How Not To Shop

by Carmen Reid

  Before he could say anything else, she rattled off: 'Did you get the dry cleaning?'

  'Yes.'

  'And the cat food? And post the parcel for me?'

  'Yup to both.'

  'And write out the cheque for Lana's tennis thing?'

  'Yes, ma'am,' he joked.

  'Thank you, you're very good.'

  'Very, very good,' he reminded her. 'Bet you've not done anything about the Jeep windscreen, have you?'

  Oh brother.

  The large, ramshackle black Jeep in which she still bowled around London had a serious windscreen chip. Her name was on the insurance policy, so she was sup posed to have phoned to sort this out.

  'Sorry, I'll try and remember that,' she told him.

  'Where are you anyway?' he asked. 'When are you coming home? And what would you like to eat?'

  'Whatever you're making,' she suggested. 'It's always good. I'm going to be out a bit longer, Svetlana wants to see me at her house, in Mayfair! And we're expecting the call, you know, from the TV producer.'

  'Ooh! The money call?'

  'Here's hoping.'

  'I have my early retirement plans all worked out,' Ed teased.

  'Am I in them?'

  'Oh yeah, don't worry, you'll be invited onto the yacht for a little cruise once in a while. When you can take time out from your hectic TV schedule.'

  'That's big of you! And you all bronzed and buff, sailing your boat about all year long . . .'

  'Yup, a total Annie magnet.'

  'Nice . . .' Annie thought about that for a little moment, but then had to leave the yacht and return to reality. 'And how is everyone else?' she asked.

  'They're fine,' Ed replied. 'Lana's still at school, working on something until six, then she's here for something to eat, then she's going to Greta's to talk about their project, allegedly. Owen's practising his violin for a bit then I'm taking him to Scouts.'

  Family life was relentless. 'Are you OK doing all that?' She felt guilty now. 'I thought there was something you wanted to go and see?'

  Ed was a music teacher, a musician and an avid concert-goer. For Ed, going to a concert, gig or general thrash about with instruments was his relaxation time; if he didn't do it several times a week, he got grumpy.

  'No, no I'm fine,' he insisted, 'honestly. Head off to Mayfair. Go meet The Ukrainian.'

  Outside Dr Yasmin's surgery, Annie flagged down a cab. Extravagant, but she couldn't take the bus, could she? Not with a Prada shopping bag and a face full of Botox.

  Plus, if she saved some time with a cab now, she might make it home while Ed was still out dropping Owen at Scouts. That way, Annie would be able to haul her four carrier bags' worth of booty upstairs and into her office without having to answer any awkward questions.

  She glanced at her watch . . . yes, but she would have to hurry. At the thought of what Finn was going to tell them within the hour, her stomach gave a lurch.

  Chapter Two

  Svetlana in her gym:

  White Lycra catsuit (Move Dancewear)

  Gold and diamond watch (Cartier)

  One-carat diamond earrings (second husband)

  Three-carat diamond and ruby ring (third husband)

  Total est. cost £197,600

  'Maybe you have to come train with me . . .'

  From Harley Street to Mayfair was a twenty-minute taxi journey through some of the very smartest streets in London. Past the flagship stores of Oxford Street, down by the swanky car showrooms of Park Lane and into streets of the finest, most fabulous red-brick houses London had to offer.

  Quiet streets where the black railings were polished to a shine, where front doors were as dark and glossy as patent leather and even the plants and flowers in the window-boxes looked manicured.

  Then there were the pedestrians. Were security guards posted on the edge of Mayfair to stop people from coming in unless they'd styled and highlighted their hair, changed into one of this season's designer outfits and bought a very, very expensive bag?

  The cab driver pulled up in front of a house so impressive that Annie double-checked she had the right number before she dared to ring the bell.

  Yes, it was definitely number 7, according to the piece of paper she'd tucked into the back of her big leather Filofax. Oh good grief, she was going to have to update, she really would have to put away the leather and paper organizer and make another foray into the world of digital data. Surely she could handle a BlackBerry now, couldn't she? They even came in pink and she would back everything up straight away, so there wouldn't be another total wipeout trauma like back in the days of her early Palm Pilot.

  When the shiny black door opened, a maid, a real, live maid – small and dainty, possibly Filipino – in a black dress with a white apron on top, greeted her.

  'Ms Valentine?' the maid asked with a smile, 'Ms Wisneski is expecting you. Please to come in and be comfortable with us.'

  'Thank you,' Annie said and gave the maid as much of a smile as the fresh Botox would allow.

  Still weighed down with her four bulging bags, Annie bustled into the hallway where she had to stop and gawp.

