Blue and Green Should Never be Seen! (Or so Mother says)

by Colette Kebell

  But, as I said, there was a flaw: recurring customers.

  The underground warehouses where I used to go were working on a different principle, that of uniqueness. And a shortage of items. There’s nothing better, both for a shop and to attract a woman, than to hold unique items – something that won’t be easily available to other people. We need to think that the skirt we’re buying won’t be seen anywhere else in the world. In addition, the underground warehouses were also playing on the scarcity of items, enticing people to come back at regular intervals to see what new items and pieces were available. Failing to find what we were looking for (assuming we knew in the first place), we’d make a compulsive purchase based purely on frustration.

  All of this aspect was missing in Jasper’s monstrous shop: the shopping experience.

  I was mulling over all those considerations when I heard a familiar voice shouting, not far from where we were standing. I looked in the general direction and there she was, Lady Whilsham, shouting her head off at some poor shop assistant.

  “YOU ARE AN IDIOT! CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT YOU’VE JUST DONE? ALL THIS AREA NEEDS TO BE REDONE!”

  I was surprised, not only to find her here in the shop, but also to see her acting as if she owned the place.

  “PACK YOUR THINGS AND LEAVE NOW! YOU’RE FIRED!”

  Indeed, Paula was doing her best impression of Sir Alan Sugar, including pointing the index finger at the poor girl while she was giving her the sack. I looked at Jasper as if to ask for an explanation. What he had to say I didn’t like one bit.

  “She’s my partner in this endeavour. She put up half of the capital.”

  “Can’t you do something???” I asked. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the stand the girl was working at, except maybe it was a tad dull; but hey, the whole Battersea Fashion Centre was dull.

  “Not really. As I said, she owns half of this place.” He was very relaxed and couldn’t have cared less about what was happening under his very eyes. Paula saw me arguing with Jasper, and a victory grin suddenly appeared on her face.

  “Come on, Jasper, you can do better than giving me the ‘business is business’ crap. You know there’s nothing wrong with that stall.”

  “GiGi, maybe you shouldn’t get involved in these matters, especially as you’ve decided not to be part of all this.”

  W-H-A-T????

  What kind of bloody corporate monster had I got involved with? Sure, if I was working here, I could have easily told off Lady HalfCapital and voiced my concerns about the way she was handling the employees. Oh, come off it!

  “Maybe I shouldn’t get involved in anything you’re doing,” I snapped back.

  “GiGi, I don’t think …”

  “If I’d accepted your offer, is this what I could have expected? To be spoken to as if I were a schoolgirl?”

  “Excuse me,” Lady Whilsham interjected “I don’t think you have the right …”

  “No, I do not have any right, but either you’ve made a mistake now in firing that girl, or you made a mistake in hiring her in the first place. And I bet you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t think …” she tried to say again.

  “Yeah: that’s the problem. Jasper, see you around. I’ve just remembered I have more important things to do.” And so I stormed off out of the shop, leaving poor Jasper scratching his head and thinking what the hell was wrong with me. I couldn’t have cared less.

  I went back to my car and gave a quick glance at my darkened office window and sighed. I had a party to attend that night.

  CHAPTER 23

  Lillian and Tom’s house was a semi-detached near Amersham, and for once I arrived on time (usually I’m early). Eventually I’d decided to take a day off from fashion and, instead of the outfit I’d decided on earlier, I settled for an easy pair of jeans and a shirt – something I could cover in paint and not shed a single tear over. Plus another pair as a change, as ugly and used as the first one, stored in a canvas bag I’d found at the bottom of my car boot.

  When I rang the bell, Tom came to open the door, “Excuse me: may I help you?”

  I smiled and said, “Of course. I’m from the council and I want to ensure you adhere to our policy about painting your interior. In particular, blue and green should never be seen.”

  “Oh my gosh, GiGi, I didn’t expect you. I mean, I did expect you, but not dressed like that. What happened to you; did you lose the lottery?” We laughed at my attire which, I must admit, was very uncharacteristically grungy. Then I took a good look at Tom and considered that he must have borrowed his clothing from an interior decorator. It was ill-fitting and covered from head to toe in paint, despite that part of the party not even having started yet. (I praised myself, as I’d even put my hair up and had a scarf to hand to save my well-coiffured locks from getting covered in paint – I’d been organised, for once!) I couldn’t resist, though; I had to know whose clothes Tom had borrowed, so I asked. He gave such a belly laugh that I knew there had to be a good story behind that one, though he didn’t seem to be inclined to spill the beans. See, the thing is, you’d have to picture Tom. He was already on the chubby side, and that’s putting it kindly, so to have borrowed someone else’s clothes, and for those clothes to almost drown him, they’d have to have been pretty big. Don’t get me wrong, Tom was by no means short; Lillian would never make do with a shortie with a chip on his shoulder. Lillian heard Tom’s laughter and came to investigate. She ran up to me, gave me a great big hug and kisses on both cheeks. Yes, I know, that’s very Continental, but that’s how we are with each other. (Someone on the street in Britain might just think that we were lovers, the way we greet each other sometimes.) Her words came gushing out in her excitement, and not quite as quietly as she would have liked either, that the “Hugh Jackman look-alike” was already there and enjoying a beer in the kitchen, discussing recipes with Julian and his new girlfriend. This was the first time that Tom and Lillian had met her and so, as per the norm, Lillian had already forgotten her name. It was going to have to be left to Tom to introduce her. I started to follow Lillian to the kitchen, to deposit my prerequisite bottles, but just then the doorbell rang. Lillian turned to look to see who it might be, with her fingers crossed.

