The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine)

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The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine) Page 25

by Carmen Reid


  With a great deal of concentration, Annie managed to separate one dozen eggs: whites into one bowl for the meringues, yolks into another for the hollandaise.

  Then her mobile rang and she was very surprised to hear Svetlana on the line.

  In a few breathless sentences the former Miss Ukraine spelled out the crisis going on in her life. Potato-faced Igor, who had doubtless cheated on her in the past, had now inevitably met someone much younger, much more beautiful and willing, so he had filed for divorce!

  But the billionaire gas baron, with an eye towards safeguarding every penny of his fortune, had filed in Russia, leaving Svetlana convinced she was going to get nothing.

  ‘I am phoning all my Russian friends, they are putting me into a panic,’ Svetlana was blurting into Annie’s ear. ‘I think: I must phone an English friend and I think of you.’

  Annie couldn’t help but be flattered by this elevation in status from stylist to friend. Although it didn’t say much about the multiculturalism of Svetlana’s inner circle.

  ‘Darlin’, you’ve got to calm down, right now,’ Annie said as soothingly as she could. ‘You live in London. Your children were both born here, right?’

  ‘Yes, at the Portland, yes.’

  ‘Darlin’, the boys are English. I’m certain, absolutely certain he can’t mess you about. He can’t divorce you in Russia, I’m sure you can make sure it goes through the English courts.’

  ‘But his fortune, his estate is Russian, all in Russia,’ Svetlana went on, her voice rising. ‘He can hide things, hide everything from the English courts. He’s told me this before. Annie, if I don’t agree, I’m going to lose everything. He will threaten to take the boys away . . .’

  ‘Svetlana, calm down, calm down, darlin’.’ Svetlana had Annie’s full attention now: the bowls of separated eggs had been completely forgotten. ‘You’ve been talking to your Russian pals, haven’t you? But this is not a Dostoevsky novel . . .’ Somewhere up there, her late Francis Holland English teacher was smiling. ‘Babes, you live in a sixteen-bedroomed mansion in Mayfair, Igor would have a job hiding that, and that alone would probably see you comfortably all the way through retirement.’

  There was a pause while Annie thought hard about what Svetlana needed to do next. Suddenly, it was obvious.

  ‘You know what?’ she began. ‘I know someone who has been through a very nasty divorce with big money at stake. I’m sure I can ask her which lawyer you need, so keep your phone close and I’ll come back to you just as soon as I can.’

  It hadn’t occurred to Annie before just how powerful the women who formed her client base at The Store could be . . . and she had all of their mobiles on speed-dial, in order to inform them at the press of a button when something new and perfect for them had come in.

  Aha . . . and here was the number of the very glamorous forty-something whose monumental divorce settlement had made headlines. Now, she would just explain Svetlana’s situation, get the name of the QC who had done the business and call the soon to be ex-billionaire’s wife straight back.

  ‘Hi! Megan? How are you? Yes, it’s Annie Valentine. Not of The Store any more . . .’

  When Annie got back on the line to Svetlana, she was in for a surprise.

  ‘Got a pen and paper, babes?’ she asked. ‘His name is Harry Roscoff, of Roscoff, Barry and Mosse . . . How will you pay for him?!’ It had never occurred to Annie that Svetlana would have no money – that Potato-face would already have cut off her allowance precisely so she couldn’t cruise the streets of London in her chauffeured Bentley, chequebook in hand, in search of expert legal advice.

  ‘You’ve no money?!’ Annie asked incredulously.

  ‘Not one penny.’

  Once this had taken its moment or two to sink in, Annie issued the following instructions: ‘OK, darlin’, here’s what you have to do. You fill up a big suitcase with some of the things in your wardrobe you don’t want any more, the more bags, boots, shoes and labels the better. Then you tell me where I come to collect it from you and I will turn it into cash. I’ll sell everything for the best possible rates. And absolutely not one penny of commission, babes. I’m doing this one for you.’

  Now she didn’t envy Svetlana her army of staff, her gilded lifestyle and her utter dependency on a total tyrant quite so much.

  When she’d hung up, a glance at the clock caused Annie to swear and ram the slightly runny meringue mix into the oven, set the timer and begin to hunt round the still unfamiliar kitchen for a pot to cook the fish in.

