Shopping with the Enemy Page 23

  The cabbie pulled over and helped her to unload her bags while she settled the fare. Then, laden down with shopping and luggage, Annie made a beeline for the shop with the tunic in the window.

  Pushing open the door, she found herself in a boutique she hadn’t visited for several years, but she still remembered it well.

  ‘Hello.’

  She gave the sales assistant a big smile. ‘I love the dress in your window so much I made the taxi driver let me out.’

  ‘Isn’t it fantastic? Very new,’ the assistant replied. ‘I only put it in the window this morning. But we’ve got three in. What’s your size?’

  Annie was directed to the changing room to wait. When the assistant reappeared, she had the tunic in red and in bright blue and she also carried a pair of shiny black leggings and spike-heeled black sandals.

  ‘I think you need to try it on with these, to see the whole look in action.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Annie agreed, recognizing a fellow saleswoman.

  She stripped off, pulled on the tight, shiny black leggings, not really loving what they did to her legs. Sausages about to burst from their skins was the image that sprang to mind.

  But she put the sandals on, which at least gave the sausages a little length, then she slipped the red tunic from its hanger and pulled it on over her head.

  It was good. In fact, it was very good. She felt the material between her fingers: just right, just thick enough, just thin enough, a touch of stretch, but beautifully matte so that it really carried the red.

  She loved the sleeves and the stud detailing – an edgy stroke of genius. The studs were punched all around the wide neckline and ran in a line over the shoulders and the top of the sleeves, transforming the dress from chic to punkish.

  The flattering cut meant she didn’t need a belt or anything complicated. Wearing this, Annie wondered what her resistance to the tunic had been about for all this time.

  It was a great look. It was a long top, or a short dress – loose around the pesky bum and tum areas, putting the focus on neck, cleavage and arms.

  It made her look very fashion, very current without a hint of the dreaded dressing ‘too young’. Oh, who knew what that meant anyway? Some 50-plus women looked downright fabulous in vest tops and skinny jeans … some 70-year-olds wore bikini bottoms on the beach with long grey plaits and nipple rings. You could look far too staid and old if you didn’t dress a little too young.

  ‘How is it going?’ the assistant asked from the other side of the curtain.

  ‘It’s great … I love it.’

  Carefully, she looked herself over from all angles. It was a yes. It was absolutely definitely a yes. Isabella, her café fashion guru, would say yes, wouldn’t she?

  ‘Two questions: how much is it?’

  The assistant told her.

  ‘Pretty reasonable,’ was Annie’s verdict: ‘and who made it?’

  She’d pulled the tunic on so quickly, she’d had no chance to glance at the label.

  ‘A little company, quite new, this is one of their diffusion pieces: NY Perfect Dress.’

  For a moment, Annie just stared, mouth a little open.

  ‘NY Perfect Dress?’ she repeated, her voice sounding weak.

  ‘Yeah, have you heard of them?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  London

  Boss Tamsin:

  Crisp white shirt (Thomas Pink)

  Pink and grey print skirt (Marni)

  Grey suede heels (LK Bennett)

  Chunky pearl necklace (Topshop)

  Total est. cost: £420

  WEARING THE NEW NY Perfect Dress tunic, the shiny black leggings and the foxy black sandals – because they fitted so well, it would have been criminal not to take then too – Annie gathered up her bags and hailed another cab.

  It was time to get to Soho and thank Tamsin for the strange holiday, which had nevertheless shaken Annie out of her rut. But meanwhile, in the back of the cab, there was another urgent phone call she had to make.

  It was 11.12 a.m. Early to call New York, but given the circumstances … finally, she heard Lana’s bleary voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘It’s me, Lana. I have to talk to you. I’m in London, where NY Perfect Dress is hanging in shop windows!’

  ‘In shop windows?’ Lana repeated, waking up rapidly.

  ‘Yes. I’m driving past this shop and I see an outfit in the window which is so good that I have to stop my cab and get out there and take a look.’

  ‘So good?’ Lana said, just to be sure.