  “Why are you crossing your fingers?” I asked.

  “I’m hoping that Ritchie decided to accept our invitation, despite the bad blood between the two of you currently,” came her reply.

  “How could you invite him? I haven’t been able to reach him in days; he definitely won’t want to come along, because he’s still mad at me. Can you believe, he won’t even pick up the phone? All I want to do is mend the broken bridges between us, especially now that I may be almost back on track and I shall shortly, hopefully, be able to give him his job back.”

  Lillian then let out a long sigh whilst Tom attended to the door. I turned to look at what had caused her to do that, as she was no longer looking in the direction of the front door, but the kitchen. As soon as I set eyes on him, I knew the reason for the sigh. He was Gorgeous, with a capital G. “Oh, my god,” I whispered to Lillian. “You weren’t exaggerating when you described him as ‘Hugh Jackman’.” I could clearly see that even Lillian’s tongue was almost hanging out. He had dark hair and was tall, with a slightly Mediterranean complexion. And he was gorgeous. Really gorgeous. Did I mention that he was gorgeous?

  “Raffaele, this is GiGi, the friend I talked to you about.”

  “Call me Raf. Hello: Lillian speaks very highly of you, or better, now that I think about it, she’s always speaking about you.”

  “Probably only gossip, given her line of work,” I said. Lillian gave me a light punch on the shoulder.

  “Hey, don’t be rude, or tomorrow you’ll have the small paintbrush. I’ll give you the job of doing all the fiddly bits,” she teased me.

  “What did she say? I’m very curious,” I urged him.

  “Mostly about your line of work, which strikes me as very atypic
al. You might see all sorts of people.”

  “Indeed; however, most of my customers then become friends. How did you meet Lillian?”

  “Actually, I’m a friend of Tom’s. He helped me with some issues I had with the restaurant I was working for. Now I’m just about to open my own.”

  “Oh, you’re a cook …” I teased him.

  “I prefer saying that I’m a chef, but yes, cooking is what I do for a living.”

  “A good one?”

  “My food hasn’t killed anybody yet, so I guess I’m a decent one.”

  “And then you’d have Tom to keep you out of jail.” I couldn’t control my mouth, I didn’t know if I was trying to be funny or just making conversation, but most of the time I was babbling, while I kept scrutinising the beauty I had in front of me. He had deep, dark eyes that seemed to read my most intimate secrets when he looked at me. I hoped he could not actually do that, or it would have been extremely embarrassing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that; I was just kidding. I’m sure you’re an excellent cook … erm … chef.”

  Lillian interjected “He is indeed. Excuse me, but I have other guests to attend to. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do while I’m away.”

  We looked at each other, half embarrassed, or at least I was. Don’t let me spill the beans, but I’m sure I would have done something Lillian, being married, would have avoided.

  “I notice an accent. Where are you from?”

  “Oh, I’m from New York.”

  “The name sounds Italian, though,” I stated.

  “You’re quite correct; despite my lack of an Italian accent, my father is Italian and my mother American.”

  “What kind of cooking, pardon, cheffing, are you doing?”

  “Ha, ha, ha! I have classical training, but now I’m doing my own thing.”

  “So, what does it take to get a date with you and be invited for dinner?” I asked cheekily.

  “I suppose you have to avoid criticising my food. How badly should I dress, in order to get some free suggestions from you?” he answered back.

  “Hmm, let me think. What you’re wearing now already qualifies.” We both laughed. Despite being in a large shirt and baggy jeans, I’d swear that dressed in that attire he could make the cover of Vogue, in my opinion. That was how blinded I was by him. Can someone compromise just like that on style? Did it take just one beautiful, statuesque, stunning man to change my entire philosophy? This was a matter that needed investigating, and I promised myself not to let the subject go until I was satisfied.

  They called us one minute later, while we were still flirting, and for once I cursed the homeowners for that. I did my very best to sit near Raffaele, sneaking behind him and pushing anybody else out of my way (gently but firmly), until I managed to sit on his side of the table.

  And so the game of cat and mouse had begun.