  ‘Dinah! Why haven’t I been able to get you on the phone for twenty minutes? Heeeeelp!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Dinah exclaimed, totally panicked by an emergency call from her sister.

  ‘I need you here. I can’t cope. I can’t do this on my own. I’ve only got two hours left.’

  ‘Annie, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I have to make dinner for Gray’s parents and it’s a total cock-up, everything’s going wrong.’

  ‘OK.’ Dinah breathed something of a sigh of relief. ‘Talk me through it.’

  The bloody, blinking hollandaise had curdled . . . Annie was going to have to go out again in the car in search of more eggs . . . oh and the cream she’d forgotten. There was no pot in the entire house big enough for the fish . . . but Dinah was assuring her that salmon could be cooked in the dishwasher.

  ‘The dishwasher!?’ Annie did not sound convinced.

  ‘Yes – provided you’ve got enough tinfoil. But you always do.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I have no more eggs and no more cream, but I have enough bloody tinfoil to build the Tin bloody Man and his entire tin family.’

  ‘That’s my girl. You just put it on the hottest wash for thirty-five minutes and you must, must make sure there’s no powder in the dispenser, obviously.’

  It sounded simple enough.

  ‘Will you talk me through the sauce on the phone when I get back with the eggs? Where are you? I can hear music.’

  ‘I’m in the Rialto, hiding from the builders, I’ve got half an hour before I get Billie from ballet.’

  Because the strangest things had happened to Dinah and Bryan just as soon as Annie had left London: Dinah had been offered the part-time job (doing admin at an art college) she’d always said she never wanted and Bryan had gone out and landed himself a major contract. Now, believe it or not, Dinah was having a new kitchen installed.

  ‘Oh . . . how’s the Rialto?’ Suddenly Annie felt a swoop of longing for the bustling Italian café she and Dinah liked best for coffee.

  ‘Oh, you know, same old, same old, the bacon got left in the grill so it’s pretty smoky today. What do you do in Upper Ploxley for coffee?’

  ‘DIY,’ was Annie’s gloomy reply. ‘Café culture has not made it this far east, sadly. Damn . . . drat and double damn.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘I’ve just realized that bleeping’s the oven. Oh hell! The meringues! Call you later.’

  ‘Eton mess, remember, Annie!’ were Dinah’s parting words. ‘If your meringues are crap, scrunch them up with strawbs and cream and call it Eton mess.’

  It wasn’t the colour of the meringues which was so bad – well, more roasted than lightly toasted – it was the shape. They’d merged, they’d moulded . . . they’d become as one. She had a baking tray entirely covered in one great big sandy brown, slightly crispy meringue.

  ‘Never mind . . . Eton mess,’ she told herself as she scratched and scraped large chunks into a bowl. Mix with cream, loads of strawberries and . . . Bob’s your uncle.

  She loaded up the dishwasher, put in the powder and turned it on, so she could empty it out later, all ready for the wrapped fish, then she rushed out to get eggs and cream.

  Back into the Jeep, back down the road, through the eight junctions and three sets of traffic lights, into the mega-supermarket, right down the aisles, locate eggs and cream, also buy more wine, party nibbles and other things to make the basket leaden heavy. As she bowl
ed the Jeep back through the roads, eight junctions and three sets of traffic lights, she considered the convenience of life in Highgate: there, she’d have sent Owen out for eggs and cream and he’d have been back in under five minutes.

  It was already approaching 5.30 as she stepped back into Gray’s house to the sound of Connor calling out a hello from the kitchen.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ were her first words as she emerged from the bear hug he treated her to.

  ‘Just passing – well, filming – not a million miles away,’ he managed through a full mouth. He swallowed then turned to pick up the glass of wine on the table behind him and swilled it down: ‘Mmm . . . gorgeous,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve made yourself at home,’ Annie said. ‘That’s not anything too fancy, is it?’ She turned the wine bottle and saw a new-looking Spanish label. No, fortunately Connor hadn’t broken into Gray’s vintage French burgundies . . . or whatever they were, all neatly stacked from floor to ceiling in the pantry.

