by Rosa Temple
‘Riley.’
‘Because, you know, I don’t have to be up for a good hour or more later than he gets up.’
‘Riley.’
‘So, this morning, same thing. Stayed at mine last night by the way. Anyway, TV goes on and I get up to find he had the bloody infomercials on.’
‘TV’s on, Riley.’
‘Great. Good. So I went up to the box, furious, but not that furious because as it turns out, Jimmy is a genius and he doesn’t even know it yet.’
I exhaled loudly down the phone after a long and agitated inhalation.
‘Riley! Why have I got my television on?’
‘It’s the infomercial, Magenta. It’s by Niles B Bags and every single handbag in the advert is your design.’
‘What? What channel is this on?’
‘Film4. Quick, look! It’s about to run again.’
Flopping onto the sofa and finding the right channel, I found myself looking at one of those mostly annoying but sometimes intriguing infomercials. On screen was an overly made-up woman in a studio with Eighties’ hair. She was holding up what looked like one of my designs for the Every Woman handbag. I turned up the volume as she announced that it was the most practical bag she’d ever had. They cut to a VT and in it there were several clips of town and country locations in which various actresses were swanning around with one of my bags. They were enacting scenes that depicted how happy they were to have discovered Niles B.
Emblazoned on the outer pocket of each bag was a label. When the camera zoomed in the label read: Niles B Bags.
‘Magenta? Are you there?’
I could hear Riley in the background. I raised the phone back to my ear just as the scene cut back to the studio and the snarky face of my arch nemesis appeared on screen. The woman asked how he came up with the ideas.
‘Shit the bed,’ I breathed down the phone to Riley. ‘Niles bloody Benson. But how?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said. ‘Cassandra bloody bitch! She took the designs and copied them before handing them in at production. Can you believe that? Magenta, she can’t get away with it. Neither can he.’
‘Riley, they just did.’
I turned up the volume further only to hear that sleaze, Niles Benson, talk about how he was inspired by his girlfriend who could never find anything in her handbag. The bastard. Cassandra must have told him my inspiration for the neat inner and outer pocket designs.
‘Riley? You still there?’ I asked after several minutes of staring at advertisements for wholegrain cereal and holiday villas.
‘Of course I am. Are you okay?’
‘Well, not really,’ I said, bewildered. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Find Cassandra and kill her?’
‘I mean after that. My great plan, my big idea, it’s all been ruined.’ I shook my head, still not believing it.
‘But you have the copyright,’ said Riley.
‘Laws on copyright for fashion designs are so flimsy. I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘You could try.’
‘It hardly seems worth it,’ I said. ‘He’s made them and he’s selling them. I can’t just start selling them, too. He’s even called them the bag for every woman. They even stole my name.’
‘There must be something you can do. What do copyright laws say?’
‘Well, when it comes to designs of any kind, and that includes fashion, you have to prove that your design is ground-breaking or life-changing in order for it to be considered an art creation. Only then would a judge be interested if you tried to take someone to court over stealing your design,’ I said feeling totally defeated. ‘Firstly bags are not ground-breaking and secondly the rules on copies and knock-offs are crap to say the least. Even if I did get there first there’s nothing to stop someone else doing a rubbish copy and selling it for a quarter of the price. I know the bags aren’t the pinnacle of originality but they had something and with the right marketing strategy and the Shearman name, I thought they’d really take off.’
‘You still have all of that on your side, Magenta. Name, reputation, loads of interest. You can still go for it.’
‘Well, I can still go for the rebranding idea, I suppose,’ I said reaching for a shred of hope. ‘I mean there are other designs for women’s bags – that hasn’t changed. Only now I’ve lost what I thought was going to be my show-stopping idea. I need to rethink this. I’ll see you later at work, Riley. And thank you for this.’ I had my eyes closed and found I was madly twiddling my hair in a mixture of frustration and sadness. I took a deep breath.
‘I’ve just emailed an order through for one of Niles’s so-called bags for every woman,’ said Riley. ‘We’ll check out the quality. I bet it falls to pieces in no time.’ She was doing her best to stay positive.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said sotto voce. ‘See you later.’ I hung up.
Damn. Was this really happening? I called Anthony to let him know but the call went straight to his voicemail. I’d tell him later over dinner. He’d be just as angry as me.
On the journey I sat on the tube planning Cassandra’s accidental death and a torture chamber I’d keep Niles in for the rest of his life. I chastised myself as I got out of the train for not having put pictures of the bags on Instagram already. I was building up to a big reveal and now I’d have to rethink everything.
I wanted to scream, cry, and kill someone at the same time. Instead, I popped into Jimmy’s and ordered caffè macchiatos for everyone in the office and bought a huge bag of his millefeuilles. I had to drown my sorrows and I’d eat and drink the whole lot if I had no takers.
Riley arrived fifteen minutes or so after me after having had the same coffee and cakes idea.
Later, Riley and I sat in my office, awash with caffeine, plummeting from a sugar rush, and staring blankly at the coffee table between us.
‘So,’ I said.
‘So,’ she said. ‘What happens now?’
‘Are there any cakes left?’ I asked.
