by Prue Leith
But the thing was, Rebecca thought, she was never powerless. Even with Faisal over her, in her, holding her down, the footstool juddering and shifting with the violence of every thrust, he was dancing to her tune, acting out her fantasy, giving her what she craved.
She would do anything to recapture some of that. Nelson was lovely, but he wasn’t in the same league.
Rebecca looked up to see Lucy approaching across the station concourse wearing a too-tight tweed suit, well-polished black pumps and carrying a basket. She was smiling, apparently unaware of the blaring Christmas Carols.
Oh, I do love her, thought Rebecca. She’s a fashion disaster, but she’s really tried, abandoning her pleated skirts and awful trouser suits. And she’s had her hair done.
They went first to Rigby & Peller, the posh people’s undies shop in Knightsbridge. Lucy protested that there was nothing wrong with Marks and Spencer, but Rebecca was firm.
‘Sorry Lucy. When did you last buy a bra? Be honest.’
Lucy admitted it had been a long time ago, five years maybe, and reluctantly entered the shop, muttering, ‘A doorman for a lingerie shop! Good God!’
Rebecca loved Rigby & Peller. It was quaint and cramped yet so chic. Today it was crowded with two distinct types of customer: stick-thin young women with botox lips (and silicone breasts I bet, thought Rebecca), who were perched on a narrow upholstered bench, and well-padded Knightsbridge matrons in sober but expensive clothes. They overflowed the minimal seating.
All were waiting for appointments, but no one waited for long. Every minute or so, one of the corsetieres appeared through the door to summon a customer into the inner sanctum of fitting rooms.
When two of the matrons had been ushered off, Lucy and Rebecca took their seats and watched the shop at work. A young assistant up a ladder was searching through the stacks of bra boxes, other assistants were at the till, busy with Christmas gift wrap, charging, bowing goodbyes and thank-yous, or running upstairs in search of stock.
‘That woman just paid eighty pounds for a bra!’ Lucy whispered. ‘I can’t afford that!’
‘Yes, you can,’ Rebecca replied. ‘If you are going to spend six hundred, maybe a thousand, on a suit, you need a great shape under it. Just as you need a decent pair of shoes and a good handbag to set it off.’
‘But I’m not planning on the shoes and handbag either!’
‘Ah, but I am.’
Quite soon it was Lucy’s turn. The fitter introduced herself as Sofia. Her smile was professional yet reassuring, like a good nanny’s. ‘And what can I do for madam today?’
Rebecca got in quickly. Given half a chance, she thought, Lucy will bolt.
‘We are on a mission to get the perfect, tailored suit, and Lucy needs a good bra and some latex knickers to show her bum off a bit—’
‘No I don’t!’ Lucy interrupted. ‘Just the bra. That will be fine.’ Rebecca did not argue. Plenty of time.
Sofia was authoritative. She slipped off Lucy’s blouse and looked with concentration at her clean but certainly not new bra, at her pale breasts bulging gently from the sides of it, at her pushed-together cleavage, the skin wrinkled at the join.
She stood behind Lucy looking over her shoulder into the mirror.
‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘lovely bosom. But your bra is the wrong size and the wrong shape – it doesn’t do you justice. See here …’ she pulled a bra strap to one side exposing a deep red groove “… the bra back is giving you no support so the straps are doing all the work and cutting into you. Not very comfortable, is it?’
‘No,’ replied Lucy, ‘but all bras are uncomfortable. It’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it?’
Sofia smiled. ‘You’ll see.’
She cupped Lucy’s breasts in her hands to lift and separate them, and all eyes concentrated on the mirror.
‘What we want is enough lift to give you some cleavage, but not too much, which would wrinkle the skin.’ She lifted Lucy’s breasts higher and the skin above her bosom puckered, instantly adding years.
Sofia’s shrewd eyes assessed Lucy’s body like a Cruft’s judge awarding dog-show prizes. Then she disappeared briefly but was soon back with an armful of bras.