  Lillian hadn’t “volunteered” Raffaele to cook dinner that evening, so I was left with curiosity about his restaurant. “Where is it actually located” I asked. “I mean, the place where you work.”

  “Oh, it’s down in Surrey. I had a decent settlement, thanks to Tom, and decided to open my own place. The restaurant is a bit of a wreck at the moment; it was an attempt to be a gastro pub, many years ago, but the owner made a silly mistake.”

  “Which was?”

  “Well, the pub is bang in this old village, and has been there for many years, but the guy who took over went the Michelin route: you know – silly prices, nouvelle cuisine, removed everything that was local and replaced the beer with expensive wine. His idea was to attract the stockbrokers living in the area, but the only result was that he alienated the villagers.”

  “How come it’s a wreck now?” I asked. From his description it seemed he had a very fancy place; I didn’t understand.

  “The owner was a rich guy who went back to Australia and set the prices too high for anybody to be interested. That was almost ten years ago. Then he just forgot the place until he died. Youngsters used to break in for fun, or to have a quiet place to get drunk or smoke a joint. It’s a graffiti paradise now. The old owner died not long ago and the heirs decided they didn’t want any assets in Good Ole England. Then I showed up with my pile of money and they knew I was going to solve their problem.”

  “So, it actually is a wreck. What about having a restaurant-warming party? Same people as here, who could give you a hand in sorting out the place.”

  “Could be an idea and would save some bucks,” he said thoughtfully.

  “You’d have to cook, though, or the idea won’t fly.”

  Lillian was ready with the starter, which came from a local deli. They’d had so much to do with the relocation and their busy schedule that asking them to cook as well would have been unfair. The first round of beers came and went and we were preparing for another round. Soon we’d be attacking the food and washing it down with some good wine.

  “So, are you seeing someone?” he asked, unexpectedly.

  That was a question I still had to ask (and answer) myself. Was I seeing Jasper? That was something I thought I wasn’t prepared to deal with, not that evening anyway. Nonetheless, life occasionally forces you to take decisions. Don’t get me wrong: I could have answered by saying anything, even told him a lie, but that isn’t a good way to start with people, is it? I could have stalled, or possibly I could even have answered with a “none of your business” type of statement (although a politer one) – but the fact was that I wanted it to be his business. No, I was over with Jasper; deep inside I knew we weren’t a good fit. Too much of a slippery guy: one second affectionate, the other the worst bastard on earth. And still I couldn’t figure out his connection with his ex-wife; what was happening there? Maybe they weren’t over yet; maybe there was something else. I hoped I had learned to trust my instinct and I could honestly say that I was through with Jasper.

  And then, he’d asked that sort of question for a reason, not just because he was curious.

  “Not at the moment,” I finally answered, after what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t want to ask him the same question; he was obviously free, as Lillian wouldn’t be trying to match-make if that wasn’t the case. But the recent story with Jasper had dented my confidence. I went quiet for a second and, before our silence became embarrassing, I asked “What kind of food do you cook?”

  “As I said, I’m classically trained. I spent some years in France and Italy, but I recently travelled to Thailand and I sort of discovered that kind of cuisine. I haven’t tried it yet in a restaurant, though.”

  “Your restaurant? Will it be a Thai one?”

  “No, I have my own style, but it’s based on French; maybe in the future I might switch to something more exotic – I don’t know yet. I guess it’ll evolve. Lillian told me you work in fashion, helping people to find their own style.”

  And off I went, explaining what I actually did. A couple of other people joined the conversation, which flowed at the same pace as the beers and, later, the wine. I already felt a bit tipsy, but talking with Raffaele was effortless, and after the past week I needed some relaxation and to unwind from all the frustration I’d experienced. A glass or two helped.

  CHAPTER 24

  I woke up and my mouth felt like the bottom of a budgie’s cage. And I had the mother of all headaches. That’s what happens when you go to a painting party; we started, at some point, just drinking some beers and then, not to disappoint the other guests, we also went into full swing tasting each other’s wine. Mine was a Custoza sourced from my Italian neighbours directly from a vineyard near Mantua that belonged to their parents.

  Oh dear, I also had jelly legs, as if I’d run a marathon, and I was still in my clothes. I looked around and nobody was there; of course, it was almost ten in the morning and I was sure the others were already painting. They might have finished the house by now. What a shame. I crawled to the bathroom and had a cold shower, and when I say cold I mean cold: pieces of ice were falling from the showe
r rose.

  I felt a bit better but not much. Worst of all, I started having flashbacks from the previous evening. Sheepishly, I went downstairs and into the kitchen where, fortunately, other people were still assembled, finishing their breakfast.

  “GOOD MORNING, SLEEPY HEAD!” said Lillian, with a voice that sounded to me like thunder and, for a moment, I thought she’d swallowed a megaphone (I doubt that anyone reading this has never felt the same way, at least once in their life).