Shopping with the Enemy Page 2

  ‘How is work?’ Dinah ventured carefully, once they’d entered the bar, established with a quick sweep that Connor wasn’t there yet and settled into a corner booth.

  Annie leaned back against the leatherette bench and let out a heartfelt sigh.

  ‘I’m not going to complain because I’m lucky to have a job, a well-paid and interesting job when times are so tough …’

  ‘But,’ Dinah prompted.

  ‘I am working very hard – very, very hard. I’ve worked sixty hours since Saturday and it’s only Wednesday.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But that’s television. Once filming starts, the cost of having everyone on set is so gigantic that we just keep going and keep going till everyone drops and the rest of my life just has to wait on the sidelines until the end of the season.’

  ‘I know,’ Dinah repeated.

  ‘Without your help and without Ed I would not be able to keep going, you do know that, don’t you, my love?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dinah assured her.

  ‘Girls! How totally fabulous to see you!’

  At the sound of Connor’s deep, melodious and quite famous voice, Annie and Dinah’s heads weren’t the only ones to turn.

  The tall, ludicrously handsome, dark-haired man swept over to their table, kissed them both on the cheeks, then took a place right beside Annie. He pinched her on the bum as he sat down.

  ‘Still chubby then?’

  Only because she had known him since he was fresh out of drama college and auditioning for bit parts, was he allowed to get away with this with just a mild slap on the hand.

  ‘Not all of us have time for two-hour sessions with our personal trainers every morning of every blinking day,’ she replied.

  ‘As if! I am so busy, darlings, I am working my fingers to the bone,’ he pretended to complain, throwing off his jacket, stretching his long legs out under the table and making a not-so-subtle check of the room for smiles of recognition and any other devastatingly handsome, available men.

  ‘Your beautifully manicured fingers, I’m sure,’ Annie teased.

  ‘Musicals are such hard work, my darlings, you have no idea. You have to eat well, sleep well, gargle with salt, go out and give your all, three hours a night, every single night. It’s drudgery.’

  ‘Ha! I think I could cope with a little West End theatre drudgery at what, ten thousand pounds per hour?’ Annie chipped in.

  ‘Is that what you think I earn? You must be having a laugh.’

  ‘Don’t you be coy with me, Connor McCabe, I know you don’t get out of bed for anything less than five figures.’

  ‘Are we having a bad day?’

  ‘Poor Annie, she’s just worked five twelve-hour days in a row,’ Dinah explained.

  ‘All the flicking through fashion collections, all the getting in and out of lovely outfits, all the time spent in hair and make-up being pampered and beautified … you must be exhausted,’ Connor teased. ‘What are we drinking, by the way?’ he asked as a waiter appeared at his elbow, face lit up with recognition of the man who’d once been a star on Sunday evening’s most watched TV series.

  ‘Champagne cocktails, life’s too short for any other kind,’ Annie replied.

  ‘Agreed.’

  Connor placed the order, lined up another round, then turned back to the conversation.

  ‘It is hard work,’ he agreed. ‘It is so demanding to give yourself, your heart and soul to an audience one hundred per cent of the time. They want it all, they want to suck you dry. At the end of every performance I feel like a husk.’

  Dinah had to gulp her drink to stop herself from laughing out loud.

  ‘We need to shut up, Connor,’ Annie decided. ‘You’ve spent too long in luvvie-land. Lots of good people work much harder than us for a lot less, but … OK, I’ll have just one more rant. It’s the clothes! The clothes they want me to work with this season are just impossible!’

  ‘Ooooh listen to you, Ms Annie Valentine,’ Connor retaliated, ‘you sound like one of those divas on MasterChef complaining about slightly soggy shitake mushrooms.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Annie warned. ‘It’s fashion this season. I don’t get it. I can’t understand anything that’s in fashion right now and I can’t work with any of it.’

  ‘Soggy shitakes,’ Connor repeated.

  ‘Shitake youself. Can we be serious for one tiny moment?’

  Dinah saw the concerned look on her sister’s face and put down her glass.

