smiled and was about to say that was because she’d twisted everyone’s arm and begged, but then she thought that would just sound totally pompous and stupid.
‘You look familiar,’ Ren said next. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Oh no, I’d remember that … no … I do this TV show …’ she went on hesitantly. Surely he’d not seen it? Surely he wouldn’t be remotely interested in her high-street round-ups and her dressing-for-fat-bums tips and all sorts of homely bits and pieces of advice. Surely in the high and rarefied world of fashion …
‘You’re Annie Valentine!’ he said all of a sudden. ‘I love your show!’
‘Really?’ She was completely astounded, but still managed not to let the moment escape. ‘Will you come on it, then? Tell us how to bring out our inner fox … that kind of thing?’
‘Of course.’ He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, brought out a little card and handed it over to her. ‘Get your people to call my people,’ he said, ‘and tell them I already said yes.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Store-owner Dominic:
Pale pink shirt (Brooks Brothers)
Pale grey suit (Ralph Lauren sale)
Pink and grey tie (same)
Handmade grey shoes (small family shop in Milan)
Total est. cost: £1,300
‘Beautiful …’
Sye’s warm hand cupped Elena’s face. ‘I need to take you back,’ he was murmuring against her lips. ‘I need you to come with me to …’
He had a minuscule hotel room right at the end of the Porte de Clignancourt line. He was trying to imagine how he could possibly persuade this incredible girl to come there with him. He was trying to picture Elena in that terrible little room: filled with shoes, socks, empty takeaway boxes, electric wires, tripods and all the other detritus of a nomad fashion photographer’s life.
Elena moved her cool, smooth hand so that it was on top of his and then she turned. He had led her out of the party, but now she was going to take his hand and lead him.
Through the marble lobby they went, towards the marble staircase.
He didn’t question, just thought that wherever she was leading, he would definitely, unhesitatingly follow. What was her idea? Where was she planning to take him? Was there some quiet corridor? Some little window nook she’d spotted? He burned … he felt as if she was leading him up the stairs by his cock and not his hand.
On the first floor, she turned down a corridor, and then, snapping open her clutch bag, she pulled out a card. As she slotted it into the door lock, he was kissing the back of her neck and whispering: ‘No!’ in amazement.
As she pushed open the door and his eyes fell on the overwhelming opulence of a suite at the George V, once again with feeling, he repeated: ‘No … Oh no!’
‘Oh yes!’ Elena told him gleefully.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, they were pulling, tugging, fumbling and wrenching at each other’s clothes.
He opened up her dress as she slid apart the buttons of his shirt and began to tug and fumble at the buckle of his belt.
Then her cool hands were on his taut stomach, feeling their way down. She so wanted him.
Oh. She so wanted him.
He was releasing her breasts from their bra cups. He was kissing her on the mouth, then on her nipples, hurrying, hurrying, hungry and starving for her.
Her damp thong was on the floor and his fingers were feeling for her, moving inside her, her fingers rubbing and touching at the very tip of his cock.
They fell down on top of the bed.
Her mother’s, she had only a fleeting moment to register.
Then he was inside, pushing, arching and grasping. Pulling her hips up towards his with those pliant and capable hands.
Her head was swimming. Her stomach, her groin, her whole body was on fire; she needed to move, to writhe, to feel him all over her.
But she forced herself to open her eyes … and then she saw him with a moment of clarity.
She couldn’t just have sex, all raw and unprotected, with some photographer guy she’d only met today, whose last name she couldn’t even remember.
‘Whoa!’ she said firmly and put her hands on his shoulders to push him out. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ she insisted.
She rolled off the bed.
The dress was still over her shoulders, but it was totally open now, exposing her magnificent breasts and slim white body, almost an exact replica of the figure her mother had sported twenty-odd years ago.
Sye looked up at her from the bed with pained confusion on his face.
‘It’s OK,’ she told him and held out her hand to him once again, ‘follow me.’
After stopping to retrieve their things, she led him through the suite to her bedroom, then closed the connecting door.
‘Lie on the bed,’ she instructed, sounding almost a touch fierce.
Sye did as he was told.
Elena went over to the mini-bar, and then she located a small white and pink make-up bag and unzipped it.
When she returned to Sye, she waved a half-bottle of champagne at him. ‘I think we should have a little drink,’ she suggested, sinking down on to the bed beside him. ‘Get to know each other a little better …’ she said, looking down at his tanned body and still impressively erect penis.
She chucked a packet of condoms down so it landed on his stomach.
‘Then …’ Elena added throatily, ‘we make love.’
Svetlana, with her arm threaded through Dominic’s, was heading towards Annie.
Rich walked behind them, filming hard. ‘I think we’re finally getting an invitation upstairs,’ he said as he reached her.
