Christmas at Claridge's

by Karen Swan

  ‘You just be jealous,’ Mercy retorted, but her cheeks had reddened and her bosom was trembling impressively with suppressed rage.

  ‘Hardly,’ Clover quipped witheringly.

  An explosive silence boomed through the room, emotions crashing against the walls and rebounding in again. Everyone was red-cheeked and edgy, anger and irritation beginning to bubble in a caustic mix.

  Clem saw a new expression bloom on Clover’s face suddenly as she stared down at Mercy. ‘You know, Tom,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that things have only started going missing since she started working here? I mean, you never did find that Hermès tie or those bone cufflinks, did you?’

  Clem’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Now hang on a minute!’ she roared. ‘You can’t go round making accusations like that! Tom’s always bloody losing things.’

  But Tom blinked, looking across at Mercy, and Clem could see the seed had been planted.

  ‘You checked her references, didn’t you? You told me you did.’

  Clem swallowed. She had meant to, but time had just slipped past and . . . She could see Mercy staring at them all in horror.

  ‘You didn’t?’ he asked; he knew her far too well. ‘Jesus, Clem! She could be anyone!’

  ‘But she isn’t! I know Mercy, she’s a mate now. There’s no way she would ever steal from us. Never.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that!’ Tom shouted. ‘You’ve opened up our home to a stranger off the street.’

  ‘Well, there’s one way to solve this. I’m sure Mercy won’t mind showing us the contents of her bag,’ Clover said snidely grabbing for the bag in Mercy’s hands.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Clem screamed, dropping the box on the sofa and lunging for the bag herself.

  ‘If she’s got nothing to hide—’ Clover sneered.

  ‘There’s a tie knotted round the headboard in your room – I left it there as I assumed it was some kinky game you played and I didn’t want to embarrass you by removing it. I don’t know if that’s the one you talking ‘bout.’ Mercy’s voice was quiet and dignified, causing Clem and Clover to fall still. ‘As for them cufflinks, there’s a pair at the bottom of the birdcage, but I’m not opening it to get them out. No, I’m not. I don’t do birds. I said that from the off.’ She folded her hands across her chest.

  Tom’s mouth fell open and he had the decency to blush. Clem snatched the bag out of Clover’s hands once and for all, glaring at her. ‘Bitch!’ she hissed with deadly fury.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Stella said authoritatively, grabbing Mercy’s blouse and herding her towards the door. Clem followed after, the cardboard box and Birkin back in her arms again. She staggered down the stairs, unable to see her feet, and dropped the box on the floor by the street door just as Mercy burst into tears.

  ‘So damn pushy . . .’

  ‘I know, I know, pushy as fuck, she is,’ Clem said, giving her a hug and feeling just as exhausted as she had the night before. She looked down at the beautiful clothes they’d made, the stunning collection that was going to save Tom’s dreams in the next few hours. But in the wake of all these accusations and slanders, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth the effort any more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Top right, up a bit,’ Stella ordered as Clem reached higher. ‘Perfect.’

  Clem pushed the blu-tack further into the wall and stood back. The huge black and white image of her wearing the Toscana shearling gilet, her belted waist looking tiny as she playfully swung from the branch of a birch tree, dominated the end wall, the one positioned beneath the roof lantern, which everyone would see as they entered the room. She was pretty pleased with it, with all of the posters actually. Six other images were pinned around the long room, showing her in the different collection pieces – even the shagreen phone covers looked covetable when held in her hands, the wind blowing her hair across her cheeks, her eyes making contact with the lens, reportage-style.

  They weren’t the best quality obviously. They’d had to squeeze the shoot in with everything else that needed doing – Stella taking the pictures of Clem in Hyde Park quickly yesterday morning, then taking the file into the one-hour-photo place, which could turn around poster-prints in twenty-four hours – but if the images lacked sharpness, they more than succeeded in encapsulating a sensual, luxe mood and a vision of a modern, urban woman. The Alderton Hide woman. Even Clem, who was pretty lackadaisical about her reflection, thought they were cool.

