The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  Angelo put the coffees in front of them. “Skinny milk, just as you like it,” he said, smiling at Poppy. Their fingers brushed.

  “I see next door is still up for rent, Angelo,” Poppy said.

  “Yes, bella, I think it has your name on it,” Angelo clicked his tongue, “and the neighbours are very nice too.” He double-tapped his nose in jest.

  When Angelo was out of earshot, Mary commented, “He likes you, you know.”

  “Don’t be daft, he’s Italian, he’s like that with every woman. It’s in his genes, or should I say jeans,” Poppy laughed.

  “Watch it, Poppy, you’re starting to sound like Helen.”

  “Maybe he does like me a little bit,” Poppy conceded. “I’ve become very fond of him in a short time. Lily even comes in for a hot chocolate after school and he helps her with her Italian homework.”

  “He’s a genuine lad, Poppy, you can see that. Apart from the ‘Puppy’ bit – I reckon he well knows how to say your name – I think he’s playing with you.”

  “I know, but – and I know this sounds bad – he’s just not my type. Once bitten twice shy, as they say. And with everything that’s going on with Lily recently, the thought of starting a relationship with any man isn’t something I have the head space for.”

  Angelo arrived with a basket of warm bread and the platters. Poppy and Mary stopped talking and smiled at him.

  “Buon appetito,” he said before leaving them alone.

  “Ah bless him, how could you not fall for a face like that, Poppy?”

  “Will you quit with the match-making!” Poppy drizzled balsamic glaze over her food. “I’m not interested. What’s more, he smokes. I hate smoke, never mind the fact he’s about ten inches shorter than me.” Poppy caught Angelo’s eye as he warmed up a teapot. He smiled – she felt a pang of guilt.

  “Don’t exaggerate – besides, the best of goods come in small parcels.”

  “You know what it’s like single-parenting – I never remember you with a boyfriend when Helen was growing up.”

  “I kept to myself pretty much. I had a few dates when she was older, but no one I wanted to introduce to my daughter. Sure, look at the reaction poor old Cyril got.” Mary covered her face, not wanting to think about it.

  “She never said anything to me but, from what you said, I’d love to have been a fly on the wall. She’ll get over it. You’re an attractive woman, Mary – and young. You deserve to have a life of your own.”

  “I know, love – it’s just there are so many changes going on. I really wanted to get to talk to Helen.” Mary looked troubled.

  “Look, Mary, I know Helen hasn’t been home since Cyril-gate, but it genuinely is because she’s working around the clock, so she can get away on holiday.”

  “I know that. And I’m glad – a holiday will clear her head. I’ll get her on her own when ye get back.”

  “It’s good, ladies?” Angelo was back again.

  “Yummy as always, Angelo. I’ll miss your coffee over the next few weeks.” Poppy wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  “Oh, where are you going?”

  “On holiday – Vietnam.”

  “That’s great, have a wonderful time,” he said. But his voice lacked enthusiasm.

  “Don’t worry, Angelo, I’ll still be here and Lily too,” said Mary. “We’ll be in every day while the other two are off gallivanting across the globe.”

  He took her hand in both of his and shook it gently. “Ah, Mary, thank you! I am glad some of the family stay with me.” He was smiling again.

  When they got up to leave, Poppy tried to catch his attention. She had started to like his three kisses every time she left his place. But Angelo was busy with other customers – he was having a laugh with them too – a table of attractive twenty-somethings. He waved over to her. “Buone vacanze! Send me a postcard!” he called, before turning his attention back to the young women.

  Poppy left feeling disappointed, although she didn’t know why.

  Angelo watched her as she got into her car. As always she caught her skirt in the door. He waved and pointed to try to get her attention as she drove off, the dirt of the road already soiling the hem. Poppy didn’t see him.

  Send me a postcard but, please, bring your heart home to me.

