Playing for Keeps

by Rosa Temple

  ‘Oh, Anya.’ I got up and walked her out of the lounge, closing the door firmly behind us. We went into the dining room and sat on the chaise longue by the French windows.

  The gardener was out pruning roses at the far end of the garden. Anya slumped forward, her hair falling over her face. I pulled the long, dark strands away and leaned towards her.

  ‘I think it’s great you left the house to buy a cat, Anya. That’s progress. I was beginning to think you were becoming a recluse.’

  ‘Actually,’ she sighed, turning just her big eyes to me. ‘I didn’t go out to buy the cat. That vos Heather, my manager. She turned up at the front door vith it, holding it in her arms. The cat took von look at me, screeched and legged it into the boot room. I’m a horrible person. All the things people say about me: cold, icy, aloof. It’s all true. The cat sees it and the baby… I can’t do it, Madge. I’m going to call an adoption agency.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ I sprang to my feet and pulled Anya to standing. ‘Don’t flake out on me. I need you, Anya. I’ve got so much I need to organise to get this new shop up and running and you’re a vital part of all of it.’

  She looked down at her feet, pouting like a hormonal teen.

  ‘You’re just saying that to make me feel better.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I need someone to help me interview staff for the shop and… and I’m starting a new range of really trendy mum bags for carrying baby things around and you’re going to model them.’

  ‘Really? You’d be happy for me to model your new bags?’

  I shook Anya.

  ‘Darling. You’re a top international model, have been for over a decade. You think there is one person left in this world who hasn’t heard of you? Now stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. So you’re pregnant. Big deal. You look slimmer than me! You’re five months gone and your tummy is flatter than mine. You, my dear, are glowing. That’s what you are. You’re glowing and you’ve never looked more beautiful. Now get on the phone to your agent and tell them you’ll take all the baby-bump shoots they can throw at you. Then I want you to call the hospital and tell them you’re ready to arrange the eighteen-week scan you missed. Let’s find out if we’re painting this nursery pink or blue.’

  I let go of Anya’s hands with gusto, making her hop back and almost fall into the chaise longue.

  ‘You really think I can do this, Madge? Be a proper mother?’

  ‘You already are a proper mother. For one thing you actually eat food these days, every day; no more starving yourself for photo shoots. You see? That’s how it starts. It’s called motherhood and you’re nailing it already. You and I are going to see this thing through together and in four months’ time you’ll have mother of the year awards coming out of your ears.’

  She pinched her lips in, nodded sternly and crossed her arms.

  ‘I can do this,’ she said and marched out of the dining room and into the kitchen where she picked up her mobile from the breakfast bar and started tapping the keys.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ I asked.

  ‘My manager. First I’m going to tell her to get that mad cat out of my house and then I’ll let her know about your new mum bags. I can see myself as the face, and bump, for them. Thank you, Madge. I love you. You know that, don’t you?’ She put her finger up before I could answer and began busily chatting away to her manager, making plans for a comeback.

  I gestured that I’d see myself out. I moved stealthily out into the hallway and darted for the front door before the cat, who was either throwing himself at the closed living-room door or hurling ornaments at it, could get out.

  Outside in the sweltering late morning I got back into the car and turned on the engine. As I pulled out of the drive I made a mental note to myself. Well, two actually. First: arrange some advertising for shop staff so there would be actual candidates available for me and Anya to interview. Second: rush back to the office and start designing these so-called ‘mum’ bags I’ve asked Anya to model. They didn’t exist ten minutes ago and now I’d have to make them happen. Damn.

  Chapter 2

  Shearman Bright is hiring!

  Do you have what it takes to manage and run London’s next fashion extravaganza?

  Are you a sales assistant with an eye for detail and a lover of accessories?

  If so, we need you.

  Applications are open for a manager to deal with the day-to-day running of the Shearman Bright flagship shop.

  We are also looking for a talented sales assistant.

