I feel a bit wrong-footed. To be honest, I was all ready for a bit more drama.
‘OK,’ I say at last.
Luke opens his beer and grins at me. Then he frowns, puzzled. ‘What’s this?’ He unpeels a place card from the bottom of the bottle. ‘ “Happy Birthday Mike”. Who’s Mike?’
Shit. How did that get there?
‘No idea!’ I grab it from him and hastily crumple it. ‘Weird. Must have got picked up at the shop. Shall we … er … watch TV?’
The advantage of having the house to ourselves is we don’t have to watch snooker all the time any more. Or real-life crime. Or documentaries about the Cold War. We’re snuggled up on the sofa with the gas fire flickering away, and Luke is flipping through the channels, when suddenly he pauses and turns to me.
‘Becky … you don’t really think I would ever send Minnie away, do you? I mean, is that the kind of father you think I am?’
He looks quite perturbed and I feel a bit guilty. The truth is, I did.
‘Er …’ My phone rings before I can answer. ‘It’s Suze,’ I say apprehensively. ‘I’d better just get this …’ I head swiftly out of the room and take a deep breath. ‘Hi, Suze?’
I’ve texted Suze several times since our mini-row but we haven’t spoken. Is she still angry with me? Do I dare bring up the special shortbread thing?
‘Have you seen Style Central?’ Her voice blasts down the line, taking me by surprise. ‘Have you seen it? I’ve just had a copy biked round. I couldn’t believe my eyes.’
‘What? Oh, you mean Tarkie’s interview? Does it look good? Danny said Tarquin was really experimental—’
‘Experimental? Is that what he calls it? Interesting choice of word. I could have chosen a better one.’
There’s a weird, sarcastic edge to Suze’s voice. What’s up? Suze is never sarcastic.
‘Suze … are you OK?’ I say nervously.
‘No, I’m not OK! I should never have let Tarkie go to that photoshoot without me! I should never have trusted Danny. What was I thinking? Where were Tarkie’s advisers? Who edited the photospread? Because whoever it was, I’m suing them—’
‘Suze!’ I try to interrupt the stream of words. ‘Tell me. What’s wrong?’
‘They dressed Tarkie up in leather bondage gear!’ she erupts. ‘That’s what’s wrong! He looks like a gay model!’
Oh God. The thing about Tarquin is, he can look a bit … metrosexual. And Suze is quite sensitive about it.
‘Come on, Suze,’ I say soothingly. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t look gay …’
‘Yes he does! And it’s deliberate! They haven’t even mentioned that he’s married or has children! It’s all about sexy Lord Tarquin with his “honed pecs” and “what’s under his kilt?” And they’ve used all kinds of suggestive props …’ I can practically hear her shudder. ‘I’m going to kill Danny. Kill him!’
She must be overreacting. But then, Suze can get quite mother-tiger-ish about anyone she loves.
‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think …’ I begin.
‘Oh, you think?’ she says furiously. ‘Well, you wait till you see it! And I don’t know why you’re defending him, Bex. He’s screwed you over, too.’
I think Suze must be going a bit deranged. How on earth could Danny have screwed me over in an interview about his new collection?
‘OK, Suze,’ I say patiently. ‘How has Danny screwed me over?’
‘Luke’s party. He’s blabbed.’
I have never moved as fast as I do now. Within thirty seconds I’m upstairs and online, clicking feverishly till I get to the right page. And there it is, right under the moody black and white photo of Tarkie chopping logs in a tight white T-shirt with his kilt slung almost obscenely low. (He does have good abs, Tarkie. I never realized.)
‘Kovitz is in talks to launch a furniture line and lifestyle website,’ reads the interview. ‘Does this fashion whirlwind ever have any downtime? “Sure,” laughs Kovitz. “I like to party. I’m heading to Goa for a couple weeks then I’m coming back for a surprise party. Actually, it’s for Luke Brandon, the husband of Rebecca Brandon, who brought this whole collaboration together.” Thus the fashion world comes full circle.’
I read it three times, breathing faster and faster.
I am going to kill Danny. Kill him.
