Izzy let the door swing shut. She looked round the stainless steel work surfaces of the empty kitchen as if she didn’t quite know how she had got there.
‘We did it.’ She sounded dazed, even to her own ears.
‘You did it,’ said Geoff.
They shared a high five.
On the monitoring system they heard Pepper saying serenely, ‘Welcome to Out of the Attic. A whole new shopping experience.’ On the black and white screen above their heads, she spread her hands. ‘Enjoy.’
They did. They wandered round as if they had just discovered a treasure chest. Women who lived all their professional lives in designer black threw scarlet and gold shawls around themselves and looked wistfully in the mirror. Hard-bitten fashion professionals ran their hands sensuously over velvet and angora and sighed.
Izzy slid rapidly along to the Ladies’ Room to change out of her working decorator gear. Now that the theatrical tricks were over she had to turn herself back into Pepper’s efficient assistant and work the room. She was already hauling the dark tee shirt over her head as she walked in.
Jemima was at a basin, scrubbing the ink prompts off her hands. She looked up when the door opened and grinned at Izzy in the mirror.
‘That was a blast. Proud of yourself?’
‘I suppose I am, quite,’ Izzy admitted.
Jemima flicked water at her. ‘Make that lots. You’ve got them eating out of Pepper’s hand.’
Izzy wriggled out of her jeans. ‘You did your share. What happened up there? Pepper freak out?’
Jemima shrugged. ‘Said she couldn’t remember her words and you’d told her not to go into detail too early.’ She shook her head. ‘She may be a retail genius, but she sure doesn’t talk the talk.’
‘She does with a little help from her friends,’ said Izzy. ‘You handled that brilliantly.’
She splashed cold water under her arms and the back of her neck.
Jemima watched as she towelled off and pulled on sheer dark tights. ‘I couldn’t make head or tail of Pepper’s gibbering. So I went back to the first speech you wrote and said, “You do this bit; I’ll do that.”’
‘Worked like a dream.’ Izzy’s voice was muffled as she pulled a slim charcoal-grey dress over her head. ‘Looked good, too. Very cool. How did you get her to do it?’
‘I told her she owed you.’ Jemima was whipping her maltreated hair into place with expert rapidity.
‘Owed me?’
‘Yup.’
‘Owed me? But this is her project, her idea. I wouldn’t even have a job if it weren’t for Pepper and Out of the Attic.’
‘Correction. You’d have another job.’
‘Maybe. But—’
‘No maybe about it,’ broke in Jemima. She stopped fiddling with her hair and sent Izzy a minatory look. ‘Don’t put yourself down. You can turn your hand to anything.’
‘So can the odd job man in our block.’
Jemima ignored that. ‘And you’re always the best, too.’
Izzy smiled in spite of herself. ‘You’re prejudiced.’ She cast a cursory look in the mirror and fluffed her hair out.
‘Let me do that,’ said Jemima impatiently.
She pressed Izzy into one of the small gilt chairs and took up a brush. Her own tangled ponytail had been an artful creation, whereas Izzy’s tangles were the result of too little attention and a hectic three hours spent scrambling among the installations.
‘I am going to give you a present of a day at a decent salon,’ Jemima said, attacking the tangles ruthlessly. ‘When did you last have your hair done properly?’
Izzy chuckled. ‘The last time you gave me a present of a day at a salon.’
Jemima smacked her lightly with the brush. ‘How you have the gall to lecture Pepper, I’ll never know.’
‘That’s different. That’s business. It matters how Pepper looks.’
‘It matters how everyone looks,’ said Jemima, shocked to the core.
‘Believe me, it doesn’t.’
Jemima paused in her work. She met her sister’s eyes in the mirror.
‘You mean when you were hiking round the world you had more important things to think about than your split ends?’ she interpreted.
Izzy was shocked. ‘Am I that smug?’
‘You’re that weird,’ corrected Jemima. She extracted the last tangle and pursed her lips. ‘Plait,’ she decided. ‘No option. Don’t fidget, I gotta concentrate.’
‘I’m not weird,’ said Izzy, offended.