  Experience is essential.

  Call and ask for an application form and job description today.

  ‘That sounds great, Riley. Just add the bits about salary, hours and start date and get this advert out as quickly as you can.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  I went to leave the reception but my assistant, Riley, called me back. Riley had bunched her auburn hair into a top knot and wore clip-on studs that matched her overly large blue eyes. Her vintage, sleeveless blouse was tied above her navel, the outfit completed by fifties pedal pushers and kitten-heel mules.

  ‘Have you been doing some shopping for Anya?’ she asked, looking down at the Mothercare carrier bag I was holding.

  ‘Oh that.’ I held up the bulky plastic bag. ‘Research. I was thinking about designing baby-changing bags for trendy mums.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a departure from the current lines but it sounds like a great idea. I suppose it’ll be a while before they go into production though. You’ve got so much on at the moment.’

  ‘Actually, they were a bit of a brainwave. Thought I could knock something out in a week or two.’

  ‘You what?’ Riley’s eyes widened more. ‘Magenta, are you sure? You’re meeting the architect at the shop in an hour and then there’s—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said, backing out into the hallway. ‘But it’s ideal.’ I was at the foot of the stairs, about to dash up to my office. ‘We’ll have Anya Stankovic modelling the range. It’ll be great. Trust me,’ I called as I ran up the stairs.

  I hurtled into my office before Riley could remind me of my ever-growing to-do list, and that I had to launch a new shop in three months, and that I had yet to find the right builder to start work on the major refurbishment at the shop once I’d approved the architect’s drawings.

  I sighed and kicked the door shut with the heel of my Alexander McQueen sculpted wedge sandal, leaned back against it and exhaled. I should have started wearing trainers to work really, considering all the running from pillar to post I’d been doing.

  I spent the next half an hour staring at the Mothercare baby-changing bag. If Burberry and Moschino could sell designer mummy bags at over £300 a throw, so could I. Another five minutes of hair-tearing moments with my sketch pad and pencil and Riley buzzed me to say the taxi was waiting to take me to my meeting with the architect.

  Jack Sun Carter, the architect, was standing outside the shop on a corner of King’s Road, all six-feet-six of him. He was an imposing figure with broad shoulders, casually dressed and carrying a large portfolio under one arm, mobile in the opposite hand. He was staring into the empty shop as I rushed up to him. Only five minutes late. Not bad. I’d taken an instant liking to Jack, who was recommended to me by Indigo, one of my three sisters. We had gelled immediately, sharing stories about our mixed parentage and comparing notes.

  His father, like mine, was Jamaican, but whereas my mother was a lily-white Englishwoman, originating from Ireland, his was a Chinese American who’d met Jack’s father at a New Year’s Eve bash just off Times Square in New York. Jack, part raised in the States, East London and Jamaica, had an engaging accent. And did I mention his magnificent skin colour? Jack had cheekbones to die for and don’t get me started on those eyes.

  While we exchanged banter on our origins it was clear that Jack’s mixed parentage was a continued source of intrigue to the women who were queuing for miles, not only to experience the culinary skills he’d a
cquired as part of a bohemian existence, but to wrap their legs around his athletic frame.

  I was genuinely fanning myself from the rush up to the shop and because it was a humid afternoon and not because Jack was a vision of gorgeousness.

  He kissed my cheek. We were old friends by now.

  ‘I’ve reworked the drawings as per your specifications, Magenta. I hope you’ll like them… and not change your mind again.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Jack.’ I was rattling the large bunch of keys I’d accumulated since I bought the leasehold on the shop. I’d fantasised about owning this shop for ages. It was formerly owned by a classy woman who sold classic handbags and accessories but whose styles didn’t bring in enough business and she’d had to sell up. I was now able to realise my dream of bringing handbags as well as my signature man bags to the King’s Road. ‘I just wasn’t sure about the first idea. Hopefully it won’t delay things too much and we can still be on schedule for an autumn opening.’

