The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine)

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The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine) Page 9

by Carmen Reid


  ‘I think we need a little break,’ UN Annie suggested as Taylor flung another dress on the floor. ‘Why don’t we go down to the vintage boutique in the basement?’ she risked.

  Taylor’s response to this looked reasonable, but Megan’s eyebrows were arched and twitching.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Annie soothed, ‘it’s The Store’s version of vintage: exclusive one-offs and collector’s items worth more now than when they were bought.’

  Down in the glamorous basement floor, a section had been made over as an antique clothes shop, complete with picturesque, worn wooden shelves crammed with dainty crocodile handbags, long leather gloves, feathered and furred hats. The rails were adorned with silks, lace, taffeta, chiffon. Dresses with history. Ghosts from parties that had been held all over the city since the 1920s and on into the fifties and sixties, even the eighties.

  Annie had always liked secondhand. She liked to rummage through old, and usually much better made, clothes. These were not dresses that whispered ‘you shall go to the ball’, these gowns had been to the ball, danced till they dropped, sipped champagne, met the man of their dreams, sneaked a cigarette or two, kissed, maybe more, and come back to tell the tale.

  OK, sometimes they didn’t come back too pretty – a rip here, a mud mark there, or worse, a serious sweat stain, irremovable from pastel silk satin.

  But in this department, the dresses were all in mint condition. They were hung just like the new clothes, with space around them, with respect and size tags.

  The walls were decked with pure silk kimonos, tiny-waisted lace wedding gowns and photographs of some of the dresses on the days so long ago when they were brand new.

  Bringing Megan and Taylor down here wasn’t a mistake, she was relieved to see.

  Taylor was already flicking through the size 8s and 10s with a keen eye and Megan was engrossed in the jewellery display where multi-stranded pearl chokers and sparkling dangling earrings competed with intricate enamelled brooches for attention.

  ‘Look at this.’ Megan was pointing to a posy of enamelled bluebells. ‘This is the prettiest brooch I’ve ever seen and it’s thirty pounds!’ she exclaimed, as if she hadn’t realized anything could cost less than £100. ‘Taylor, you have to have it.’

  Annie knew she could get much nicer ones for under £10 at her local rummage haunts. But that was the kind of info wasted on Megan. Megan was suspicious of anything cheap. She liked to pay more, to make sure she had the very best.

  As Annie stood outside the pink velvet curtain of the fitting room, Taylor tried dresses on with a more serious intent than she had before.

  She fitted everything she tried. It was disconcerting. She had the teeny little waistline needed to squeeze into 1950s suits and 1960s prom dresses.

  She looked dangerously close to declaring: ‘This is the one,’ in a boat-necked slim taffeta dress, turquoise with big silver buttons, which made her look like an old-time Hollywood starlet.

  ‘Oh that is pretty,’ was Megan’s verdict. ‘With silver shoes maybe . . .’

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ Taylor was twisting in front of the mirror, sticking out her hips, critically observing the shape of her tiny little behind, not quite 100 per cent happy.

  ‘We’ve still got a few more.’ Annie handed over a deep sea blue satin Chinese-style dress, which she thought was very promising.

  ‘Oh!’ Taylor held it out. ‘Very nice. It looks a bit big, though.’

  Only Taylor could look at size 8 satin and worry about it being too big.

  ‘It doesn’t have any stretch to it,’ Annie reminded her. ‘Anyway, it can always be taken in.’

  Taylor took it into the fitting room and after several minutes of wriggling and wrestling with hooks and eyes, she opened the curtain with something of a flourish.

  ‘What do you think?’ She looked at Annie first then her mum. Annie suspected Taylor loved it, but wanted to sound them out first.

  How could she not love it? She looked incredible.

  She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail which suited the dress even more. It had a high mandarin collar; she’d buttoned it all the way to the top, and a row of tiny satin-covered buttons led all the way down to the knee where the dress stopped. It skimmed her body from her small chest over her tiny waist and narrow hips. The sleeves did not end at upper arm, like most Chinese dresses. These in an unusually modern way stopped just past the elbow.

