It WAS her, shoots through my mind. It WAS her outside the church.
‘Elinor!’ I manage. ‘What a surprise.’
This would be the understatement of the year.
‘Hello, Rebecca.’ She looks around the dressing room disdainfully as though to say ‘I expected no better,’ which is a nerve, as it’s just been redecorated.
‘Er … what can I do for you?’ I say at last.
‘I wish to …’ She stops and there’s a long, frozen silence. I feel as though we’re in a play and we’ve both forgotten our lines. What the hell are you doing here? is what I really want to say. Or, frankly, just Hhhnnnnhh?
This silence is getting ridiculous. We can’t stand here for ever like two mannequins. Elinor told Jasmine she was a customer. Well, fine. I’ll treat her like a customer.
‘So, are you after anything in particular?’ I take out my notepad, just as if she were any other client. ‘Day wear, perhaps? We have some new Chanel pieces in, which I believe might be your style.’
‘Very well,’ says Elinor after a lengthy pause.
What?
She’s going to try on clothes? Here? Seriously?
‘OK,’ I say, feeling a bit surreal. ‘Fine. I’ll select some pieces that I think would … er … suit you.’
I go to collect the clothes myself, return to the dressing room and hand them to Elinor.
‘Feel free to try on as many or as few as you like,’ I say politely. ‘I’ll be just outside if you need any advice or help.’
I close the door quietly, and give a silent scream. Elinor. Here. What the fuck is going on? Am I going to tell Luke about this? The whole thing is too freaky. I suddenly wish I’d pressed Luke more on what exactly happened between them, and what heinous thing she said. Should I be telling Elinor dramatically to get out now and never darken the door of The Look again?
But if I did that I’d probably get fired.
After about a minute the door opens again and Elinor appears, holding the whole armful of clothes. She can’t have tried them on, she hasn’t had nearly enough time.
‘Shall I take those for you?’ I force myself to stay polite.
‘Yes. They were satisfactory.’ She nods.
For a moment I think I can’t have understood.
‘You mean … you want to take them?’ I say disbelievingly. ‘You’re going to buy them?’
‘Very well. Yes.’ She frowns impatiently as though this conversation is already irritating her.
Eight grand’s worth of clothes? Just like that? My bonus is going to be fantastic.
‘OK! Well, that’s great!’ I’m trying to suppress my glee. ‘Any alterations needed or anything?’
Elinor shakes her head with the barest of movements. This is officially the most bizarre appointment I’ve ever known. Most people, if they were going to spend eight grand on clothes, would at least come out and do a twirl and say, ‘What do you think?’
Jasmine passes by with a rack of clothes and I see her eyeing Elinor incredulously. She is quite a sight, Elinor, with her pale, tight, over-made-up face, and veiny hands laden with rocks, and her steely, imperious gaze. She’s looking older too, I abruptly realize. Her skin is looking thin and papery, and I can see a couple of grey wisps at her temple which the hairdresser obviously missed. (I expect he’ll be shot at dawn.)
‘So, is there anything else I can help you with? Evening wear? Accessories?’
Elinor opens her mouth. Then she closes it, then opens it again. She looks as though she’s really struggling to utter something, and I watch in apprehension. Is she going to mention Luke? Does she have some piece of bad news? There has to be a reason she’s come here.
‘Evening wear,’ she murmurs at last.
Yeah, right. That’s really what you were about to say.
I fetch her six evening dresses and she chooses three. And then two bags. And a stole. The whole thing is becoming farcical. She’s spent about twenty grand and she still won’t look me in the eye and she still won’t say whatever she’s come here to say.
‘Would you like any … refreshments?’ I say at last, trying to sound normal and pleasant. ‘Can I get you a cappuccino? A cup of tea? A glass of champagne?’
We’ve run out of categories of clothes. She can’t buy anything else. She can’t stave it off any longer. Whatever it is.
Elinor’s just standing there, her head bowed slightly, her hands clutched around the handle of her bag. I’ve never known her this subdued. It’s almost scary. And she hasn’t insulted me once, I realize in sudden astonishment. She hasn’t said my shoes are shoddy or my nail polish is vulgar. What’s up with her? Is she ill?