‘Yes, you are. Don’t give me that nonsense about not caring about clothes. You love clothes. But you’re always finding stuff for other people. I used to think it was just me. But since Pepper arrived you’re always coming home with things to suit her, too. Never you.’
Izzy shrugged. ‘Well, you two are on display all the time. I’m a backroom girl.’
Jemima was whipping threads of thick red hair into a plait. They kept springing free.
‘Oh, this is hopeless. I need gel. Don’t move.’ She rootled through her bag, saying over her shoulder, ‘You go to parties. Most people like to look good at a party.’
Izzy clicked her tongue. ‘I go to parties to meet people. Not to be looked at.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jemima dryly.
Izzy slewed round. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t move.’ Jemima found the gel. ‘And, yes, you did mean it,’ she said. ‘And I’m tired of it. At some point you decided that I was the pretty one. So you delegated caring about clothes and makeup and stuff to me. Boring.’
‘I—’
But Jemima was combing the gel through her hair with busy fingers and refused to be interrupted.
‘You’re not on some broken-down Latin American bus any more. You live in London. You have a job. Out of the Attic sells clothes, for heaven’s sake. Wake up and start looking in the mirror. You’re beautiful.’
This time the hair slid sweetly into its elaborate plait.
‘There!’ Jemima stepped back. ‘Bit darker than we started off with, but not bad. Not bad at all.’
Izzy looked at herself. Her hair was still ordinary red. Not Jemima’s lustrous firelight tones, not Pepper’s curling Titian—plain, common or garden, brickdust-red. But the plait and the fashionable gel made her look alert and faintly dangerous—and at least she was dark auburn for the moment. She grinned.
‘Well done.’
‘Not finished.’
Before Izzy could complain, Jemima was waving pots and brushes around. They had done this since they were small. Izzy sat very still, resigned.
‘Apes groom each other, too, you know,’ she said chattily.
‘Shut up.’ Jemima’s eyes narrowed to slits. Then she swooped, lipliner in hand.
It took less than two minutes. Jemima, after all, was a professional model. When she straightened, Izzy had cheekbones. She looked at herself in the mirror, half-bemused, half-uneasy.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to feel grateful.
‘Make-up lessons,’ said Jemima, committing it to memory. And, with apparent irrelevance, ‘You taking Adam to the party, then?’
‘No.’
Jemima nodded. She did not look surprised. ‘Another one falls at the Third Date fence,’ she said sadly. ‘What is it with you?’
Izzy knew how to deal with a nosy younger sister. ‘The party is work. You know we don’t mix work and play.’
‘You play?’ said Jemima, mock incredulous.
‘Watch it, brat!’
‘Social skills course and make-up lessons,’ said Jemima, grinning.
Izzy stood up and gave Jemima a quick hug. ‘Don’t waste your money,’ she advised.
Jemima bit her lip.
‘Don’t worry about it. I prefer being the sister who bites.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ Jemima said impatiently. ‘It’s this giving up on clothes and third dates that worries me.’
Izzy grinned. ‘I’m just not the pretty one. Get use
d to it.’
Jemima was packing away her stuff. She glared.
‘You’re crazy. You ought to be gorgeous. You’re three times as much fun as I am. You dance like a maniac. Guys line up and half the time you don’t even see them. And you look as if you don’t own a mirror. And,’ yelled Jemima, suddenly losing it, ‘I feel—as if—it’s my fault.’
‘Hey. Calm down.’ Izzy was disconcerted and a bit annoyed. ‘It’s nothing to do with you if I look like a rag bag.’
Jemima stopped yelling. But under the exquisite make up her face was drawn and her eyes tired. ‘Yes, it bloody is,’ she said. ‘And we both know it.’
Their eyes met. For a moment there was silence in the luxurious cloakroom. Then Jemima gave a quick, spiky shrug and started to stuff all her tubes and pots and brushes back into the designer tote bag.
‘Oh, what’s the point?’ she said wearily. ‘Come on. We’ve got a cousin’s business to promote.’
She stuffed the bag under the coat rack and went back to the conference room without a backward look.
