How Not To Shop

by Carmen Reid

  But really, she kept telling herself off for hoping. When did amazing opportunities ever just come at you right out of the blue? Everything Annie and those closest to her had ever achieved had always been the fruit of endless hard work.

  So she was keeping herself very busy now. Phoning, visiting, cajoling all the women she'd ever helped to dress in the past to use her again. She also kept a sharp eye out for new clients. The day of shopping with Cath had gone very well and Cath had promised to pass on a few members from the gardening club.

  'Any handsome strangers been in touch since your TV appearance?' Annie had asked.

  'Not a stranger, exactly,' Cath had replied shyly. But she wouldn't be pressed to reveal anything else.

  'The next time we meet,' Annie had teased, 'I'll get it all out of you.'

  'The next time? I've spent over £1,000!'

  'Yeah, you are starting to get the hang of it,' Annie had told her.

  Annie's eBay shop had also been revived and stocked up with whatever she could find. Clothes, shoes and bags from her own wardrobe, from charity shops and clients' wardrobes and most importantly, she was in the process of reviving her contact with the Hong Kong shoemaker, Timi Woo.

  Last year, she'd imported his shoes and sold them really successfully on eBay. Maybe she should try and see the woman who bought shoes for House of Fraser again.

  She would get over her TV disaster. She had to. Ed's savings were spent. The mortgage had to be paid this month, the household bills, the school fees. There was absolutely no point sitting at home fretting about it, it was best to just get into the Jeep, get on the phone and get the show right back on the road again. And put absolutely all thoughts of taking a little preview peep at the new Vivienne Westwood collection right out of her head. Right to the furthest reaches of her mental outer Siberia.

  Casting a glance at her watch, Annie saw that it was just after one o'clock and she thought of Bob. He'd always liked to have his lunch break at 1 p.m. on the dot, otherwise he went in a huff and started his little rants about 'this Mickey Mouse operation'.

  Maybe it was worth giving him a call, just to see what the on-set gossip was, now that she had gone. Annie was also hoping to find out what she could about Svetlana this way. There had not been a word from her since Ed had dumped Elena on her doorstep. Annie was more than a little concerned that this might be the end of her friendship with the glamazon.

  Had it really been a friendship? Maybe Svetlana's use for Annie was over. She didn't need Annie to shop for her any more: no doubt she used The Store's new personal shopper. She didn't work with Annie on the show and Annie was no longer putting up her secret daughter. So possibly Annie was about to feel the Mayfair ex-wife's famously chilly cold shoulder.

  Still, she would like to hear from Bob how they were all getting on without her. She hoped she'd been able to hear that the clients' new outfits weren't nearly as good as the ones she would have found for them.

  At the next red light she called his number, then, eyes back on the road, waited for the sound of his voice.

  'Annie Valentine!' he greeted her warmly.

  'Hey you! Missing me?'

  'Of course!' he said, then with his voice lowered, he went on: 'Wait till you see how the next victims look, there will be rolling in the aisles. The programme's utter crap, you are well out of it. I'd leave too,' he added, 'but I have a contract for the whole thing, so they have to pay me.'

  'That may be where I went wrong,' Annie observed. 'How are Marlise and Svetlana?' she asked.

  'Miss Marlise, nothing to report, just as much of a cow as ever,' came Bob's reply. 'Svetlana, on the other hand, well she seems to have a lot on her mind. I think her fancy barrister has well and truly called the wedding off. He's told her he can't trust her and that she's put her whole divorce settlement in doubt. Apparently she's got a secret grown-up daughter or something? She's not given me the full story. To be honest, I've picked up most of it from the phone calls she keeps taking all day long. She's doing Finn's nut . . .'

  'The wedding's really off?' Annie asked. She couldn't believe it.

  'Oh yeah,' Bob confirmed.

  'No!' Annie hadn't seriously considered this. Harry had finished with her because of Elena? Annie had taken for granted that he was so besotted with Svetlana he would take any revelation in his stride.

  But then he was a barrister, he had a reputation to maintain and maybe Svetlana was proving too much of a liability. Maybe he was seriously going to backtrack.

  'Bloody hell,' Annie exclaimed, 'never a dull moment with her. How is she? Is she OK? Does she think it will blow over?'

  'I dunno, matey,' Bob answered, 'you're the one who knows her best. You ask her.'

  'Yeah . . .' Annie replied, but she wasn't so sure. She'd be right in the firing line if she did that. Maybe she would wait a few more days. Let Elena and the air turbulence that followed her wherever she went calm down a little.

  'What are you up to anyway?' Bob asked.

