Late Night Shopping Read online

  She looked, like Annie, about thirty-something. Now that Annie had passed the crucial 35, she would no longer be specific to anyone who asked about her age: 'I'm not admitting to anything! Why should I?'

  It only took a few minutes of chat before Bronwen was telling Annie in a broad accent that she was the only child of a New Zealand sheep farmer.

  'And I look it too,' she said cheerfully. 'Look at my legs – two bloody lumps of mutton. Look at my face!'

  The face was ruddy and pink surrounded by wiry brown hair tinged ginger on top.

  But the sheep farmer's daughter had been posted to London by her company after winning national saleswoman of the year, twice.

  'If you can make it, I can sell it,' she declared. Although Annie suspected Bronwen might have a problem flogging high fashion.

  As soon as Bronwen had arrived in London she'd realized that, despite her phenomenal sales figures, when it came to fitting in and looking the part, she was totally out of touch.

  But someone, wishing her well, had given her Annie's name, and so, this Wednesday morning, Bronwen had brazenly marched into The Store in a 'made in New Zealand' patterned sweatshirt, a brown cord skirt and flat brown sandals.

  How she had braved the withering stares that must have followed her all the way up to the second floor, Annie would never know. It proved she was made of very strong stuff.

  'So what did you sell in New Zealand?' Annie asked. 'What scooped you saleswoman of the year, twice?'

  Bronwen's answer came out loud and clear without the slightest hint of embarrassment: 'Chemical toilets. There's a huge market over there for chemical toilets. I was selling them faster than they could make them.'

  Lowering her voice slightly, she added, 'With my commission, I was making more than the chairman of the company. I think that's why they had to send me to London. He didn't want me to own a bigger house than him. It's a small place, Wellington. People notice things like that over there.'

  'Chemical toilets?!' Annie asked in amazement. She was intrigued to know more about this woman, because up until now Annie had always thought she was the best saleswoman she'd ever met. But clearly, here was someone who really could sell anything.

  'Yeah . . . you're not going to go all snotty on me now, are you?' Bronwen asked with the winning, disarming smile which obviously had people reaching for their chequebooks and planning where to site their new Portaloo.

  When Annie gave a hearty 'No!' Bronwen felt a wave of relief. As she'd travelled up the escalator through this slice of luxury retail heaven, looking at fragile glass mannequins draped in see-through toga dresses, knee-length wigs and lashings of intricate beads, she'd thought the woman who'd sent her to The Store must have been out of her mind.

  But in front of her stood the very beautifully dressed, yes, but very real, very friendly-looking Annie. And all Bronwen could think was, 'How can I look just a little bit more like you?'

  'I'm management now,' Bronwen told her, pulling a slight face. 'I'm training and motivating the UK sales force. And I want to be just as good at that as I was at selling.'

  'Why stop selling?' Annie wondered. 'Isn't it the thing you love doing? Couldn't you make even more money selling something else? Or starting up your own business?'

  'I might,' Bronwen admitted. 'But I thought I'd give the training gig a whirl. I mean, I'm management!' She seemed to find this amusing. 'Everyone takes you more seriously when you're management . . . you know, when I need to get some financial backing later on.'

  'I'm very impressed,' Annie told her. 'So, any family?' she ventured, wondering if there were any mini Bronwens in mini brown cord skirts. 'Any significant other?'

  'Nah,' came the casual reply, 'plenty of time for that yet, I hope.'

  'So . . .' Annie took in the wiry hair and freckly face once again, 'how are we going to dress you?' she wondered out loud.

  'Not going to be bloody easy, is it?' Bronwen joked. 'I like sweaters, sweatshirts, jeans that are comfy, not fancy, shoes I can walk in. I just want to be comfortable. That's how I sold 27,000 toilets a quarter: people were comfortable with me. They liked me. And look at my face, I don't suit any colours at all. Even black makes me look like a beetroot.'

  Annie looked at the way Bronwen stood, slightly hunched forward, feet planted like poles in the ground, hip width apart. She really did look like a shepherd. The Store did not cater for shepherds or people who wanted to be comfortable . . . people who didn't suit any colour at all.

  'I think I should measure you,' Annie suggested. 'It's a bit hard to tell what's going on underneath that sweater and skirt. You could be a size 10 or a size 18, I have no idea!

  'Then, I'm going to sit you down here with a drink and I'm going to bring things up. I don't want you looking round the shop,' Annie warned, 'you'll just panic and get frightened and maybe even run out on me. No one's done that yet, but there's always a first.'

  'Nah! I'll not run. I can't wait to see what you're going to come up with. I'm a disaster zone.' Bronwen was lifting up her arms so that Annie could pull the tape measure around her. 'My mum died when I was small and I only had my old man to take me shopping,' she went on. 'I didn't have any girlfriends when I was growing up. Too much of a dork.'