She picked one and instructed Lucy in the art of putting it on: she had to bend over so her breasts fell into the cups. Then Sofia fastened the back. Then, diving a hand into each bra cup in turn, she adjusted Lucy’s boobs unceremoniously.
‘You have to lift each breast, and let it settle back into the cup. And then you use your forefingers to get maximum separation.’ As she spoke she stuck her two forefingers deeply down the central panel of the bra and smoothed first one, then the other breast from the middle to the side.
They all studied Lucy’s transformation. The smooth cream satin fitted, wrinkle free, over each breast. The neckline was scooped slightly, so that her breasts, smooth and creamy as a young woman’s and now separated, swelled gently above the lacy edge of the bra.
Lucy had lost her air of mixed embarrassment and irritation at this whole performance, and was pleased. She did not say so of course, but Rebecca could tell from the way she turned her body this way and that to see herself in the mirror.
Lucy could not decide between the various bras, and Rebecca talked her into two: one black and lacy, the other flesh-coloured and plain which would be invisible under anything.
Lucy was so delighted that she needed no persuading to buy a pair of support pants with a panel in the front to flatten the tum, clever elastication to lift and shape the bum, and legs to reduce her thighs.
Rebecca made her wear the plain bra and the pants since their next stop was Harvey Nick’s for the suit. She insisted Lucy consign her old underwear to the bin. ‘We can’t have you keeping your new things for best and never wearing them,’ she said.
Rebecca had arranged for a personal shopper to help with the suit.
‘Can you believe it?’ she said. ‘There’s a six-week waiting list for personal shoppers? But I blagged our way up the list by telling them that “my client” needs a whole wardrobe before she starts filming again in a week.’
‘You did not!’
‘Yes I did. And don’t fuss. Just don’t blow our cover.’
Lucy looked distinctly unhappy at this, but Rebecca just laughed and said, ‘Don’t be grumpy. The saleswoman would far rather be serving a film actress than anyone else so we are actually doing her a favour.’
The personal shopper, badged Georgina, was young and friendly. She had already selected half a dozen suits in Lucy’s size.
Lucy stripped down to her new underwear and Rebecca guessed she was relieved that she didn’t have to stand before the young saleswoman in ancient M&S. But she was uncooperative, standing in front of the elegant cheval mirror without enthusiasm.
And she’s right, thought Rebecca, the suits were nice enough, but they sure didn’t make the heart beat faster. So she went with Georgina to look through the racks of Max Mara, Nicole Farhi, Jil Sander, Chanel – classic designers more interested in fabric and cut than in fripperies.
As soon as Rebecca saw it, she knew they’d hit the jackpot. It was a purply-blue Donna Karan in the finest wool. The jacket had built-in ties at the waist, in the same deep purple satin as the wide revers of the collar. Below the waist was a short flared peplum. The skirt was long and narrow with a matching flare at the lower calf, revealing a flash of satin underskirt.
It was perfect: frivolous and severe at the same time. Comfortable yet formal. You could go to a wedding or a funeral in it, a formal dinner or lunch with a girlfriend.
Georgina held the skirt over Lucy’s head and let it slither down her body. Lucy shrugged into the jacket, and Georgina looped the ties together.
The rounded neckline was wide and low, showing the curves of Lucy’s breasts, but none of her bra. Lucy clutched at the lapels, trying to make them meet.
‘Wait a sec,’ said Georgina, as she produced a silver pendant on a narrow ribbon and hung it round Lucy’s n
eck. The purple stone lay on the gentle swell of Lucy’s bosom.
‘Wow,’ said Rebecca, ‘you look beautiful, Lucy.’
‘But I’ll never wear it. It’s too glamorous.’ But it was obvious that she wanted to be told otherwise, and Georgina and Rebecca obliged.
Georgina produced a plain cream T-shirt (£130 Rebecca noticed, but happily Lucy didn’t) and Lucy put it on and tried the jacket again. The cream silk V at the neck had changed the look from evening to day.
Rebecca was delighted at the effect on Lucy. She looked in turns thrilled, almost smug, and disbelieving. She opened the jacket to inspect the glowing lining, tied the soft belt loosely, turned to admire the way the skirt undercut her bottom, extended her leg to see the flash of kick-pleat. Slowly her anxious uncertainty was replaced by a childish excitement.