  Chapter 35

  Helen wasn’t at her desk when Sarah arrived to work, although her handbag slung over the back of her chair meant she was around somewhere. Sarah checked her watch. It was eight fifteen and she was raring to get going. She’d learnt more from Helen in the past couple of weeks than in all her years of college. This was the break she needed and Sarah intended to use it fully to her advantage.

  She decided to look for Helen in the small sample room where they kept the trimming and fabric samples. Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered every available inch, piled high with rag-trade treasures from around the world. She found Helen hunkered down on her knees, running a delicate ivory lace along the back of her hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sarah said as she leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

  “Isn’t it? When I started, we used this slotted Galloon Leavers lace all the time. They still had some Leavers lace machines in the factories in Nottingham.” She smiled as she looked up. “I remember visiting a bra factory in Manchester and the trainee machinists were sat around gossiping while they hand-threaded satin ribbon through the delicate holes. They whizzed along – it was amazing to watch.”

  Sarah knelt down next to Helen and pulled a web of lace from a container.

  “Ah, another favourite of mine, black Chantilly lace!” Helen looked as though she had just met a long-lost lover.

  They opened out the lace to admire the subtle needlework with its distinctive weighty thread interweaved around the delicate floral pattern.

  “And this one is from Calais in France.” Helen pulled out a narrow white lace that peeped over the edge of a cardboard box as if to say ‘Don’t forget about me!’. “I always said the best things to come from France are their lace and champagne.”

  “And their lingerie of course.”

  “That goes without saying – the lace is an art form that adds to the most sensuous of garments. Lingerie, lace and bubbles, give me that combination and I’ll think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Helen started to roll the trimmings back up.

  “They’re cracking – I don’t understand why don’t we use them more often?”

  “We can’t afford them.” Helen pulled herself up by grabbing onto a steel rack. “Most of the European manufacturers have either closed their doors or moved to Asia.”

  “Nottingham and French lace made in China?” Sarah hadn’t thought much about where the components for their stock came from.

  “That’s it, but we still can’t afford it. Most of the trims we use are made on mass-produced machines. They look pretty good, but they don’t hold a candle to the originals.”

  Sarah joined Helen at the door. “Why do you keep them? This room would be great for file storage or we could put that monster of a laser printer in here that would free up a lot of space in our office.”

  Helen scrunched her face. “Lord no, these are my old friends in here. I have to come visit every so often to keep me sane, remind myself of my first love – lingerie.”

  Helen pulled the cord to kill the light. She closed the door behind her. “Right, back to reality, what time are the fit models booked for?”

  “The Size 16 girl is booked for nine, Size 18 is coming in about ten then the Plus Size woman will be in after that, with the smaller sizes coming in after lunch.”

  “Great, that gives us time to have a meeting first, review where we’re at, make sure we’ve covered all the bases before I go on holiday.” Helen’s lips curved to a smile as she uttered the word holiday.

  Eden had a fitting day once a week. The models were either former fashion models that were now older or women who were well-proportioned for the size they were fitting, be it a Size 1
0 or a Size 20. Photographic models were only used when the goods were ready for marketing. Today was more important than the usual weekly fits as they were checking the entire range of next year’s spring stock. The factories were waiting to get the green light to start production.

  The models paraded in front of the designers, pattern makers and quality controllers, each team defending their corner if a bust piece didn’t sit right or a garment looked plain ugly. The period after St Valentine’s Day was a difficult season for lingerie. The offer in store had to be inviting, good value and fit well. And they couldn’t rely on gift purchases at all once Mother’s Day was over.

  “I’m telling you that dart is placed incorrectly. If it’s gaping on the Size 10 by the time it’s graded up to the larger sizes it’ll look like a funnel sticking out the side of her boob!” Helen didn’t take any prisoners and wouldn’t put her stamp of approval on anything less than perfect. The pattern-makers threw their eyes to heaven. “And you can bin that attitude. Go produce muck like that for the cut-price chain stores down the road but not if you want to stay part of Eden.” She cocked an eyebrow at them.

