by Karen Swan
‘Mmm, shame about the fabric, though. I never did like that faux fur.’ She shrugged. ‘But what you gonna do? I can’t afford anything pricier.’
Clem stopped suddenly and looked at the hat more closely. ‘Could this be made in shearling?’
Stella frowned. ‘Of course. That—’ She saw that conspiratorial look she knew only too well shining in Clem’s eyes. ‘Wait! Stop right there, lady. When I approached Tom about doing some small bits for the stall, he made no bones about the fact that he doesn’t want to do fashion.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be fashion. It could be lifestyle.’
‘That’s just a play on words. A hat is a hat.’
‘But lifestyle is what Alderton Hide’s all about,’ Clem argued, her beautiful eyes beginning to shine. ‘I mean, if you’re going to commission the curly sheepskin sofa, the shearling beanbag or the suede wardrobe, wouldn’t it make sense that you’d want to wear a bit of that luxury, too? Can’t you see it? Ski lodge, log fire, fur throw, cashmere socks . . .’ She pulled the deerstalker on, tipped her head back and let her hands frame her face, her eyes faraway as she envisaged a glamorous life far removed from the grimy streets of London. ‘Shearling deerstalker all fluffy around your hot-oil-conditioned glossy hair. I’m thinking chocolate brown and really shaggy – you know, Toscana shearling – so that it’s extra-luxuriant around the face. Like Julie Christie in Dr Zhivago.’ Clem looked back at her and planted her hands on her narrow hips. ‘I’d wear it.’
‘And we’d all copy you, babes.’
Clem leaned in to her friend excitedly her mind beginning to race. ‘I really think I’m on to something, Stell! A capsule collection that gives women a taste of the Alderton Hide lifestyle. So what if you can’t afford the leather walls? Buy the hat instead. Or . . . or the gilet. D’you remember that time I put a big belt over my Temperley one?’
‘Shit, yeah, I loved how that looked.’
‘Me, too! And we can’t be the only ones.’
‘After today, we know we aren’t! But Tom’ll still never let you do it.’
Clem shot Stella a look her friend knew only too well. ‘So we won’t tell him.’
Stella raised one over-plucked eyebrow. ‘And how do we hide from him the fact that we’re running a lifestyle collection in his name, based on his materials? It’s not just Tom you’d have to get past; it’s Simon, too.’
Clem considered this for a minute, her mind racing. ‘Leave that to me. I know how to handle him. In the meantime, I want you to start doing some drawings, get some ideas together. But they have to be things that don’t require big cuts, OK?’ Stella narrowed her eyes but Clem shook her head. ‘Just trust me. If you can come up with the designs, I’ll come up with the rest.’
‘I really don’t know, Clem. I don’t want to drop Tom in it any further. Things are bad enough for him as it is.’
‘Stell, we could print money if today was anything to go by. This could give the company a lifeline.’ She clutched Stella’s arm beseechingly. ‘We’ve just got to scale up a bit and think big. What Tom doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I am doing this to save his hide.’
Stella paused at the pun. ‘Tell me you didn’t just say that.’
Clem gave a wicked laugh that resonated throughout her body. ‘Work on the sketches tonight, yeah? I’ll swing by yours tomorrow lunchtime.’ She grinned, turning to go.
‘Where are you going now? I thought we could get a drink at the Duke.’
‘I need to buy us some time and that means I’ve got some bridges to mend, babes. If Clover thought I was a nightmare before, just wait till she sees my angelic side. She’s not getting rid of me that easily.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’ll explain later. Can’t stop.’ She winked, pulling the hat down on her head. ‘Things to see, people to do.’
Chapter Eight
Tom was stirring a freshly made pot of chicken soup when Clem got back to the flat, and a single charged beat pulsed between them as Clem’s eyes and ears strained to detect Clover’s whereabouts.
‘She’s gone home,’ Tom said, putting down the wooden spoon and leaning against the counter. ‘I told her I wanted to spend the evening with you. I haven’t seen you properly for days.’
‘Well, you’ve been working so hard.’
