by Lulu Taylor
There was a general chorus of approval. Everyone knew how hard it was for well-brought up girls to find a suitable occupation. The cleverest and most ambitious ones went into law, finance or politics, but they were rarely seen because of their strenuous working hours. Others headed for the media world – high-class fashion magazines were an excellent choice: well-paid and giving the inside track to the latest designers, beauty products and best surgeons in town. More artistic society girls became painters, sculptors or interior designers. Others opened galleries or got jobs in the big, glamorous auction houses. And a few started their own clothing lines, which was considered respectable. A boutique would be perfect: someone else would do the hard work of designing and making the clothes. One could simply concentrate on the fun of stocking the shop and then having one’s girlfriends come in and try everything on.
‘Oh, how perfect,’ sighed Annie Schaupman. She looked enviously at Romily’s dress. ‘I’d love to steal your style.’
‘I’m flattered you’re all so keen,’ she said, delighted that her venture was being so warmly welcomed.
‘It would be so cute!’ cried Stella Al Rijan, a beautiful dark-skinned half-Egyptian girl who had recently started a jewellery designing business. ‘Imagine what fun you’ll have – everyone will come. Muffy will see to that. Perhaps you could stock my new topaz line.’
‘Wonderful idea,’ cried Muffy. ‘I want you girls to be Romily’s source of inspiration for the things we’d all like to buy.’
Everyone was hugely enthusiastic and a lively conversation ensued in which the boutique grew from a simple clothes shop to a vast emporium selling everything anyone could think of.
‘Wait, wait!’ cried Romily, laughing. ‘I’ll need a shop the size of Bloomingdales at this rate. We’ll have to be more focused, that’s all.’
‘We’ll all help,’ declared Muffy. ‘I’d just love to play shop! You’ll do it, Romily, won’t you? Say you will!’
‘You know what? I think I will.’
At last there was something to occupy her time. Romily and Muffy went looking for suitable premises for their shop and found a place they both adored on a slightly ramshackle street on the Lower East Side. It was on one of the more rundown streets and most of the shops around them sold second-hand clothes, vintage trinkets, or cut-price electricals and junk, but the area was on the up. Not quite as trendy as the East Village but on its way.
‘I love this!’ cooed Muffy. ‘It’s so funky, isn’t it?’
‘It’s cool,’ agreed Romily, looking about. Across the street was a place selling artists’ materials. ‘I love the vibe. Is this the place?’
They looked at each other.
‘Go for it,’ said Muffy.
‘I will.’
It didn’t take much to persuade Charles de Lisle to allow Romily to invest in her shop; perhaps it was because her mother had reported their conversation about boredom, and her parents felt that some money invested in a boutique in New York was preferable to her hotfooting it off to the world’s trouble spots to start clearing mines, or whatever it was she had in mind.
The family’s attorneys organised all the boring paperwork. Romily went to their New York office, explained to them what she wanted and asked when her shop would be ready for her. A week later, she was taking a designer round the rundown old space and they were sharing their vision of what it should be like.
‘Oh my Gaaahd, how fabulous!’ cried Stefan, as they went round the shop together. It was a very basic layout – one large room at the front, a stock room, small kitchen and washroom at the back. Everything was grimy and shabby. ‘I can see it now. We’ll make it fresh and clean, with lots of light, lots of fantastic steel, chrome and concrete.’
‘I like white,’ Romily said. ‘And mirrors.’ She’d had lots of ideas for how she wanted it and had spent many happy hours flicking through design magazines and browsing in expensive shops, looking at fittings and colour schemes. ‘I’m thinking of a minimalist/Baroque hybrid.’
‘We can work that, we can definitely work that.’ He made some quick sketches on the notebook he carried. ‘Rails here. Display here. Fitting room here.’
Romily nodded. ‘Oh, yes, that’s exactly how it should be.’ It all looked perfect so far. Stefan was obviously exactly right for the job – he shared her vision. ‘How fast can we do it?’