  ‘Yup, Owen’s an excellent host.’ Connor gave her son, who was seated at the table with an empty bowl in front of him, a hearty pat on the back. ‘So, what’s for dinner? You’re quite the little suburban Nigella these days, then?’ he teased and she was tempted to punch him.

  ‘You can’t stay for dinner,’ Annie told him. ‘Gray’s parents are coming. I’m meeting them for the first time and I’m totally stressed.’

  Connor’s reaction was to sit down, put his long legs up on the kitchen table, fold his arms behind his head and utter the challenge: ‘Just try and make me leave, babes, just try and make me.’

  Owen giggled as Annie told Connor, ‘You can stay for a bit but by seven p.m., you are out of here.’

  ‘C’mon . . . I’ll help break the ice.’

  ‘Shut up, will you! I have to get on . . . Owen, you do the salad, Connor, scrub the potatoes and I’ll think about it . . . I have to phone Dinah about the sauce again.’

  The next hour did not go happily. As Annie tried to make hollandaise again, Connor snuck up behind her and asked her heavy questions quietly.

  ‘How’s it working out?’

  ‘It’s fine. We’re settling in . . . I think it’s going to work out really well.’

  ‘Aha . . . fine . . . well . . .’ Then standing close behind her he whispered into her ear: ‘And how’s it going in the bedroom?’ and made several pelvic thrusts against her hip for emphasis.

  Unfortunately he chose the moment she was carefully pouring a spoonful of vinegar into the sauce.

  ‘Connor!’ She tried to spoon the vinegar overflow out of the bowl as quickly as she could. ‘It’s fine, thank you,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not talking about it right now. I’m busy!’

  ‘Oooooh tetchy . . . another “fine” from Annie.’ Then in a suddenly serious voice, he added: ‘He’s got to be right, Annie, he’s got to be the Next One . . . absolutely no-one says you have to settle.’

  ‘Go away, Connor,’ she growled, ‘I can’t have this conversation now. Open the dishwasher and check my fish.’

  ‘What?!’

  Connor opened the machine and let a cloud of scalding steam into the kitchen as Annie pulled back the fridge door to bring out her meringue mess and beaten cream.

  ‘Smells lovely and lemony,’ Connor commented.

  ‘Lemony?! What??’ Just as it was dawning on Annie that maybe she should have double-checked the powder drawer hadn’t jammed shut on the last wash only to open and tip soap over her salmon, she also spotted the meringue bowl, totally empty, standing by the kitchen sink: ‘Where the bloody hell are my . . . CONNOR! Did you and Owen eat the meringues?’ she shouted.

  ‘The scrapings . . . the leftovers, I told Owen those had to be . . .’ Connor broke off. He could tell by Annie’s face that it hadn’t been a bowlful of scrapings they’d wolfed down.

  ‘They were very good,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘I will kill you!’ She ran at him, but at the last minute veered to the dishwasher, which stank of lemony-bleachy dishwasher powder.

  ‘No. No, no, no!

  Only for Gray to walk in, still in his raincoat, and ask what was the matter? And hello, Connor, and . . . could he smell fish? Didn’t she remember his father was allergic to fish?

  Annie ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom where, in a melodramatically Lana-like style, she threw herself across the bed, right on top of the chic red and white Marc by Marc Jacobs dress she’d laid out for tonight, and began to sob noisily.

  It wasn’t just that she was exhausted, or a crappy cook, or that she’d washed the salmon instead of cooking it, or that she’d completely forgotten about the fish allergy. There was something else. She was frightened. For the past few days she had been trying to suppress the worry, but now it was bubbling up uncontrollably. She was frightened that she’d made a mistake.

  She was beginning to suspect that she didn’t like Upper Ploxley, didn’t like suburban Essex life and all the endless trips on the M11 ferrying grumpy children to school.

  And then there was Gray. It was only when she’d moved in that she’d got a sense of how set in his ways he was. How – dare she use the word? – old and old-fashioned he seemed to her and the children.