‘And you’ve been partying so hard,’ he replied softly. ‘Which always worries me.’
‘I’m a big girl, Tom, I can look after myself,’ she said brightly, pulling off her trainers and hanging her jacket on the hook behind the door, prompting a pleasingly surprised look from Tom. ‘It’s you who needs looking after at the moment,’ she said, walking over and grabbing the bottle of red that was sitting on the counter. She poured them both a glass and clinked his with a heartiness more suited to plastic than crystal.
Tom took a deep breath. ‘I’m not selling because I want to leave you, you know. And I’m not moving in with her because I don’t want to live with you. It’s just how events have unravelled, Clem. Suddenly it seems to be the solution to all our problems.’
Clem looked up at him, seeing all the sadness and worry in his eyes. Poor Tom. He really was in the thick of it, stuck between her and Clover. ‘I get it, Tom. Really I do.’ She nodded, resting a hand on his chest, as though that alone could steady his heartbeat. ‘Just promise me one thing, OK?’
‘Anything, you know that.’
‘Just don’t rush into anything immediately. You never know what the next few weeks could bring.’
‘Clem it’s highly unlikely—’
‘That the dream commission will come in, in time? I know. But just hold out a little hope, yeah? Don’t sign anything just yet. Only for a few weeks. For me?’
A sudden laugh broke through him. ‘You know I can never say no to you when you give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look.’
‘So is that a yes?’
‘I promise not to rush things along,’ he replied dutifully, kissing the top of her head before ruffling her hair like their father did and making it stand up with static.
‘Good. So then, in turn, I promise to make more effort with Clover. It’s not fair us being at each other’s throats all the time and you being piggy in the middle.’
‘Seriously?’ Tom looked choked.
‘I know I’ve never really given her a chance.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Guess I was maybe a bit jealous. Thought she was going to take you away from me.’
Tom swallowed more nervously. ‘That’ll never happen, Clem. Even if . . . well, when, I suppose, we get married. Nothing will change between you and me.’
Clem nodded. She wanted to tell him that if he really wanted to marry Clover, he would have asked her by now – regardless of how chaotic his little sister’s life was – but he had enough things to worry about, without scrutinizing the fears in his subconscious too.
She gave a wicked grin instead. ‘Well, you never know. I may even get married before you, and then you’ll have no excuses not to ask her. I can’t be your fall guy for ever, you know,’ she said, earning herself a punch on the arm from him. ‘What? There’s nothing to say you’ll beat me to it just because you’re in a happy, stable and committed relationship.’
‘No, nothing at all,’ Tom replied, bursting out laughing. ‘Things are that serious between you and Josh then, are they?’
‘Not even close! But I could still surprise you. My Mr Right could be just round the corner. I might meet him tomorrow.’ An image of the Swimmer drifted in front of her eyes. ‘I could even have met him already.’
‘True,’ Tom nodded, thoroughly amused as he returned to stirring the soup. ‘Hungry? I made your favourite.’
‘Starved. I’ve eaten nothing but junk today.’
Tom rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a wonder you don’t have scurvy. Can you get the bowls down?’
Clem reached behind her into the cupboard and passed him two bowls.
‘Dad rang, by the way. The weather’s lovely there – obviously,’ Tom said as
he ladled the soup in and she quickly buttered the rolls he’d left out on the breadboard. ‘He was asking after you and whether you were using the bag.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She thought about the bag, untouched in her bedroom, hidden away at the back of the wardrobe.
‘Said they’re having a good time. They went sailing on the Bridgestocks’ boat today.’
Clem gave a small snort. ‘Another ambition fulfilled then.’ She caught sight of Tom’s enquiring glance. ‘Oh come on! Mum’s been angling for that invitation for years. It’s the only reason she hosts that ghastly charity fair at the house each Easter. Octavia Bridgestock is one of the chairs of the committee.’
‘Oh.’ Tom frowned, unhappy and bewildered to hear Clem talk about their mother in that way. Clem knew that he saw her as an effortlessly gracious and elegant being – little did he know how much discreet posturing and positioning went on below-radar to maintain that illusion.