  Clem planted her hands on her hips and scanned the room for the next thing to do – the past week had been spent at ‘frantic’ level, but it seemed, incredibly, that they were good to go. Music was pumping from the speakers and the staff at Electric House were busy whisking up cocktails behind the long bar. The venue was perfect: discreet and in-the-know only. The idea of using the private members’ club had come to Clem in the middle of the night, after weeks of fretting about occupying empty commercial premises. The last thing she needed was to get arrested and for Alderton Hide’s name to appear in the press for all the wrong reasons! The fact that she had known the manager since nursery school days meant one phone call had seen her request bumped to the top of the pile, and the second-floor playroom had been cleared for her for three hours over lunch as a ‘discretionary favour to a local business’.

  ‘Do you want to do the honours?’ Stella asked, holding out her phone, the cursor on the Twitter page blinking at her.

  Clem bit her lip and typed: ‘Playroom @ Electric House, Portobello Road. Now. #Aldertonhideflashsale #shootingstarbirkinauction.’ She pressed ‘send’ and blinked up at Stella. ‘That easy, huh?’

  ‘That easy.’ Stella grinned back.

  They came in droves. Within twenty-five minutes, the room was packed and the staff were forced to close the doors, citing fire regulations, leaving a growing swell of women trapped outside.

  The music was turned down and Stella took to the mic, standing on a table so that everyone could see her.

  ‘Hey, ladies!’ she called out with all the confidence of someone who spent her days giving patter on a market stall, and the din of excited chatter mellowed to hear her. ‘Congratulations! You only beat half of London to be here right now!’ A delighted cheer rang out. They were a club within a club. The cachet couldn’t have been greater! ‘Today quite possibly for the only time evah, we are auctioning a unique capsule collection, crafted from the very finest leathers and suedes that Alderton Hide is renowned for. I’m sure lots of you already have a little Alderton Hide in your life – a wardrobe maybe, or a desk? And even if you don’t, you will already know and love the quality, colours, finishes and design, or you wouldn’t be here now! But today is all about pieces for you. A one-off, one-time only, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t opportunity.’ A collective intake of breath betrayed the women’s nerves. They weren’t just in shopping mode; they were in sale shopping mode – the most dangerous of all shopping forms – it was just as well there wasn’t a man in sight. ‘And to show you how the collection should be worn, here is none other than the Alderton Hide brand ambassador herself, Clem Alderton.’ Another wall of sound rose up, and the talking intensified as some of the women pointed to the images of Clem looking like a Julie Christie redux on the walls. ‘Yep, that’s her! Isn’t she gorgeous?’

  Clem stood behind the kitchen door and squeezed her eyes shut as she heard the buzz grow with Stella’s commentary. She had changed into the skinny shagreen biker trousers, pairing them with gunmetal-grey ankle boots and a distressed T-shirt, and she rubbed her hands together nervously. What if everyone hated the clothes? What if she and Stella had got it all wrong, become carried away because of one lucky day on the stall? What if she got out there and everyone just . . . laughed? Walked away? Didn’t bid?

  ‘. . . it up for Clem!’ Stella cried.

  Clem stepped out, trying to hide her nerves as she took in the sea of intrigued women staring back at her and clapping excitedly Mercy who was manning the iPad
, winked at her as Stella held out her hand and pulled Clem up onto the table, so that everyone could see her.

  Clem took a deep breath and did a small twirl, feeling faint with nerves and completely ridiculous as 230 pairs of eyes settled upon her like bees to honey What had they been thinking? They’d been mad to think this would work.

  ‘Thanks, babes,’ Stella said, squeezing her shoulder encouragingly as she came to a stop. She, at least, was enjoying herself – her delivery was upbeat and intimate, her energy infectious. Everyone was straining to get a good look at Clem’s clothes. ‘So, as you can see, girls, these skinny trousers are cut in the shagreen leather, which has a gorgeous iridescent effect – so much cooler than python print. They’ve got front slash pockets to keep a really lean line and we positioned the pockets on the back pointing in slightly’ – she turned Clem around by the shoulders – ‘’cos it just makes the bum look smaller, you know? Not that Clem has to worry about that, the skinny bitch!’ Stella grinned, swatting her playfully on the behind. Everyone laughed. ‘They’re fully lined in aqua silk to retain their shape, and the stitch detailing on the knees also helps with that; they’re dry clean only, obvs, and we’ve got six pairs – two in small, two in medium, two in large. They come up small, but buy true to size as they’re supposed to be tight. And if you like them, there’s also a blazer in the same hide coming up later. So . . . that’s the boring stuff out of the way. Let’s start shopping! We’ll begin with the small size first, who’ll start me at £225? That’s cost price, girls. Cost.’