  Although this was said cheerfully, it just broke Annie's heart. But then she knew too well that how people looked was always tied up with their complicated life stories. Bronwen's mum had died . . . she had no friends . . . she had to go shopping with the sheep farmer . . . and she thought she was a dork! That was all so tragic.

  But look at her, she was so upbeat and certainly not sorry for herself. Annie wished she could sprinkle a little bit of Bronwen onto all the fragile, moaning minnies she had to pander to week in, week out.

  'Well, today I'm your girlfriend,' Annie told her, 'and we're going to go shopping together and have a fantastic time. Now, you sit down – ' she pointed to the leather sofa in the vast dressing area. 'Paula will bring you drinks and magazines and even file your nails if you want her to.'

  'That'd be nice!' Bronwen said in surprise.

  'Just one question, babes, are there any colours you like?' Annie just wanted to get a clue here.

  'Ermmm . . .' Bronwen had to think for a while, 'grey? Does that count as a colour?'

  Annie nodded encouragingly.

  'And I quite like pale green . . . any green really, so long as it isn't bright.'

  Out on the shop floor, Annie did not panic. Even though there was so much to do to this woman! Looking at Bronwen in her saggy beige underwear, Annie had felt like a landscaper surveying a wild and overgrown field that she was supposed to turn into a garden overnight.

  'Baby steps,' Annie reminded herself. Transformations took time. She'd have to ease Bronwen along gently, season by season.

  She began to search the shop floor methodically; she had ideas and these racks had never let her down before. Out here she was going to find loads of things that a size 12–14 ruddy-faced, ruddy-haired woman who could only cope with being comfortable would want to wear.

  Paula stalked past, telling her with a roll of the eyes, 'Whoaaaa, you've got your work cut out for you in there.'

  'Shhhh!' Annie ticked her off, 'we'll be fine!' Her eyes slid down to Paula's shoes. 'Good fit?' Annie asked, pointing.

  'Like a glove.' Paula winked and slinked on past, hips jutting and swivelling. She was wasted on the shop floor, she really was. At the very least she should be the star of her own miniseries.

  * * *

  Bronwen looked at herself in the mirror, hard. Annie had a name for this surprised, scrutinizing, half-astonished, half-disbelieving kind of look. She'd seen it often enough before, but she wasn't jaded. In fact, it always gave her a little burst of job satisfaction.

  Yes, there was no doubt about it, Bronwen was definitely giving herself the 'I can't believe it's really me' look.

  Annie had dressed her in a jumper and skirt, so she could still be comfortable and feel like herself. But this skirt was softest
tweed, short and flared and flirty, by the label Annie liked to edge her novices towards.

  On top was a Joseph cardigan, grey-green, mossy, cut like a military-ish jacket with a long row of buttons on each side; underneath was a pale green scoop neck top.

  On a leather cord, Bronwen wore a chunky mother-of-pearl pendant of Maori design which Annie had unearthed in accessories, feeling Bronwen should have it for a touch of home.

  Thick tights and flat boots made certain Bronwen was covered and comfortable. Over her shoulder was a long-handled, chunky, tasselled and casual £600 bag.

  'You like?' Annie was asking, very pleased with her handiwork.

  'Oh yes, me like. Me like a lot,' came Bronwen's astonished voice.

  They put the jumper and top with dark grey, straight-legged jeans. They tried the skirt with a long-line slouchy grey sweater. They even put Bronwen into a simple black shirt dress with an amazing plaited leather and silver hip belt.

  Everything was stunning. Everything made Bronwen younger, slimmer and prettier, and just slightly more 'management'.

  Annie coaxed her into boots with a slight heel. Then mid-heeled ankle-strap shoes in wicked black patent.

  'How much is all this going to cost?' Bronwen wondered a little later as she buttoned up a tweedy, but nevertheless slick, Farhi winter coat.

  'Oh, a chemical toilet or two,' Annie warned her. 'Maybe even three. I have no idea how much a chemical toilet costs these days. But I'm sorry, Bronwen, if you were earning more than the chairman of the company and only buying Made in New Zealand sweaters then you're going to have to pay. I'm not letting you off! You're catching up on decades of shopping. You have to buy every single thing you love and even most of the things you just like! And by the way, you're not allowed to shop anywhere else, ever. I'm your shopping girlfriend from now on. Agreed?'

  Bronwen nodded. 'You know, you may actually be a better saleswoman than me,' she said thoughtfully. 'Have you ever thought of coming to work in the chemical toilet business?'

  'Paula, Paula, Paula!' Annie stopped her assistant in her tracks as soon as Bronwen and all her shopping had been helped out to The Store's courtesy car (for people who spent over £3,000 in one session and lived within a five-mile radius).

  'Come. Sit,' Annie instructed, 'and let's talk about the shoes.'

  Perching herself on the sofa, Paula carefully undid the little purple buttons, eased her foot out of the vibrant cerise leather and handed the shoe over to Annie.

