by Karen Swan
‘But that’s the beauty of it, Si. We wouldn’t need to buy in any new materials. It wouldn’t cost anything at all. We’d make the collection using all the spare off-cuts that normally get thrown. Stella’s doing some drawings for me of hats and gilets, wrist-warmers, snoods and that kind of thing, and none of them requires big cuts. And she’ll do all the technical stuff for free.’
Simon looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t understand why you’re here. What do you need me for? You know I don’t have the authority to OK this,’ he asked warily.
‘I just need you to tell the factory to keep all the off-cuts – they won’t listen to me. They’ll only take your word or Tom’s, and he mustn’t find out. Not yet.’
Simon blew out through his cheeks unhappily. ‘There is no way you can keep this a secret from him. It’s his company, Clem,’ he said. ‘And my job will be on the line if Tom found out I’d helped you.’
‘But your job’s already on the line. All our jobs are! We’re going to sink if we don’t do this. What have we got to lose?’
‘I know where you’re coming from with this, Clem, really I do. You don’t want him to sell the flat, but it really is the best solution to the problem.’
‘I disagree.’
‘Why? Because it means you have to find a new place to live? Because it means he’ll finally move in with Clover?’
‘No! Because it’s the wrong thing for him.’
‘You know he can’t keep looking after you for ever, Clem. At some point you’re going to have to let him go.’
‘This is not about me,’ she insisted. ‘I’m thinking as much about the future of Alderton Hide as I am the present. He’s been too narrow-minded, refusing to branch into retail. I’ve always said it, you know I have.’
‘I do. But I don’t think you realize exactly what it would entail.’
Clem straightened up. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, even if we do as you suggest and stockpile the materials and Stella does the designing and patterns, there’s still the matter of promotion and marketing, not to mention sales presence. I mean, how are people going to know about it without Tom knowing? And where are you intending to sell this stuff?’ He held up a hand, his eyes closed piously. ‘And please don’t say on Stella’s stall. I know you’re not that reckless.’
She sighed irritably. ‘You’ve heard of the “flash fashion” hashtag, yeah?’
‘On Twitter? Yes. So?’
‘I’m going to set up a pop-up shop for one day only. Just make it a real party, a guerrilla brand attack – we’re there one day, gone the next – and we’ll make a small fortune in the meantime. Honestly, we would. Stella quadrupled her take-home yesterday and Tom wouldn’t need to find out until afterwards, when we hand him the great big fat cheque.’ Clem looked across at him hopefully, squeezing her hands together in excitement.
But Simon wouldn’t play ball. ‘It wouldn’t be enough, Clem. The Bugatti account was megabucks.’
‘The projected profit from it was, yes. But in terms of liquidity, you said yourself yesterday that we only need £100k to keep the wheels turning for another four months, which is plenty of time for us to land another commission.’
Simon sighed. ‘Look, Clem, I want to make this work as much as you do. Believe me. I love what Tom’s created with Alderton Hide and I really believe in his vision, but this just isn’t going to work. There’s simply no way you’ll get this past Tom. There’d be talk, rumours. There’s no way you could keep it quiet. He’s like hawk-eye. He knows every last thing that goes on in that company.’
Clem felt the frustration burst out into sudden anger. ‘Does he, though?’ she asked archly, throwing herself back in the chair so that it rocked, her eyes glittering dangerously.
Simon took a step back, aware of the change of energy in the room. ‘What do you mean?’
Clem reached down and picked up the fuchsia-coloured patent Marc Jacobs ballerina shoe with ‘mouse ear’ bow that was peeping out from under the sofa. His expression curdled at the sight of it.
‘You know what a stickler Tom is for keeping all relationships strictly professional in the office,’ she said mildly, admiring the tiny size-4 shoe in her hand, knowing full well Tom had been directing the ‘professional conduct’ rule at her and her alone. He knew his sister well enough to know she’d eat Simon for breakfast and he couldn’t risk losing his Second in Command.
‘I . . . That’s not what you think.’
‘Oh. Is it not a shoe then?’ she asked. ‘Morning, Pixie!’ she called through to the bedroom.
‘Jesus! I . . . shit!’ Simon muttered, raking his hands through his hair and making it stand up on end again.