Izzy followed more slowly. There was a faint frown between her brows. It was not like her sister to fly off the handle. Maybe all the time-zone hopping was getting to her.
‘You and I,’ she muttered, ‘have got to have a long talk. And soon.’
But Jemima did not hear. Or did not want to hear. And once in the conference room, like the professional she was, Jemima went instantly into posing beautifully for assorted photographers, her usual vibrant self again.
She had changed into what Pepper hoped would be the Attic’s signature outfit: soft full trousers and a shirt with sleeves that an eighteenth-century duellist would have killed for. Jemima’s chosen colours were chocolate and amber. They made the glorious hair look alive, as if it had caught lamplight and fire in its depths.
Even Izzy, used to her sister’s beauty, was startled.
‘She really is gorgeous, isn’t she?’ she said, almost to herself.
The clipboard queen was passing. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said indifferently. She stuffed the board under her arm and held out a hand. ‘Molly di Peretti from Culp and Christopher. Too much of a rush to do introductions earlier. But I wanted to say how much I admire what you did here today.’
‘Thank you,’ said Izzy, but absently. She was still looking at Jemima. That outburst was so out of character! What was going on behind the professionally flirtatious manner?
But Molly di Peretti was more interested in the concept of the launch. ‘This is just so original. You know, when Pepper told me what you were planning, I told her it was too weird?’
‘Oh?’ From a distance she could see that Jemima was clearly on edge. Her hands were never still and she kept touching her face, her hair.
“‘The hacks want champagne and lots of it,” I said. “Coffee and chat won’t cut the mustard.” That was your idea, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Izzy absently.
Jemima wasn’t happy. Other people might not notice, but Izzy had protected her from her first day in the playground. She could see that, however much her sister smiled, she was just desperate to get away.
‘Well, I was wrong,’ said Molly, oblivious. ‘It’s brilliant. Everyone is going to remember this launch.’
Izzy pulled herself together. ‘That’s the name of the game,’ she said gaily.
‘Hmm. Not everyone can do it, though.’ Molly di Peretti thought a bit. ‘And you’re Pepper Calhoun’s assistant, right? You don’t organise events for a living?’
‘Good grief, no. I’m just the gofer.’
‘Hmm,’ she said again. ‘And how did you get together with Pepper?’
‘We’re cousins.’
The woman’s eyebrows climbed towards her green hairline. She looked across the room to where Jemima was laughing a little too loudly at something one of the photographers had said. ‘Ah. So you must be related to the gorgeous Jemima as well?’
‘She’s my sister.’ Izzy’s voice was neutral. She waited for Molly di Peretti to remember that she had called Jemima the Beast of Belinda. She was not vindictive but she would enjoy seeing the brisk sophisticate wince.
But Molly di Peretti was not wincing. She was looking intrigued. ‘Lots of talent in your family.’ She put her head on one side. ‘We might just be able to use that.’
Izzy was trying to gauge how the launch party was going, but at that she stopped looking round the room for a moment and paid attention.
‘Use it? How?’
‘Woman power,’ said Molly, clearly writing the press release in her head. ‘Siblings unite to give the fashion establishment a run for its money. Redheads Rule! There’s lots of possibilities.’
Izzy snorted. ‘Oh, yeah? And what are you going to call it? The Brains, the Beauty and the Other One?’ she said with sudden savagery.
Molly flung up a hand in mock surrender. ‘Hey. No sweat. It was just an idea.’
Izzy was taken aback by her own vehemence. She said in a calmer voice, ‘Sorry. It’s just not my scene.’
‘Yeah. I can see that,’ Molly said slowly.
‘Anyway, why would you want to start another story? Isn’t this one going to be big enough? Especially with the party tonight?’
‘Yup. I wanted to talk to you about that. I may have another guest.’
‘Fine.’ Izzy shrugged. ‘I’ll put her on the list. Name?’
Molly rested her chin on her clipboard. ‘Dominic Templeton-Burke,’ she said. And waited for a reaction.
She did not get one. ‘Sounds like another chinless wonder,’ said Izzy, making a note. ‘Hope he’s pretty.’