Riley lifted her eyes as far as the plate covered in crumbs. ‘No, we’re all out,’ she said.
‘Then we better get to work.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘We can’t let this blip – and I’m going to call it that – we can’t let this blip sabotage months of hard work and effort.’
‘No,’ said Riley, also jumping up. She stomped a purple Doctor Marten boot on the floor. ‘We won’t be defeated.’ She balled her tiny fists and slammed them onto her hips. She opened her mouth as if about to make a proclamation and then turned to me. ‘So, what do we do?’
‘Get onto Instagram, release the pictures of the new designs. Get into a dialogue with every fashion blogger we know, then find a dozen more of ones we don’t but who have large followings. I want everyone talking about the rebranding. I want everyone talking about shoddy fakes and how no self-respecting fashionista settles for them. Then I’m going to announce that tickets will be on sale soon for the rebranding party. I’ll make sure our charity rep has a blazing speech ready and I’ll start the most glamorous guest list I can. I’ll need to contact Anya, see if I can get a shoot of her and some of her model friends carrying Shearman Bright designs. It’ll be our poster for the event. Niles B can take his infomercial and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.’
Riley was doing the Running Man as a victory dance next to the coffee table. Her little fists were pumping and her red tutu skirt was bouncing up and down. She grabbed me to dance with her. By the time we’d twerked, tap-danced, and were midway through the funky chicken I had to stop.
‘Wait,’ I said, holding my stomach. ‘I’m several cream doughnuts past my limit. I need to stop.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Riley, bending over and pressing her side.
I made it over to my desk and grabbed the phone. ‘Anya is still holed up with her man but she’s in London,’ I said. ‘I need her to pull in some favours for me before she flies off again. Ne
w York I think. So, I’ll need samples and a photographer and studio for a shoot with Anya and friends. Let’s do this.’
Riley nodded. ‘And what about Niles bloody Benson?’ she said. ‘And does Cassandra get away with it, too?’
‘We can’t focus on the negative, Riley. It never gets you anywhere. We’ve got a party to plan.’
I could tell Riley wasn’t happy about that part of the plan but she gave me the thumbs-up sign as she left my office.
I dialled Anya and she answered straight away.
‘Anya, I need you.’
‘Of course, darling. Just tell me vere I have to be, bring visky, and you have yourself a deal.’
Chapter 18
The Party
Anya did so much to help me make the rebranding party a success. I couldn’t thank her enough. She lined up three top female models and two very sexy male models for a shoot with the bags. I hadn’t had to pay the models; their agents were able to write it off as charitable work as I’d made a donation on their behalf to the charity I was supporting in conjunction with the event.
I managed to talk my silent partners (Mother and Father) into releasing funds to finance a poster ad campaign in choice locations around London and Manchester, including bus stops and prominent wall spaces. Of course Anya was used to seeing herself on large billboards but I had my fellow passengers on the bus in spasms one morning.
‘Look,’ I shouted, ‘that’s my friend up there. And that’s my bag!’
We’d just approached a roundabout and, high up on a wall was the poster of Anya, sitting in a studio wearing a pearl-coloured dress that spread on the floor all around her. Her knees were bent under the dress and my designer bag sat artistically on her knees, a look in her eye that said, “I wouldn’t buy any other bag.” Or at least that was my interpretation. The slogan read: “Anya Stankovic, Every Woman.” Beneath that the Shearman Bright logo was tastefully displayed. It completely blew my mind.
The people on the bus looked around at each other and at me, the crazy person who dared to talk to strangers on public transport. Some politely looked at the poster and smiled at me, possibly not believing a word I’d said. Those who hadn’t separated themselves from their earphones also looked up. Having not heard what I said, they probably thought I’d won on Gala bingo. I sat, looking smug, for the entire bus ride and for the whole time I was on the tube from Hammersmith to Green Park.
Posters and banners designed using the very best of the photos from the shoot with Anya and her supermodel friends were put up in the windows and lifts at Harrods to promote the evening event. As Harrods was the main seller of Shearman man bags (and not least because my sister, Ebony, was a chief buyer at Harrods) I’d arranged the rebranding party to take place there.
Harrods would clear a whole floor for the event, which would involve finger foods and champagne, interviews with all the designers of the new line of Shearman Bright women’s handbags, and more celebrities than you could shake a stick at.
‘I’ll give Naomi and Kate a call,’ Anya had casually said to me one day during the planning stages. ‘See if either of them are free for the party.’
‘Really?’ I said, eyes popping out of my head in glee. ‘I’ll send them both bags; hopefully they’ll be carrying them when they arrive. If they arrive. I hope they arrive. Which reminds me, I must make sure the press photographers are there in good time. Who else could you get?’
Anya came up with a list of at least ten other models and a handful of actors. They, or their agents, all said yes to coming to the event.
I went through the list of celebrities I knew, personally, and invited them. No one from my list was as fabulous as Anya’s but they’d be great to have along. I cornered Mother and my sisters and made sure they invited every fashion person they knew. The editors of my favourite magazines, Marie Claire and Vogue, were a “Yes”. I’d invited editors from other magazines but as long as my two favourites were there I’d be happy. All the relevant journalists and bloggers were now on board and there’d been tons of coverage online.