  The two pattern-makers jumped up and started pinning and pulling. There was a dexterity involved in placing pins with a live model. The models in turn were skilled in taking the pin-stacked samples off, without a pinprick in sight.

  Sarah walked alongside Helen once the fit session was over. She felt a little taller than before. “I think the range looked good apart from a few minor problems, don’t you think, Helen?”

  “I’m happy with it. It’s hard to tell, but I think it’s a winner. Will you make a note, while I think of it? We’ll use the turquoise chiffon collection for the window display and make it the main photo shoot for the season. Graphics can airbrush out the offending body parts and hair down there. Actually best if we bring nipple shields and nude thongs for the models to wear on the shoot rather than leave it to graphics alone.” Helen was remembering the year one of her window displays got pulled as the standards authority deemed it “inappropriate”. Since then she had avoided using see-through fabrics such as chiffon or all-over lace in her main ad campaigns but maybe Britain was ready for a bit of spice again.

  “Got it, no body parts, flesh thongs,” Sarah scribbled in her notebook as she tried to keep up with Helen.

  “The only place I want to see a black bush is on the label of a whiskey bottle. Right, Sarah. Questions?” Helen sat behind her desk, back in the design room.

  Sarah thought for a moment. Now she was on the cusp of trying on Helen’s shoes, she was feeling a little apprehensive. “What if the pattern-makers tell me that a change I need can’t be done? I’m not sure they’ll listen to me the way they do you.”

  “You’ve had training in patterns so have confidence in yourself, Sarah. But do listen to them when it comes to sizing – grading is a skill – it’s not just a matter of adding extra inches to all the patterns. It’s possible a change you make to the design won’t grade well for the larger sizes. Use some judgement, you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Should I do a fit on the mannequin if I’m not sure?”

  Helen shook her head. “You can’t rely on an old tailor’s dummy any more. Here, let me show you.” She took a measuring tape that hung around her neck and went over to a calico-covered K&L mannequin. “I saved for months to buy old Dolly here. I bought her second-hand from a dressmaker,” she wrapped the measuring tape around the dummy’s waist, “so Dolly is a traditional Size 10 and her waist measures . . .” Helen looked at where her thumb pinched the tape to remind herself, “twenty-two inches.” She hooked the tape back over her neck. “There are very few British women with a waist that size nowadays.”

  She went to the sliding wardrobe in the corner of the office and pulled out flexi-plastic patterns held together with a hooked wire. “Women keep getting bigger – taller and wider. Today’s Size 10 would have been considered a Size 12 years ago.” She placed the pattern blocks on the large worktable in the middle of the room. “So we keep adding centimetres to the garments.”

  Sarah walked over to have a look at the patterns, which were marked with words like “back panel” and “shoulder piece”.

  “These are my blocks. I’ve developed them over years. Constantly adjusting and altering until I got my fits in each size right. The foundations of Eden’s base lines are built from these blocks.”

  “That’s so cool!” Sarah ran her fingers along the smooth surface of the patterns.

  “And the key to our success is customer loyalty. People come back to us because they know our stock flatters their body by fitting properly.” Helen looked at her watch. “Is there anything else you’re concerned about before I go?”

  “I think I’ve got a good handle on things. What about sales reps, should I accept appointments while you’re gone?”

  Helen bit her lip as she thought about it. “We have to be very careful who we work with – there’s a lot of factories willing to use unethical work conditions in order to make more money. They have to be carefully vetted plus I don’t hand over my blocks lightly.” Helen lifted the pattern pieces and placed them back on the rail. “No, don’t make any appointments with new people while I’m gone. Spend any free time you have occupying yourself with the blocks, get familiar with them. There’s no point having wonderful designs in your head if they can’t be produced to show off a woman’s natural beauty.”

  “I never thought about designing like that. I always thought about my creation as the masterpiece with a wearer just being a canvas.” It was then it dawned on Sarah why Helen Devine’s designs had been so successful.

  “I’ll have my phone with me, Sarah. If you need to ask me anything just call, it’s not a problem.”

