The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine)

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The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine) Page 22

by Carmen Reid


  She was trying to decide if this was because the blood rush was speeded up or slowed down. But anyway . . . back to the man at hand. He was looking very pleased with himself and definitely wanted to put the nonmedically enhanced Bone to good use.

  But . . . but . . . looking up at her very own familiar ceiling, headboard and pink lights, she knew she definitely didn’t want to do this here, on her marital bed.

  No, no, definitely not.

  But Gray was keen. Well, how could he know what she was thinking? She was wearing a smile and murmuring ‘Oooooh yes, yes’ to him.

  But really, she was wondering how to get off the bed before they were too involved.

  She began to pull slightly against him, down towards the floor. Her bed had a satin bedspread, so once she’d begun the slide, it was easy to keep it going. Already her head was touching the carpet, now her neck and shoulders were following.

  ‘Whoaaaa . . . where are you going?’ Gray asked, still holding on and sliding with her.

  Her elbows took her weight and as she giggled at him, her hips and legs followed a little too quickly as she brought both herself and her would-be lover down onto the floor with a thud.

  The angle of Gray’s bodysurf to the floor was much steeper than hers and as his hands were behind her back, he couldn’t put them out to save himself. He hit the carpet, chin first, and gave a cry of pain.

  ‘Whooops, sorry!’ She was still giggling.

  But Gray was lying face down on the floor, groaning slightly.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked him, slight flicker of worry now. Were all her romantic encounters with Gray going to end with a 999 call?

  He raised a hand and put it gingerly onto the small of his back: ‘My sacroiliac!’ he gasped, ‘it’s popped out before . . . I’m going to have to get you to roll me over.’

  She did, but to the slightly concerning soundtrack of Gray going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaargh!’ over the moody jazz.

  Once he was on his back, he raised his right knee slowly and painfully, finally managing to pull it towards his chest, where he held it tight and began to rock from side to side. Whatever ardour Annie may have had for Gray, it was a little quenched at the sight of this.

  He made the ‘Aaaah!’ sound again. Then finally, there was a look of relief on his face. He stood up and walked gingerly, not to mention butt-naked, in a semicircle. He was limping slightly, but declared, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll settle down.’

  Annie put on her kimono and went in search of wine, deciding it was time for a civilized glass of Tesco’s finest under the covers. She didn’t want to risk killing him with a further lovemaking attempt.

  Snuggled up under the covers together, relaxed by the wine, Annie began to touch him again. She started with gentle strokes on his chest, which was muscular, because he kept fit and looked after himself. She played with his nipples then began to work her way down, watching the changing expression on his face. She was enjoying this: teasing him, coaxing him back into action.

  Suddenly, she found she was more than interested herself, wanted him to play all the same games with her, make her just as excited and breathlessly ready as he was now.

  Then they were making love, properly . . . and it was OK, she was telling herself. It really was OK. Not amazing, but not disastrous. It reminded her of ‘sex: the early attempts’ . . . because she was suddenly optimistic that from here on in, it would get a lot better.

  Later, when they were both almost ready to fall asleep, Gray startled her with the words: ‘I don’t really like doing this.’

  ‘What? Sex?’ she asked, wondering what big self-revelation was to follow.

  ‘No, no . . . Are you joking? That was great!’

  Always nice to be appreciated.

  ‘No,’ he went on, ‘I mean coming here, sleeping over . . . you visiting my home every now and then. It’s all quite stressful and inconvenient. Your children must be wondering what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh, I think they know,’ Annie responded. And she began to have a nasty suspicion: was he telling her it was over? Surely not?

  ‘Annie, I’m taking a risk, I know we’ve only been seeing each other for six weeks or so, but we’re grown-ups . . . I think we both know what we want.’ He paused, then came right out and asked, ‘Why don’t you rent out your flat for a bit and move in with me? Give me a trial period. Properly. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

  She was glad he was cuddled in behind her, talking into her neck, so that he couldn’t see the look of astonishment cross her face at this suggestion.