On all our social media we announced that there would be limited tickets open to the public, all money going to the charity, plus Harrods had approved a one-night only huge discount deal for the lucky recipients of tickets. Weeks of good press both in print and online sparked off enough interest to bring a good number of fashion-hungry fans of leather goods rushing to buy tickets from the revamped Shearman Bright website. In fact, the day that ticket sales were announced they were gone in a matter of hours.
Seeing how well the response from the public had been, I decided to run a competition on Instagram, Twitter, and the website to win an Every Woman bag. It was a free to enter prize draw for anyone subscribing to the mailing list, which saw our subscribers shoot up by a staggering amount. On Twitter #ShearmanBrightEveryWoman was trending.
I was on a high during the weeks of preparation and each night I would come home and lie flat on my back on my red sofa for hours on end, as if I’d just run the New York and London marathons back to back. I was only able to lift my head when Anthony held a glass of wine near my nose. I’d have a few sips and he would walk me to the kitchen table where he’d cooked me a meal and made sure I ate before I went to bed.
‘I could get Marcey Gates along,’ said Riley out of the blue one day.
Marcey Gates was the latest breaking artist in commercial music. Her first album had outsold Adele’s latest and she was due to begin a world tour starting in LA, already having broken into the US charts.
‘You know her?’ I asked Riley, choking on a croissant.
‘She was my best friend at school,’ Riley replied, casually.
My mouth dropped open. ‘And you guys are still in touch?’ I said.
Riley nodded. ‘Oh yeah. She and I used to sing in her bedroom. In fact when she started appearing on YouTube, singing covers, I was usually sitting on the bed out of sight and flicking through a magazine. That battered old Korg she used to play was her brother’s. I went out with him for a while.’ Riley’s eyes glazed over, then she shook her head. ‘But Marcey and I text all the time. She texted when she signed to Sony and I texted her when you offered me the job here.’
I stared at Riley, completely amazed. ‘Yes, p-please invite her,’ I stammered. ‘And if it’s all right with her management we could have her perform, too?’
‘I’ll get on the phone to her now.’
‘I love you, Riley.’ I hugged her, all the while happy that I’d gone on my instincts and hired her in the first place.
So, the scene was set. As long as half the celebrities who said they’d come showed up, we’d have a successful party and by the weekend, the majority of shops selling Shearman man bags would also be selling the all-new Shearman Bright range.
The big night finally arrived. Most of the A-Listers showed up as well as the right amount of media and industry people and, of course, there was Anthony, my A-Lister boyfriend.
Never really one for wanting to be around flashing cameras and flashy people, especially the ones in fashion, Anthony did a lot of hanging out on the sidelines.
‘Thank you for being here.’ I found a spare moment to slip in beside him before he wandered out into the corridor to spend the evening playing chess on his phone.
‘You don’t need to thank me,’ said Anthony. ‘You know I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Your special night. Your parties get better and better.’
‘Well, I did my best,’ I replied, looking around and taking in how wonderful the atmosphere had been.
‘Looks like you’ve got some really big names here,’ he said.
‘And what do you know about really big names in the world of fashion?’ I asked, turning to him with a raised eyebrow.
‘Nothing, but people keep introducing themselves to me and telling me how important they are.’
We both laughed.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Anthony. He squeezed my hand an
d flashed me one of his wide, Anthony smiles. ‘And I love the new logo. Shearman Bright. Has quite a ring to it.’
‘I thought so.’
‘There she is!’ someone exclaimed and in seconds I was whisked away from Anthony and didn’t see him until he came to kiss me on the cheek later, telling me he’d take a taxi home and would see me there.
Marcey Gates’s management were happy to allow their artist to perform. It was a one-off and two weeks away from her tour. The added publicity of her drinking champagne with Naomi Campbell et al didn’t hurt and neither did it hurt Shearman Bright that a young rock star was photographed carrying one of the Every Woman bags.
‘You did it, Magenta.’ Riley put her arm around my waist as we listened to her pop star friend perform acoustically. She sang a handful of songs, accompanied by a guitarist on a high stool, all of which would inevitably end up on YouTube.
‘We did it,’ I said putting my arm around her shoulder and squeezing her thin frame to me.
The music floated around us and we clapped, almost hysterically, at the end of every number. We made the most of the celebration because the next day it would be business as usual and what an awful lot of business was being generated that night.
Chapter 19
The Apology
The week following the rebranding do, I was feeling weird. Not so much weird as flat. Every morning leading up to the party I’d wake up with my head buzzing full of ideas and it didn’t stop buzzing until my head hit the pillow that night or, in most cases, the early hours of the morning.
The whole affair had taken everything out of me. I was in need of a long rest and a well-earned break from work and I still hadn’t gone along to Anthony’s exhibition. There were just a few days left to go and I’d promised him every day for a whole week that I’d be there.
In the meantime, I had had an interview with She magazine and was asked along to Radio 4 in the week that Woman’s Hour was talking to female entrepreneurs. I couldn’t believe my luck.