At last, as though with a huge effort, she raises her head.
‘Rebecca.’
‘Yes?’ I say nervously. ‘What is it?’
When she speaks again, it’s so quietly I can barely hear her.
‘I wish to see my grandchild.’
Oh God, oh God, oh God. What do I do?
All the way home my head is spinning. Never in a million years did I think this would happen. I didn’t think Elinor was even interested in Minnie.
When Minnie was first born she didn’t bother visiting us for about three months. Then she just pitched up one day with her driver waiting outside, glanced into the crib, said ‘Is she normal?’ and when we’d said yes, left. And whereas most people give you gorgeous things like teddies or cute booties, Elinor sent the most hideous antique doll with ringlets and scary eyes like in a horror film. It was so creepy, Mum wouldn’t have it in the house, and in the end I sold it on eBay. (So Elinor had better not ask to see it or anything.)
And all this was before the big row between her and Luke, since when we’ve barely mentioned her name. About two months before Christmas I tried to ask if we’d be giving her a present, and Luke nearly bit my head off. I haven’t dared mention her since.
Of course there’s one easy option ahead of me. I could just throw her card in the bin and pretend I never saw her. Blank the whole thing from my mind. I mean, what could she do about it?
But somehow … I can’t bring myself to. I’ve never seen Elinor look vulnerable before; not like she did today. During those tense moments when she was waiting for me to answer, I couldn’t see Elinor the ice-queen, I just saw Elinor the lonely old woman with papery hands.
Then, as soon as I said ‘OK, I’ll ask Luke,’ she immediately reverted to her normal sub-zero manner and started telling me how inferior The Look was to shops in Manhattan and how the English didn’t understand service culture and how there were specks on the carpet in the dressing room.
But somehow she’d got under my skin. I can’t ignore her. I can’t throw her card away. She may be a total bitch ice-queen but she is Minnie’s grandmother. They are flesh and blood. You know. If Elinor had any of either.
And after all, it’s possible Luke might have mellowed. What I need to do is raise the subject very carefully. Very, very gently, like waving an olive branch in the air. And I’ll see what happens.
So that night I wait up till Luke gets back, has kissed Minnie goodnight, had a whisky and is getting undressed, before I broach anything.
‘Luke … about your mother,’ I begin tentatively.
‘I was thinking about Annabel today too.’ Luke turns, his face softened. ‘Dad emailed me some old pictures of her today. I’ll show you.’
Oh, great start, Becky. I should have been clear which mother. Now he thinks I’ve brought up the subject of Annabel, it’s impossible to segue neatly into Elinor.
‘I was just thinking about … um … family ties.’ I change tack. ‘And family traits,’ I add in sudden inspiration. ‘Who do you think Minnie takes after most? She totally gets being a drama queen from Mum, and she has your eyes … in fact, she probably takes after everyone in the family a little bit, even …’ I hesitate, my heart thumping. ‘Even your biological mother. Elinor.’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ says Luke curtly, and bangs a drawer s
hut.
OK. So he doesn’t sound mellow.
‘But she is her grandmother, after all,’ I persist. ‘Minnie’s bound to take after her in some way or other—’
‘I don’t see that.’ He cuts me off. ‘Nurture’s what counts. I was always Annabel’s son, never that woman’s.’
Yikes. That woman. Things are even worse than I thought.
‘Right,’ I say feebly.
I can’t pipe up with ‘So how about we take Minnie to visit Elinor?’ Not now. I’ll have to leave it for the moment.
‘So, did you have a good rest of the day?’ I change topic.
‘Not bad.’ He nods. ‘And you? Get back all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say innocently. ‘I got a cab. Thanks for asking.’
‘Strange area to have a cosmetic-surgery clinic, I was thinking,’ he adds casually. ‘Not what you would expect in the financial district.’
I make the mistake of meeting his eye – and there’s a tell-tale glint in it. I knew he was on to me.