They carried their supper over to the table and sat down, Clem taking chunks off her roll and dipping it in her soup.
‘So, d’you fancy a film tonight?’ Tom asked as they ate noisily together.
‘I so do.’ She groaned at the welcome prospect of a night stretched out on the sofa. ‘But I need a bath first. I haven’t changed since my run this morning.’
‘Grim,’ Tom said, pulling a face at her. ‘It really is a constant source of wonder to me that anyone finds you attractive.’ He was teasing her again, which was a good sign.
Clem giggled and swatted his arm with the tube of kitchen roll there for mopping their chins. ‘By the way, I’ve hired a cleaner,’ she said. That wasn’t strictly true. She hadn’t rung her yet, but she wanted to keep the good news coming and undo some of Clover’s earlier manipulations.
‘Really?’ If she’d told him she’d entered herself for a bodybuilding competition, he couldn’t have looked more surprised.
‘Yeah. Her name’s Mercy something and she’s forty quid for the morning.’
‘Great. I’m fed up with this place looking such a dump all the time. Mum’s always on my back about it. When’s she starting?’
‘Uh . . . Tuesday. Nine a.m.’
‘How did you find her?’
‘Ad in Ajeep’s,’ she replied, lifting the bowl and draining the last drops of soup like a toddler.
‘And you’ve checked her references and everything?’ Tom asked, watching her with a look akin to disbelief.
‘Course,’ Clem lied.
Tom pulled an expression that showed he was impressed. Clem grinned and stood up, feeling the momentum going with her. Clover who? ‘And for my next trick, I’m going to clear the dishes.’ She carried the bowls and plates across the room, tongue sticking out between her teeth in concentration, as if she was spinning them on poles.
‘Little sis,’ he chuckled at the vision of clumsy domesticity. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but there may be hope for you yet.’
It was early when Clem knocked on the shabby front door the next morning – earlier than she usually saw anyway. A night spent on the sofa with nothing more indulgent than Tom squeezing her feet as they watched Goodfellas (his favourite film) meant she had slept soundly and woken up easily. Her grand plan had taken root in the night and, unencumbered by her usual hangover, her mind had started firing off ideas left, right and centre, leaving her utterly incapable of lying around in bed.
Clem knocked on the door again, wondering what on earth the occupant could be doing other than sleeping at 8.23 a.m. on a Sunday morning, unable to resist fiddling with the flaky maroon paint that was peeling away. She pulled one bit, which was sticking out like a hangnail, and it ripped slowly up the grain of the door, exposing the bare wood beneath like a vivid scar.
She gasped, appalled by her thoughtless act of . . . well, hooliganism. The two-foot-long timber strip hung limply from her hands just as a groan rumbled from somewhere deep inside the flat.
The rattle of a chain on the other side of the door made her throw the offending paint strip down the stairwell, so that she was standing to attention with her hands behind her back when the denuded door opened and Simon’s pale, bleary face appeared around it.
‘What is it?’ he muttered grouchily, before focusing and seeing Clem standing before him like one of his visions. ‘Shit, Clem! What are you doing here?’ His hands were off the door and crossed in front of his genitals in an instant, before he realized he was wearing a pair of cream boxers with brown stripes on and that a modicum of modesty, if not of style, was preserved.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, smiling serenely and really getting off on her new-found sobriety. It felt great to see someone else looking shocking for once.
He gaped at her in amazement and Clem had a feeling that of the many times he had rehearsed this moment – finding her on his doorstep – in his head, it had never gone quite like this. ‘What, now?’
‘It can’t wait. And I can’t discuss it in the office anyway.’
Simon blinked at her. ‘Why not?’
Clem leaned in and waited for him to lean in to her, too. Which, after a hesitation, he did. ‘It’s a secret,’ she whispered. ‘Let me in.’
Simon looked behind him, back into the flat. ‘It’s uh . . . not really a good time,’ he protested weakly.
‘Oh, Si, don’t be such a chump,’ Clem sighed, losing patience and pushing past him anyway. ‘As if I care about how messy your flat is.’