  ‘It’s quite like the shape of your dress, Mum, without the open neck and ruffle.’

  ‘Yes,’ Megan agreed. She seemed quite mesmerized by the effect too. To her, the dress still looked girlish and charming. To Taylor it was dangerously sophisticated. So it was perfect for the wedding, and yet, of course, quite devastatingly sexy.

  ‘Can you sit down in it?’ Annie wondered. Taylor aimed slowly for the stool in the corner of the dressing room.

  ‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she assured them.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Annie wanted to know.

  Taylor stood up and looked at herself in the mirror: she twisted and turned, she put her hands on her hips, she squinted at her rear again, she stood up on tiptoes to mimic the effect of heels. Finally, she declared: ‘I love it. I don’t care if I never get another penny of pocket money this year . . . I have to have it . . . oh and a bag and shoes to go with it, obviously.’ She peeped up at her mama with a wheedling little smile.

  Megan gave a nod: ‘OK, back upstairs, we’ll go and look at shoes.’

  Annie made an excuse to take her safely back to her office for a few minutes where she hoovered up her entire stash of emergency chocolate. And she’d thought choosing outfits with Lana was hard work.

  ***

  ‘She didn’t want a Matthew Williamson?!’ Lana wanted to make sure she’d heard that bit right.

  ‘Balled it up and chucked it on the floor!’ Annie elaborated, passing thirds of garlic bread over to Owen who’d already ravenously polished off everything else on his plate.

  ‘No!’ Lana sounded quite thrilled by this sacrilege. ‘On the floor!’

  ‘Miu Miu was rejected, Marc Jacobs she wouldn’t even try on, Chloé was “so over” – God, she was a nightmare. Imagine being able to afford any designer dress you could imagine, plus the bag, the shoes and real jewels to go with it, and being so miserable! Such a waste.’ Annie forked up the last rubbery mouthful and chewed . . . for quite a long time. She’d got home so late, there hadn’t been any time to shop – even in the extortionate corner shop – and she’d relied on finding something, anything in the fridge. But the inside of the Smeg (unbelievable discount deal, but it was orange and did have a dent on the side) had been like a scene from the dating game: cold and lonely.

  One fat tomato, too pale and too chilled. One slice of bacon left in its greasy packet, two potatoes, a third of an onion wrapped in clingfilm, half a mini goat’s cheese, possibly past its sell-by date, but also garlic, a packet of garlic bread and, yes! Result! A boxful of eggs.

  ‘Supper, Mum?’ Owen had come into the kitchen to ask. Looking so gangly and thin, she’d felt the urge to give him a Mars bar there and then.

  ‘Spanish omelette and garlic bread!’ she’d announced, inspired. But the three of them knew that her omelettes were never ‘fluffy’ like Dinah’s, they were tough. Why was that?

  ‘So, have you had a chance to think about what you’d like to wear to Grandma’s retirement party?’ Annie asked Lana, while they were on the subject of teen dress traumas.

  Something about Lana’s smile in response to this question made Annie slightly anxious: it was a hesitant smile, a secretive smile with a hint of triumph in there too.

  Uh-oh.

  Lana didn’t shop with her mother any more, which was a source of both relief and sadness to Annie. If she wanted to make herself really wistful, she would think of the hours she’d once spent with little Lana trying on dresses at H&M, picking out pink blouses, stripy tights and spangled hairclips, Lana pirouetting with happiness. All day long Annie st
yled others while the one person she’d always loved to dress found it ‘too much pressure’ to go shopping with her.

  Since Annie and Lana’s last changing room tantrum over a five-inch-long miniskirt for school, Lana now only shopped with other members of the Syrup Six – Annie liked that nickname, it had stuck in her mind ever since Mr Leon, no, must-remember-to-call-him-Ed, had told her about it.

  ‘Have you bought something?’ Annie tried to sound pleased. ‘Come on then, show me.’

  She didn’t really feel she’d been adequately prepared for the sheer, backless, slashed-to-the-upper-thigh frothy black lace creation hanging on the front of Lana’s wardrobe, still with its Primark price tag proudly attached. Scratchy black nylon lace . . . nice . . . if Lana went anywhere near a candle in that thing, she’d be toast.