He frowned and thought for a while. ‘Well, there are first designs to be drawn up, consultation, costing, fitting … I guess we could be ready to go in six months, if we really hurry.’
‘Six months! That’s far too long. I want it done in three. Max.’
Stefan looked doubtful.
‘Money no object,’ Romily added.
The designer’s face cleared. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Cherub opened three months later almost to the day, looking a little different from Stephan’s original concept once Romily, Muffy and the others had all had their say. It was now a mix of modernist industrial, with a polished concrete floor and exposed pipework, plus more girly pink and gold touches. And now that it was called Cherub, the angelic motif had been worked into the shop wherever possible, from the golden angels flying across the walls to the hooks in the dressing rooms that were cute little pairs of wings.
Opening night was a glamorous affair, with all of New York’s finest young socialites making an appearance, looking polished and glossy and altogether unlike anything seen in a rather down-at-heel street on the less salubrious side of the East Village.
Romily turned out for the evening in a wonderful Dior gown, in keeping with her angel theme: a long white flowing goddess dress that showed off her gleaming olive skin, graceful arms and silver sandals. Her brown hair was pulled back into a loose bun, clasped with a fabulous piece of wrought gold, an actual Roman antique, and she had gone for New York style nude simplicity in her make-up. The rest of the girls were dressed like Gwyneth Paltrow, who was their idol, with straight blonde hair and the crisp cool colours of Ralph Lauren and Donna Karan.
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Muffy, who was wearing a Michael Kors maxi-dress with a scarf halter-neck, ‘it’s all so beautiful.’
It was. Romily had taken elements of everything she admired from her favourite Paris boutiques and put it all into one place. The effect, she decided, was unusual and very creative. Velvet pouffes in harlequin colours sat on the polished concrete. Plaster angels with trumpets and harps hung over unusual modern ceramics: vases bursting with fists, or plates with china thorns all over them. A collection of vintage lamps – something Romily had a particular passion for – stood on a shelf over a row of dresses, scraps of bright chiffon and silk from a designer friend of Annie’s. On another modern chair was a pile of sweaters in cobweb-fine cashmere in a variety of styles and colours. Stella Al Rijan’s jewellery was displayed in original butterfly-display cases that were once in the Natural History Museum in London. A row of hats sat on fairground clown heads, the kind with an open mouth for balls to be tossed inside.
The crowd wandered about, sipping their champagne and ‘oooh’-ing over all the lovely things in the shop. Society reporters and photographers snapped the beautiful crowd and asked them for their thoughts on the new de Lisle incarnation.
Romily was delighted. She had loved the whole process of pulling the shop together. She’d never been so absorbed and happy. ‘Now I understand why people work,’ she said to Muffy. ‘This is fun!’ She had loved sitting down with Stefan to look over his designs and then going with him to warehouses and trade outlets, to look at fittings and swatches and tiling effects and all the other things she had to choose. She could understand now how her upbringing had affected her and influenced her taste and style: she had gravitated towards the most expensive of everything as though by instinct. Even the staff washroom was tiled in the most costly Milanese mosaic marble and featured a designer toilet that self-flushed.
When it came to stocking the shop, Romily had decided that several heads were better than one. Al
though she was able to stock one or two of her favourite young designers, she was not going to be able to sell her cherished haute-couture labels. The licensing arrangements did not permit it. That didn’t matter – she would make a virtue of it and break new names. So she formed the Cherub Committee, on which all her friends had a place if they wanted, and took their advice as to what she should sell in the shop. After all, if her stylish, rich New York girlfriends liked it and wanted to buy it, it would surely fly off the shelves, like the little angels flitting above them.
‘Do you like it, Mama?’ Romily went over to where her mother, immaculate as usual in a Givenchy black and white suit and daintily heeled white pumps, was chatting to Muffy’s mother.