It was just as well she didn’t. Last night’s pizza boxes, a case of beers and a bong still sat on the sitting-room table; the huge plasma TV was flickering snow and the Xbox was humming loudly with thick black wires hanging out of it.
‘Shall I play Mother while you get dressed?’ Clem asked brightly – it was more of an order than a question – locating a kettle in the far corner and opening a window.
‘Uh, uh . . .’ Words defeated him and Simon ducked into the bedroom, falling over furniture from the sounds of things, as he tried to catch up with the dream sequence that was happening in the next room.
He emerged a few minutes later in his jeans and a red-checked shirt, looking quite the lumberjack with his ginger stubble and wild hair. He ran a hand through it casually, and Clem had to stifle a giggle as he found it standing on end and quickly licked his palm to pat it down again.
‘So.’ She smiled, letting him clear a space for her on the armchair – actually it was a gaming chair, ergonomic and rocking, and so low she may as well have lain on the floor. She could see straight under the sofa opposite. ‘Good night last night?’
‘Uh yeah, yeah. Quiet, nothing special.’
‘Did you watch the game?’ The words tripped off her tongue easily, although she had no idea whether there’d even been a match last night, much less his team’s.
‘No, I . . . No.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘Good, are you?’ Clem nodded towards the Xbox.
‘I can hold my own,’ Simon replied, sitting down facing her, his bare feet inches from her. Clem tried not to look. His toenails looked pre-fungal and there was an alarming sprout of hair from his big toe. ‘Actually, I’m in an international tournament if you really want to know. It’s pretty major league.’
‘Are you playing for money?’
‘I wish! No, prestige. It’s a pretty tight community, even though it’s international.’
‘Have you never met these people then?’
‘Not face to face,’ he said, with a tone that suggested personal contact was highly over-rated. ‘But in some ways these guys know me better than my mates. We know all each other’s strengths and weaknesses.’
Clem nodded. ‘Cool,’ she murmured, with her distinct way of saying the word that made it sound like she was conferring the honour rather than acknowledging the fact. She sat back in the chair, letting it rock slightly. ‘I like it here,’ she nodded, looking up at a framed poster of a Banksy mural. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place. Been here long?’
�
�Six years.’
‘I didn’t realize you were so nearby. I walked here in ten minutes.’
‘Yeah?’ Simon asked brightly, clearly hoping this might become a familiar and well-trodden path. ‘How did you know where I live?’
‘I’ve been stalking you for months, Si,’ she deadpanned.
‘Yeah?’ he asked, even more brightly, before realizing her joke. ‘Oh. Tom.’
There it was – her cue. ‘No, and actually it’s massively important that he doesn’t know I was here,’ she said, crossing her ankle over her knee.
‘Why not?’ Simon asked, his eyes helplessly following her movements.
‘Well, he thinks he might have to sell the flat to find the money to keep the company going, which obviously is a disaster. He loves living in Portobello.’ She leaned forwards and put her hand on his knee. ‘We have to stop him, Si.’
‘We? How? It’s his company. You know he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it going.’
‘Well, I’ve had an idea. Me and Stella hit pay dirt yesterday. Everything I put on at her stall, she sold.’
‘That’s hardly a surprise. I’ve been telling Tom for ages that you could be an ambassador for the brand. You’re the girl everyone wants to be – or be with.’
‘So then you agree that it’d be logical for me to set up a lifestyle collection for Alderton Hide?’
‘Well now, hang on a second, I didn’t quite—’
‘I know retail’s not something he’s been prepared to look at before,’ Clem interrupted, too distracted by her own sales pitch. ‘But you know what? Times change, and we need to adapt to survive. It’s all very well being a niche, high-end bespoke business, but hello? The economy’s in the shit and what we really need right now is a fast cash injection. I’m convinced a capsule collection’s the way to get it.’
Simon sighed. ‘Even if Tom gave it the OK – and I can tell you now, he won’t – but even if he did, that kind of branch-off would take investment, and ready money’s precisely what we don’t have at the moment.’