Molly’s lips twitched. ‘Oh, he is. In fact—’
‘Great. Now, tell me that you were joking about the three-woman line-up and I’ll be a happy bunny.’
Molly hesitated. ‘PR is more than one splash, you know. After the launch we’ll keep on drip-drip-dripping away. We have to place a story here, a photograph there.’
‘But the story doesn’t have to be woman power, does it?’ said Izzy with foreboding.
‘Not if you don’t want, of course.’ Molly di Peretti did not try to hide her disappointment. ‘But that’s the message Pepper keeps pounding out.’ She sighed. ‘In fact, I’d better go circulate among the hacks. Make sure it’s getting through.’
She moved on with a friendly smile.
Izzy watched her go. She could have kicked herself. Not well handled. Maybe I’m losing my touch with a crisis, she told herself, trying to make a joke of it.
Oh, well, back to work. Check with the boss, check with the team, keep the wheels rolling. If she could find any of them in the suddenly active crowd, of course.
But actually it was easy. The crowd was thickest round her cousin, and they were all listening with attention. Some were even scribbling.
Pepper was on a roll. She might freeze with nerves on a stage, but in a small group, on her own subject, she was unstoppable.
‘These are real clothes for real women,’ she was saying earnestly. ‘We’ve got some wonderful designers working for us. No more tarty tat for stick insects or black, black, black. Out of the Attic is going to be a fun place to come. And you take the fun home with you when you buy one of our outfits.’ She twirled the jade and turquoise skirts of her silk coat with manifest delight.
At least one journalist beamed in sympathy. Someone took a photograph.
Izzy bit back a smile. Only this morning in the car coming here, she had said, ‘Don’t put that in the speech. Keep it for the one-to-one chats. It will make a great quote.’
Pepper met her eyes across the group in a conspiratorial grin. ‘Isn’t that right, Izzy?’
‘Take home the fun? Works for me,’ agreed Izzy easily.
The journalists turned. They clocked that she was a member of staff. At once, Izzy saw, they bypassed her face, looking straight at the dress. She would have to get used to that, she thought wryly.
‘One of the new designs?’ someone asked.
; Fluently, Izzy gave them name, designer and catalogue number. They wrote that down, too.
‘Let me show you the campaign trunk,’ Izzy said, leading them to one of the clusters of furniture. ‘We really love this. We found the original in a junk shop and had it copied. See those drawers? That’s where we keep accessories. We want the customers to discover them, like secrets.’
The journalists started to pull out the drawers, exclaiming with pleasure at the lavender bags and delicate twisty belts they found there.
‘How am I doing?’ Izzy said out of the corner of her mouth to Pepper.
‘Born saleswoman,’ returned Pepper, with a wink. ‘Keep on working the room. We’re flying!’
She was right. To a woman, the guests loved the idea of a store that invited customers to discover stuff in an attic. Some of them weren’t quite so sure about all the clothes themselves. But absolutely everyone loved Jemima’s golden shirt. And nobody said a word about the absence of champagne.
Izzy circulated conscientiously for an hour.
‘Have you had one of these smoked salmon things?’ Pepper asked, nibbling a canapé. ‘Boy, I needed that.’
Izzy shook her head. ‘Can’t risk it. I’ll mark the dress. Always been a messy feeder. We’ll have pizza later.’
Pepper laughed and let her go. Izzy went to check on her helpers. They had to be ready to clear the room the moment the last guest left. The hotel was on a tight timetable.
‘They’re having too much fun,’ said Geoff, munching on a Bath bun and peering in through the service doors. He offered her a bite.
Izzy shook her head. ‘I’ll get them out,’ she said with confidence.
‘How?’
‘If they want to go to the nightclub reception this evening, they have to pick up a ticket. From the table in the foyer. All I have to do is go in there and murmur in a few ears and there’ll be a stampede.’
He was amused. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’
‘I seem to be,’ Izzy agreed, after a moment. She sounded surprised.
‘That’s not all you’re good at,’ he said, licking the sugar off the top of his bun. ‘That was a real coup de theatre you got going with the lights and the stars and all. You ever want to work in the theatre, you give me a call.’
The Accidental Mistress Page 3