And when the suit was laid out on the desk for folding, Rebecca noticed that she could not resist putting a hand out to stroke the fine wool, feel it slip smoothly over the silk lining. She’s experiencing what I know so well, thought Rebecca – the lust for possession.
Suddenly Lucy said to Georgina, ‘I’ll take the necklace and the T-shirt too.’
Ha! thought Rebecca. Result!
Chapter Seventeen
Joanna set out for the meeting feeling guilty and gloomy. She walked along the sunny Wakefield streets, taking no pleasure in the crisp winter air. She had been dutifully telephoning her parents in Australia every few weeks, but the enjoyment of talking to her father was almost always cancelled by her mother’s downbeat take on everything.
During their conversation last night her mother had complained.
‘I hate these phone calls. You always want to speak to your dad. I can tell you are longing to get rid of me.’
‘That’s not true, Ma. I want to speak to you both. And if you want to talk to me more, why don’t you ever ring me?’
That stopped the argument but Joanna was left facing the fact that the last thing she really wanted was more talk with her mother.
And it wasn’t just her mother. She was mulling over the uncomfortable fact that for the first time in her professional life she’d let her emotions get in the way of business.
The truth was she had compromised because she was becoming increasingly attracted to Stewart. She half feared she was in love with him. The only comfort was that he did not know that – neither the attraction, nor that she’d given in because of it. He – typical man – believed he’d convinced her with the power of his argument that Caroline could be an effective CEO. Joanna was perfectly sure she could not, but she harboured a small hope that, against all the evidence, Stewart would prove to be right.
It was true, of course, that Caroline had commitment and energy and passion and all that. But she was a lousy manager – disorganised, upsetting her managers, refusing to listen.
Joanna could not believe she’d been so weak. She should have insisted that Caroline be replaced by a good CEO as the price for her stumping up for a third of the shares. If this had been any other negotiation, she knew she would have got her way or she would have walked.
The one ray of comfort was that she’d got Stewart to agree to buy her out after six months if she was still unhappy with Caroline. But of course if it came to that, it would be she, Joanna, that was shown the door, not Caroline. She’d have her money out, true, but the business would still be a dog. And it would mean she’d not see Stewart again.
What a perfect fool I am, she thought, as she pushed open the pub door. But then she saw Stewart and her heart lifted. As she walked towards father and daughter sitting at the far end of the room, her head came up and she told herself she’d do her damnedest to make this work.
The meeting had to be held in the pub: they couldn’t meet at head office for fear of starting a rumour mill. And the rest of the board had not yet been told of the proposed rescue-package – that Joanna was to buy into the business, that Stewart and Caroline would buy back the rest of the shares, and that Joanna would go half-time with Innovest so that she could spend two days a week helping Caroline restructure Greenfarms. Innovest had agreed to sell for very little, taking an overall loss on the venture, but they’d been happy to get out. And Stewart and Joanna would have to provide a lot more finance for the needed investment, mostly the on-line side.
Stewart came back from the bar and put the drinks down on the table. As he lowered himself to the banquette between the two women, his arms went wide to pull them to him. Joanna felt an immediate warm charge and wondered if he felt it too.
He looked, she thought, like a cat with the cream. He adores his daughter and he likes me and here we both are, tightly in his web: emotionally, financially, and professionally. And, right now, physically.
‘God, Joanna,’ he exclaimed, ‘am I glad to have you with us, rather than the soulless Innovest!’ He swept a happy, triumphant smile over them both.
Joanna looked at Caroline. She was smiling at her father, but it was a careful smile, hiding anxiety.
They toasted their new beginnings and then settled down to discuss Joanna’s plan. There was a lot to do, and she produced a spreadsheet with the tasks, a six-month timetable of when they would be done, by whom and at what cost. Under the heading Internet Sales were web redesign, pilot trials, evaluation, roll-out. Under Marketing and Public Relations: maximising farm sales, expanding farmers’ markets, targeting health-food chains, publicity campaign. Under Employment: staff consultation, factory reduction, head-office retrenchment, outsourcing. And so on. With the detail, there were two double sheets of it.