  ‘I’ve got a big house,’ he added, ‘I’m rattling around in it. Why don’t you move in? The three of you. Please at least tell me you’ll consider it?’

  There was a long, long pause, as all sorts of arguments, thoughts and emotions raced through her mind.

  Finally, after several swallows, listening to the nervously shallow breathing Gray was making as he awaited her reply, she told him: ‘That is a very kind, very generous offer, Gray. Really. You’re just going to have to give me some time to think about this.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Footballer’s wife in spring:

  Black tight top (D&G)

  Boyfriend cut jeans (Sass and Bide)

  Black strappy wedges (Gucci)

  Black raincoat (Burberry Prorsum)

  Gold bag (Balenciaga)

  Huge black shades (Chanel)

  Est. cost: £2,700

  ‘Black’s so slimming, innit?’

  ‘Look, babes, it’s spring. And I know spring is hard to get right in London, but it is our duty to try,’ were Annie’s words of encouragement to Dannii, as she arrived at the changing room door with another armful of clothes.

  Dannii (yes, with a double ‘i’) was 20, the luscious (obviously), blonde (predictably) girlfriend of a Chelsea FC midfielder with – according to WAG bible, heat – £4,000 of ‘pocket money’ a week to spend on herself.

  Although, at the rate Dannii was burning her cash, £4,000 a week wouldn’t be enough and she’d soon be asking her 21-year-old lover-boy for a raise: ‘So long as I keep him very happy, he pays up and keeps me very happy,’ she’d cheerfully confided.

  Dannii had not yet realized that owning ten Louis Vuitton handbags is not ten times as thrilling as owning one.

  This was the third week in a row she’d been in for a personal shopping session and although she spent lashings of money, Annie’s enthusiasm for her was waning. A big part of the problem was that the magazines Dannii had been so keen to appear in had now started to poke fun at her. Snide captions were appearing, along with hideously unflattering photographs: Dannii shows off another new £3,000 outfit, but don’t be jealous, girls, on her it still looks cheap!

  Despite Dannii’s pleas to Annie that she wanted to look ‘a bit classy, right’, she’d so far turned all of Annie’s suggestions down and was drawn like a moth to the gold, the glittering, the fussy, the sequinned and the spangly and on her surgically enhanced E-cups . . . well . . . even in Diane Von Furstenburg, she looked like the wrong kind of working girl.

  Dannii had recently taken to squeezing her voluptuous self into tight black in an effort to counteract the ‘cheap’ accusations and, in her words, ‘Black’s so slimming, innit?’ But Annie’s pet hate was clients who dressed in monochrome. It was so draining on the complexion (Dannii had already gone several shades blonder and browner to compensate) and as Annie was trying to explain . . . it was spring!

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not like it’s actually warm out there,’ Dannii insisted, plump pink lips pouting. ‘I mean if we move to Milan this year, because Jakey is talking to someone about a transfer, that’ll be different. But in London . . .’

  Annie wondered for a moment if there was a tabloid newspaper she should ring with the Jakey transfer information . . . but then it was her job to be discreet, even if her customers weren’t.

  ‘I know spring is unpredictable here,’ Annie replied. ‘One minute it’s blazing hot and everyone’s
dying a death in their woollen trousers, boots and coats, the next minute, just as you’ve changed into your frock and flip-flops, it’s chucking it down and there’s a wind from Siberia howling round your ankles. But your spring/ summer wardrobe plan cannot be black. It just can’t!’ she insisted. ‘You’ve got to blossom, Dannii. You’ve got to be in tune with the seasons. I’ve brought a beautiful pale green raincoat down for you, and some gorgeous new handbags in lemon and in pink. Look, I’ve got white jeans, pale blue jeans, pink jeans, violet jeans. I’ve got really sweet, demure little blouses – Missoni, Paul & Joe – which are sexy, but not quite so . . . in your face. I’ve got three-quarter-sleeved Prada cocktail dresses, because believe me, less flesh is sometimes so much more . . . and I think platform-heeled loafer-style shoes for you, my darlin’, for daywear at least. The thing about always having your pedicure on display is that it’s just not elegant. I know you have a driver to take you everywhere, Dannii love, but you’re always getting photographed with your boobs and your toes hanging out.’