  For a moment, Annie tried to imagine what Megan’s response to it would be. Megan would probably faint, or run screaming from the room, spraying pure Fracas Parfum all around to decontaminate herself.

  ‘Oh, well… yes,’ Annie began, trying to muster as much calm as she could from the torrent of maternal negativity pulsing through her brain.

  No use, she couldn’t help blurting out: ‘You’re fourteen, Lana! But you’ve gone straight from velvet with bows to see-through lace. Weren’t we meant to have the taffeta years in between? You know, sweet, crackly taffeta dresses with netting underneath, worn with pale tights and ballet pumps?’ Even as Annie said it, she knew it sounded unlikely.

  But she’d love to see Lana shine in bright blue: an iridescent silk that exactly matched the colour of her astonishing eyes.

  Annie – who had brown eyes, who had coveted Roddy from the moment he’d set his swimming-pool-blue eyes on her – could be overwhelmed by Lana’s eyes. Sometimes she couldn’t break her gaze from them, sometimes she couldn’t do battle with the girl training this blue laser beam on her, sometimes she had to give in completely to those eyes.

  Lana had sensed this weakness of course, and in an argument she did everything she could to make eye contact with her mother.

  ‘This is the dress I want to wear,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘But why?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Because I like it.’

  ‘Why?’ Annie insisted.

  ‘Because it’s cool . . . and I think I look good in it.’

  ‘Does it make you look a lot older?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you want boys to think you’re older?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her arms crossed and she huffed.

  Annie was now tempted to shout all sorts of unhelpful, bossy mum warnings: ‘You’ll look so slutty in this!’ ‘This is your granny’s party!’ and so on, but instead, she sat down on Lana’s bed and tried to restrain herself.

  ‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Lana,’ she began, ‘but there’s no need to be in such a rush to grow up. Honestly. Take your time. You have years of growing up ahead of you. Try to enjoy it.’

  Lana just gave an exasperated sigh. Again, Annie bit her tongue: ‘Why don’t you put the dress on for me?’ she asked. ‘Let me see how it looks.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh please . . . go on. I’ll be totally constructive. On my best behaviour, I promise.’

  Once Lana was standing in front of her, hands on lace-clad hips, face in a defiant pout, Annie knew she had to proceed with caution, utmost caution, or she would never, ever be allowed to shop with Lana ever.

  The dress looked . . . well . . . being totally honest . . . looking as neutrally as possible . . .

  ‘Turn around, baby . . .’ she instructed, ‘I like the back. Your back looks lovely. You’ll have to wear one of those backless bra contraptions . . .’

  ‘I’ve already bought one,’ Lana said grumpily.

  ‘And what about shoes?’

  Lana slipped on her wine-coloured suede slingbacks. They looked fine.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Annie tried to keep her professional eye on this. Not her maternal eye which was, just like Megan’s earlier today, finding it hard to move past the cleavage on display, the acre of creamy teen thigh.

  Lana had a good figure, Annie couldn’t help but proudly notice, with Roddy’s pale skin and poker-straight black hair which on Lana hung down well below her shoulders.

  ‘Did it come in any other colours?’ Annie wondered.

  ‘Muuuum!’ Lana warned, but then volunteered the information: ‘Navy blue and purple.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t consider maybe . . .’

  Lana just glared.

  ‘Just a second, I have something that could . . .’ Annie went out of the room, took deep breaths and counted to ten. After a few minutes, she came back in with a large, overblown fake rose, almost the exact shade of Lana’s shoes.

  ‘Can we try it pinned to the front?’ Annie asked. ‘It’s just . . . I’m not sure you’ll want Granny’s boyfriends talking to your boobs all night long, will you?’

  A smile almost threatened to break over Lana’s face now.

  Annie pinned the flower in place.

  ‘A little sparkly, wine-coloured shrug . . . would you let me treat you to something like that?’ Annie asked, although where she’d find wine in the Spring collections . . . she’d have to look secondhand.

