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

by Colette Kebell

  “G’morning,” I heard my mouth saying. “Coffee?”

  “UP THERE: THERE’S A FRESH BATCH.”

  “Could you please stop shouting? I think the aliens took me and implanted bionic ears. I could hear a fly breathing.”

  “Sure, although rumour has it you can get the same effect after a bottle of Tequila. I never tried, but you should know.”

  In the meantime, other people came around to say hello, including gorgeous Raffaele.

  “Hey, GiGi, we’ve prepared your declaration of independence,” said Tom, showing me a piece of wallpaper with the back finely written on.

  “The … what …?”

  “The declaration of independence from ugly clothes. You mentioned it yesterday evening, so we thought of capturing your fine words, and then they won’t be lost to the planet.”

  I started remembering. At some point I had an image in my mind of myself, standing on the lounge table and talking about how I would save the world from bad clothing, and the right of the individual to enhance their looks. Plus some other items that, at that point, were still quite foggy.

  “We also have a video, but we decided not to post it on YouTube yet. We thought the declaration would make things more formal if it were in writing. Here: it’s signed by everybody.” Tom handed me my own version of the Magna Carta, I could see the signatures of all the guests at the bottom. Someone had also taken the time to depict a coat of armour, a shield; on one side there was a woman in a coat (?!) brandishing a lipstick, on the other side there were some accessories arranged as a sort of bear-like animal. I was speechless; the guys had taken their time to do the job and had done it really rather well.

  “Don’t worry; you were funny last night,” whispered Raffaele in my ear. I could smell his aftershave and hopefully, from his side, he couldn’t smell the tequila that was still permeating from my pores.

  “Yeah,” interjected Marion, “especially when you cited the Fourth Amendment, when you declared that Raffaele here was dispensed from wearing any clothes, even in winter.”

  “What was that piece?” asked Lillian “Oh, yes. That was the statement about perfection, the only allowed exception to Her Majesty’s ruling.”

  “Was that before or after she tried to snog him?” continued Marion.

  Oh-my-God. I started remembering bits and pieces and my face started to assume every single shade of red from the shame I felt.

  “Did I really …?”

  “Yes,” commented Tom, “there was actually a debate as to whether or not we should let you carry on in your pursuit to see what would happen next. The moderate wing of the parliament decided to stop you,” he said, pointing in the general direction of the other girls.

  I was grateful for my female friends and their sensitivity in not posting me on YouTube. I would have done it. Whispers could be heard every time I was near Raffaele, but what could I honestly do? I liked the guy. I decided it was time to get some food and decided to fry a couple of eggs and bacon, hoping they would forget about me. That didn’t happen. Even as I was in the kitchen with my back to them, trying my best to ignore them, I could still hear them going on and on. Raffaele, on the other hand, seemed quite amused, rather than embarrassed by the situation; but then I realised he’d been on the receiving end of my attentions. Oh my gosh: how could I look him in the eye and make him forget? That scene, which I barely remember, would be between us every time we met.

  But in some ways I was also happy it had happened like that; no more circling around, letting him guess that I fancied him and so on. The cat was out of the bag and if he had an interest, it wouldn’t take him long to show it. Once breakfast was over, we started working and by chance (or by plot) I found myself painting in the same room as Raffaele.

  “That was something,” he said. “I mean the speech. You’re passionate about your job.”

  “I suppose so. I just wanted to let you know that usually I don’t drink. I mean, a glass once in a while, but I don’t remember the last time I trashed myself like that.”

  “Not to worry; you were entertaining,” he said, while attacking a wall with his brush, giving long and resolute strokes of paint. “At the beginning I thought you were full of yourself – all job-oriented, if I may say. In reality, I just think you like what you’re doing. We’re similar, in some respects.”

  “In some ways I’m glad it happened; I don’t open up easily – like this bloody tin of paint!” I said. I found a screwdriver and I was struggling with it, trying to get the lid off the damn thing, and I almost cut my finger during the first attempt. Raffaele laid his brush on a piece of paper and came around to help me.

  “Here, let me do it,” he said, taking the screwdriver out of my hands and opening the tin on my behalf. He had strong hands and soft skin, which I felt when he touched me. I wondered how I would have felt in his arms, but very quickly staved off that thought for fear he would read it straight from my eyes. He was also looking at me, and for a moment our eyes locked, perhaps for one second too long. We went back to our work.

  Between one stroke of the paintbrush and the next we had time for a few cups of coffee (or tea, in his case) and to get to know each other better; we also had Lillian checking on us from time to time, bringing snacks and munchies which, at that point in mid-morning, were welcome. It was easy to talk to Raffaele; everything flowed and, for once, I felt I could open up to him. I could be my full self, without the fear of being judged or branded “a bit nutty” for what I was trying to do. He could understand that people might have a vision, a desire, and the will to make an effort to live their lives to the full. He was trying to do the same with his own restaurant. We shared some sandwiches and the room was done, far sooner than I would have liked or expected. I would have volunteered to do the rest of the house if Raffaele was going to help me, but eventually all the others also assembled in the lounge and it was time to go.