From: Becky Brandon
Subject: URGENT MESSAGE!!!!!
Date: 13 March 2006
To: [email protected]
Dear Reader of Style Central
Whilst reading the latest issue of Style Central you may have noticed a small reference by Danny Kovitz to a surprise party for my husband Luke Brandon.
May I please ask you very sincerely to FORGET THIS and PUT IT FROM YOUR MIND. If by any chance you know my husband, please do not mention it. It is supposed to be a SURPRISE.
If you could rip out the page and destroy it, that would be even better.
With sincere thanks
Rebecca Brandon (née Bloomwood)
People Who Know About Party
Me
Suze
Tarquin
Danny
Jess
Tom
Mum
Dad
Janice
Martin
Bonnie
Those three women who were listening at the next-door table
Gary
Janice’s plumber
Rupert and Harry at The Service
Erica
Marketing directors of Bollinger, Dom, Perignon, Bacardi, Veuve Clicquot,
Party Time Beverages, Jacob’s Creek, Kentish English Sparkling Wine Cliff
Manicurist (I was so stressed out, I had to talk to someone, and she promised not to blab)
165 invited guests (not including Brandon C lot)
500 readers of Style Central
Total = 693
Oh God.
SIXTEEN
Why did he have to mention it? Why?
And Suze is right, one of those pictures of Tarkie is totally inappropriate.
I left Danny about twenty messages, all getting more and more irate, until at last he called, when I was giving Minnie a bath, and left a message trying to defend himself. He has such a nerve.
‘Becky, OK, look. That guy was totally out of line. I told him off the record! We were just chatting after the interview! Anyway, what does it matter? Nobody reads Style Central. No one Luke knows, anyway.’
To be fair, that’s true. And that’s the one thing that gives me comfort: Style Central only has about five hundred readers. I mean, they’re all very cool and important and influential in fashion and design, but the point is, they don’t know Luke.
First thing the following morning, I got in touch with the editor and begged him to let me contact all the subscribers, and eventually he agreed to pass on an email asking them not to let on. Two weeks have passed and nothing seems to have seeped out yet. I think I’ve contained the outbreak. But I still can’t relax.
In fact I’m in a bit of a state all round. I’m not sleeping well, and my hair looks terrible. In one sense the party is more under control than it was, because I’ve booked all the things I hadn’t thought about, like heaters and loos and flooring. But everything costs so much money. All my credit cards are starting to bounce and it’s getting a bit scary. I had a really nasty conversation with the Portaloo lady yesterday (I must be more careful about answering the phone), who wanted to know why my deposit was being held up and wasn’t at all sympathetic about my recent emergency root canal.
I just hadn’t realized … I mean, I hadn’t quite planned …
Anyway. Today is the big day. I’m going to march in, wearing my smartest prospective-board-member suit and killer heels. Trevor’s back from his holiday and I’ve got an appointment at eleven to see him. And I’m going to ask for the Employee of the Year money, plus a raise. Payable immediately.
As I arrive at work I’m feeling quite jittery. I’ve ne
ver asked for a raise before. But Luke always says it’s perfectly normal and appropriate. He says he respects people who value their own worth correctly. Well, I value my own worth at precisely £7,200 more than I’m getting at the moment. (That’s how much I’ve worked out I need for the party. Maybe I’ll ask for eight, to be on the safe side.)
I’m not going to throw a tantrum about it. I’m just going to be firm and to the point. I’ll say, ‘Trevor, I’ve assessed the market rate, and I calculate that a personal shopper of my calibre is worth an additional eight thousand pounds. Which I would like advanced today, if possible.’
Actually … let’s make it ten thousand. That’s a nice round number.
And what’s ten thousand pounds in the scheme of things? The Look is a massive department store with a great big turnover and they can easily afford ten thousand pounds for a valued employee and potential board member. I mean, Elinor spent way more than ten thousand pounds in my department in about five minutes flat. Which I might mention, if things get a bit sticky.