  ‘Yes, it’s so good I do in fact buy it: red, covered in studs, amazing. But—’

  ‘But it is really good, isn’t it?’ Lana chipped in. ‘So, the punky red, is that the one you went for?’

  The enthusiasm in Lana’s voice was infectious.

  ‘Yes, it really is incredibly clever, Lana, and I look one whole lot less middle aged – but it doesn’t make me any less angry.’

  ‘Yes it does, Mum. You already sound a lot less angry.’

  ‘Well, I’m not!’ Annie insisted, but really, she was much more hopeful. The dress she was wearing was really good. It might be a lot easier to get Svetlana on side now that she knew these new dresses were brilliant.

  ‘Did you see a blue one with a yellow print?’ Lana asked.

  ‘The one you sent a picture of? Asking if I recognized the print? Sorry, I only picked that message up this morning.’

  ‘Right. Did you see it?’

  ‘No, there wasn’t one in the shop. I can’t say hand on heart I’ve seen the print before, but there is something familiar about it.’

  ‘I know,’ Lana agreed.

  ‘Babes, if you’re uneasy, if you’ve got any doubts, you’ve got to grill the designer and maybe you should just recall all the dresses with that print. You know how much trouble a copied print could cause.’

  ‘I know!’ Lana almost squeaked her reply.

  ‘What does Elena think?’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it to Elena. She’s so stressed, she’s so worried about the whole thing …’

  ‘Well, wise up, girl. You have to talk to Elena. You’ve got yourselves into this, now you have to be big and decide what to do.’

  The cab pulled up in the Soho street where the TV production company had its sleek headquarters. Annie buzzed the door and was soon being ushered in to her boss’s all-white office, where Tamsin was at work behind her desk.

  ‘Annie, hi!’ Tamsin greeted her cheerfully, ‘you’re looking great.’

  ‘Yeah, feeling great too,’ Annie added and vigorously shook the hand offered. ‘A break was a great idea. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. Full of enthusiasm, bursting with enthusiasm, sweetheart.’

  ‘A long weekend in an Italian spa – I am totally jealous,’ Tamsin added.

  ‘The spa was beautiful and I was more pampered than the wife of an African dictator, but there was no food! Not a shred,’ she confided, sitting down in a dainty Perspex chair and reaching over for one of the vast muffins waiting in a basket for attention: ‘it was barley broth once a day and vile green vegetable juice. Courgette, I ask you? Like drinking pond water. There are limits to what a girl will do to shrink her derrière. And quite frankly, buying a nice new pair of Spanx is about as far as I’m prepared to go.’

  Annie bit into the muffin. It was blueberry, utterly delicious and she was starving.

  ‘So … any thoughts about the show?’ Tamsin asked.

  Annie swallowed her mouthful and decided to go for it: ‘I’m so sorry about the live event. I panicked. I thought I didn’t understand fashion any more so I sort of went label crazy. I made that terrible mistake of thinking a blizzard of designer labels would do the fashion thinking for me. It was madness … that poor woman. I think we need to contact her and re-shoot.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve sweet-talked her into coming back next week. We won’t have an audience, but we can improvise.’

>   ‘Perfect. I’ve been having nightmares about making her cry on stage.’

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve worked you so hard. Next season we’ll rethink the filming schedule and make sure you get more time off.’

  Annie grinned at her: ‘Next season, Tamsin. Now, those words are music to my ears.’

  ‘What do you think we should be doing next season?’ Tamsin asked.

  Suddenly Lana’s words, even Randall’s words, were ringing in Annie’s ears: ‘We need to get creative, arty – maybe even messy!’

  Tamsin’s eyebrows rose, but she was still smiling.

  ‘What we’re doing now you can see on every single makeover programme: we get someone in, we tell her what to wear, we marvel at the result. I don’t think it’s ringing my bell.’

  ‘So how do we get more creative?’ Tamsin asked.