  Annie had prepared for this question. She was going to have to handle it. An awful lot of people knew she was supposed to be forging a new career in television and were going to ask about it, so she'd practised her answer.

  'Well, as my TV career hasn't quite got off the ground yet, I'm busy doing what I do best: selling clothes and making people look fabulous! I've got some new irons in the fire to consider,' she chirped. It sounded a little false, even she had to admit. Never mind, she'd practise more.

  'OK,' Bob sounded unconvinced, 'does that mean you're bricking it? And desperate to find something else?'

  'Erm . . . a bit,' she felt relieved to confide in him. 'But I'm still breathing, babes. I get up in the morning, I hustle. Something will turn up.'

  'Good girl,' he agreed. 'Still want to do telly?'

  'It's not been great fun so far,' she had to admit.

  'You've had the bullshit end of it. And you've been pooped on from a very great height.'

  'Babes, I'm being pooped on from every direction,' she told him, thinking of Dave.

  'You're good,' Bob added, 'in fact you're better than good. You're a natural. I'm going to keep my ear to the ground for you. OK?'

  'Thanks,' she said, 'that's very sweet of you. Now if you're needing any advice about the cut of your jeans, or where to get a new leather jacket cheap, you just let me know, doll.'

  'Hey, I took your advice and sent my wife to Mango. She said to tell you that you've made her very happy. When I saw the bill, I wasn't quite so happy myself, but . . .'

  'Skinflint!' Annie teased.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Uri dresses to impress:

  Off-the-peg suit (Gieves & Hawkes sale)

  Silk shirt (same)

  Black shoes (Prada sale)

  Steel Rolex watch (eBay)

  Total est. cost: £700

  'You are a once in a lifetime find.'

  'Madame, pour votre plaisir aujourd'hui nous avons . . .'

  Svetlana listened to the French waiter describe the complex and wonderful choice of dishes on the menu today. Her French was good enough to understand that everything would be unforgettably unique and delicious.

  But then she was at the Maison Beaumonde, one of the most famous and most celebrated restaurants in the north of France.

  'Let's go somewhere fabulous for lunch, where you've never eaten before,' Uri had told her. Then, to her astonishment, he'd driven her to the west London helipad, and flown her himself ('I've had to let my pilot go, crredit crrrunch') in his personal helicopter, across the Channel to Normandy where they'd landed in the grounds of the restaurant.

  The staff had treated this with much more nonchalance than Svetlana had expected, but this may have been because several helicopters landed here every weekend, despite the economic downturn.

  Svetlana acknowledged the waiter with a smile, then looked back down at the beautifully handwritten pages of the menu. She should really make some new choices. Here of all places, she should be adventurous and
try something different. But really, what was the point of lunching with a man like Uri if you didn't drink the premium champagne, order an indecent amount of caviare and then have lobster to follow?

  These were of course all the costliest items on the menu and at Maison Beaumonde the prices were even more astronomical than she had ever seen.

  So she placed her order and Uri chuckled.

  'Same again,' he teased, reaching over to hold her hand.

  'Seafood is so good for the complexion,' she replied, 'and the figure.'

  'So I can see,' he purred.

  Svetlana allowed the hand-holding to continue as she looked at Uri long and appraisingly.

  He was still young. Younger than Igor, younger than Harry . . . even, possibly, younger than her. This was the surprising thing. She had not expected now to have a rich suitor under the age of 60. Rich men invariably liked much younger woman. Trophy wives. She'd always liked the description: she'd enjoyed being the shiny, cherished trophy in the cabinet, often taken out purely for display.

  But Uri had told her he wasn't interested in another 'identikit woman'. He was interested in her. What was it he'd told her on the helicopter? 'You are like a unique and flawless diamond, Svetlana. Your age and the fact that you've been enjoyed by others makes you no less valuable. You are a once in a lifetime find.'

  Cute, no?

  Uri wasn't especially, though. He was young, he still had his dark hair and he looked fit, but his face reminded her of a dog's. He was thin-lipped with hungry eyes.

  'enjoyed by others . . .' She wondered, as he held her hand in his, just how unusual might his tastes in the bedroom be. She should really try and track down an ex-lover to find out. But he was worth . . . she'd Googled him and no-one seemed to know exactly. Harry was wealthy but Uri was rich. Super-rich.

  Just this one lone thought of Harry was making Svetlana feel strange. He'd called it off! This had never happened to her before. Yes, in the past men had called off their marriage to her. But no-one had ever called off a wedding!