  ‘Maybe.’ Lana didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘A little bag?’ Annie added.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And just maybe, maybe, maybe . . .’ she wheedled, ‘we could just pop back to the shop’ – as if it would be the easiest thing in the world – ‘and try . . . just try . . . the navy blue?’

  ‘Maybe.’ But this came with the teensiest smile that gave Annie the hope that her foot was in the door.

  She would broach the subject of stitching the split to a more modest knee-high another day.

  That night, in front of her computer, watching the latest Trading Station deals close, figuring out with a red pen and calculator how much money she’d made this week and whether or not it was enough, Annie let her mind wander to her own outfit for the retirement party.

  There were things in the wardrobe, obviously, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to wear them. She’d tried on a four-year-old party dress in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, but it had brought tears to her eyes.

  The dress, sky blue slippy satin with vivid red poppies printed all over it, was a Roddy dress.

  She’d bought it for a first proper celebby event. Red-carpet, cameras flashing . . . not at them, of course. Back then, Roddy had been a bit part. But what a fabulous night!

  At the party after the première, Roddy’s eyes had popped from his head. During filming, he’d been paid £250 a week, as the production had staggered from one financial disaster to another: actors, cameramen, production staff all leaving because they couldn’t afford to work on it any more.

  But come the première party, there was champagne on tap, lobsters piled in great lazy heaps, the star actress in a strapless cream knit dress made of pure cashmere.

  ‘The publicity budget is bigger than their entire production budget,’ Roddy had joked, holding both their glasses out to yet another passing waiter.

  His reaction to her dress had been a frank, succinct Roddy special: ‘Fucking brilliant! Take it off, immediately!’

  Alone, in front of the mirror, Annie unzipped it, let it fall to the floor, then she angrily stuffed it back into its cloth cover, wondering if she would ever be able to wear it again.

  Never mind, she told herself, blowing her nose firmly when the tears were over. There was the rose pink velvet dress she’d seen on eBay, she knew the label, knew the style, knew the sizing. It would definitely fit. It would be perfect, in fact: a fine, silk velvet, with a supple drape, a fitted bodice, covered buttons, bingo-wing disguising half-sleeves and a panel of lace at the front of the skirt for interest.

  It was probably going to go for too much . . . but it wouldn’t hurt to look, would it? Just a teensy peek? She made the mouse clicks and found it, hovering thirty-fi
ve minutes from the close of bidding at £50 below the absolute most she could afford to spend on it. If she just held steady and waited thirty-three minutes before putting in a bid just £5 higher . . . then it would be hers. Although it was well past her bedtime, she went to make herself a cup of tea.

  Chapter Eight

  Dress-up Dinah:

  Gold Grecian goddess dress (Miss Selfridge)

  White fake fur coat (Cancer Research)

  Gold tap shoes (Dancewear shop)

  Gold and ruby earrings (Portobello market)

  Liberal amount of Fake Bake

  Est. cost: £95

  ‘I’ve overdone it! I’m the Fake Bake sheikh!’

  ‘He’s there! I’ve just spotted him, down at the front. Best seats!’ Annie couldn’t keep the glee from her voice as she told Dinah.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ was Dinah’s response. It was obvious from the outset that Annie’s outing to After The Ball was not purely in the interest of theatrical pleasure or even Connor support. She’d insisted Dinah dress up ‘you know, properly, let’s make an event of it’. Then she’d confided there was ‘someone’ she was hoping to ‘bump into’ in the audience.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s just a little bit desperate?’ Dinah had asked once Annie had explained the Spencer situation.

  ‘Desperate? No, of course not. Wait till you meet him. He’s really quite interesting.’

  Annie had turned up at the theatre looking her very best. She’d come straight from work, but this hadn’t stopped her devoting twenty-five minutes to her outfit, hair and make-up in the changing room. She knew what conservative Spencer-type men liked in women. Nothing complicated, for starters. They understood obvious colours: black, red, white, blue . . . anything tonal like taupe, terracotta or pistachio confused them. They liked shapely dresses with tasteful amounts of leg and cleavage on display. They liked small jewels, lipstick and shiny long hair, especially if it was tied up . . . enticingly ready to be undone.

 

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