  “Do you think I can develop that ability, design clothes that frame a woman to show her in her best light?” Sarah asked, showing a vulnerability she usually masked.

  “Of course, Sarah, that’s why you’re here. You’ve got talent, now you’ve got to learn to tap into it, develop it.”

  “I come from old money, you know. My parents don’t believe in the word no. If I didn’t get a placement or a college I wanted, they’d buy my way in. I’ve never achieved anything on my own, apart from getting this job with you – and, well, getting my degree.” Sarah pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “But when we were in the business lounges and fancy hotels you said you’d never been in places like that before?” Helen twisted her small gold ring.

  “I wasn’t. Mum and Dad travelled the world but I was in boarding school or else at home with the nanny – they didn’t take me with them.”

  “You, Sarah, are going to be just fine.” Helen put an arm around her shoulder.

  “What’s all this then, designer-bonding time?” Fred walked in, hands deep in his trouser pockets jingling loose change.

  The lid slammed shut on Sarah’s brief moment of honesty as she returned to her own desk.

  “The office is in good hands, Fred, you’ll hardly know I’m gone,” Helen smiled.

  Fred grunted.

  “Sarah, why don’t you take off?” said Helen. “It’s been a long couple of weeks and we’re finished here for today.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure. Cheers, Helen!” Sarah slipped her jacket off the back of her chair. “Have a great holiday and don’t worry – I’ll take good care of old Dolly while you’re away.” She winked as she left, leaving Helen and Fred alone.

  Helen sat at her computer to type her out-of-office message into her email settings. She had known this moment with Fred would arrive sooner or later.

  “You’re all set?” Fred continued to play with the change in his pockets.

  “Yes, my friend is arriving tonight – we head out from Heathrow tomorrow,” Helen said lightly.

  “And you’ll give serious consideration to the Hong Kong move?”

  “I promise, Fred, I will seriously consider it,” she said, using the same words she had used to him re
peatedly since she’d been granted leave.

  “And us?” He stopped the jingle in his trousers.

  She looked up from her computer screen, her mouth open. “Fred, there is no ‘us’. There never was and there never will be.”

  “But the kiss . . .” Fred didn’t want to hear what Helen was saying. For years he’d been building an imaginary life with her – her on top of him most of the time, that is.

  “Fred, you haven’t been listening to me. You’re a terrific man but I just don’t feel that way about you, I’m sorry.” Helen looked into his eyes but Fred looked away.

  “No, I get it, Helen, really I do. I know I’ve gained a few pounds recently . . .” He smoothed down his shirt.

  Oh God, he’s still not listening!

  “Fred, please stop talking and think. You’ve got June to consider. No matter what you say, she’s still your wife. Maybe the move to Hong Kong will rekindle something for you two, who knows?” Helen stood, gathered papers from her desk and pushed them into her briefcase. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

  “It’s none of your concern how I handle my home affairs, Helen.”

  It’s not your home affairs I’m worried about.

  “Go on holiday, relax, clear your head, think about what you want,” he went on. “But remember you’re only as good as your last season. This industry moves at lightning speed – it waits for no man . . . or woman.”

  Fred turned and walked out leaving the office door open behind him.

  Helen was left looking at his backside and his side-to-side shuffle walk. He barked something at one of the office clerks as he walked past, causing her to jump.

  Damn Fred Giltrap and his veiled threats! Helen’s fingernails dug into the palms of her fists. “I’m going to tell him to shove his job up his arse!” She started to march out the door after him. With that, her mobile phone vibrated on her desk. “Ugh!” she growled as she picked it up. It was a text message from Poppy. “Just boarded, see you in London shortly. Yippee, we’re on our holliers, Hells!” The message made Helen smile – she took a deep breath and pressed the shutdown button on her computer. The office fell silent – she was on holiday time now. Pausing, she took a quick look around before flicking off the overhead florescent lighting. Fred and her job were saved by the text.