  ‘Come on then, pass me the coat,’ Dannii relented. With her inch-long pink nails, she attempted to tie the belt round her waist.

  ‘Ooh, that is very pale,’ was her verdict. ‘God! Look at my tan now! I look like a blooming Efiopian, wish I was as skinny as one an’ all.’

  Annie cringed slightly. Clearly an invitation to fund-raise for Oxfam wasn’t going to be heading Dannii’s way too soon.

  ‘With all my clients, babes, it’s easy to get people to pile on the layers and dress dark for autumn and winter,’ Annie told her. ‘But nobody wants to lighten and brighten up for spring because we think it’s never going to happen. Then the first hot days are a fashion disaster: sparkly sandals and raincoats, wool trousers with vests, summer skirts with black boots . . . it’s horrible.’

  As Annie finished her lecture, she began to wonder if she was just talking about clothes. The words suddenly had another meaning for her. It was beginning to occur to her that she could be caught in the 20 plus degrees of Gray’s sunshine in her emotional equivalent of thick jeans and a black jumper. Was she ready to go to the next stage with Gray? Should she be ready? Was she holding herself back? She’d been on her own for nearly three years . . . no-one could accuse her of not leaving enough time. She hadn’t been with Gray for long, but as he’d said, they were grown-ups – they knew what they wanted, they didn’t need to play games, maybe they should just move on to the next stage.

  It took another hour of concerted effort, but Dannii finally headed tillwards with two tasteful dresses, two blouses, three pairs of coloured jeans, new shoes, a new bag and the raincoat. A fortnight’s worth of pocket money, at least.

  ‘I am so sorry, can you just give me five?’ she asked her next customer, who was already waiting on the sofa. ‘Have a little wander out on the shop floor and I’ll join you there . . . or I can send someone along with tea? Coffee? Mineral water?’

  The woman decided to head for the shop floor and Annie made straight for her office, closing the door tightly behind her.

  In front of her computer, she made her quick email and website checks. Three great offers were in on Trading Station items. Buoyed by this, she clicked over to Lana’s school charity website to see what her daughter’s fund-raising gang had managed to get hold of this week.

  Just as Ed had suspected, Lana and her friends loved running the auction website and had begged, wheedled and hustled all sorts of goodies to flog on it.

  Meanwhile, Annie opened her mobile and speed-dialled Gray.

  ‘Hello there, girlfriend!’ he answered. ‘Having a moment off? Thinking about me?’

  ‘Yes I was . . . I was thinking about you. Where are you? Have you got a minute or are you about to excavate a root canal?’

  ‘I always, always have a minute for you,’ he assured her, ‘I’m in the car. You’re on hands-free.’

  ‘I’m a bloody hands-full, babes, you should be warned . . .’ She took a deep breath and then began: ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said . . . you know . . . the big question . . .’ She paused and so did Gray.

  ‘Have you talked to Owen and Lana about it?’ he wondered, which was the right thing to ask. Annie felt a surge of affection that he’d thought to ask about her children’s opinion before he heard her own.

  ‘I’ve not had a big discussion with them, to be honest,’ she told him, ‘I’ve been trying to sort out my own thoughts about it all. But I’ve mentioned it, as a possibility. They’re . . . well . . . I think “curious” is the best word. They’ve not said yes, they’ve not said no. I think we might need to persuade them that we think it’s a good idea – if we do think it’s a good idea,’ she added quickly. ‘They’ll have a long commute to school . . . but they might want to give it a go.’

  ‘My offer stands, Annie,’ was Gray’s response to this. ‘You and your children are all very, very welcome to come and live with me, even on a trial basis. I think we’d all get along really well.’

  With the mobile clamped so tightly to her head that her ear was beginning to throb, Annie took another steadying breath before telling him: ‘OK, Gray, I’ll have to talk to Lana and Owen, but I’m thinking we should give it a whirl.’