  ‘I’ve got that list of builders I said I’d recommend. As long as at least one of them is free, you should be open in October, as planned.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  We went to the back office where there was an old, but large, wooden table Jack could open the drawings out onto. I needed Jack to walk me through the concepts in situ this time. Last time I’d looked at the drawings at his office and hadn’t got a clear visualisation of where I needed shelves and racks to be or the best place to set up the cash desk. I wanted tweaks made to the depth of the window spaces so that my display shelves would stand out from the street but still give a clear view of the inside of the shop. I wanted a wall moved to create more space than previously and to give the small shop the impression of grandeur.

  ‘Here we are.’ Jack had several blueprints in his portfolio which he took me through methodically, speaking to me as if I were a complete moron (at my insistence because I didn’t want to mess up). If this shop looked bad, I had to live with it, so I needed all the guidance I could get.

  Back out on the shop floor we walked around, Jack holding up the drawings and giving me a rundown of what the finished shop would look like after pulling up virtual sketches on his MacBook Air.

  I was impressed. I looked around the dusty shop. More and more motes had settled on the old dust. The musty atmosphere had a stale odour about it. I’d left the door open for that reason. Any passers-by who couldn’t get a good view inside the empty premises via the dirty window could now see the neglected wooden floorboards and empty shelves.

  As Jack and I talked and as I became convinced that these latest drawings were spot on, I couldn’t help but notice a woman with very tanned skin walk by outside. Her dirty blonde hair was so long she could probably have sat on it. She moved slowly, staring into the shop so intently she seemed to want to stop and come in. I wondered if she was a fan of our bags. They were only on sale in select outlets around the UK and parts of Europe now; otherwise worldwide sales were all online. Maybe she had seen the numerous Tweets and posts about the upcoming opening and was curious.

  I returned my attention to Jack who was now telling me about his plans for a late summer holiday.

  ‘I’ve just been working nonstop,’ he was saying. ‘Originally I thought I’d chill out on a beach somewhere but then it occurred to me there’s family in China I’ve never even met.’

  Just then the curious woman with very tanned skin walked by again. She was probably in her late twenties, early thirties, wearing an off-the-shoulder white cotton top and tight, white jeans. Her sandals were high and she had a flashy straw bag, the shoulder strap across her body. She stared at me but just as I was about to smile she was out of view.

  ‘China, huh?’ I said to Jack. ‘I’ve never been.’

  ‘Me either, like I say. I expect I’ll be quite a novelty to my relatives out there. Mind you, half my mum’s family have disowned her since she married Dad so… I’m not boring you, am I?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Jack. I am listening. It’s just that there’s this woman who’s walked by a few times. Keeps looking in or looking for someone. It’s not one of the girls from your harem, is it?’

  Jack turned to the window. ‘Where?’

  ‘Wait, let’s see if she does it again.’

  In less than a minute, there she was. When she noticed that both Jack and I were deliberately waiting to see her this time she put her head down and hurried off. Jack and I went to the open door and looked out. She seemed to have vanished completely from the King’s Road. Maybe she’d dodged into a shop and might return.

  ‘Did you see her?’ I asked Jack.

  ‘Yes, I did. Good-looking girl. Lovely hair.’

  ‘Not one of your admirers then?’

  ‘No. Shame. If anything, I thought she was more interested in you. Sure you don’t know her?’ Jack went to switch off his MacBook.

  ‘Never seen her before,’ I said. ‘She looks like she’s been travelling though. I haven’t a clue who she could be. Maybe she was one of the people I had to outbid to get this place. Maybe she’s come to put a curse on me.’

  I followed Jack back to the office where he proceeded to gather his drawings.

  ‘You don’t believe in all that rubbish, do you? Curses and things?’ he said with a laugh in his voice. ‘I know they love a good spell or two in Jamaica. China, too, I believe. I think if you don’t believe in all that, nothing can touch you.’