  ‘Why don’t we get the guests to show us their favourite thing at home … their favourite painting, or fruit bowl, or something that makes their heart lift – and then we base their new outfit around this inspiration. So we make it much more about finding their real style rather than shoving them into what’s on offer on the high street.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘And what about tracking down much smaller designers? You know, people who are making hand-knitted jumpers or printed scarves. Show how much care and thought and art goes into making clothes? Can’t we tap into the creative side of it?’

  Annie was on a roll now, and thinking of Inge and the trip round the Italian ribbon shop, she added: ‘I’d really like a “make do and mend” strand. Someone brings in a tired outfit and we spruce it up for them with ribbons, or a braid trim, give it new buttons – dye it a different colour, sew on flowers. I think that would chime with the times.’

  Tamsin gave her a quizzical look and Annie felt a little chill of fear. Had she gone too far? Had the Randall hippie-trip gone to her head? She wasn’t really an artist … she was a TV presenter. It wasn’t her job to be creative, it was her job to pull in viewers, make sure Tamsin’s show got re-commissioned and Annie’s contract got renewed – wasn’t it?

  But really, she did have a feeling that her viewers would want a more interesting show, one with real passion and heart. Everyone could buy women new clothes from the high street and do their hair nicely, but what did that say? What did that inspire?

  Wasn’t it better to try and help everyone to relight their creative fires? As Isabella had said, wasn’t fashion all about keeping interested in the new and staying in love with yourself?

  ‘I want to help everyone to get creative,’ Annie added. How had Isabella put it? ‘Fashion should be all about staying young at heart, keeping an interest in the new and being in love with yourself.’

  ‘Well …’ Tamsin began in her usual unruffled way.

  Annie held her breath. Had she gone too far?

  ‘Sounds very exciting. Now go away and write up some fresh proposals.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  London

  The St Vincent’s Yummy Mummy:

  Fitted beige shift dress (Gerard Darel)

  Sensible beige pumps (Hobbs)

  Tasteful gold studs (Ernest Jones)

  Black and pink demi-cup bra (Agent Provocateur)

  Black and pink knickers (same)

  Total est. cost: £650

  ANNIE BRUSHED HER hair carefully and applied bright red lipstick in the back of the cab. There was no longer any time to go home. She’d have to head straight to the concert at Ed and Owen’s school or miss seeing both of her boys in action.

  Unfortunately, this meant she would have to tow all her shopping and her luggage with her, but she had a vague hope that St Vincent’s was the kind of school which might just be able to provide luggage storage for jet-set parents.

  It was a very smart school: fee-paying, old-fashioned and self-important. The kind of school where, in amongst the fairly ordinary, hard-working parents, were a handful who rocked up to events in Ferrari convertibles and looked put out to find there was no valet parking.

  Annie paid her cab, charmed the receptionist into stashing her luggage and headed for the main hall, greeting parents that she knew en route.

  ‘Annie, hello, you’re looking well! I love the red.’

  She turned towards the familiar voice and was caught up in a hug and a kiss with yummy mummy, newly divorced, Tessa, who was sporting her latest winning outfit: a figure-skimming beige dress with just a hint of blush pink bra.

  It wasn’t what Annie would have picked for a concert at her children’s school, but there was no denying that Tessa looked good in it and maybe school concerts were a gold mine of single dads.

  To confirm this, Tessa added in a low voice: ‘I have my eye on Miles White, Charlie’s dad. I think he’s keen. Over there … have you ever noticed his shoulders before? A former Cambridge Blue. Magnificent.’

  Annie smiled encouragingly, although really this felt perfectly teenage. She didn’t want to be talking about Miles White’s undeniable fit dad status, she wanted to crow about the fact that Tamsin loved her new ideas and the new series was going to be amazing.

  She also didn’t want to be looking at Miles White when she was so desperate to see Ed, but she would have to wait until after the concert for that first reunion hug.

  Finally, the audience was seated, the orchestra came in, and there was Owen at the back manning the oversized drums. He scanned the crowd for his mum and shot her a huge grin when he finally saw her.

  Not wanting to mortify him, she risked a little wave, and then Ed was striding towards the front, conductor’s baton in hand.

