Busy Woman Seeks Wife (33 page)

F
rankie struggled over to where Alex was standing, her face a picture of incomprehension. He didn’t think he could hold out
much longer.

“Frankie! Thank God you made it! Where’s the stuff? And what on earth is wrong with you?”

“Am I in time?” he squeaked. “Where’s Bettina? Can you point me to the nearest loo?”

“What? What are you… ? Oh, my! Frankie! You’re not?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, I’m wearing it all! It was the only way to get it through customs without the documents. I had to
put it on in Istanbul airport. I’m wearing all Bettina Gordino’s outfits under this, as well as a couple of T-shirts Melik
gave me as a gift.” He gestured awkwardly at his padded body. “You might have mentioned she had more than one change of clothes.
You wouldn’t believe how uncomfortable I am! What size is she, for God’s sake? This stuff will only stretch so far!”

Alex burst out laughing, almost doubled up with mirth. She pointed over to the corner where the loos were and he waddled hurriedly
towards them, stiff-legged, like a huge duckling but, as he turned away, he was almost sure he heard her say, “Frankie, you’re
the best!” Frankie shrugged off the odd looks he was attracting from the ranks of cool hunters, journalists and photographers
and shouldered his way through into the relative peace of the gents,’ followed closely by Ella, whom he heard before he saw.

“Yes, I do know it’s the gents,’ thank you very much!” she snorted, pushing a man out of the way. “I’ve got urgent business
in there—no, not that kind! Don’t be disgusting! Frankie! Are you all right?”

Frankie was grappling with the first layer of clothing. The trouble was that Bettina’s outfits were so tight he could barely
flex his arms to pull anything off. In fact, he seemed to have lost all sensation in his buttocks. Ella set to at once.

“Right, can you bend over at least? Okay, I’ve got it, now puuuull!” Off came Sanferino’s T-shirt. “Oh my goodness, Frankie.
What do you look like?” Ella was gaping at the tighter-than-skintight tops and shorts that he’d crammed himself into over
five hours ago.

“To be honest,” he croaked, “I’m past caring what I look like. I’m baking hot. My nuts are killing me. And I’m desperate for
a wee. That Turkish coffee’s strong stuff. Just get me out of here, would you?”

Tugging and heaving, Ella gradually eased him out of a zip-up jacket, two hooded tops and three crop tops, sympathetically
rubbing the red marks the seams had left on his skin. Then she started tugging down the waistband of a pair of cropped leggings,
leaning back to pull at them with all her weight while he lay on his back on the floor. As Frankie shed each layer, he felt
himself expand to his normal size and shape again and, after she dragged off the last pair of shorts—especially made to cling
to Bettina’s slinky form—he dashed into a cubicle in his underpants and socks to relieve himself.

Ella rubbed the tears of laughter from her eyes and set about shaking out and folding each item of discarded clothing. “Oh,
Frankie!” she called. “You’ve really changed! You’ve become so… so random!”

“I hope to God that’s a good thing because I’m not going through that again.” Frankie stretched his arms to check everything
was working again.

“Oh yes,” chuckled Ella as she passed him his own clothing from the holdall he had trailed behind him. “A very good thing.
You’d never have tackled anything as mad as this before. You’re like a new person. I’m really proud of you.”

Frankie buttoned up his polo shirt and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “Now I really am worried! Oooh! That feels
better. But I’m not sure my tackle will ever be the same again. Come on, now. Let’s get those mikes sorted. Deliver the clothes
to Sanferino and Bettina—thank God for Lycra, but give them a squirt of air freshener maybe—and Ella, leave Melik’s T-shirts
in the changing room too, will you? I’ll collect them later. I might even let you have one.”

S
aff didn’t think she had ever known Max to drive so fast. He already had six points on his license but he seemed oblivious
to that as he hurtled along the road and she, Oscar and Millie, all squeezed in beside him in the Offcut Productions van,
simply swayed one way and another as it lunged. Saff did mutter “Watch the food,” but that was all. He had been so fantastic
during the past few hours that she didn’t want to say anything else. She knew that she’d suffer for the children not having
slept all night either, but for the moment the whole family was running so high on adrenaline that it didn’t really matter.

“Right,” she’d said as soon as the enormity of Alex’s request had sunk in last night. “All hands to the oven, and I mean all.”
Barking orders like a field marshal, within minutes she had Oscar manning the mixing bowls, Millie at the weighing scales
and Max on his way to the all-night supermarket under strict orders to buy every muffin, brioche,
pain au chocolat
and croissant he could lay his hands on. He’d arrived back at three a.m., having visited eight supermarkets, while she and
the children had used up every ingredient she could think of to make more cakes and muffins, including one batch of coconut-and-raisin
invented by Oscar. It had been Max’s idea to commandeer the company van to transport the food, and now every tray and baking
tray, plate and chopping board Saff possessed was lying in the back, the breakfast offerings on them covered in cling film.
She’d let her imagination run wild, customizing the shop-bought muffins exuberantly with icing or sweet garnishes until they
looked unrecognizable. She just hoped they didn’t taste that way too.

“Pimp my muffin!” Oscar had shrieked at one point, icing tube in hand.

“It’s just here on the right. Where all those people are standing.” Saff pointed. “Can you move please!” she shouted out the
window only to have Millie dig her in the ribs and tell her to stop being so embarrassing. “My darling, we are the A-Team
today and nothing must get in our way.” She smiled, curiously elated by the last frantic hours. It must have been light-headedness
from lack of sleep.