  Jack was all packed up now, ready to go. He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Builders. Call as quickly as you can for a quote. This is a busy time of year for these guys and if none of them is any good you’ll have to do a search. If you do, get recommendations. Safer that way.’

  We walked back to the open door. I was rubbing my arms, feeling a shiver as if someone had walked over my grave.

  ‘You’re not worried about being cursed by the woman in white, are you?’ Jack was grinning at me. ‘She didn’t look much like a witch. Not unless you get some smoking-hot witches these days.’

  ‘We didn’t see her close up. She might have had a wart.’

  Jack kissed my cheek again. ‘I’ve got another meeting lined up, Magenta, I should go. Let me know who I need to get the drawings to when you sort out a builder.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And don’t worry. No one can touch you. Your place will be sound and you’ll do great.’

  ‘I… I hope so.’

  I waved Jack off, looking out along both ends of the road before closing the door and going out back to retrieve my bag. I called Riley.

  ‘In case you need me, I’m going straight home. I’ll work on these baby-changing bag ideas from the kitchen.’

  ‘No worries,’ Riley said in her usual bubbly way.

  I wasn’t feeling bubbly as I locked the shop up, double-checking it was secure and peering through the glass to make sure I hadn’t left a light on. I took another look up and down the road before heading to my mews house just two blocks away, glancing over my shoulder and trying to shake off the feeling that I was being followed.

  Chapter 3

  ‘I’ll have the Fats Waffle with maple syrup.’

  ‘And I’ll have the Nat King Corn Bread and Scrambled Eggs.’

  The brunch menu at Rhythm ‘N’ Brews was new and so was the waiter who took our order – without writing it down. Anthony and I sat at our usual table by the window that overlooked what had once been Veronique’s but was soon to become my flagship shop. We had been playing footsie under the table as we ran hungry eyes over the menu. The new waiter, with several piercings in his lip and ears, stood at our table looking bored as a Herbie Hancock album soothed overhead.

  Playing footsie was the closest Anthony and I had come to actual sex lately. As I said, we’d been like ships passing in the night for weeks on end because of the various projects we both had on the go. We were too exhausted to have sex at night time, too fast asleep to have sex
in the mornings, and too washed-out to be the one who made the first move. Along with not having meaningful conversations, no sex either became the story of our lives.

  ‘Do you want to have sex?’

  ‘You feeling horny?’

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘Do you want to go upstairs or just do it here?’

  ‘I don’t know, what do you think?’

  ‘Let’s wait until Law & Order finishes and we’ll see how we feel.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  We’d both fallen asleep on the sofa before Law & Order finished and I believe that highly seductive conversation happened over a month ago.

  I had watched Anthony looking over the menu, smiling at the way his lips were moving as he read. His dark hair was cut short now; he’d become annoyed by the cloying heat that came with the unusually long summer us Brits were having. Never being able to find one of my scrunchies to put his hair up when he was working on a painting, he took himself off to a local barber and got them to do the deed. His chocolate-brown eyes looked tired behind his glasses and his clothes were characteristically splashed with paint.

  Every Saturday we took time out to have brunch at our favourite café bar. The intention was for us to catch up on our week. I know I spent a lot of the meal yawning and I also knew that, straight after we ate, Anthony would be back in his studio and wouldn’t surface until the evening.

  On our walk to Rhythm ‘N’ Brews we had, however, started quite a serious conversation, only to have to stop it mid-sentence when we saw how busy the place was. Luckily someone was just about to vacate our favourite table and we’d made a beeline for it, giggling along the way and bumping into a chair. Once we’d ordered and settled down I got back to the conversation.

  ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t go, Anthony. It’s just that the timing sucks. What if you’re not back in time for the Grand Opening of the shop?’

  ‘Of course I will be. I’m only going for a month and the money I make on this commission could buy me the art gallery I’ve been thinking about opening.’