  He wore shabby purple velvet slippers round the house (‘But they’re comfortable!’) and wouldn’t listen to her protestations about them. Although he looked dapper in a suit and tie, in his preferred golf V-neck and chinos he didn’t. He liked to read the paper, undisturbed, from cover to cover, taking a full two hours over it. The children bugged him. They made too much noise for him, too much mess. They required too much of her time and attention. He was used to a pampering wife, who kept a neat house, had meals on the table, and who ironed, and fussed over him. Maybe he was sorry too. Maybe he was wondering what the hell he’d got into. Maybe Fern’s worst fears were true: maybe Annie was being used as a tactic in the divorce battle.

  Annie found herself regularly replaying Roddy the Early Days in her mind to try and remember if she’d felt all the same worries then too. Had she experienced the same feelings of claustrophobia and uncertainty when she and Roddy had first moved in together?

  Now, when she thought back to that time, she remembered only delirious happiness: painting their tiny bedroom sexy pink . . . Roddy nursing her through appalling morning sickness because she got pregnant so soon . . . buying babygros and baby shoes, spending entire evenings entwined on the sofa, listening to each other’s music collections with mock disgust and debating baby names.

  But maybe she had been just as unsure, she kept telling herself, there must have been some moments of doubt. But she’d been so young. Nothing mattered so much when you were young. The stakes were not so high. You could give someone a whirl, you could back out and walk away. Well, OK . . . baby Lana would have made that more tricky, but still . . .

  Now there was no denying that she’d made a great big, important decision, which affected both her and her children’s lives, far too quickly.

  But she couldn’t just walk away . . . she had to be a grown-up and give it a real, considered chance.

  In the kitchen Annie could overhear the developing scene. Gray was making the mistake of telling Lana, Owen and Connor that he’d better go upstairs to see ‘if I can calm down this tantrum’.

  This caused Lana to jump up and shout: ‘No! No, you will not go up to my mum. How dare you call it a tantrum! Maybe if you hadn’t asked your parents round on a day when my mum’s working! Just expecting her to cook for you all like some sort of housekeeper! She can’t cook! Haven’t you noticed that yet? Haven’t you worked out the slightest thing about her?’

  ‘Lana,’ Connor tried to intervene, ‘I think you’re being a bit—’

  ‘But look at him,’ Lana raged. ‘He doesn’t do anything for himself, he’s the most unreconstructed chauvinist pig I’ve ever met. He just wants to turn Mum into his housewife!’

  ‘Lana, that is not true,’ Gray insisted, riled by the accusation.
‘I think you should stop, right now.’

  ‘I’m going up to her,’ Lana stormed. ‘You can just keep away!’

  With that she rushed out of the room.

  ‘Why don’t you have a glass of wine?’ Connor asked amiably. ‘Then probably best if you cancel your parents for tonight. Don’t worry about all this. I’m sure it’ll blow over . . . Teenagers! Total nightmare,’ he tried to sympathize.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Gray exclaimed. ‘That’s my Dominio de Pingus 1996! Very rare, Spanish . . . three hundred pounds a bottle . . . with excellent investment potential.’

  ‘Ah . . . sorry . . .’ Connor apologized, ‘I think you’d better have some.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Annie back in town:

  Orangey red linen wrap dress (Joseph sale)

  Beige mac (the trusty Valentino)

  Large orange leather tote (Coccinelle on eBay)

  Caramel heels (the Chanels, for morale)

  Orangey red lipstick (Mac)

  Est. cost: £390

  ‘You’re not dead yet, woman.’

  Annie walked down the charming flagstoned pavement of one of her favourite Highgate streets. Smartly painted fences enclosed gardens brimming with blossoming lilac bushes, buddleia and honeysuckle.

  Almost all of the three-storey Georgian houses had been beautifully and expensively renovated: lime mortar pointing restored, old wooden windows and doors repaired, fresh coats of historically appropriate Farrow and Ball paint applied, bright hanging baskets and windowboxes attached.

  To buy a whole house on this street . . . at least £1.5 million, she reckoned, which is why most were carved up into bijou flats. It was still her property dream to own a house in Highgate – but maybe it would have to be something a little smaller than one of these. Just two storeys and a garden would be fine. She wasn’t greedy.

  She passed a plump thirty-something woman striding briskly along in navy blue shorts, a pale floral blouse and black pumps. A black shoulder bag with a narrow strap was strung diagonally across her chest, bisecting her cleavage to horrible effect.

 

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