‘OK, I already speak to everyone I need to here,’ Svetlana said, dismissing the fabulous party. She had what she wanted on her arm, so now she was done with it. ‘Is time to go. We go to the suite, we order champagne, Dominic place big order of dresses, I call Elena to join us … we have fun. No? And Dominic, Annie show the dresses on the television programme, millions of women watch the show, we are guaranteed big success.’
‘Well …’ Annie was quick to tone this down a little. ‘Close to two million viewers every week. I’m very lucky.’
Glancing at her watch, Annie saw that it was already after 4 p.m. She was trying to calculate just how quickly she could get out of Svetlana’s private party. Really she just wanted to take a good old nosy at the suite, capture it on film and make sure Dominic was happily settled in and ready to place a big order, then she could get out on to the streets of Paris, just to look at the Chanel shoes and buy treats for her family.
She was booked on a plane at 8 p.m. this evening, so there really was not one single shopping moment to lose.
Up the marble steps they went, Svetlana and Dominic charming one another, Rich busy capturing the creamy stairs, the winking crystal chandeli
ers, the sheer jaw dropping extravagance of the place.
Cool as a cucumber, a Hollywood A-lister walked down the steps in the opposite direction. He gave the camera a little wave and said, ‘Hi.’
Annie was too surprised to even say ‘Hi’ back.
‘Good hotel, huh?’ was Svetlana’s comment. ‘Everyone interesting stay here.’
Now they were at the door of the suite; Svetlana took her key card from her bag and pushed it into the slot. She turned the handle and opened the door, which slid noiselessly over the thick blue carpet.
‘Wow!’ Rich was the first to whisper in awe.
‘Beautiful,’ Dominic added.
Svetlana ushered them in. ‘This my room,’ she explained, holding out her hands.
Annie could feel her jaw drop. The bedroom was amazing, from the intricate tapestry on the walls to the taffeta-draped window and the dark mahogany bed piled high with toile de Jouy pillows and bedspread.
There was a crystal bowl of luscious fruit on a dark wooden side table with a little oil painting hanging on the wall behind. This was the kind of hotel room in which even the Queen would feel at home.
Once again, Annie had a sense of Svetlana’s vast wealth – even if she was down to her last few million. This was what she was used to, this was what she expected. It was so, so very different from ordinary life. That was for sure.
Through the open door on the left, the sitting room was visible with its luxurious sofas and open fireplace. But Svetlana turned to the closed double doors on her right.
With one hand on each of the enamelled handles, Svetlana announced: ‘This my daughter Elena’s room.’
Dominic, Annie and Rich with his camera running had all come over to take a look and they were just as speechless as Svetlana when the doors were thrown open and the mostly naked, deeply entwined Elena and Sye were before them.
Elena and Sye were so busy, so captivated and so totally immersed in what they were doing that they had heard nothing of what had been going on next door.
Half-in and half-out of the bed … half-in and half-out of each other, Elena’s eyes were closed and the back of Sye’s head faced the door.
They were making all the operatic noises which indicated they were happy – no, more than happy – with what they were doing to each other.
For a split second, Svetlana was too surprised to react. She just stood there, stock still, a door knob in each hand, trying to take this in.
Who was that man? Her brain was trying to place him, but she had very little to go on, just a head of dark blond hair, a smooth tanned back and small, taut buttocks.
He had a good body. She had to grant Elena that.
Then, suddenly galvanized, Svetlana shut the door with a slam and announced to her party: ‘Maybe we go drink at the bar. No?’
At the sound of the door slam, Elena’s eyes snapped open.
‘Was that my mother?’ she asked in surprise.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The expert saleswoman:
Navy blue skirt suit (agnès b.)
Grey satin blouse (Printemps)
Black patent heels (Kurt Geiger)
Black seamed stockings (Wolford)
Total est. cost: £670
‘Ce n’est pas un desastre.’
Annie was out on the street.
At last!
She’d left Rich at the hotel bar with Dominic and the shell-shocked Svetlana. Rich said he needed more background shots of the hotel anyway. So now she was finally out, alone, on the beautiful, beautiful shopping streets of Paris.
The nude Chanel Mary Janes were on her mind, but there was something else too.
That moment … that moment when Svetlana had flung open the doors to Elena’s room and they had all seen the couple there …
Annie could smile at the memory of it now. She could even feel the beginning of a small giggle form in the back of her throat, but she felt something else too. She had a feeling which almost brought tears to the back of her eyes.
Usually she forgot about it, usually it was at the very back of her mind, like defrosting the freezer or tackling the hand washing, but sometimes, for just a few moments, as when she had walked in on Elena and Sye, it bubbled up to the surface and she had to admit to herself that she missed the sex.
She missed the sex. Even when you’d had children before, it still came as a shock how they invaded every corner of your life and took over your body … maybe for ever.
