Celebrity Shopper (11 page)

Annie could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Was this how it was going to be with her mother from now on? It was as if a computer virus had entered her mother’s brain and was slowly corrupting and deleting data files, while the rest of the system carried on working perfectly.

‘What is it?’ Fern asked, leaning her head to one side and looking at Annie with concern.

‘Oh Mum!’ was all Annie could say at first. ‘Are you feeling OK? Is today a good day?’

‘Today is clear as a bell, darlin’,’ was Fern’s answer to this.

‘But the bracelet, Mum …’ Annie hesitated; she wasn’t sure whether she should tell Fern the truth or not. Would it upset her? Would she remember? Would she think Annie was talking nonsense?

‘Yes?’ Fern asked curiously. ‘Do you know where it is?’

Annie nodded: ‘Mick took it – years ago. He hasn’t been back since. He’s never brought it back.’

For a moment Fern said nothing. Then she looked away, kissed the top of Minnie’s head and said quietly: ‘Oh yes. Silly me.’

Annie wasn’t sure what to say next and this upset her almost as much as anything else, because before, before this horrible … computer virus, she’d always had such a close relationship with her mother, been able to laugh and joke with her, tell her
almost
everything, confide in her and treat her like a real friend. Now she felt as if she had to tread carefully because she didn’t want to risk causing her mother the slightest hurt or harm.

‘I need to go home,’ Fern told her.

Before Annie could make any objections, Fern held up her hand and went on: ‘I know you’re worried; I know you don’t want me to. But I
need
to go home. It’s the white mist. It comes down, it surrounds me and then it clears again. When I’m clear I’m trying to make a plan for how I can be at home and be looked after. I’m nearly there.’ She paused to kiss the top of Minnie’s head again. ‘When I’m in the white mist all the time, darlin’, then you have my permission to bring me back here or put me wherever you think best, but right now, while most of my day is clear, I want to be at home, dusting my own mantelpiece, watering my own flowers and waving at my own neighbours. It’s where I belong,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve lived in that little house for fifteen years. It’s all paid off, it’s all mine. That’s where I want to be.

‘You can come and see me every single week,’ she added, ‘and bring all the children; I want to spend as much clear time with you all as I’ve got left. None of us will enjoy being together when I’ve lost the plot.’

Annie could feel tears sliding from the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away as quickly as she could with the back of her hand. ‘Mum,’ she began in a subdued voice,
‘I don’t know how we’re going to do this. I don’t know how you’ll—’

‘I know,’ Fern broke in, ‘I’m working on a plan. I’m going to come up with something, OK? You’re a very, very busy girl. I don’t want you to worry about a thing.’

But Annie was already worrying plenty.

Elena at work:

Black linen shirt dress (Banana Republic)
Thin brown alligator belt (Svetlana’s wardrobe)
Black-heeled tie sandals (Nine West)
Tiny gold studs (Accessorize)
Tortoiseshell hair clip (Accessorize)
Total est. cost: £170

‘I do not pay upfront!’

‘Now please tell me what you like Maria to bring? Tea? Coffee? Mineral water? Something a little stronger if you like to celebrate early?’ Svetlana gave a throaty chuckle at this.

She leaned forward and thrust her tightly Missoni-clad cleavage forward, directly into Patrizio’s line of view.

Patrizio smiled generously.

He leaned forward in his cream leather-covered chair too. His eyes darted from the sculpted angles of Svetlana’s face to the objects decorating her splendid surroundings.

He had been shown into the downstairs sitting room of her stunning Mayfair home and he was certain that upstairs there was a drawing room even more luxurious and sumptuous than this one.

This one was lavish enough, with its marble fireplace, polished parquet floors and … was that … was that really a small Warhol oil on the wall over there? Just behind Svetlana’s shoulder.

Patrizio would have strained to take a closer look but Svetlana’s soft and fragrant hand was on his knee as she demanded his attention.