Of course there was not much chance of an easy ride from Caroline. She was no fool, and as soon as she spotted the heading ‘staff consultation’ she said, ‘That’s mealy-mouthed code for putting the poor buggers out of work, isn’t it?’
Caroline’s outbursts always had the effect of making Joanna super-cool and unemotional. She replied, ‘It means we need to make at least half of the factory staff redundant, yes.’
In the end Caroline behaved much better than Joanna had expected. She was, Joanna supposed, so relieved at the prospect of getting her business out of the big retailers’ clutches she swallowed her objections to everything: the redundancies, mothballing half the factory until they could replace the supermarket sales, hiring a professional web-sales company.
But then they got to the trickiest item.
‘The next thing is awkward,’ Joanna said. ‘But it has to be tackled. We do not have a strong enough executive board. It was probably fine for a small family company five years ago, but it’s not now. The programme of change we’ve just agreed will need strong leadership to push it through.’
Joanna caught a flash of the familiar Caroline hostility. When she spoke her voice was bitter.
‘I presume it’s the family members you are gunning for. Which of us has failed the test then?’
As always, Joanna ignored the tone and answered the question, saying evenly, ‘I am principally concerned about your brother. Mark is just not up to the job of operations director. Do you not agree?’
Caroline’s head came forward, chin rising. ‘He’s been with us from the start and he’s as loyal—’
But Stewart cut in. ‘I agree with Joanna. Mark is not capable of doing the job as it will be. He lacks the necessary energy and drive. It would be different if you were more—’
Caroline jerked her head from Joanna to him. ‘So it’s me now is it, Dad? What’s the problem with me? I hardly lack energy.’
Stewart smiled at her. ‘Indeed you don’t. I was going to say you hate the boring bits of business, so your doing any of Mark’s job would be a waste of your talents, and, though Mark can do them, he’ll never do them anything like fast enough.’
Caroline, mollified, relaxed slightly and Stewart went on. ‘Mark needs a change. He’s been too cosy here, working for his sister, living under her shadow. He needs to get out from under. I’ll talk to him. It will be all right.’
Joanna was constantly ama
zed by Stewart. He might have a blind spot when it came to Caroline but he faced everything else so straightforwardly. Sacking his own son would not be easy, but because he thought it right he did not duck it for a second.
All through the meeting Stewart was businesslike and brisk, pushing them through the agenda, and Joanna managed to forget how much she was attracted to him. But when they moved to the routine stuff, agreeing a new lease, ratifying the audit committee decisions etc, desire came flooding back.
I want Caroline to go away, she thought. I want Stewart to talk to me, to me alone, his eyes on mine. And I want him to talk about anything at all as long as it’s not Greenfarms.
She had not felt like this – longing for a man’s call, thinking about him all the time, hanging on his every word, his tone of voice, his every gesture, for years – not since her thirties when she was in love with Tom.
She’d met Tom when he’d registered with Joanna Carey Executive Search and she’d placed him in his first chief executive job, with the new and growing broadcaster, City TV. He was forty-five, small, dark, dynamic, and a huge egotist. When he’d landed the job he’d telephoned her, not to thank her, but to tell her how brilliantly he’d handled the interview, and how, if he needed to hire any executives for his new company, he’d expect a whopping discount on her fees.
She now thought that what had so spellbound her was his being unafraid of her. All her life men had found her intimidating: too clever, too confident, too successful, too rich. But Tom, with a background perfectly suited to his new job, half of it in television, half of it as a hedge fund manager, was every bit as successful, and a lot richer, than her. Far from resenting her accomplishments, he gloried in them, crowing to their friends about her achievements as though he were responsible for them. He boasted about her doings almost as much as he boasted of his own – which he did without shame and with boyish zeal.
At first intrigued, then admiring, she’d found Tom addictive. And had ended up deeply in love with him.