‘Chill, Si,’ Clem said loquaciously, throwing the shoe down and picking up her bag. ‘It’s no biggy; I don’t care. I’m not here to hurt anyone. On the contrary, I’m just trying to help. But the way I see it is this, if you can find a way of keeping my secret, I can find a way of keeping yours. Yeah?’
Simon looked at the floor, angry but boxed in, as Pixie stumbled to the bedroom door wrapped in a Spiderman duvet. ‘Clem!’ she cried excitedly, greeting her like a best friend. ‘What are you doing here? Can you stay for breakfast?’
Clem flashed her a dazzling smile. ‘Sadly no. I’m meeting someone. I was passing and just popped in to say hello.’ She crossed the room and opened the door, smiling back at the happy couple. ‘See you in the morning, though, yeah?’
‘Look forward to it!’ Pixie trilled like a demented canary. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘All right then,’ Clem chuckled, shaking her head as she pulled the door to, behind her. She gave a silent punch in the air that the first obstacle had been tackled, before texting Stella to wake her up. It was time to get down to business.
Chapter Nine
Clem blinked her eyes open and stared at the small bare patch of floor that wasn’t strewn with clothes. Something had pulled her from an especially nice dream about Bradley Cooper, but she didn’t know what.
The knock at the door came again and she pushed herself up onto her elbows, peering blearily at the clock on her phone. Eight thirty-six.
She frowned. The postman?
Pulling on her fleecy onesie, she got up and answered the door. ‘Yeah?’
‘Hey!’ A woman – all of 5 foot 4 inches and with as much going on behind her as in front – stepped forward, black eyes shining. ‘I’m Mercy.’ She spoke in a dramatically lilting Jamaican accent that would be just about decipherable so long as she didn’t get excited or break rhythm.
Dammit. The cleaner. She’d forgotten all about the text she’d hurriedly sent her on Saturday night.
‘Hi! Hi! I’m Clem, hi,’ Clem replied, straightening up and trying to look impressively awake. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. Come in.’
‘Thanks.’
Mercy quite literally shuffled in – she was wearing white towelling hotel-style slippers over black socks. Mercy caught her staring and said, ‘My cleaning shoes. Some customers, they get funny ’bout the floors.’
‘Oh sure, I can imagine.’ Clem put a sincere hand to her chest. ‘We’re not like that. We’re very relaxed.’
‘I can see that,’ Mercy replied, taking in the messy flat.
Clem looked around, taking in the disaster zone that passed as her home with fresh eyes. ‘Well, I never get it when people tidy up before their cleaner gets there. I mean, what’s that about?’ she chirruped, walking over to the kitchen, taking the hairband that was perpetually around her wrist and tying her hair up in a messy topknot. ‘My mother’s guilty of it. She actually scrubs the bathrooms before the housekeeper arrives. Coffee?’
‘Sure.’ Mercy walked slowly around the flat, her eyes scrunched up in scrutiny, as if she was assessing it for damp or settlement cracks, rather than cobwebs and grime. She peeked her head into Tom’s bedroom, retracting it instantly as though a sulphur bomb had gone off in it – his socks – and slapped a hand across her gargantuan bosom, which wobbl
ed like jelly in reply. ‘There’s a bird in there.’
Clem looked back. ‘Oh, that’s Shambles, our parrot, she’s very tame and sweet. She’s great company. She talks to you, but try not to swear. She picks up on everything and really drops me in it with my mother. D’you like birds?’ Clem said, calling slightly as she filled the kettle.
Mercy shook her head.
‘Oh.’ Bother. ‘Well we can make sure she’s locked in the cage when you come over.’
‘That would be . . . preferable.’
Clem held up the Nespresso tray of multi-coloured foil capsules. ‘Which coffee d’you like?’
Mercy hitched up an eyebrow, sucking on her lower lip and waving an index finger around in circles as she decided which colour – rather than blend – she liked best. ‘Purple.’
‘My favourite, too,’ Clem said, popping it into the machine and hoisting herself up onto the worktop. ‘So, have you had far to come?’
‘No. I live in the Hallfield Estate, Paddington, fifteen minutes from here.’
‘Cool. Good commute.’
Mercy nodded, her eyes still roaming the flat. ‘So, I’m guessing you’ve never had a cleaner before?’
‘What gave it away?’ Clem grinned, reaching up and hooking a cobweb with her finger.
‘D’you live here on your own?’