  A quiver of hands shot into the air and Clem swallowed, wondering whether to do another twirl. Everyone was talking to each other, their eyes on her. She usually didn’t mind attention – she was pretty used to it – but this was a different league altogether.

  Stella rose the bids in £25 increments and Clem dutifully stood in various poses, sometimes standing with her back to the room so they could examine the rear of the trousers. She quite liked it, even though it meant everyone was scrutinizing her backside, as it gave her a break from all the stares and she could look out the window to the street below. A crowd had begun to gather and people were standing in the market looking up at her standing clearly in the window. She saw Katy, filming her on her phone, and she waved down to her. The crowd cheered in response as if she was a rock star. Word was spreading. A taxi couldn’t get through and some cyclists had to dismount to wheel their bikes through the crowd.

  The trousers – all six pairs – went for a combined total of £3,140, and Clem climbed off the table to quickly dash back to the ‘changing room’ and put on the belted blonde gilet with her plum-coloured Mother jeans and a matching thin polo neck

  This time, when she stepped out, there was an audible gasp. Appetites had been whetted and everyone’s desire was up. They literally wanted the clothes off Clem’s back. She smiled as she did her turns again, beginning to pop her hip a bit and enjoy herself. Bidding was getting faster and more intense, the buzz of chitchat fading away as the women became more focused and competitive. The sale was on!

  The five gilets brought in £4,620, the eleven deerstalkers £320 each, the ivory pouch bags practically inciting a riot as they went for £540 each. By the time Clem was zipping up the rose-pink jumpsuit, the finale piece of the collection, they had raised £16,780. There were five jumpsuits, which would surely go for almost a grand a piece, and there was still the Birkin to go . . . Tom needed £100,000 to keep the business going for the next four months. The starting bid for the bag was £50,000, but they’d need to get over £75,000 for it to clear the numbers they needed. She closed her eyes and prayed, psyching herself up for the finale. This had to be big . . .

  She stepped round the corner and the crowd screamed – actually screamed – when they caught sight of the lean, rose jumpsuit. Stella and Mercy burst out laughing, giving each other high-fives and doing small rain dances – or money dances – on the spot.

  ‘Now, girls,’ Stella crooned once she’d calmed herself down. ‘You might not be able to see from where you’re standing, but there’s a huge crowd on the street outside, trying to get into this sale, and we’re going to need to wind this up soon if we don’t want the police to break us up for causing a public disturbance.’ A medley of boos peppered the room. ‘I know! Right? We’re only shopping . . .’ Stella laughed. ‘So, you don’t need me to break this down too much for you. It speaks for itself: rose-pink jumpsuit made from a suede that’s more supple than Madonna – and I reckon the animal it came from had a better skincare regime, too. It’s so soft. We’ve got five of these babies, three small, one medium, one large.’ She put her hands up. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger. That was how the patterns broke down off the hides. So, cost price is £580, but we’re gonna start at £700, because owning this beauty is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you may well never get the chance to wear Alderton Hide on your backs again. Who’s in?’

  The entire room seemed to move as one. Clem’s eyes rode them like waves, giddy with delight. She had been right. She had been right after all and Tom had been wrong. There was an entire market out there, untapped. She knew what women wanted, and she’d given it to them in the most difficult of scenarios. If she could create this kind of clamour with a flash sale and off-cuts, imagine what she could do with a boutique and a budget! When she gave Tom the cheque this afternoon and showed him the film of the sale and the posters that branded the Alderton Hide woman, could he continue to deny the logic? This was where the company’s future lay – at least in part.