‘So tell me what you can arrrrrange?’ she asked, rolling her ‘r’s huskily.

It wasn’t that Svetlana was attracted to Patrizio, it wasn’t that the thought of cheating on her devoted husband had even entered Svetlana’s mind, it was simply that this was the way she behaved with men from whom she wanted something. This is the way she had always behaved with men from whom she’d wanted something. It produced results – usually good – which is why she continued to use the technique.

‘Because I have the very best contacts. I can still get you a slot at Le Carrousel du Louvre,’ Patrizio began. ‘This is where all the top, very best shows are held. You will have your own stage, your very own theatre in the Louvre tents—’

‘Tents?’ Svetlana interrupted. The Louvre was all very well, but
tents
? Tents did not sound glamorous.

‘Ya, tents,’ Patrizio went on, his own foreign accent not quite as easily recognizable as Svetlana’s. His was softly Mediterranean, perhaps Italian, perhaps … Svetlana wasn’t quite sure.

‘It is wonderful what they do at the Louvre at show-time,’ Patrizio went on. ‘All around the glass pyramid are
set out the wonderful white tents, billowing in the wind, beautiful girls, models, fashion people in amazing clothes everywhere. You will love it, Svetlana, you will feel so very at home there.’

‘I’ve been a guest at Versace’s shows in Milano,’ Svetlana reminded him.

‘Yes, of course … The trade shows are a little different from the big designers, of course. But we will still put on a magnificent display. I book five incredible girls for you,’ Patrizio added. He leaned back in his chair and reached into the inside pocket of his supple leather jacket.

He had a weak chin, Svetlana couldn’t help noticing. He tried to hide it with his short-trimmed beard, but the chin was small. She didn’t like weak chins. They turned double too quickly. She knew. She had seen this happen with three out of four husbands.

Patrizio brought out an iPhone; he called up some images and showed them to Svetlana one by one. ‘All beautiful, no?’ he said of the girls.

As Maria came in with a tray set with porcelain cups and saucers, a steaming silver coffee pot, matching silver milk and sugar containers, Patrizio went through the ‘simple, simple’ arrangements he would make for the very first Perfect Dress show.

It sounded straightforward. Elena and Svetlana would arrive in Paris with all the sample size dresses. They would meet up with the models for a full fitting and rehearsal at the venue from 4 p.m. onwards.

‘All shows over by three p.m.,’ Patrizio explained, ‘so you have hours and hours of peace and quiet to make whole venue yours.’

He would order flowers. A DJ was already booked for the rehearsal and the event.

‘You just need to bring the dresses and invite the world.’
He flashed a broad smile at her, his white teeth standing out against his tan.

‘So what will all this cost?’ Svetlana asked once her many other questions about the girls, the rehearsal times, the DJ and everything else had been answered to her satisfaction.

‘Not as much as you think,’ Patrizio assured her. ‘I know many, many people. I know how to get a good deal for my especial friends.’

Svetlana smiled; she suspected she was being softened up for the bad news.

‘Twenty-two thousand euros …’ Patrizio began.

Svetlana gasped in horror: ‘For a rehearsal and one-hour show? Five girls in a tent for half a day!’

‘Wait!’ Patrizio urged. ‘This official price, this what it should cost. But for you, my especial friend, only sixteen thousand.’

This was still a lot of money.

A huge amount of money.

Still … Le Carrousel du Louvre.

Five amazing-looking models. Even in the amateur phone-camera shots the girls had looked stunning.

Svetlana couldn’t help feeling a jolt of excitement that it could all come together so quickly … so soon.

‘I need the money before the show,’ Patrizio went on, ‘this is why I can get the price down so low for you.’

‘I understand,’ Svetlana told him as she took a steadying sip from her coffee cup. Weren’t all the best deals made with cash upfront? ‘Will a bank transfer work for you?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Patrizio told her. ‘If you can move the money straightaway’ – he made a little gesture which indicated she should make the call – ‘I will tell the organizer to book your slot and hire your girls.’