‘Officially, I share it with my brother, Tom, although he hasn’t been around much lately.’ She wrinkled her nose as Mercy’s met hers curiously. ‘Pushy girlfriend.’
Mercy nodded. ‘I met some of those in my time. Lived here long?’
‘In this area all my life. My parents live on Elgin Crescent. We got this flat seven years ago.’
‘Nice.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So there’s two bedrooms, one bathroom and this room?’
‘That’s right. Nice and compact. We don’t need anything major doing – just hoovering, cleaning the bathroom . . . uh, stuff like that.’ Clem waved her hands in the air in a vague manner, unsure what else counted.
‘Dusting, cleaning the windows,’ Mercy opened the oven door and peered in. ‘Scouring the oven, lifting the rugs. You want me to strip the beds and launder them, too?’
Clem’s eyes widened as though she was a fairy godmother, here out of benevolence alone. ‘Would you?’
‘If you pay me to I will,’ Mercy chuckled, a deep, heaving sound more akin to dredging. ‘The ironing, too?’
‘Oh God, please!’ Clem said, hopping off the counter and pouring the coffees. Her life was changing before her very eyes. Outsourcing! Why had she never done it before? Wait till Tom saw how she’d streamlined everything for them. Now when they came home after work, they wouldn’t have to fight over who did the ironing and who made dinner (him and him, usually). And Tom wouldn’t complain about there being no room on the sofa, or of the towels smelling musty. And their Mother would be silenced – finally – when she did one of her impromptu drop-ins and spent the whole time looking disappointedly at Clem for not being better at ‘keeping house’.
‘Do take a seat,’ Clem said, motioning to the sofa as she came over with the coffees.
‘I like this sofa,’ Mercy said, stroking it as if it was a pet.
‘Thanks, it’s a prototype. My brother’s company made it. Alderton Hide, have you heard of them?’
Mercy shook her head, her fingers gently winding around the curly tufts of sheepskin.
‘No, most people haven’t. They’re a bespoke business-to-business company, supplying all different types of leathers and suedes – shearling, reindeer, crocodile, ponyskin – to clients, mainly hotel groups and city banks.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘Yes,’ Clem sighed. ‘It is.’ She sat down next to Mercy and looked at her properly. It was hard to get a handle on her age: Thirty? A bit older maybe? Her face was round and deep, like a pillow, with cheeks you wanted to pinch and a mouth that seemed to triple in size when she smiled. Her skin was two shades from ebony and her big black doe-eyes radiated constant mirth.
‘How old are you?’ Clem asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
‘Forty-six.’
‘Forty-six!’ Clem spluttered. ‘But I thought you were the same age as me! And I’m twenty-nine!’
Mercy winked. ‘Ah, plump skin. The fat girl’s revenge,’ she chuckled, making Clem splutter even more.
‘Have you got kids?’
‘Five. All between twenty-five and eight.’
Clem shook her head. ‘Five kids? And I can’t even look after myself.’
‘I can see.’ Mercy chuckled again, looking down into her coffee. ‘But that’s why you called me. My past boss used to call me “Angel”.’ She shrugged. ‘Angel of Mercy.’
‘Did you work for them long?’
‘Three years. I was nanny to them kids, too, not just the cleaner.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘The baby was starting at school and they didn’t need me for so many hours.’
Clem nodded just as a door slammed downstairs. Footsteps travelled up the stairs and stopped outside in the hallway; there was a jangling of keys and then a perky laugh – a laugh Clem knew only too well.
The door opened and Clover practically skipped through. ‘So this is it,’ she purred over her shoulder, arms opened wide and half-raised in a happy shrug – until she turned and saw Clem and Mercy sitting on the sofa. Then her arms dropped as if they were broken. ‘Oh! What are you doing here?’
A young guy in a shiny too-blue suit followed after her and, for a split second, Clem thought she was cheating on Tom. But then she saw the digital tape measure in his hand and understood exactly what was happening.
‘It’s my flat,’ Clem retorted indignantly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’
Clover tried to regroup, looking embarrassed and awkward. ‘I meant . . . I thought you’d be at work.’
‘Hoped, more like.’
Clover looked away. ‘If it’s not a good time . . .’
‘No. It’s not. I’m having a meeting,’ Clem spat, stretching herself taller at the words, to give them added importance, and clearly totally oblivious to the fact that she was wearing an owl onesie. With ears.