  After he'd stormed out of her house, when Elena had been returned, there followed a series of fraught phone calls over several days. She had phoned Harry. Harry had phoned her. She had called him back. And again. And once again just to make sure. But, as far as Harry was concerned, it was over and she was not going to lure him back, no matter what she did.

  'You lied to me!' he'd repeated so many times, 'you lied to me as your barrister. If Igor ever finds out about this girl, he has grounds to have you back in court. He could take it all away.' – This was the bit that devastated Svetlana.

  'You lied to me as the person you were supposed to be in love with, as the person you are about to marry!' – This was the bit that devastated Harry.

  They hadn't spoken for five whole days now.

  Svetlana still couldn't get used to it. She'd accepted Uri's invitation because she wanted to have something to do today, while the boys were with their father.

  And Elena! Elena was still in her house, using her phones, eating her food, instructing her maid! Even worse, threatening to go to the press or to Igor if Svetlana didn't allow her to stay. Svetlana was furious with her. Seething. More than once it had crossed her mind to dig up some of her deepest, darkest Ukrainian contacts and have the Elena problem 'solved'.

  'Encore du champagne, madame?' The wine waiter was hovering at her elbow. Svetlana knew this was her third glass and the caviare hadn't even arrived yet . . . but, 'Yes, thank you,' she agreed.

  If she was going to put Harry right out of her mind and throw herself on Uri, she would need another glass or two.

  Harry pulled up in Svetlana's street just before eleven on Saturday morning. After another sleepless night and several hours spent pacing his Kensington flat, he'd decided to come in person to Mayfair, to apologize and to beg that she take him back.

  He'd made a terrible, hideous mistake.

  What madness had possessed him?

  He had to win her back and marry her. He only hoped he hadn't left it too long. Five days had gone past, and hadn't he noticed so many times before how men circled Svetlana like wolves, ravenous for an opportunity?

  Of course she hadn't told him anything about this girl from the Ukraine! The girl might turn out to be a fraud. Svetlana was volatile, insecure and totally stressed out, Harry had convinced himself. The girl had no doubt turned up looking for money and if Igor found out, he would use this as an excuse to try and take everything away from his ex-wife.

  How could Harry have been so unsympathetic? How could he have run from her, instead of running to help her?

  And he could help her. He was her divorce lawyer. He was the one who should be reinforcing the rules he'd helped to draw up. He was the one who could have an injunction taken out banning Elena from contacting her mother or speaking to any member of the press about it.

  Harry pulled in to the kerb behind a vast black limousine that was parked outside Svetlana's house. The driver was holding open the passenger's door and as the front door of the house was open, Harry expected to see the love of his life walking out any moment now.

  Where was she going? Whose car was this? Then he remembered: it was Saturday. It was the day the boys were with their father, who often sent his car, although his house was only a few streets away. Here they came now: Petrov and Michael, the younger boy following his older brother. Harry couldn't help smiling at them. They were so small and so serious in their blue blazers with their thick black hair in heavily fringed pageboy cuts. They reminded Harry of his boy, Robin. All grown up now, of course.

  'Hello!' he called over to them and both serious little faces turned in his direction, 'off to the old man's for a jolly afternoon?'

  'We're going on holiday!' Petrov said with a flash of smile, 'he's taking us skiing!'

  'Well, well! How marvellous! Have a wonderful time, won't you?'

  Petrov gave him the thumbs-up.

  'Is Mummy at home?' Harry asked.

  'No,' Petrov said. He disappeared into the car and Michael followed.

  The driver closed the door and because the tinted windows were so dark, the boys were immediately hidden. The driver then moved round to his door, stepped into the car and started up the smooth Rolls-Royce engine.

  Harry stood on the pavement to watch them leave, giving a cheery wave. He was caught up in memories of when Robin was a boy, heading off for school on the other side of town in his taxi every morning, looking just as small and as serious as these two . . .

  It was only as the car rounded the corner of the street and disappeared from sight that it struck him as strange that the boys weren't taking any bags if they were going on holiday.

  And if they were going away, wouldn't their mother be here to wave them off? She was very protective of her sons. In fact, she had never given Igor permission to take them away before. If this was their first holiday, why was she not here?

  Growing more and more uneasy, he felt in his jacket pocket for his phone.

  Then Maria poked her head from the front door of the house. 'You come in, Mr Harry?' she asked.

  'Just one minute, my girl . . . where's Svetlana?' he asked.

  'She meeting man for lunch' – this came with as much of a disapproving roll of the eyes as Maria thought she could get away with. 'Boys go to see father like every weekend,' she added.

  'But they said they were going on holiday, skiing?'