“Are you Saff?” A tall man in a black T-shirt ripped open the door. “Alex tells me you need a hand?”

“Sure do!” Saff hopped out of the van, checking vaguely that she didn’t look too hideous. There had just been time to change
her food-splattered T-shirt before they left home but a hairbrush had been a detail too far. She pulled open the rear doors
of the van and they began to unload, the large plates from her wedding dinner service going in first to act as serving platters.
Well, you can’t offer a muffin to the leading fashion journalists from around the world on a baking tray, can you?

As she entered the hall for the first time, Saff’s jaw dropped as the scale of the event hit her. In the cozy atmosphere of
her kitchen, a breakfast for three hundred seemed like a joke, but this was serious. The decor, the lighting effects and the
industriousness of the people rushing about, even before the arrival of the press, was on a level Saff could not have imagined.
With the children’s help, she laid out the food on the serving table they were shown by the tall man, while Max went to park
the van somewhere it wouldn’t get a ticket. There was no sign of Alex, though Saff did spot Todd, who didn’t seem to notice
her wave of greeting. He must be busy.

“Wow, Mum—this is amazing. Can we stay?” Millie was beside her, suspended in motion and gaping at the room, a tray of tiny
Danish pastries in her hand.

“Of course not! The last thing they need is us knocking about. We’ll just set up and make ourselves scarce. Come here and
put those down.”

“Wow!” Saff turned at Alex’s voice and spontaneously they rushed into each other’s arms. “I can’t tell you…” Alex began,
wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Then don’t,” said Saff, laughing. “It was fun. Now we’re outta here.” She brushed some fallen icing sugar from the side of
a plate, and put her hands on the children’s backs to steer them out. They were oblivious to her, having spotted a hugely
tall black man in livid yellow gear. Their mouths gaped open.

“Mumm!” Oscar hissed. “That’s only Malcolm Sanferino. Please can we stay for a bit? He’s mega!”

“I hope you
are
bloody staying.” Alex turned sharply from the person who had collared her about a translator. “I need waiters. Any size will
do. Do you think Max might help? I’m going to ask Frankie if he’s willing, though the poor man has just flown in from Turkey.”
She stood on tiptoe to see if she could spot him. “But I think he may be permanently disabled from wearing several pairs of
women’s shorts!”

“What are you on about? Has he been on holiday? Only he never said.”

“Don’t ask—I’ll explain later.”

“But.” Saff was confused. “I thought he was waiting to hear about the audition?”

Alex’s hand went to her mouth in horror. “Oh God, I’ve been so self-absorbed I didn’t even think to ask about what he was
doing. Is it a big one?”

“Pretty huge, yes. And he’s nervous as anything about it. Crikey.” Saff watched in horror as people began to take up their
positions around the room and at the door in readiness for the event to get under way and the show to start. “We can’t waiter
like this.” She tried pointlessly to brush down her clothes.

“Wait there,” cried Alex, rushing off backstage only to come back a moment later with four company T-shirts. “Do this for
me, you lot, and I promise Sanferino autographs and a photo opportunity if I can nab him. Is that enough pay?” Oscar and Millie
laughed in excitement and promptly took off their tops to replace them with the T-shirts.

“Er,” said Saff hesitantly. “Is there somewhere I could go to change? Otherwise you’ll end up with a topless waitress.”

“Now that
would
guarantee us press coverage!” quipped Alex and they both roared with laughter, relishing the fact that they were communicating
again.

“Alex,” someone said, taking her arm. “You’re needed over here urgently.”

W
hat’s the problem?” Alex looked in the direction indicated by the roadie who’d interrupted her.

“I don’t know, but the girl over there was very insistent that I got you over as soon as possible.”

Alex made her way across the room. The tension of expectation in the place was palpable now. Last-minute wires left on the
catwalk were being whisked away by crouching carpenters and electricians. The company’s PR managers, including Todd, were
glued to mobile phones or briefing translators. Donatella was in and out of the backstage door like a ferret in high heels,
checking lighting angles so she could brief her models and dancers on their routine one more time.

Alex sighed. The girl was Ella and now she gestured to Alex frantically. “Ella, what in God’s name is this all about? You
have been hassling me since last night! I don’t even know why you are here and this bloody earpiece is driving me mad! Besides,
you have a bit of explaining to do to me—”

“I told you, Frankie asked me to be here. Now listen; I need to get you somewhere quiet.” Ella was pulling her by the arm
away from the noise of people arriving.

“But it’s about to start!” Alex was stumbling behind her, looking back over her shoulder at the room that was poised and ready.
Ignoring her protestations, Ella careered through the swing door to the backstage area, almost colliding with the crowd of
models and dancers waiting to go onto the catwalk and all dressed in the new range. Alex just had time to register that they
looked breathtaking before Ella did an about-face and pulled her down a corridor in the other direction to an area where it
was quieter, and pushed her firmly behind an air-conditioning vent.

“Sssh, now listen.” Ella was barring any escape route.

Alex wasn’t sure what she was listening for. All she could hear was the chatter of the dancers in the distance and the hum
of the earpiece in her ear. Perhaps Ella was going to tell her something. Though, judging by the deadly serious expression
on her face, it looked more likely that Ella was going to beat her up. “What for?”