The only way forward is to brazen it out.
‘Are you crazy?’ I retort. ‘It makes total sense. Look at all those haggard City workers walking around. You know, a recent magazine survey showed that City workers are more prematurely aged than any other sector, by 20 per cent.’
I’ve made this up, but Luke doesn’t know that, does he? And I bet it’s true.
‘You know what?’ I add, having a sudden bright thought. ‘The same survey said that if people feel cherished by their bosses they age less quickly. And they work better.’
‘I’m sure.’ Luke is checking his BlackBerry.
‘And it said that one way is for bosses to give their employees personalized, signed birthday cards,’ I persist. ‘Isn’t that interesting? Do you give people personalized cards at Brandon Communications?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Luke barely nods.
What a nerve. I feel like saying, ‘No you don’t! They’re all just in a pile in your office, unsigned!’
‘Oh, good.’ I force myself to sound casual. ‘Because apparently people feel really happy to know their boss has signed the card themselves and it hasn’t just been done by an assistant or anything. It raises their endorphins by 15 per cent.’
Luke pauses in his tapping. Yes! I’ve got through to him.
‘Becky … you do read a lot of crap.’
Crap?
‘It’s called research, actually,’ I say with dignity. ‘I thought you might be interested in how a tiny little thing like a signed birthday card could make all the difference. Because a lot of bosses would just forget. But obviously not you.’
Ha. Take that, Mr Too-busy-to-sign.
For a moment Luke is silenced.
‘Fascinating,’ he says at last. But then he reaches for a pencil and makes a note on the to-do list he carries around in his pocket. I pretend not to notice, but inside I smile a little satisfied smile.
OK, now I feel we’re done with this conversation. And I really don’t want to reprise the one about Botox. So with an elaborate yawn, I settle down to go to sleep.
But as I close my eyes, a vision of Elinor is still lingering in my head. I actually feel guilty about her, which is very weird, and a brand-new experience for me. But I can’t work out what to do about it now.
Oh well. I’ll think about it tomorrow.
From: Bonnie Seabright
Subject: Cards
Date: 23 January 2006
To: Becky Brandon
Luke has signed all the birthday cards! Many thanks! Bonnie!
From: Becky Brandon
Subject: Re: Cards
Date: 24 January 2006
To: Bonnie Seabright
No problem! Let me know if anything else is bugging you.
Becky xxx
PS have you managed to mention the gym yet?
CENTRAL DEPARTMENTAL UNIT
FOR MONETARY POLICY
5th Floor
180 Whitehall Place
London SW1
Ms Rebecca Brandon
The Pines
43 Elton Road
Oxshott
Surrey
6 February 2006
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your letter of 1 February.
The Chancellor has indeed made a recent speech in which he highlighted the importance of retail to the British economy.
Unfortunately at this time there are no specific OBEs or damehoods ‘for shopping’ as you suggest. Should such an honour be introduced I will be sure to put your name forward.
I therefore return with thanks your package of receipts and store tags, which I looked at with interest and agree shows ‘real commitment to sustaining the economy’.
Yours sincerely
Edwin Tredwell
Director of Policy Research
NINE
A week later, I still haven’t decided what to do about Elinor. The truth is, I’ve barely given her a thought, I’ve been so busy. We’ve been deluged by customers wanting to use our secret-shopping service! It’s amazing! The TV news headlines might be all dismal about how the high street is dead and no one’s shopping … but they should come to our department, it’s buzzing!
And I’m even more preoccupied than usual today, because our new Ultimate Nanny is starting.
She’s called Kyla and she’s fab. She has a degree from Harvard and a Masters in childcare, and she’s a qualified teacher in Mandarin and tennis and the flute and the guitar and singing and … something else which I’ve forgotten. The harp, maybe. She originally came over to Britain with an American family, but they relocated back to Boston and she decided to stay because she’s doing a part-time dissertation at Goldsmiths and has family over here. So she only wants to work three days a week, which is perfect for us.
And she’s got these real buck teeth.
I mean, huge. Like a moose.