  It was perfect to see them both again, just perfect. She kept smiling, beaming in their direction. Ed, with his back to the audience, didn’t have the chance to look for her, so she tried to read as much as she could from this rear view. He’d had time to iron his shirt and sort out his hair – that was good; obviously the twins hadn’t driven him to complete distraction.

  She was a little bit uncertain whether a dark patch on the back of his trouser leg was a shadow or some sort of juice stain, but thought it might be best not to fixate on that.

  The orchestra tore through a whirlwind of pieces for a full hour and a half. Annie was no classical music buff but it seemed pretty impressive to her. Owen’s face had turned pink with effort and concentration while Ed’s impassioned baton waving had untucked his shirt and ruffled his hair.

  After the thunderous applause at the end, it was time to wait for Ed in the library, sipping at a glass of lukewarm fizzy wine with the other parents.

  ‘Hello Mrs Leon, how are you doing?’

  For a moment the question startled her, because no one ever called her Mrs Leon; well, apart from the headmaster, who was approaching for a quick, sociable word or two of small talk: ‘Wasn’t Mr Leon brilliant at leading from the front, and your son is always so demonstrative on the drums, isn’t he?’

  She smiled proudly. Good old Mr Ketteringham-Smith. Despite all the difficulties there had been in the past with Lana, Owen and even Ed, he always liked to act as if nothing very serious had ever happened between them, but … well, maybe it was more true to say that he acted as if he didn’t bear a grudge.

  Annie’s phone began to trill loudly. Phew … whoever it was on the other end of the line, even an insurance cold caller, would get her full and devoted attention if it meant her strained chat with the headmaster was over.

  ‘I am so sorry about this – lovely to see you, a fantastic concert, but I’m just going to quickly deal with this call …’

  Phew!

  As Annie brought the phone out of her bag, she clocked the caller’s name and braced herself and her eardrum.

  ‘ANNAH!’ came the screech down the line.

  ‘Hello, darlin’ …’

  ‘What is happening in New York? What do you know and why is no one telling me?!’

  Svetlana sounded wound up and furious. Now was not the time to fill her in on the NY Perfect Dress story. I
t wouldn’t work: it would blow up.

  With Svetlana right against her ear, waiting for a reply, Annie felt as if she was tiptoeing round the edge of a volcano.

  ‘I don’t know much, I’m trying to find out, I’ll let you know everything just as soon as I know more,’ she said, keeping her voice low in this milling crowd of pushy parents, everyone busy worrying about which conservatoire their child should aim for if it didn’t work out with Oxbridge.

  ‘Why do they not tell me?’ Svetlana asked. ‘I call and call for Elena, but she not reply to me.’

  ‘Look darlin’, you have quite enough on your plate. How are the boys doing? Have you had a chance to speak to Igor yet? I hope Harry has well and truly lawyered him.’

  ‘Igor and I are having dinner tonight like two civilized adults.’

  This sounded so implausible that Annie couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Dinner?!’ she exclaimed. ‘But he snatched your boys and tried to put them into military academy in Russia!’

  Did Svetlana really need to be reminded?

  ‘Well, he offer dinner in the Capital Restaurant, best lobster and champagne in London. He said we need to talk this out like grown-ups.’

  ‘Do you think he’s going to offer you a deal? He might try to take Michael and leave Petrov in London.’

  ‘Oh no! I will never let him take Michael or Petrov. I make offer to Igor,’ she said with admirable determination: ‘I offer to send the boys to a different school in London. One where there is optional army training. Cadets, I think you call it. I think if Michael does cadet training in London, Igor will be more happy.’

  ‘Right …’

  Annie wasn’t really up on military training for boys. Owen would have taken one look at her, rolled his eyes and run a mile; well, no, he would have sauntered a mile and definitely without a backpack. Playing violin and being super-shy were the things Owen had done when he was Michael’s age. Now it was footie, German, eBay trading and banging drums so hard that the house shook.

  ‘If Igor is happy with their education, maybe he will stop pulling these silly stunts,’ Svetlana went on.