Was she ever going to feel really sexy again? Was she ever going to have the time or the energy to devote a whole afternoon to being locked in the bedroom with Ed? Would she want to be? Would they end up talking about the babies? Or the building work? Or maybe have a nice anxiety-inducing chat about the mortgage?
Was there ever, ever, ever again going to be the nail dragging, breathtaking, toe-curling want between them again?
When she’d seen Elena, eyes shut, back arched in complete and total concentration, ecstasy, Annie had not felt horror or shock. No. She’d just felt jealous and more than a little sad.
Ed used to make her feel just like that … but now? Now they were more like companions who brought up children together. Very loving companions, yes, but wouldn’t it be better to feel like Elena just once in a while?
Annie walked along the pavement, peering every now and then into the small, beautifully set-out windows, and wondered.
What advice would she give a client? What if someone came on to the show and said: ‘I’m too tired for sex, I’m too busy and anyway, when we have sex, I feel as if I’ve done it all before, we’re in a groove and how on earth do I get out?’
Annie couldn’t help feeling that her libido was like damp kindling; no match or scented candle was going to relight it, what she needed was a can of petrol.
She was standing in front of the Chanel window now and there were the shoes, on their velvet cushion, centre stage in the spotlight. High-heeled eggshell patent leather with a T-bar strap and a black patent toecap. A Chanel classic.
She looked at the shoes and realized that right now, she felt more desire for them than she did for her own partner. She wanted to own those shoes; she wanted to possess them and make them part of her.
This wasn’t exactly a good sign. She shouldn’t go in. There would be another day for buying posh shoes. Right now, she would look for a children’s shop and get a little present for the babies. Maybe she also had to give some thought as to how to go about feeling sexy again.
Taking a left, she found herself in a small street walking towards an underwear shop with a mannequin in the window.
The mannequin was unusually curvaceous, dressed in a black satin basque with fishnet stockings, an eye mask and cat ears.
It held her attention.
Annie knew perfectly well that she had no sexy underwear left. Well, nothing that she fitted into anyway. She had an underwear drawer full of TV-friendly control pants and saggy bras left over from breastfeeding.
If she were her own wardrobe adviser, she’d poke around in that drawer with horror and exclaim: ‘What’s going on in here? Have we forgotten how to look good from the inside out? If you want to feel sexy, maybe you have to dress sexy … just as if you want to feel powerful, you have to put on a jacket with sharp shoulders.’
A black, strapless corset? Would that make her feel more sexy? Would that make her feel more in touch with herself than she did at the moment? Or was that too obvious? Too easy an answer?
A black strapless corset would definitely make Ed feel less exhausted. That was a fact.
Annie was standing there looking at the mannequin in the window, uncertain about whether to go forwards or not, when a woman’s face appeared at the shop door, smiled at her and beckoned her in.
Ha! She smiled back, always appreciative of the talents of another good shop assistant.
‘Je ne parle pas beaucoup de français,’ were her hesitant opening words as she walked through the glass door, setting off the ting ting of the b
ell above it.
‘Vous êtes anglaise, madame?’ the woman asked with a smile.
‘Oui, madame,’ Annie confirmed.
‘We parlons franglais,’ the woman replied with a smile.
She was a very French forty-something, beautifully turned out in a stylish navy skirt suit with red lips that exactly matched her red nails.
That was so coming back, Annie couldn’t help mentally noting, the matching nails and lips, even the matching shoes and bag.
‘Oui!’ Annie agreed.
The shop was a wonderful old-fashioned store with little glass-fronted wooden drawers and several pink satin dressmaker’s dummies in normal-looking sizes decked out in delicious satin and chiffon creations.
It wasn’t at all slutty, but neither was it stuffy. The atmosphere was just right for a purveyor of quality sexy smalls. No young girl in a mini-dress trying to sell you crotchless pants in size 8 and stifling her giggles when you couldn’t even get your ankle through a leg hole.
‘I have two babies,’ Annie began.
Annie thought Madame might understand the situation perfectly if Annie began with the babies.
‘Ah! Les bébés!’ Madame smiled. ‘Quel âge?’
‘Huit mois,’ Annie said, not sure if she’d got the right number.
‘Les deux? Jumeaux?’
‘Twins,’ Annie said, wondering if Madame had understood.
‘Adorables,’ Madame assured her.
‘I feel so …grande …’ Annie ventured and ran her hands over an exaggerated big belly. ‘Pas sexy,’ she added.
‘Pas du tout, pas du tout.’ The woman shook her head sadly and smiled. Annie wasn’t quite sure whether this meant ‘not at all’ or ‘not at all sexy’.
Madame gestured towards the changing room with its luxurious red satin curtain and instructed: ‘The clothes off.’
Once Annie had taken everything off, save a supposedly ‘sculpting’ thong, she stared in the mirror with distress. This was a look she’d seen her clients give themselves so many times over the years; she always rushed in to nip it in the bud, because no good came of it.