Svetlana reached for her mobile, but just before she called her bank, she turned to ask Patrizio the important question: ‘You have all the paperwork with you, no? All the invoices, names, addresses, numbers to call?’

This much she had learned from Elena. There was always paperwork. There must always be paperwork. No paperwork, no businesses.

It was so boring to Svetlana. Paperwork was definitely not the fun side of business. Having the big ideas, setting ideas in motion: these were the things she loved to do. She thought for a moment about the wonderful show, the spectacle they were going to create in Paris, at the Louvre …

Svetlana and Elena’s Perfect Dress at the Louvre!

Patrizio turned to the briefcase at his feet. As she saw him bring out a file stuffed with papers, Svetlana punched in the numbers to call her bank.

‘I need to make a money transfer from the business account,’ she told the voice at the other end of the line.

Just as she was about to ask Patrizio the name of the account she should make the money over to, he handed her a small white business card. On the back he had written out a long, thirteen-digit number.

‘No name?’ she asked.

‘BCI Bank, Switzerland, and then this account number,’ he assured her.

In the small basement office, Elena was at her computer as usual. Her hair was tied up neatly and she sat in her chair with elegantly ramrod posture. As usual, she was dealing with a flurry of emails.

Yesterday she had placed the order for the very first sample dresses and already there were hitches.

The fabrics she and Svetlana had chosen were no longer available and it was going to take at least a week
before samples of the new fabrics could be sent to them.

‘Where are they?’ she typed back and sent the message.

‘In Hong Kong,’ came the almost instant reply.

Should she go out there? Would it be quicker and more cost-effective for her to fly to Hong Kong than to wait for the fabrics samples to be sent to her?

If she could see them in Hong Kong tomorrow … approve them … have them sent on to the dressmakers, that might shave a full ten days or so off the dress delivery times. Elena could feel her palms sweat with the effort of making a decision like this. But according to all the books by business gurus she had read, the decision-making process was the one vital asset which set
leaders
and
achievers
ahead of the rest.

Her in-box flashed with a new message: ‘Have you got a date / venue / time for launch show yet? Fashion ed very keen. Will your mother do profile piece / interview? Best, McKenna’.

Elena sat up to attention at this.

McKenna was a Very Important newspaper fashion journalist. If she came to the show and did an interview with Svetlana, Perfect Dress would get the kind of coverage that would cost thousands to buy.

Just as Elena mentally composed the holding response that this email required, Svetlana herself came in through the office door.

‘I book the show, Elena!’ Svetlana beamed. ‘This is going to happen!’

‘You’ve booked it?’ Elena asked and frowned, causing a furrow to appear on her forehead. She shouldn’t do that! Svetlana thought automatically, if she didn’t do that now, she wouldn’t have to Botox that muscle into submission later on.

Pah! Botox! That would probably be so over by the time
Elena was threatening to wrinkle. Who knew what would have been invented by then to keep women indefinitely in their prime?

‘Ya,’ Svetlana confirmed, ‘booked. Great deal. Sixteen thousand euros, but to get this deal I have to pay him straightaway, so I do bank transfer.’

Elena’s mouth opened in astonishment.

For a moment or two, she tried to say something, but words failed her.

‘Sixteen thousand euros?’ she repeated when her power of speech had returned. ‘For the launch show? NO! That is too much, that is way, way too much and you’ve already paid. Bank transfer? Upfront!’ In total exasperation, she exclaimed: ‘MOTHER!’

But Svetlana rushed over to placate her. ‘Elena! Is going to be perfect! We have wonderful show in Le Carrousel du Louvre, beautiful girls. Patrizio book the space, the rehearsal time, the DJ, the models, even the flowers. He has taken care of all the details, we just need to turn up with the dresses. My darling, in business you must learn to delegate. Igor tell me this. Patrizio has given us a great service.’