  ‘I really think I might be losing my touch,’ Annie confessed, ‘in fact, I might already have lost it. The last time I was standing next to the woman I was meant to work my magic on, I just stared and stared at all the pieces on the entire clothes rail and I couldn’t see anything I liked. Not one single idea jumped out at me. That has never happened to me before. We took a break and I had to ask one of the junior assistants to help me out.’

  ‘You were just stressed,’ Connor decided. ‘You tensed up and you found it hard to be creative. No one can be creative when they’re stressed.’

  ‘So am I supposed to ask the director to massage my shoulders then? Or maybe my feet?’ Annie snapped, ‘Could I have a lovely foot massage please, then I’ll feel so much more focused?’

  ‘There’s no need to snipe.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I am so het up about this,’ she admitted, ‘If I’ve lost the fashion touch, the makeover magic, then I am over. Finished. And who’s going to foot the mortgage-slash-school fees-slash-daughter’s airfares to New York then?’

  ‘Shhhush now,’ Dinah said soothingly, the way she might to a sleep-deprived toddler, and patted Annie gently on the hand. ‘This season is definitely a challenge, it reminds me of all the bad things we used to wear when we were teenagers. You’re probably traumatized. I mean, lacy tunics, fingerless gloves, peachy neutrals and dayglo – there are even leg of mutton sleeves!’

  ‘Oh God, I hate them!’ Annie exclaimed.

  ‘Exactly. You’re having flashbacks to the late Eighties.’

  ‘But how can I get over this?’ she asked. ‘And by tomorrow, please. In fact, we have a live event in front of an audience coming right up. I’m already having nightmares about it.’

  ‘You probably just need to recharge your fashion batteries,’ Dinah replied. ‘It’s like when Jamie Oliver got fed up with food. Remember?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Annie had as many Jamie Oliver cookbooks as the next person, but she wasn’t quite as devoted a fan as her sister.

  ‘Don’t you remember? He was pole-axed after his School Dinners nightmare. He was spent, half dead, didn’t even want to open a tin of beans. So what did he do next?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dinah. Did he retire to his vast mansion for a spot of light gardening?’ Annie asked sourly.

  ‘No. He got into a camper van and set off for Italy because in Italy everyone loves food, everyone loves to cook, he was surrounded by passion for food and for eating and so he got his cooking mojo back again.’

  ‘And a whole new TV series, clever man,’ Connor pointed out.

  ‘You need a break, Annie,’ Dinah said. ‘Maybe you need to go to Italy in a camper van and relight your passion for fashion.’

  ‘Italy would be very nice,’ Annie agreed, a little wistfully. ‘Italy is the birthplace of style.’

  She paused to consider the wealth of Italian labels: Pucci, Gucci, Armani, Fendi. Italy was the land of the leather handbag, the spiritual home of the shoe.

  ‘But in a camper van? No,’ she said firmly. ‘Shudder. If I’m going to Italy then it’s staying in a lovely hotel with 300-thread-count sheets and room service or nothing.’

  ‘Well, just go to Italy,’ Dinah said, making it sound so simple.

  Annie gave a deep sigh: ‘Dinah, sweetheart, I have another six whole weeks of twelve-hour days before the first break in the schedule. There’s not one spare moment, let alone one spare penny, to take me swanning off to Italy.’

  ‘You’ll have to find your
fashion mojo,’ Dinah warned, ‘or how will you man your show with all the required energy, enthusiasm and sparkle?’

  ‘All my energy, enthusiasm and sparkle is going to be needed to persuade lovely Lana to give up her cushy little number in New York and come back to London to start the Retail Business course at Dagenham Technical College.’

  ‘Oooooh,’ Connor winced. ‘Give up Manhattan for Dagenham? That is evil, Annie. She is going to hate you.’

  ‘It’s a really good course,’ Annie protested, ‘I’ve done the research!’

  ‘She will hate you!’

  Chapter Three

  New York

  Elena means business:

  Black linen short-sleeved button down dress (Perfect Dress sample)

  Gold and black pendant on chain (Gift from Seth)

  Mock-croc heels (Nine West)

  Glittery hair pin for up-do (Duane Reade drugstore)

  Total est. cost: $85

  ‘FLOOR 47?’ THE elevator attendant asked, obviously remembering that this was where Lana worked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  It didn’t matter that on floor 47, Lana, Elena and Gracie shared the smallest office that three people could possibly squeeze into. The important thing was that the teeny tiny office was a foothold in this dizzying skyscraper right at the heart of Manhattan’s famous Fifth Avenue.