‘Darling, it’s wonderful,’ she said, kissing Romily on each cheek. ‘You’re so clever! I’m so proud of you.’
‘Do you like what I’m selling?’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried her mother, looking about. ‘It’s all beautiful. But … what exactly are you selling? Are those sweaters for sale?’
‘Yes. I think it’s rather new and different to display them on a chair like that. That way, you can imagine them stacked on a chair in your bedroom.’
‘I see now – yes, that’s very clever. And is the chair for sale?’
‘Of course. Just about everything’s for sale! It’s a kind of …’ Romily frowned, looking for the right word. ‘A kind of lifestyle shop. The things in here are all about taste and individuality.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Athina de Lisle nodded. ‘There is just one thing, my darling. The area is rather … well, rather déclassé, is it not?’
Romily rolled her eyes. ‘Mama! You really don’t know anything. This is a very chic part of town! Just a few blocks over there are new hotels opening, old buildings being developed into fabulous apartments. I promise you, this place is at the forefront of where everyone will be in just a few months.’
Her mother smiled. ‘If you say so, my darling. But, I must admit, I shan’t be sorry to get back to Fifth Avenue. I love your little pet project, though, it’s adorable. And I think I must buy one of those sweet enamel brooches you have displayed so prettily in the goldfish bowl. They could almost be Chanel …’
The stylish, good-looking crowd spilled out on to the pavement where local residents and other shop owners eyed them suspiciously. Across the road, some young black kids gathered to observe the proceedings, in their street uniform of baggy jeans, baggier T-shirts, back-to-front baseball caps and trainers. Adults sat on the low walls or in stairwells, watching the chattering socialites with mild curiosity and casual disdain.
As night fell and cars began to draw up to collect their owners and convey them to the next party or launch or smart restaurant, the watchers began to whoop and whistle and call out comments.
Romily felt her first tingle of nervousness about the location. It was true that during the day, as she’d been putting out her stock, she had started to wonder who exactly was going to pop in and buy an $800 sweater or a vintage French chrome lamp for $550, let alone the dresses that started at $1,000. They were only a few streets away from the more sophisticated area north of Delaney Street, a few blocks from Orchard Street and its upmarket restaurants and boutiques. Even if no one else comes, she told herself, all my girlfriends will. They’ll spread the word. I’m going to help this area come up in the world. Once Annie and Stella and everyone get to work, there’ll be more than enough customers.
She circulated again, quietly giving orders for glasses of champagne to be topped up, trays of canapés to be replenished, and stock to be tidied after guests had rifled through it. A couple of girls had even bought something: they’d sold a huge scented candle with six wicks that smelled of tuberose, and a silver wine bucket. Romily felt a surge of pride as she rang up her first sale.
It was after midnight when the last guests left and she could shut up the shop. She sighed happily as she looked around it, as proud as a mother of her new baby.
‘Come on, Muffy!’ she called out. ‘My car will be here in a moment. Have you finished in the back?’
There was a muffled exclamation and then Muffy came rushing in, her face white and scared. ‘Romily! Something awful is going on in the alley. Come and look!’
The girls hurried through to the back room where a barred window looked out over the side alley. Muffy had switched off the light so it was possible to see out clearly into the space outside, half illuminated by a streetlamp. Something violent was happening there: two huge dark shapes were scuffling round a smaller white one, thumping, punching and kicking.
‘Oh my God!’ whispered Romily, staring out in horror. ‘Someone’s being beaten up!’
‘What shall we do?’ squeaked Muffy, hiding her eyes behind her hands.
‘We’d better call the police. Do you have your cellphone?’
‘Somewhere, somewhere … It’s in my purse, I think! Anyway, I don’t know if I can call them on a cell. Is it 911 or do I need a dialling code …’
Romily hissed, ‘Just hurry! Use the phone in the shop.’ Outside, she could see that the white shape was becoming more and more limp as the other men continued their attack. ‘Oh my God, they’ll kill him. Quick, Muffy!’