  Paula's feet were bigger than hers – what with Paula being close to ten feet tall, this wasn't such a surprise.

  'Where are they from?' Annie asked, taking a closer look. She'd only seen workmanship like this on the most expensive shoes in The Store. Shoes which came in cedarwood boxes and sold for over £500 a pair.

  'Hong Kong,' Paula confided, 'I ordered them when I was there on holiday with my boyfriend. They had to be made up in my size and they arrived yesterday.'

  'Which shop?' Annie wanted to know.

  'It was a market stall.'

  'A market stall!' Annie couldn't believe it. The maker of these shoes looked as if he'd served a twenty-year apprenticeship with a master craftsman in Italy. Look at the arch on the sole. The sweep. Check out the contrast purple piping sewn with tiny stitches even round the buttonhole. These shoes were breathtaking.

  Annie studied the ornate gold lettering inscribed on the insole: Timi Woo.

  'Timi Woo?' she asked. 'Is that a joke? Is that supposed to be a take on Jimmy Choo?'

  'No. That's his name!' Paula insisted. 'I asked him that. He gave me his card. He said my friends could email him. He'll even make up his designs in the colours you want.'

  'Really?! And . . . most importantly – ' Annie had the shoe on her foot now, pointing her toe this way and that, admiring it from every angle – 'how much did these handmade, bespoke babies cost?'

  'Oh . . . I think they were about sixty quid.'

  'Sixty quid! Sixty quid!' Annie couldn't believe it. 'Are you sure?'

  'Yeah,' Paula replied casually, not sure what all the fuss was about.

  Suddenly Annie felt overwhelmingly excited. This could be it! This could be her thing. This could be her business! If she bought Mr Timi Woo's shoes and sold them over here . . . well, even at £120 they would be a bargain, a total steal. There was nothing available in Britain the quality of Mr Woo's shoes for less than £200, or £250 even. She couldn't think when she'd seen a lovelier piece of footwear that didn't come in a signed wooden box.

  And the market for bespoke designer shoes was getting hotter and hotter. The Store already sold limited editions of Brian Atwoods and Rupert Sandersons at no less than £300 a pair.

  'Paula, you are a genius!' she declared. 'You are a totally, brilliant, fabulous shopping genius.'

  'Calm down, girl, you can order yourself a pair,' was Paula's response.

  'A pair! I want hundreds of pairs!' Annie exclaimed.

  'Maybe you should have a biscuit,' Paula advised.

  'A biscuit? No, no, no!' Annie waved the idea away. 'Not everyone can eat biscuits all day long and still look like you. Paula, this is the best thing you've ever told me about.'

  'Apart from the day that Donna . . .' Paula reminded her.

  'Oh yeah.'

  There was no forgetting the day that Donna Nicholson had finally left The Store. Their former floor manager, possibly the evil twin sister of Cruella de Vil.

  Chapter Three

  Dinah for drinks:

  Mustard yellow pinafore (Barnardo's)

  White, yellow and mustard floral blouse (Topshop)

  Blue and white striped tights (Topshop)

  Blue sequined beret (Accessorize)

  Mustard Mary-Janes (Barnardo's)

  Total est. cost: £65

  'I'm liking your necklace.'

  Five consultations later and Annie was finally packing the goodies gleaned from The Store today into white and gold carrier bags.

  There was a top with a hem tear on the sleeve, which she'd bought (double discount) planning to invisibly mend it then sell it (Brand New With Tags) on her site. Then, she'd been given a generous selection of just about to go out of date miniatures by one of the Lancôme ladies, which she would either use herself or donate to her sister, Dinah.

  But the best haul of the day had come from The Store's restaurant: three Tupperware boxes full of roasted artichoke salad and slices of fennel and fenugreek lasagne. Annie would offer this to whichever family members turned up at home tonight in search of dinner. She couldn't promise they'd eat it, obviously – that was the problem with The Store's restaurant leftovers, they were made for very low-fat-ladies-who-lunch.

  Ed was taking Owen out to a concert this evening. She didn't know what kind of concert, except that it was at the Barbican and he'd got a special rate on the tickets. But this was a good thing, as Ed wasn't really happy unless he got a live music fix at least twice a week and Owen was always willing to tag along, whereas Annie had been dragged to several strange things (Shostakovich and Benjamin Britten, to name two) and had made it quite clear she shouldn't be his number one choice of musical date.

  Lana had already phoned to say she was going to be with her new boyfriend, Andrei, this evening, doing their homework together. Annie had tried her hardest not to tut down the line. Probably the most irritating thing about Lana's new boyfriend was that there was nothing wrong with him – absolutely not one thing Annie could complain about. He was the perfect boyfriend and this made her twitch with annoyance because, if she was really honest, she wasn't quite ready to watch Lana fall madly in love. She wasn't ready to be relegated to the sidelines of Lana's affections . . . not just yet.