  It meant that fledgling fashion company, Perfect Dress, had a Fifth Avenue presence, a Fifth Avenue letterhead and that all-important, Fifth Avenue address.

  In the mirrored elevator wall, Lana checked herself over discreetly. Her long, dark hair fell smoothly past her shoulders, although there was now a perky new fringe cut high above her elegantly tweezed eyebrows. She was fully made up, but in the light and glossy way of the super-groomed New York girls she was making a huge effort to copy. Lana was deeply in love with every single detail about New York. She planned to stay in this amazing city for ever.

  Today, she was wearing a bright white blouse and a puffy above-the-knee skirt with the highest heels she could bear and sheerest tights. April was drawing to a close and it was already warm enough to go bare-legged, but no high-aiming New Yorker would risk bare legs at the office. Way too unprofessional.

  Opening the door to the office, Lana saw that Svetlana’s 23-year-old daughter, Elena, was already at her desk, on the phone, firing off questions in her distinctive Eastern-Europe-meets-Manhattan accent. Just like her mother, Elena was unfairly blonde and beautiful, but unlike Svetlana, she didn’t exploit her looks. She always wore sober, professional outfits and pulled her golden mane into chic ponytails or grown-up chignons.

  ‘Yes of courrrrrse … do you have some time to speak with our PR manager?’ she asked the caller and looked at Lana with a smile.

  As it was a pocket-sized company, with only three people actively involved in the day-to-day running, they all pitched in with the PR, design, product development and sales, although Elena was definitely the boss.

  ‘All set,’ Lana said, reaching for her phone.

  ‘Well?’ Elena asked once Lana’s call was over, ‘did she go for it?’

  ‘Um … she’s thinking about it,’ Lana admitted, immediately worried that she hadn’t given the journalist at the other end of the line enough of a dazzling sales pitch to get a Perfect Dress featured in her fashion spread.

  ‘Please don’t worry. Really, I hate that magazine,’ Elena told her. ‘We just move on and find somewhere else. There are always new opportunities: my mother say this, I think she hear it from one of her husbands, maybe Igor.’

  Lana smiled. Igor was the most famous of Svetlana’s ex-husbands. He was the father of Svetlana’s two boys, owned gas fields in Russia and was richer than anyone could imagine, so his nuggets of advice were usually followed.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Gracie has been busy,’ Lana exclaimed, spotting the pile of clutter strewn across the third desk in the cramped office: drawings, photos of models, photos of dresses, clippings of fabric and everything stapled, scribbled on, clipped together. A creative frenzy had obviously been going on since Lana had been in the office yesterday.

  ‘Yes, we were here until late last night putting together the plans for the big presentation to the mothers in London. I am very serious about our new ideas,’ Elena added. ‘The latest sales figures came in yesterday and in New York, London, Paris and Milan we are 20 per cent down for the last two months and according to Svetlana, our new autumn/winter collection will look like this–’

  Elena held up several pages of drawings and pulled a face.

  Lana went over to study the sketches.

  ‘But don’t these dresses look just the same as last year’s? Some are even in the same colours.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Elena exclaimed. ‘They are all exactly the same as last year. We can’t do this, people will laugh at us. This is an all-new old collection. But Svetlana says: “everything is classic, everything is vvvvonderrrrful.” She just wants to put out the same dresses season after season. It will never work.’

  ‘I can sort of see the point of running the black, the navy and maybe even the gold silk one again,’ Lana ventured. ‘You know, classic colours, very classic styles. They could probably run for a few seasons, but … the purple?’

  Elena shook her head: ‘Purple is no good for next season. Dove grey did not sell the first time round, so why would we do it again? And sea green? Sea green is finished! Our ideas are much, much better.’

  For several weeks now, Elena, Lana and newest member of the team, Gracie, had been putting together ideas for a dramatically new and different Perfect Dress collection. It was about wild new colours and prints, bold shapes, and all sorts of edgy styling details.

  The problem was – they hadn’t told the Mothers, Svetlana and Annie, about these new ideas yet.