  When the call was over, Annie put her phone back down on her desk, then her professional eye took over, directing her attention to the item on the screen in front of her: yes, it really was this season’s BNWT Marc Jacobs handbag with serial number for sale on Lana’s charity website. The top bid was £120 and the deal was closing at the end of the day.

  She speed-dialled Lana and left a message on her phone: ‘Babes, I’ve just put in two hundred pounds for your handbag, but tell me if I need more to get it, I’ll sell it for you on my site and give your charity the extra money. You should get four hundred and fifty for that bag at the very, very least, if it’s genuine. Call me.’

  Then her phone rang and she saw it was Owen, who did have his own mobile but it was for emergency use only.

  ‘Everything OK, Owen?’ she asked before he’d even said hello.

  ‘Yes! I just wanted to tell you . . .’ He was breathless.

  ‘My God! What’s the matter? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes! It’s just I’ve been picked . . . I auditioned . . . it was so scary . . . but I’ve been picked for the school show . . .’

  ‘To do what?’ Annie was only slightly conscious that she’d kept her client waiting a full ten minutes by now and she never, ever did that, but the client would have to wait just a little longer.

  ‘A guitar solo . . . and a song!’

  He didn’t need to say another thing, the happiness that beamed from those words was so radiant, she could feel the warmth of it down the line.

  ‘That’s just fantastic,’ she told him. ‘A solo! I can’t believe it!’ This was how far he’d come, her little boy, the boy who’d once only spoken six words at school in an entire term. ‘I am so, so proud of you, that’s amazing! I was proud of you anyway, Owen,’ she added, ‘I think you’re just fab.’

  ***

  Arriving home just after 7.30 p.m., Annie saw a notice warning that the lift was out of order, so with the last burst of physical energy she had left for the day, she took the stairs up to the third floor.

  She walked quickly, taking the treads at a steady pace. Just as she approached the top of the last flight of stairs, the stairwell door burst open and Ed Leon was at the top of the steps.

  ‘Ed, hello. I was hoping to catch you!’ she greeted him.

  ‘Oh, Mrs . . . erm . . . Annie. I take it the lift’s still out of action?’

  ‘Yeah, but I try and do the stairs once a day anyway.’ There was a slight breathlessness to her voice by now because she’d taken them at a brisk trot. ‘Keeps my bum at the top of my legs, where I’d like it to stay.’

  ‘Right, well . . .’ He seemed at a loss to know what to add to that, and clasped his hands tightly together in front of him.

  ‘Owen!’ they exclaimed together.

&n
bsp; ‘Fantastic news about Owen,’ Ed said next. ‘I waited to speak to you about that but I thought’ – he looked at his watch – ‘thought you must have been held up.’

  ‘I know, I’m later than usual. Anyway, he phoned to tell me. Singing with the guitar, solo?’ She wanted to check she’d understood it right.

  ‘Yes. Not a whole song, he does the first verse, then the group join in, but still . . .’ Ed smiled at her, before adding, ‘I worried it might be too much too soon, but his reaction is so positive that I think he’ll be fine. And he did the audition brilliantly, put himself in for it. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Thank you, Ed.’ Annie had made it up to his level now. ‘Thank you so much. But don’t be so modest: it is all down to you, no question about it. You’ve been the best thing that’s happened to Owen for a long time and I’m thrilled for him!’

  She gave Ed a broad smile and wondered how she could show her gratitude. This nerdy but very kind man had taken her shy and wobbly son under his wing for no reason other than he seemed to really like Owen and wanted to help him progress.

  Quite spontaneously, Annie opened up her arms and threw Ed a generous hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  The effect of this on Ed was unexpected.

  He kissed her back, first on the cheek and then, turning his head slightly, he sought her mouth.

  His eyes turned down to level with hers and she caught a glimpse of how darkly blue they were in the dim light of the stairwell. She thought she saw something questioning there, but before she could read it properly, their lips had brushed together and they seemed to be kissing.

  Her lips were pressed against his, his arms were tightly around her back, her mouth was feeling for more and yes, they did definitely seem to be kissing.

 

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