Mercy sipped her coffee, one hand still twirling the sheepskin, her eyes swivelling right to left between the two women as if it was a posh version of The Jeremy Kyle Show.
The estate agent, whilst keeping one ear trained on their spat, was more concerned with doing a visual recce of the flat, taking in which direction it faced, the imposing ceiling heights, the original feature cornicing and fireplace, working sash windows, the wide planked maple floor . . .
Clem felt her blood begin to boil as she watched him. How dare Clover sell Clem’s flat! ‘Like what you see, do you?’ Clem sneered at him, making the poor man – boy – jump. ‘Well, think again, mate. It’s not for sale.’
‘We discussed this the other day,’ Clover said in a tone that implied she was being reasonable (and therefore Clem was not).
Clem stood up, willowy and proud like the white queen (albeit dressed as an owl), a move that made both Clover and the estate agent take a step back. ‘I don’t suppose Tom’s told you that he agreed to wait for a while?’ The surprise on Clover’s face was confirmation enough. ‘No, I thought not . . . You know, I almost feel sorry for you, Clover, not losing a second on this. I mean, you just can’t wait to get him out of here, so that you can hook your claws into him. You’re so desperate it’s embarrassing.’
Her words hit their mark and this time it was Clover who advanced, the black queen drawn into battle, her face pinched with anger. ‘You want to know who’s embarrassing, Clem?’ she half whispered, half hissed. ‘It’s you. Poor lost you who can’t hold on to a job, a man or any semblance of adult life. You need Tom to do everything for you, and you can’t bear it that he wants to be with me. He’s only still here with you out of some sort of misplaced loyalty or pity. When are you going to get it? Whether he does it this mont
h or next Christmas, he will choose me over you.’
‘You’re wrong. If he was sure about his feelings for you, he’d be with you in a shot. There’d be nothing I could – or would – do. He stays with me because I’m his best friend, not because I’m his sister.’
Clover gave a short, joyless laugh. ‘If it makes you feel better to think that . . .’ she sneered. ‘Come on, Joe. We’ll come back another time.’ Clover turned and headed for the door.
‘No you won’t!’ Clem shouted after them. ‘I already told you, this flat’s not for sale!’
Clover stopped at the door and gave a half-smile, her own set of door keys laid out like a taunt in the palm of her hand. ‘We’ll see about that.’
The cushion hit the back of the closed door, but without any power and certainly lacking in the fierce ‘smashing’ sound a cup would have achieved. Clem sank back into the sofa, shaking as the adrenaline subsided.
Mercy was silent for a moment. ‘I see what you mean . . . Pushy.’
Clem slid her eyes over to her, a smile breaking the tension in her face. ‘When can you start?’
Chapter Ten
‘D’you think we can smoke in here?’ Stella whispered as the congregation sat back down again.
‘No!’ Clem retorted, her fingers stroking the capacious suede pouch she had slung across her body. It was ivory with a ruby-red silk cord drawstring, and she’d already clocked several women checking it out; she’d put money on them coming up to her after the service and asking where she’d got it.
She’d be ready for them when they did: flyers with details of the Twitter account to follow to get the time, place and date for the pop-up shop were in the bag. She and Stella had been working tirelessly for seven weeks now, forsaking pubs and pretty boys for evenings in, eating bowls of noodles as they sorted the irregular cuts of leather, suede, sheepskin and shearling into bundles of similar sized patches and worked out what to do with them. So far, they’d done the shearling deerstalkers and wrist warmers (Clem had almost sprinted down the road with the prototype to give to Katy), some Toscana shearling beanbags that were as long-haired as Afghan hounds, some croc-embossed buckled leather phone covers that looked especially lovely in saturated jewel colours, and furry tags that had been dyed in a range of colours and attached to rings to accessorize handbags. But it was this suede bag that was the hot pick, thanks to the model Laura Bailey – a regular at Katy’s stall – agreeing to carry it to a film premiere, where a frenzy of flashbulbs popped as usual. The fashion pack had been on the phone to her stylist within hours, and bloggers and trend spotters had been trying to identify it, but all anyone could get hold of was the Twitter account and hashtag to follow, building a growing buzz for the as-yet-unidentified label, while Clem and Stella frantically worked through the nights.