  Walls had obviously been removed and skylights inserted. Clever, very expensive architects had been at work. Although Annie had stepped in through the door of a Victorian red-brick house, she was now standing in a dazzling white, modernist creation. And the paintings! They looked familiar, as in possibly-seen-on-the-walls-of-a-gallery-before familiar.

  Svetlana – tall, lusciously beauty-queen-gorgeous and only admitting to 'thirty-something' – had been married three times so far, to increasingly wealthy men who had either died, or left her for increasingly younger and more beautiful women. At the end of her third marriage, she'd hired her own barrister and been to the divorce courts to claim an eight-figure settlement which the Daily Mail had headlined: 'Guzzling ex-wife taps gas baron's fortune.' It had earned her an at-home photo shoot in OK! magazine and plenty of press coverage ever since.

  After all, she was still the mother of Igor Wisneski's two sons. And the little boys (aged nine and seven) were the only direct heirs to a staggering fortune.

  Svetlana's divorce court battle had brought about another happy result. She was now engaged to Harry Roscoff, the recently divorced (entirely Svetlana's fault) QC who had taken on her case and fought it so successfully. Fourth time around, Svetlana's marriage was going to be very different. Harry had already insisted she take independent legal advice to ensure that no matter how this relationship turned out, she would keep all her hard-won assets and never be a penniless ex-wife again.

  'Not that I am ever going to leave you, my darling,' he'd insisted. 'But if you leave me, you can take the lot. My life won't be worth living anyway.'

  This time, despite the impending wedding, Svetlana wasn't moving and she definitely wasn't selling. Her Mayfair home was her security. Harry was coming to live with her.

  'You think I go through all that marrying for nothing?' she'd asked Annie.

  'Why get married again?' Annie had wanted to know. 'If Harry's your husband, then one day he can claim against your estate.'

  'No. We have contract,' she'd insisted, before adding with her most charming smile, 'I love veddings! I love to be bride!'

  Just like its owner, the Divorce Settlement house was drop dead beautiful, extremely high maintenance and flawlessly tasteful . . . if a touch extravagant. Annie's eye travelled to the staircase where the original wooden steps and banisters had been replaced with a wrought iron and marble installation.

  'Ms Wisneski is upstairs with her trainer,' the maid explained.

  'Oh, right,' Annie tried out another smile. 'Shall I wait somewhere until she's finished?'

  'No, no,' the maid insisted, 'she say to come up and visit her.'

  So Annie began to follow the little woman up the stairs, their footsteps ringing out against the polished grey marble.

  The maid opened a door on the first floor and announced Annie's presence. 'Miss Valentine to be
visiting with you Miss Wisneski.'

  As Annie took in the huge white room, decked out with mats, mirrors and an elaborate metal weights machine which looked like a torture rack, Svetlana gushed 'Annnnnnah!' enthusiastically. She didn't come over to make her usual greeting of a rapid fire of Ukrainian kisses, but then, she was bent over backwards in the crab position with her head hanging upside down.

  'Hello my love,' was Annie's cheerful greeting, 'how's it going?'

  'Good!' Svetlana insisted, with some effort. 'Lisa is just vorking on my abs. I pay her to keep them as strong as a dancer's.' She slapped her stomach, which was so flat and so firm it sounded as if she'd smacked her hand against the wall.

  'And twenty-six . . . twenty-eight . . . thirty and up,' Lisa barked. She was a tiny blonde with the kind of taut physique only seen on dedicated fitness fanatics like Madonna or Paula Radcliffe.

  Svetlana, dressed in a shiny white catsuit, which displayed every single one of the ripples, nipples and breathtaking curves that had turned her into Miss Ukraine and many other Mrs since then, bounced up onto her feet.

  'And plié,' Lisa instructed.

  Obediently, Svetlana placed her heels together, toes turned out and began bending and straightening her legs elegantly. Only when she'd done about forty or so did there seem to be even the tiniest display of effort.

  Annie watched in open admiration. She knew perfectly well she'd struggle to do even one of these pliés, let alone be counting towards one hundred.

  'You've been shopping!' Svetlana pointed at Annie's bags, without breaking the rhythm of her bends.

  'Yeah!' Annie set the carriers down and began to pull things out eagerly. There was a real possibility she was going to look like a blimp on TV next to Svetlana, but at least she'd be an incredibly well-dressed blimp.

  'Yes! Oh yes! I love it,' Svetlana enthused as Annie showed her a dress, then the boots and finally the skirt.

  Meanwhile, Lisa kept up her flow of strict instructions and Svetlana began to lift dinky dumb-bells in hundreds of different directions to give her arms and back the seriously sexy definition that Annie had in the past urged her to show off with strapless Valentino and backless Armani dresses.

  'And my head,' Annie pointed to her frozen forehead: 'have you noticed?'

