Busy Woman Seeks Wife (13 page)

When she got to the end of her spiel, he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “You and you.” He nodded
at Kerry and Luke. “Bugger off. I’d like a moment with Lois Lane here. Sit down there.” He indicated the chair in front of
him that Kerry had just vacated as the other two shuffled resentfully through the door, then extended his hand. “And let’s
have a look at those notes.”

“Erm, they’re in shorthand. My own special shorthand only I can read,” Ella bluffed frantically.

Mike extended his hand again and she slowly handed over the empty clipboard. He looked briefly down, as if to confirm what
he already knew, and handed it back to her. Ella felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. This must be what it felt like to
be a lion’s lunch.

He smiled slowly. “There’s no e-mail either, is there?” She shook her head wordlessly. “And the dog ate your printout, did
it?”

Ella jumped to her own defense. “No, there was one. Honest. I had it earlier. I put it down. I just couldn’t find it, so I
just said what I could remember.”

Mike swiveled around in his chair. “Coffee?” He fiddled with the drip filter permanently steaming by his desk. “You forgot
to mention the sweatshops though, didn’t you?”

“What?” Ella jerked forward. “How did you… ?”

Mike turned back towards her and handed over a murky cup of coffee, then opened his desk drawer and handed her the list she’d
made. “You can’t kid a kidder, Ella. Didn’t anyone teach you that? I’m the biggest bullshitter I’ve ever met.” The smile on
his face was very broad by now. “I just thought I’d see how well you could think on your feet. You’ve got to think fast in
this business. You passed. You’ll go far.”

“You… you… you… !” For once, words failed her.

Mike grinned in satisfaction. “Now, bugger off, kid.”

I
’m thinking bagels.” Maurice, head honcho of Gorgeous Gourmet, put down his papers as if he’d announced a cure for the common
cold and waited expectantly.

“Bagels?”

“For the launch. Teensy weensy little ones, mind, ever so sweet, full of smoked salmon or chocolate. Even foie gras…”

Alex’s tummy rumbled. She’d been so rushed this morning that breakfast had been a slab of Ella’s deliciously moist fruit loaf
that she’d found in a tin in the kitchen. Her usual bolt into Starbucks on the way to work had been stalled by a call from
Todd, who was en route to Munich and wanting to kill time at the airport. They hadn’t seen each other now for two weeks and
he was clearly feeling frustrated.

Maurice was now waxing lyrical about itsy-bitsy croissants, his striped shirt—so tight it appeared almost painted onto his
skinny frame—rippling with excitement. Alex had never actually met him before, but she had tasted some delicious muffins at
a marketing conference a few months ago and, when the food issue for the launch had come up, she’d gotten Camilla on to the
case to find out who’d catered the event and get some recommendations. With his carefully gelled, artistically sculpted blond
hair and diamond nose stud, he made an unlikely looking type to be involved in the catering business. Alex had a moment’s
disquiet.

“You’re absolutely sure you can cope with an event this size, aren’t you, Maurice? I mean, we’re talking three hundred press,
VIPs, athletes, and it’s very important for us to get it right.” She leaned forward to drive home her point. “I mean, very,
very important. Possibly the biggest thing we’ve ever done, and I need breakfast circulating constantly so no one thinks we’ve
scrimped, athletic-looking waiters… you know the kind of thing.”

Maurice leaned back in his seat, an offended expression on his face, and sighed theatrically. “Alex, you have come to
absolutely
the right person. All my clients say that what I don’t know about brunch canapés isn’t worth knowing.” He crossed his tightly
trousered legs, his silver thumb ring catching the light as he feathered the hair forward around his ears. Alex watched in
fascination. “Of course there are the tricky ones to think about.”

“Sorry?”

Maurice giggled girlishly and brushed something nonexistent off his sleeve. “Those sensitive little souls like myself who
have special diets. I blame all the sliced white bread we had as children.” He leaned forward again conspiratorially. “I’m
a martyr to my digestion, frankly.” He started to count off on his fingers. “We need to allow for the gluten-intolerant, lactose-intolerant,
soy-intolerant, wheat-intolerant…” This was beginning to sound like an allergy conference. Alex stopped him.

“Keep it simple, Maurice.”

He looked crestfallen. “Oh, so you won’t want to know about my fruit sculpture then?”

“Fruit sculpture?”

“Oh yes.” He leaned even farther forward. “We must have fruit for all those sporty people. Now, I’m thinking something big,
bold and spectacular. I’m thinking fruits to reflect the international audience. I’m thinking a full-size statue of an athlete,
maybe even more than full size. Yes! Let’s go gigantic. All muscles and pectorals.” His eyes glazed over for a moment in erotic
reverie. “But, wait for it, made
entirely out of fruit.
Watermelon for the head, all carved exquisitely. Pawpaw, mangoes, luscious strawberries and blueberries.” He warmed to his
theme, his hand gestures going wild. “Slices of apple and pineapple to make shape and form. Cantaloupe and ripe apricots?”

Alex looked at her watch, feeling very ill at ease. “Right.”

“And there he would stand in all his glory.” Now Maurice’s arms were stretched wide like the Messiah’s. “Proud and strong
at the end of the runway, the colors on his fruit-created clothing reflecting the colors of your clothing range…”

“Maurice, how much is this… this artwork going to be?”

Without dropping his arms, Maurice looked down at his notes and mentioned a figure.

“You are joking!” Alex shouted so loud that startled heads bobbed up from behind computers in the open-plan office. “That’s
outrageous!”