  Lillian and Tom were grateful for our help and we promised each other to get in touch soon. It was time to leave. Fortunately, Raffaele thought of asking for my phone number; I had been on the verge of doing the same, but after what I had done the previous night I wasn’t really keen to openly state that I liked him – a lot.

  We promised each other that we’d see each other again and would have dinner out. Leaving Lillian’s house was a struggle: much more painful that I could have imagined. It was time to go.

  CHAPTER 25

  My job with Natalie was proceeding well; she loved the new style and the few things we’d bought together had already left their mark. People in the gym were queuing to get her phone number; she’d revamped her Facebook page and people who’d been lost for years suddenly got in touch again. As she was enjoying her new life we thought of celebrating the occasion and immortalising the moment. I gave a call to a photographer friend of mine and, pronto, we were in her gym, ready to do some shooting. We had a set of pictures of her doing exercises and others a bit more sensual, both in colour and black-and-white; then we moved back to her house for more shots, in the garden with some new clothes. Gavin, the photographer, also insisted on some black-and-whites inside the house, just to capture her with the right atmosphere, but we soon realised that everything was out of place. We actually struggled to find the “real” her among all that old-style furniture. She gave me a look as if to say “You told me so,” and it didn’t take me long to figure out that I would have to tackle the interior of the house as well.

  The photos were soon downloaded onto her laptop and went on Facebook straight away, causing uproar among her friends. Natalie was almost in tears reading the responses and she couldn’t thank me enough, despite being still in the middle of her make-over.

  I had to crack on as well with the furnishing bit and that occasion happened that afternoon at my office. On my workplace doorstep was that girl who had been fired by Lady Whilsham in the Battersea Fashion Centre, sitting in the entranceway and reading a book. She jumped to her feet as soon as she saw me.

  �
��I remember you,” I said, while she rearranged her clothes in an attempt to look good.

  “My name’s Erika, and yes, I saw you in the mall. I was wondering if I could work with you.”

  “I’m not hiring at the moment; times are tight,” I answered while I was opening the door. “Would you like a tea or coffee?” She nodded and followed me inside.

  She was in her thirties, brunette and well dressed. From the way she spoke and presented herself I could see she’d had a good education and also … I couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was a sense of self-assurance, determination, that I hadn’t spotted when she was in that mall. If I had to bet my last pair of shoes I would have said she was a lawyer. How do you recognise a lawyer from just a look, I asked myself? The more I tried to remove that thought from my mind, the more it came back to haunt me. I even thought of asking, but if she really was one, then in her thirties she wouldn’t be working as a shop assistant, would she? I decided to suspend judgement until I had further information about this Erika.

  “It doesn’t matter if you don’t pay me; I just want to learn from you.”

  “And why should I agree to that?”

  “They’re worried, over in the mall. They’ve done things on a very large scale, but it’s all so impersonal. I heard Mr. Barnes saying that they don’t have an edge on other shops. He’s afraid he’s going to be branded as a sort of pound shop. And they don’t recognise initiative; that’s why they fired me.” She was talking fast, trying to avoid the awkward question.

  “Do you know what I do here?”

  “Yes, you’re a fashion consultant. You look at individuals and help them to find their own style.” Well, that was it in a nutshell: I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  “OK, here’s what we’re going to do.” I picked up a folder from a random client of mine, removed the personal details and left only the clothes pictures. “Here’s two hundred pounds. Look at this file, buy some interior-design magazines, the more the merrier, and come back with ideas on how you would style this person’s house. You’ve got two days.”

  “I don’t understand.” She looked at me, baffled, first looking at the money I had given her, then at me, and then back to the money. “You want me to do interior design … I thought … Who’s the owner; what would they like …?”

  “Erika, you said you’re smart and have initiative. Figure it out, and if I like the results you’re hired.” I showed her the door and reluctantly she left. I could understand her concern, but life is not always as we expect, and if she came back with some good ideas then maybe she could help me. I already had four other customers in the pipeline and I felt that I needed some serious help. That was just from the first few emails that I’d sent out – unbelievable!

  I spent the afternoon on the phone with those customers and planned for the next three weeks ahead. One appointment after the other, no gaps or even time to have lunch; but if I wanted to succeed I had to work even harder. Eventually the guy I had called the week before came and installed a new signpost outside my office window: “GiGi – Personal Shopper – Fashion Consultant”. And below that my phone number and website address. What I liked most was that the banner was right there, in front of the Battersea Fashion Centre’s face. People coming out of the shop would only have to look straight in front of them to see it. And all those people, frustrated by not having found what they were looking for, would see my shiny new sign and think it over. There you are, Jasper; let’s see how you like it.

  I had almost finished for the day when a text came in.

  – Hi, fancy having dinner with me tomorrow?

  That was Raffaele; we’d exchanged messages a couple of times but he’d never popped The Question yet.

  - Busy tomorrow. Big day with Natalie. What about the day after?

  - Deal. Pick you up @ the office 7.30 PM?

  - Sure. Not an Italian, please, I hate it.