  But Lana and Elena were about to travel to London to make a dazzling – and, they hoped, persuasive – presentation to their bosses. If they could just get the Mothers to agree, then they were sure they could turn the Perfect Dress situation around.

  Lana knew what would happen if they didn’t turn the situation around: she would be on a plane back to London and her exciting New York life would be over, possibly for good.

  That just couldn’t happen! She would not allow it. Lana would do whatever she had to do to save Perfect Dress and her New York career.

  ‘Svetlana’s boring ideas are for ladies who lunch,’ Elena declared. ‘This is the problem! We need a much bigger market. We need everyone who can afford lunch, not just the ladies pushing sushi round their plates. Plus, I believe that the ladies who lunch are bored with safe dresses and tasteful elegance. I think the ladies who lunch might want to be much more daring if we could just convince them.’

  ‘Something beautifully made, but much more edgy?’

  ‘Ya. Gracie wants studs. She thinks we should put studs round the collars of the dresses and maybe on the pockets and cuffs. Punky stud detailing.’

  ‘Studs?!’ Lana asked with her eyebrows raised: ‘you want to put studs on a silk dress which costs $400? Oh my. That is … that is …’

  She was thinking of presenting this idea to the Mothers and the words ‘scary’ and ‘terrifying’ came to mind.

  But Elena chipped in with: ‘Genius. It is a genius idea, no?’

  ‘Do you think we can get them to agree? I mean, we have to, Elena, otherwise I’m not going to be working here any more.’

  ‘We have to make them agree. This is our mission in London. The Mothers must try something new and bold and exciting,’ Elena said, looking very serious, ‘or very soon it won’t just be you leaving – our whole business could be finished.’

  The sombre silence that followed these words was broken by the sound of the door opening. Gracie burst into the room, a riot of cheerfulness and colour.

  ‘Hi!’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s another beautiful day for fashion! Is my outfit not a triumph?’

  The petite girl with the snowy skin, cropped fringe and c
urly orange hair held out her hands, gave a quick pirouette and turned to them both for approval.

  As usual, Gracie looked amazing. Every day, from a wardrobe made up of second-hand finds, sale bargains, scraps of materials and home-sewn creations, this 19-year-old fashion whizz managed to conjure up a new, fresh and entirely original look.

  Today her dainty figure was swathed in a bright green ballet cardigan, leggings, silver ballet shoes and a skirt, puffed out with netting, which looked as if it had been cleverly created from a 1950s curtain.

  A pair of earrings in the style of large, boiled sweets dangled from her lobes.

  ‘Wow!’ Lana laughed, ‘brilliant!’

  Once again, her own attempt at a fashion-forward outfit faded into the background. But she didn’t feel jealous, just in awe, because it was impossible not to love Gracie.

  ‘Please tell me you have more of that skirt material,’ Elena said. ‘Maybe we can make dresses from it.’

  Gracie shook her head: ‘Found it in a trash can. But what’s to stop us creating a totally awesome pattern inspired by it?’

  Her eyes flashed with enthusiasm. She darted over to her desk, set down her shiny tote bag and pulled out her notebook, a fuzzy blue pencil case, scraps of paper, magazine snippings, then a foil package which Lana knew would be a wheat-free bagel filled with tofu and vegetables.

  ‘Have you heard of Parker Bain?’ Gracie asked, opening her notebook and unzipping the pencil case.

  Elena and Lana shook their heads.

  ‘He is uh-mazing,’ Gracie said, closing her eyes and stretching her fingers wide to make the point. ‘He’s this totally cool graphic artist, young, like … fresh out of college, but his work is so strong, so distinctive that he’s already got magazine commissions and I was thinking maybe we could ask him to design some fabrics for us.’

  ‘Our own fabrics?’ Elena asked. ‘This will be too expensive, no?’

  ‘I don’t know, I thought if we kept to one or two colours, found a small factory … I guess I wanted to ask him for ideas. Then we get costings and see what might be possible. I mean: our own patterns – that would be really something. Get us talked about, get us noticed. And Parker Bain, he’s on the radar, he’s the really cool, edgy, out there kinda guy we could team up with to make a splash.’