  'I see now,' Svetlana said, looking closely. 'You are going to be vonderful on screen – ' she gave a little clap of excitement – 'but maybe you have to come train with me and Lisa, I heard the camera puts on ten pounds.'

  'Oh,' Annie said, a little taken aback. Secretly, she'd been hoping her brand new pair of extra-firm Magic Knickers would see to the meaty little spare tyre which was firmly welded to her middle.

  'Lisa not mind, as long as I make sure her Christmas bonus is good. Very good,' Svetlana added, shooting Lisa a wink.

  Lisa turned to Annie and looked her up and down in an entirely uncomplimentary way. The idea of an extra client tagging along on training sessions was clearly not to her liking.

  'Well, I'd have to assess her,' Lisa said, 'and do a physical, first. That would be extra.'

  'Oh Lisa!' Svetlana exclaimed. 'With Lisa everything is extra.'

  'I've got a long waiting list,' Lisa said and then, giving Annie another hyper-critical look, added: 'and I only work with the dedicated.'

  They were spared any further investigation of the Annie working out with Svetlana nightmare scenario by the loud bleeping of Svetlana's phone.

  Well, at least, Annie assumed that's what the tiny sparkling piece of chrome technology was that Svetlana swept up and clamped quickly to her ear.

  'Hello, Svetlana speaking . . . oh Finn! How vonderful to hear from you. Yes, Annie is right here.'

  At the flick of a switch, Annie could now hear Finn too.

  All of a sudden, she didn't seem to be able to breathe. This was too big. It felt as if too much depended on this one phone call.

  'Great news, girls!' he began in his tone of non-stop positivity. 'The deals have finally been signed. Phew! We're all set. We're definitely going ahead with a six-part series of Wonder Women. It's going to air first on the Home Sweet Home channel.'

  Svetlana and Annie glanced at each other in surprise. Home Sweet Home? Neither of them had even heard of it before.

  'Vhat's this?' Svetlana interrupted. 'Zis not Channel Five.'

  'Erm . . . no, I know,' Finn had to admit, 'it's one of the smaller digitals. But it's very up and coming and I think it has just the right following for this show,' he sounded all brimful of enthusiasm again. 'We are so confident this will be bought up by one of the big channels. Home Sweet Home is just the start! So very, very good news, girls. Congratulations. Woohoo!' he added.

  Annie and Svetlana couldn't help smiling at each other.

  'Now, just one little thing . . .' Finn continued. 'They weren't happy with us using total unknowns, so we do have to bring in a slightly bigger name to co-present.'

  Annie could feel the panicky beat of her heart. Was that good? Was that bad? She had no idea. So, it wouldn't be just her and Svetlana, then . . . there would be someone else.

  'Do you know Miss Marlise?' Finn asked.

  While Svetlana shook her head, an image of a domineering, bossy, sourpuss popped into Annie's mind. Miss Marlise? Hadn't she been in some programme that the children . . . ?

  'From The Apprentice?' Finn prompted.

  Oh good grief! Annie remembered her. She'd been awful. A total witch.

  'Well, she's on board,' Finn continued, 'so it's all systems go, we just need you to sign up for your deals and we can start researching, then shooting, ASAP.'

  'So vhat are you going to pay us?' Svetlana asked bluntly, although she'd already told Annie she would do this for free because she had always, always, ever since she'd crossed the Miss World podium in a silver spangled bikini, wanted to be on television.

  'Well . . . erm . . . obviously Miss Marlise is a name and has sucked up a big chunk of our presenters budget,' Finn began, slightly hesitantly now, 'and it's only on Home Sweet Home channel at the moment. But stick with me, girls, because when it's bought up by a bigger channel there will be much more money in the kitty for all of us.'

  Annie realized her nails were digging into her palms. This did not sound good. This was not going to be the big pay cheque she was expecting, was it? Never mind, she told herself, it was a start; sometimes you had to step back to step up.

  'So,' Finn paused for breath, 'right. OK, for the first six episodes, which will take about three months to complete, we're going to pay you £1,200, per episode . . .'

  Annie was doing the maths. Six times £1,200, was only £7,200! That was terrible: that was much, much worse than she'd expected. It was about a quarter of what she'd expected. And she'd given notice on her job!

  'Split between you,' Finn added.

  Split between us? How could she do three months of work for just £3,600? Annie looked down at her bags. She'd just spent £1,000 more than that.

  Despite the paralysed facial muscles and the doctor's warning, Annie managed to roar, 'WHAT?' in a way that perfectly expressed her anger, shock and intense emotion.

  Chapter Three

  Annie's farewell outfit:

  Slinky red knit dress with fabulous neckline and long