  - Ha, ha, ha. I’m stuffed then. See ya tomorrow. X x x

  - Night x x x

  On second thoughts I could have said that I was free that very evening, but why should I come across as being too available? Sometimes it’s better to let things flow at their own pace, find their own rhythm.

  I didn’t stay long in the office as the following day would be my final one with Natalie (furniture excluded). I actually had my car loaded with magazines and I would have possibly spent half of the night thinking about it and trying to figure out some ideas. I wasn’t worried; I just wanted it to be perfect, to do something really nice for her.

  I woke up very early in the morning. I spent most of the day scavenging for the right things for her, and then drove all the way to her place. That was a plus, in my line of work, getting paid to go shopping; shame I couldn’t bring home all the stuff I was buying, but I’ve been there and it had almost bankrupted me. The temptation was hard to fight and eventually I bought something nice and outrageously expensive for myself as well. Hey, I was going on a date with the most gorgeous guy in town, so who could blame me?

  With the car full to the brim, I couldn’t wait to reach Natalie’s and show her my findings.

  “Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed when she opened the door. “I do hope you did some serious damage to my credit card.”

  “No peeking,” I said, grabbing some of the bags and going towards the lounge.

  “Are you kidding me? I’ve been waiting so long for this moment. This is Christmas coming early. Or late.”

  We went through the entire selection and she was ecstatic. It was only at around half past eight in the evening, after she’d tried at least half of what I had bought, that she relaxed a bit and invited me for dinner. We took her Bentley and she drove me to a French restaurant that was close to her place. A two-star Michelin place, they had grown to know her and her expensive tastes and they didn’t complain when we showed up without notice. Contrary to what they usually did, they sorted out a table for us on the spot, causing a hint of panic among the waiters, but otherwise unnoticed by the other guests. It was a treat from Natalie and I fully appreciated it.

  She didn’t believe in talking and eating at the same time and with food like that, I rather agreed with her. It was only when they served us the dessert that I risked mentioning the furniture.

  “I’ve started working on it. And I should have something ready by next week.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to show me something upfront?” She was curious; she’d given me this task on purpose and was dying to see what I made of it.

  “I am indeed; you’ll either love it or hate it, but at least you know I’m putting all my effort into it. In the worst case I’d do it again – especially if you planned to take me for dinner here.”

  “Do you like it? The chef is friendly and we get along quite well; I met him in my gym a while ago. And he’s cute.”

  “Must be a pandemic. I’ve just agreed to a date with a chef as well …” I didn’t complete the sentence and Natalie was on me, asking for all the details. I also had to tell her about getting drunk and, although quite embarrassing for me, she found it very amusing.

  “What do you plan to do with the old clothes?” I asked her with interest. “Charity shop?”

  “I’m glad you asked. I had a thought last night; tell me what you think. I’d like to give a funeral to some of the old clothes, in the garden; a real burial – that would make me feel I’m done with my past.”

  I gasped; I knew she was eccentric, but I’d never heard of anything like that before. I quite liked the idea, though. “I love it,” I replied. “When do you want to hold the service?”

  “Tonight, if you’re up for it.”

  “Sure, why not? And the second half of your old wardrobe?”

  “Oh, I have this friend who’s doing a new series on ITV. We chatted a bit, you know – he’s quite high up in the food chain, and he owes me a couple of favours. I’ll donate the remainder of my clothes and a few other bits for a charity event they’re doing. But the most important
thing is that they’re doing this new series, and I suggested you as a consultant. He saw the ‘new me’, and he didn’t even flinch at the idea – quite the contrary. And they’ll give you a mention in the credits: something like ‘Clothes supervision by GiGi’, and a reference to your website. OK, it’s nothing huge – how many people really look at the credits? – but I’ve arranged for you to meet him and work out a deal for the other actors.”

  I gulped. That would be good exposure for me; imagine, being credited for sourcing clothes for a new series, working with real actors. The connections and the opportunities were endless.

  We ended the dinner and drove back to her place.

  “Come with me,” she whispered, with a sadistic grin on her face and heading upstairs. We started putting some of the old clothes in a bag and slowly we brought them downstairs to the kitchen, by the back door. She opened a cupboard and got out a couple of pairs of oversized dungarees, far too big for either of us but which we wore nonetheless, and two pairs of wellies. With a torch in her hand she started searching in the vast garden until she was satisfied and then said, “You stay here.” It was dark and I could barely see her walking in the general direction of the shed; a few thumping noises followed and then she reappeared with a pair of shovels and working gloves. She tossed a shovel to me. “Start digging the grave; I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, giggling like a teenager. I was flabbergasted; I’d thought she meant she’d bury her clothes in a figurative way, like at the bottom of the wardrobe. This was beyond belief! I pondered the situation for a moment and then I kicked the shovel in the ground; if we were going to make a mess, I’d better get started. The earth was soft from the previous days of rain and I could work quickly. I wondered for a moment if someone would see us, here in the garden, digging like a pair of tomb raiders, and would call the police.

  “Ah good, you’ve started already,” she said, depositing the bags nearby.