Just then, the men in black threw their victim to the ground, aimed another couple of kicks at him, and then stopped their assault.
‘Let that be a lesson to ya!’ said one in a thick, deep voice, and then the two assailants turned and sauntered off, lighting cigarettes as they went.
Romily watched as the man on the ground groaned, rolled slightly as if trying to get up, and then lay still. A moment later she was unlocking the back door, which took some time because of the complicated locks and bolts all over it. As soon as she’d opened it, she darted out into the alley and over to the prone figure. The man’s face was covered in blood but she could see that his nose was probably broken and his eyes and lips were hugely swollen. His clothes were also blood-stained, where the gush from his nose had covered them, but she could make out that he was wearing chef’s whites and baggy checked trousers.
‘Oh my God, are you OK?’ she said helplessly.
He moaned and then winced in pain. ‘My … my chest. I think they broke my ribs,’ he said in croak.
Romily stared at him, wondering what on earth she could do. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll get you some help.’ She got up, ran back in and called to Muffy, ‘Get an ambulance, I think he’s badly hurt!’ Then she grabbed the first-aid box and a cup of water, and ran back to the alley.
The beaten-up chef was still lying there – a pathetic, prone figure in the darkness. She felt sorry for him as she knelt down next to him, trying to push her white skirts off the dirty ground.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Help is coming. Now, let me see if I can staunch some of this bleeding …’ She opened the first-aid box, took out a wadge of cotton wool, dipped it in the water and began to dab at his blood-covered face. The man groaned as the water touched his wounds and swollen skin, but she murmured soothingly and carried on. ‘I don’t think your nose is bleeding as badly as it was … look, I’m cleaning it all away and it’s looking fine. I guess the doctor will have to fix it somehow. I don’t know what happens with broken noses, but I suppose that if they can do nose jobs, they must be able to make original ones look like new.’
The man gazed at her through eyes that were just small slits in puffed red skin, but she seemed to see gratitude there.
He blinked and then rasped, ‘Oh, no. Your beautiful dress.’
She looked down. The fine white silk had streaks of red blood and smears of pink on it by now. ‘Oh never mind. It’s only a dress. Blood comes out anyway, as long as you get to it fast enough.’
He stared at her from his foetal position, arms wrapped round his poor broken ribs. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last.
‘Don’t worry. I couldn’t exactly leave you here. Why did those men beat you up? Were they robbing you?’
He shut his eyes. ‘Not exactly.’
She looked down again at his stained work clothes. He hardly looked like a worthwhile target for a mugger – in fact, his attackers seemed to have been better dressed than he was.
‘You can tell the police all about it when they come,’ she said.
There was the sound of an ambulance siren approaching in the distance.
‘Is that for me?’ he said, looking anxious.
Romily nodded. ‘I hope so. You need to be checked over.’
‘Ah, shit.’ The man groaned. ‘I don’t need it. The last thing I want is the police getting involved. I’m fine.’
‘Don’t be silly – you’ve been badly beaten. You might have internal injuries. You have to see a doctor.’
‘I’m … I’m OK.’ He tried to struggle up to sitting position. ‘I’m going home.’
Romily watched as he made an effort to get up, but the pain on his face told the real story and he slumped back to the ground with a sigh. ‘Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine,’ she said, and looked towards the street where she could see flashing lights approaching. Just then Muffy came out of the back door of the shop.
‘They’re here,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Good,’ Romily said. ‘This man needs to see a doctor as fast as possible.’
Chapter 22
Oxford
Summer 2003
I REALLY CAN’T believe I let Allegra talk me into this.
Imogen walked through Peckwater Quad feeling self-conscious even though her outfit was covered with a trench coat. The directions had been for party-goers to meet in Oriel Square, which was just at the back of Christ Church, through Canterbury Gate. Allegra was going to meet her there.