“Well.” Maurice dropped his arms and looked down sulkily at his nails. “You have to pay for creativity, you know. These things
take time to do and you did say this was
very
,
very
important.”

Alex could see her entire launch budget being blown out of the water by a fruit salad. There was a small cough. “It would
look tremendous,” Camilla said quietly from her seat. She’d barely spoken since the meeting had started. “It might even impress
the most hardened hacks, Alex?”

Alex shook her head. “But it’s way too expensive, Cam.”

“Well.” Camilla shrugged. “I’m sure Maurice could relook at his quote, but in the end it’s up to you, of course.”

What Alex really needed now was her assistant’s characteristic decisiveness, but she knew Camilla was right. It was up to
her to make the final decision. She glanced across the office at Gavin, deep in conversation with Peter, running-shoe marketing
manager and terrier on the heels of Alex’s job, and realized that this launch had to be good. Better than good. It had to
be great. And she had to produce something that would make a gimmick-weary press sit up and notice. A fruit sculpture, ridiculous
as it sounded, might just do it.

“O… kay,” she said slowly. “If you can relook at the costings, we’ll go with the sculpture.” The caterer’s face lit up.

“But, Maurice.” Alex paused. “No strategically placed bananas, hey?”

Maurice threw back his head and laughed, a sound that Alex could only describe as a demented cackle. “Oooh, you!” he teased,
and once he had shut his baby-blue briefcase with a click, he minced out of the office with a “Nice to do business with you.”

Alex turned to Camilla. “Did I dream that?”

Camilla had a small smile on her lips. “Isn’t he a piece of work?”

“Oh God, I hope I’ve made the right decision. I mean, will he cope? I’ve only ever seen him do a low-key event. Perhaps we
should have used someone bigger?”

“Well.” Camilla uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way. “You did say you liked his muffins—if you’ll pardon the
expression!—and his references sounded good. On the way up in the lift he told me he’d done an ice sculpture of Rodin’s
Kiss
for a wedding in Chorleywood.”

“Gosh. Well, let’s see, shall we? Now, what time is Donatella coming in?”

Camilla looked at her watch. “She’s always fashionably late but she is the best and this is
very
,
very
important…” Her imitation of Maurice was spot on and they both laughed.

B
y the time Alex spotted the hair of Donatella Cappuccio, somewhere between Cruella de Vil’s and a skunk’s, sashaying across
the office, she had managed two calls to Italy and Holland and a large
pain au chocolat.
The stylist, undoubtedly London’s most sought-after and over six foot in Vivienne Westwood stacks, leopard-print jacket,
black tights and tartan shorts, folded herself into the seat Maurice had recently vacated. She was so out of place in the
office, a shrine to Lycra and sneakers, that Alex almost laughed, and looked down at her own clumsy jeans and navy sweatshirt.
Donatella hadn’t even spoken, just proffered a cool, limp hand, but the expression of distaste on her face said it all, and
it turned into frank disbelief when she glanced over at the new range hanging on racks behind Alex.

“Is that the collection?” she asked in bored tones.

“Yes, yes.” Alex jumped to her feet in an attempt to justify the vibrant colors of the Urban Classics range. “Yes, this is
it. We are very excited by it…” Alex finished lamely. How could she possibly excite this woman, whose natural milieu
was Galliano and Stella McCartney and setting runways on fire, sometimes literally, at London Fashion Week with her exotic
ideas? Donatella got to her feet and wandered over to Alex. She smelled strongly of something heady and expensive, and Alex
looked on enviously as she ran long, French-manicured fingers along the racks. Would she just turn around and say: “There’s
nothing I can do here”? It had been such a coup to get her to even consider being involved—but if she turned them down, and
this late in the day? Well, Alex wasn’t sure what she’d do.

The stylist picked the odd thing off the rack, looked at it and put it back without saying a word. “What’s your message here?”
she asked eventually, turning around, and Alex breathed out.

“Well,” she gushed, looking up at the woman, not something she often had to do at five foot nine herself. “It’s that sportswear
need not be butch. It can be elegant and urban and sexy.”

“And chavvy,” Donatella spat.

“Well, yes, obviously some brands have been adopted by the, er… less athletic, but Zencorp Urban Classics are going to
change all that. This range will cross over the sports-to-fashion-classics divide stylishly and seamlessly.”

Donatella looked down at Alex and assessed her through heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “You sound like a press release.”

Alex shrugged and suddenly felt defeated. “I’m not surprised. I’ve thought about little else but this for about six months.
I even dream in marketing-speak.” Donatella went back to the range and took down a lemon-yellow-and-pink vest, the company
logo discreetly hidden on the shoulder. She held it out and assessed it, her eyes narrowed.

“Yup,” she said eventually. “I think I can work with this.”

“Fantastic. When can you give me your ideas—”

“But,” Donatella interrupted, “I will need to be given a free rein. Let me do it my way, you understand? Trust me. I haven’t
let anyone down yet. And who’s your big name?”

“Big name? Well, we do have the athletes we sponsor who are contracted to make appearances.” Alex trotted out the names.

“Mmm.” Donatella put a long finger thoughtfully to her cheek. “No, we need a model. We need someone who, by the very fact
she’s modeling this, will be telling the world this is good enough to wear anywhere, every day. I need a Kate or a Naomi.
Better still, Bettina Gordino. Get her and you’ve got me.”

“I have the feeling I’m being bullied,” Alex sighed when the stylist had left, not before giving Alex an even more alarming
estimate of costs. “She had better be as good as they say.”