As I’m heading up the escalator my BlackBerry buzzes with two new emails. The lighting company and the security firm have both finally got back to me. I read both of their quotes in turn – and when I’ve finished I feel so wobbly I nearly trip over the top of the escalator. They both want four-figure sums beginning with ‘4’, with a 50 per cent deposit payable immediately, due to the lateness of the booking.
So let’s work this out. In total, I now need …
OK. Don’t panic. It’s very simple. To put this party on properly, I need … fifteen grand.
Fifteen grand? Am I seriously going to ask my boss for fifteen thousand pounds? With a straight face?
I want to laugh hysterically, or maybe run away. But I can’t. This is my only option. I have to stay bullish. I have to believe I’m worth another fifteen thousand pounds. Yes. I am.
As I reach our department I duck into one of the dressing rooms, lock the door, take three deep breaths and face myself in the mirror.
‘Trevor,’ I say as confidently as possible. ‘I’ve assessed the market rate and I calculate that a personal shopper of my calibre is worth an additional fifteen thousand pounds. Which I would like today, if possible. Cheque or cash is fine.’
I did it quite well. Apart from the shaky voice. And the gulping when I got to ‘fifteen thousand’.
Maybe I should start off asking for ten thousand. And then say, ‘Actually, I meant fifteen,’ just as he’s about to write out the cheque.
No. Bad idea.
My stomach is turning over. This is where I wish I had ‘people’, like Danny does. He never has to ask anyone for money. In fact, he behaves as if money doesn’t exist.
‘Becky.’ Jasmine is knocking on the door. ‘Your customer’s here.’
OK. I’ll just have to wing it. Or hope someone gives me a really, really big tip.
*
On the plus side, it’s a really good morning. As I grab a coffee at ten thirty, the place is full. Both Jasmine and I are in the middle of one-to-one appointments, and there are a few dropin customers too. We always let our regular clients come and use the nice dressing rooms, even if they haven’t made a consultation appointment. There’s a cappuccino machine, and sofas, and bowls of sweets, and the whole place is feel-good. I even have a few customers who regularly meet here for a chat, instead of a café.
As I look around, listening to the familiar noises of hangers and zips and chatter and laughter, I can’t help feeling proud. The rest of the store may be struggling, but my department is warm and happy and buzzy.
Jasmine is packaging up a load of Paul Smith shirts, and as she rings up the till she arches her eyebrows at me.
‘Look what I got online.’ She pulls out a plastic tabard reading ‘OFFICESUPPLIES.COM’. ‘I wear it when I deliver clothes. No one ever gives me any gip.’
‘Wow,’ I say, impressed. ‘That’s thorough.’
‘My delivery name is Gwen.’ She nods. ‘I’ve got a whole second personality going on. Gwen doesn’t smoke. And she’s Pisces.’
‘Er … great!’ Sometimes I worry that Jasmine has gone a bit far with the whole cloak-and-dagger bit. ‘Hi, Louise!’
Jasmine’s client has arrived at the till. It’s Louise Sullivan, who has three kids and her own online food company and is constantly stressing over whether to have a tummy tuck or not, which is ridiculous. She looks great. It’s not her fault her husband has zero tact and likes making crass jokes.
‘Will you take your clothes now or have them delivered discreetly?’ says Jasmine as she swipes Louise’s card.
‘I could probably take one bag now,’ says Louise, and chews her lip. ‘But no more than one.’
‘No problem.’ Jasmine nods in a businesslike way. ‘So … we’ll deliver the rest in a computer-paper box?’
‘Actually …’ Louise reaches in her carrier bag. ‘I brought this.’ It’s a flatpacked box, stamped with ‘Ligurian Olive Oil’.
‘I like it.’ I can see Jasmine looking at Louise with new respect. ‘Olive oil it is.’ She takes the box. ‘Tomorrow evening?’
‘Which one of you is Becky?’ comes a man’s voice, and we all start. You don’t often get men on this floor, but a guy in a leather jacket with a fleshy face is striding towards us. He’s holding a box marked ‘Computer Paper’ and wearing a deep scowl on his face.
I feel a sudden qualm. I really hope that’s just a box of computer paper.
‘Me!’ I say brightly, as Jasmine stuffs the olive-oil box under the counter and Louise quickly melts away. ‘Can I help?’