  Her mind wandered as the all-but-last bids of the day hailed in, and she wondered how the open day was going. The thought of legions of people trooping through her flat as Clover literally keened with anticipation made her stomach turn, but it was a necessary evil. It had kept Tom out of the way and facilitated this sale happening.

  The final jumpsuit was being bid for now, and Clem tuned back in as shouts accompanied the head nods and hand waves. Everything was reaching fever pitch and numbers ceased to have any monetary meaning as they climbed higher and higher. This was the only thing left, and the bidding seemed to be between two women. Clem tried to track them with her eyes, but it was hard in such a dense, agitated crowd with the bids moving so quickly.

  ‘Sold!’ Stella hollered, pointing at a girl towards the back – the girl held her hand up so that one of the Electric House staff could reach her with a sales ticket.

  Clem clapped weakly – she hadn’t even heard the final sales price, but she knew it was staggering – as the Birkin bag was quickly slipped out of its dust bag and passed to Clem to hold up for everyone to admire.

  Stella indicated for calm with her hands. The room fell into an awed silence and suddenly they could hear a commotion outside. Clem wondered whether the police had indeed arrived, or whether that had just been a sales ploy by Stella to unleash riotous spending.

  ‘And now, the final moment of today’s event: you can see as clearly as I can that this isn’t an Alderton Hide product. But it is the very item that inspired Tom Alderton to found his company in the first place. It comes from another prestigious house that shares the same values of quality and integrity, and which inspired Alderton Hide to design, in turn, their own such legacy. Girls, this is no ordinary Birkin . . .’

  A murmur of lust rippled over the room and Clem stared at the bag, inviolate now on a velvet cushion, high above the madding crowd. Her mother’s cherished gift, given by her father as a token of love . . .

  No – she blinked hard – it was just a bag. Passed on to her for the worst of all reasons. The room shifted and she realized she hadn’t eaten yet: Shambles’ brutal alarm call had led straight on to frenzied activity, and two Mojitos had passed as brunch. She needed some sugar.

  ‘This bag is what we call a Shooting Star bag, identifiable by the said emblem stamped below the logo. What is a shooting star bag?’ Stella grinned, cupping her ear. ‘I’m glad you asked! It’s a tradition at Hermès that every year, one top craftsman is allowe
d to make a bag for his own personal use. In this instance, Tom Alderton’s father, who was on honeymoon at the time, happened to meet one such craftsman and negotiated to buy it for his new wife. You cannot buy these on the open market, ladies, that’s what makes these such covetable and collectable bags. But be warned, Hermès does not like these bags passing out of the care of the person that made them, and don’t even think about taking it into an Hermès boutique to be refreshed. They won’t do it, so look after it well. Now, I’m sure you all know that to buy a Birkin today, any old, basic entry-level Birkin, would involve a two-year wait and £5,000. This flawless specimen, however, this piece of fashion history, is going to sell today, here and now. It’s in the 40cm size, and is made in black saltwater crocodile leather, one of the most prized Hermès leathers. It should have a matching black goatskin interior – all Birkins match inside and out – but . . . oh! Oh! What’s this?’ Stella grinned, nodding for Clem to hold the bag open so that everybody could see inside. ‘It’s got the Hermès orange interior, an individual touch that’s the preserve of the Shooting Star bags and alone is worth fifteen grand! It’s just another rare nugget that helps to explain why the starting bid, and this isn’t the reserve amount but the starting bid, is fifty – thousand – pounds.’

  A reverential hush fell again. Precious few people in the country, much less this room, could afford to spend those numbers on a bag, even one as rare as this, but Clem couldn’t hear anything but the sound of her own blood rushing in torrents through her head. They would understand. When she handed the cheque over, they would all understand. It was for Tom. It was just a bag.

  ‘Thank you. Fifty-five?’

  Just patches of crocodile leather sewn together, by hand. Just a bag.

  ‘Sixty?’

  Most people were more excited by the orange carrier anyway. That bag.

  ‘Seventy?’

  Her palms felt sweaty and she went to wipe them on her thighs, before remembering – just in time – that she was still wearing a suede jumpsuit that now belonged to someone else.