Not that her looks are relevant, either way. Obviously. I’m not some sort of prejudiced, lookist person. I still would have hired her even if she’d had a million-dollar supermodel’s smile.
But still. Her teeth warmed me to her for some reason. Plus her hair isn’t remotely swishy.
Which, by the way, was not on my ‘interview points’ list. When I wrote No Swishy Hair I was referring to something else completely, and Luke did not have to start teasing me. I just happened to notice Kyla’s hair – just out of interest – and it’s a very dull bob with a few greys.
So basically she’s perfect!
‘Julie Andrews is going to be here soon, is she?’ Mum comes into the kitchen, where Minnie is doing Play-Doh and I’m idly browsing eBay. She catches sight of the page and draws breath sharply. ‘Are you shopping, Becky?’
‘No!’ I say defensively.
Just because I’m on eBay, it doesn’t mean I’m going to buy anything, does it? Obviously I don’t need a pair of turquoise patent Chloé shoes, worn once, PayPal only. I’m just keeping up to date with what’s out there. Like you keep up with current events.
‘I hope you’ve got Minnie’s lederhosen ready?’ Mum adds. ‘And your whistle?’
‘Ha ha,’ I say politely.
Mum’s still really prickly about us hiring a nanny. She got even more offended when Luke and I wouldn’t let her do the interviews with us. She hovered outside the door, tutting and clicking her tongue and looking each candidate up and down disparagingly. Then, when she read Kyla’s CV, with all the stuff about the guitar and singing, well, that was it. She instantly christened Kyla Julie Andrews and has been making little oh-so-funny jokes ever since. Even Janice is in on it and has started calling Luke Captain von Trapp, which is really annoying, because that makes me either the dead wife or the Baroness.
‘If she wants to make clothes out of the curtains, can you tell her to use the ones in the blue room?’ Mum adds.
I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. And anyway, my phone is ringing. It’s Luke’s ID on the screen – he must want to know how it’s going.
‘Hi!’ I say as I answer. ‘She’s not here yet.’
‘Good.’ He sounds crackly, as though he’s in a car. ‘I just wanted to say something to you before she arrives. Becky, you must be honest with her.’
What’s that supposed to mean?
‘I’m always honest!’ I say, a tad indignantly.
‘This nanny needs to know the extent of the problem,’ he continues as though I haven’t even spoken. ‘We’ve hired her for a reason. There’s no point pretending Minnie’s a saint. We need to give her the history, explain the trouble we’ve had—’
‘OK, Luke!’ I say, a bit crossly. ‘I don’t need the lecture. I’ll tell her everything.’
Just because I wasn’t totally forthcoming I’m about Minnie at the interview. I mean, what am I supposed to do, slag off my own daughter? So I slightly fibbed and said Minnie had won Best Behaviour prize at toddler group for six weeks running. And Luke said that was defeating the entire object of the exercise and we had a slight … heated discussion.
‘Anyway, she’s here,’ I say as the doorbell goes. ‘I’d better run. See you later.’
As I open the door, Kyla’s standing there, holding a guitar, and I have to stifle a giggle. She does look just like Julie Andrews, except in jeans. I wonder if she danced up the road singing ‘I Have Confidence In Me’.
‘Hi, Mrs Brandon.’ Her buck teeth are already exposed in a friendly grin.
‘Please call me Becky!’ I usher her in. ‘Minnie can’t wait to see you! She’s doing Play-Doh,’ I add a little smugly as I lead her to the kitchen. ‘I like to start her off with something constructive in the morning.’
‘Wonderful.’ Kyla nods vigorously. ‘I did a lot of Play-Doh work with Eloise, my former charge, when she was a toddler. She was so talented at it. In fact, she won a prize in a local art competition for one of her creations.’ She smiles reminiscently ‘We were all so proud.’
‘Great!’ I smile back. ‘So here we are …’ I open the door with a flourish.
Shit. Minnie isn’t doing Play-Doh any more. She’s abandoned all the pots and is banging merrily at my laptop.
Mini Shopaholic Page 13