‘What the hell is going on?’ He brandishes the box at me. ‘What’s this?’
‘Um … a box? Would you like an appointment with a personal shopper, sir?’ I add hastily. ‘Menswear is actually on the second floor—’
‘I’m not after menswear,’ he says menacingly. ‘I’m after answers.’
He crashes the box down on the counter and lifts the lid. Jasmine and I exchange glances. It’s the Preen dress I sold to Ariane Raynor last week. Oh God, this must be Ariane’s husband. The one who used to be a rock star, apparently, but hasn’t had a hit for years. The one who tried to make a pass at the au pair and trims his pubic hair in front of Desperate Housewives. (We’ve chatted quite a lot, me and Ariane.)
‘ “Shop in Private”.’ He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads out loud in a sarcastic voice. ‘“Have clothes delivered in a cardboard box labelled ‘Computer Paper’ or ‘Sanitary Products’.” ’
Shit.
‘She’s been shopping, hasn’t she?’ He thumps the leaflet down. ‘How much has she spent?’
My phone bleeps with a text and I can see Jasmine jerking her head at it. I surreptitiously click on it to find a message from her.
Ariane is here for her alteration!!!! I put her in dressing room 3 while you were in with Victoria. Shall I warn her?
I nod unobtrusively at Jasmine and turn back to Ariane’s husband.
‘Mr …’
‘Raynor.’
‘Mr Raynor, I’m afraid I couldn’t comment,’ I say smoothly. ‘I have to respect my customers’ privacy. Perhaps you could come back another time?’
‘Jasmine?’ rings out Ariane’s distinctive voice from the dressing rooms. ‘Could you look at this hem? Because I don’t think—’ Her voice abruptly breaks off, as though someone’s muffled her – but it’s too late. Her husband’s face has jolted in recognition.
‘Is that Ariane?’ Incredulity spreads over his face. ‘Is she shopping again?’
No she’s not, you oaf, I want to reply, she’s having an alteration done on a dress she bought two years ago. And anyway, what about the Bang and Olufsen system you just insisted on replacing in your country house? That cost squillions more than a dress.
But instead I smile sweetly and say, ‘Our customer appointments are confidential. Now, if that’s all …’
‘It’s not!’ He raises his voice to a bark. ‘Ariane, you come out
here now!’
‘Sir, please could you refrain from shouting in here?’ I say calmly, while reaching for my phone and texting to Jasmine:
Ariane’s husband v. irate. Take her out back way.
‘Ariane, I know you’re in there!’ he shouts threateningly. ‘I know you’ve been lying to me!’ He makes for the entrance but I block his way.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you in.’ I smile. ‘Only customers are permitted in the personal-shopping area. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Understand?’ He turns his wrath on me. ‘I’ll tell you what I understand. You’re all in this together, you witches. Computer fucking paper.’ He bangs a fist down on the box. ‘You should be in jail.’
I can’t help flinching. His blue eyes are bloodshot and I suddenly wonder if he’s been drinking.
‘It’s simply a discreet packaging option.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘Not everyone wants to flaunt designer labels at this time.’
‘I bet they don’t.’ He eyes me nastily. ‘Not to their mugs of husbands, they don’t. Is this “Who can fleece their man the most”?’
I’m so outraged, I can’t help gasping.
‘Most of my clients have their own incomes, actually,’ I reply, forcing myself to stay polite. ‘And I think it’s up to them how they spend their money, don’t you? I believe Ariane’s furniture business is going very well at the moment.’
I can’t help a little dig. I know he’s threatened by her success. She says it every time she comes in. And then she says she’s going to leave him. And then by the end of the session she’s crying and saying she loves him really.
Honestly, shopping beats therapy, any time. It costs the same and you get a dress out of it.
‘Ariane!’ He starts pushing past me.
‘Stop!’ I grab his arm, absolutely furious. ‘I told you, only clients are permitted in the—’
‘Get out of my way!’ He throws my arm aside as if I’m a doll.
OK. Now this is a matter of principle. No one comes and barges past me, into my department.
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