Christmas at Claridge's (20 page)

‘I can’t do it.’

The words were so quiet and flat that, for a moment, no one responded. A cork popped and Pixie laughed as Simon tried to lick the foam before it reared out of the bottle.

Tom turned, slowly, and looked at her. ‘What?’

Clem stood up and met his eyes pleadingly. ‘I can’t do this job. I’ll do anything for you, you know I will, but just . . . not
there,
not Portofino.’

Silence rang like a bell. He straightened up, greying before her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Tom . . . can we go into a room and talk about this privately, please?’

‘No!’ he replied in an icy tone. ‘What do you mean, you can’t do it?’

‘It’s not something I can talk about here,’ she said, her voice getting smaller, her eyes darting from one person in the team to the next. Simon particularly, she thought,
looked incandescent, angrier even than Tom.

‘Why not? What have you done?’ Tom demanded with a wild look. ‘Have you gone of him already? Bagged him already, is that it?’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘No,
no, I know it isn’t! I saw what the two of you were like together. That only ever comes
before
with you. You lose interest as soon as you’ve got them.’

Behind Tom, Clem saw Simon’s eyes burning.

‘You didn’t know he had a girlfriend, is that it?’

‘Tom, I—’

‘‘Cos it’s not like that’s ever stopped you before.’

‘It’s not that. It’s not him.’

He stared at her. ‘So what is it, then? Is it because . . .’ he racked his brains. ‘Is it because you feel like you’re being hired out? Is that it? You think I’m
pimping
you?’

His laughter was cold and furious, and a hot, angry tear slid down her cheek. How could Tom do this to her, shout at her in a drunken rage, humiliating her like this?

‘Leave her alone, Tom!’ Stella said furiously, seeing Clem’s distress and pushing herself between the two of them. ‘You’re drunk and behaving like an
arse.’

‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, Stella,’ Tom slurred, smacking his hands on his chest. ‘Am I not entitled to celebrate the deal that’s just saved my company, all these good
people’s jobs and
her
flat? Am I not entitled to be a little bit angry that she’s going to jeopardize all that for . . . well, we still don’t know what for.’

‘She has her reasons,’ Stella replied staunchly, even though she too had no idea what they might be.

‘Oh, I’m quite sure she has. My little sister always does. Her
reasons
determine everything in our family. I’ve stuck up for her all my life. There’s never been
a time when I haven’t had to wade in and rescue her from a disaster of her own making. But now, now when I need her, when the boot’s on the other foot and I ask for something in return
– and she says
no
! – I’m just supposed to accept it?’

‘I get why you’re angry. I do. All I’m saying is, sober up, and talk about it rationally and calmly then. You can see she’s upset and you’re in a state.’

Tom looked over at his sister, his eyes focusing with pinpoint accuracy suddenly. He looked back at Stella, unmoved. ‘I don’t care. Not this time,’ he said coldly. ‘Too
many people are depending on this deal to happen. It was the one stipulation, the one caveat that will cancel the deal if she doesn’t agree.’ He looked at Clem. ‘You owe me, Clem.
You
will
do this.’

‘Tom, please,’ she pleaded. ‘There are other options. This isn’t the only way to save the company. There’s . . . there’s something else.’

Tom blinked, taking a step back, as though she’d pushed him. ‘What do you mean? Is there another client? Have you had an approach?’

Simon snorted furiously, turning away. Stella caught Clem’s eye, shaking her head furiously.

Clem, looking anxiously between Tom and Stella, faltered. ‘I . . . I can’t tell you yet. I’m sorry. It’s . . . I promise it will work. Just trust me, please.’

‘Give me strength,’ Simon muttered, raising his hands and face to the ceiling. ‘Trust you? You want me to trust
you
? After everything you did, losing us the Perignard
account, Bugatti, the new business from Berlin.’ He was counting the disasters on his fingers.

‘I get it, Tom! I know it’s all my fault. I know I’m a fuck-up! But I just need four days, I promise. And then we won’t need this account. Everything will be saved
again.’

‘How? I’ve got an open budget on a make-or-break commission that can propel us to the next tier and you want me to believe your
secret
can save the company?’ He
reached into the champagne box and pulled out some typed sheets that had been stapled together. ‘This is a hard-and-fast, signed contract. It’s a legal document, and an absolute
guarantee of our future. There’s a dotted line in it that needs your signature and you
are
going to sign it, Clem.’

‘No!’ she shouted, trembling with anger now. ‘I won’t! I don’t need to. I’ll show you in four days.’

Tom took a step towards her, the contract folding beneath the pressure from his fingers. ‘You
will
sign it.’

‘Or what?’ she demanded, and the air in the flat became electrically charged, tension crackling between the two siblings, who knew exactly how to wage war with each other.

He straightened up, his body rigid. ‘Or I will never set eyes on you again.’

The words punched through her, pushing into her muscles and bleeding out like bruises. He threw the contract on the table and strode towards the door.

‘You don’t mean that!’ she called to his back in a wobbly voice.

But when Tom stopped at the door and turned back to face her, she saw that his eyes were reddening, their sorrow showing how true his words were. ‘Try me.’

The clock chimed midnight and Mercy yawned in her chair at the kitchen table.

‘OK, try this,’ Stella said, holding up one of the rose-pink suede jumpsuits.

Clem, who was only in a T-shirt and knickers anyway, was out of her clothes and wriggling into it in an instant, sighing as the inner velvety pile brushed against her skin. She pulled her hair
out from under the stand-up collar and pulled on a pair of grey studded ankle-boots that sent her up to ceiling height.

Everyone cooed at the sight of her: the silhouette was second-skin, with epaulettes on the shoulders, a stand-up collar, press-stud fastenings that could be opened as bare as you dared and
lightly stitched knee-pads to guard against bagging. It was triumphant – sexy, cool and luxurious all at once.

‘It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever made!’ Clem gasped, holding her hands to her mouth as she caught her reflection in the window. They were all emotional –
exhausted and strung out from three solid days of working round the clock trying to get everything finished in time for the flash sale. The tweets flagging up tomorrow’s date as D-day had
already gone out and there was an army of women on standby for the follow-up tweet revealing the time and place.

Clem nodded silently as her hand brushed the feather-soft hide over her thigh. They were going to do this thing! With hindsight, Tom locking her out of the office on Wednesday morning had been a
blessing. Being so clearly and pointedly determined to avoid her, it had meant Stella could move into the flat without fear of him coming back, and they could work on the final hides full time. She
realized now that they’d needed to – there was no way it would have been finished otherwise – and that was
with
Mercy’s help. They had made a great team:
Mercy’s sewing skills were even better than she’d let on, and she did all the technical work with Stella, whilst Clem helped with the design ideas, but was mainly the official model and
tea girl.

Thank God the end was in sight. Clem felt close to collapse from both the physical and emotional strain of everything that had happened with Tom; she just couldn’t put it out of her mind,
was constantly twitchy and nervy, her nails bitten to the quick, and sleep had become something that only happened to other people – like happy endings and job promotions. It was only her
steadfast belief in the collection they’d created that was keeping her going.

Still, once these jumpsuits were done, everything would be ready to go: the ivory suede pouch bags, Toscana shearling deerstalkers and belted gilets, two-toned nappa plaited scarves, silk-lined
shagreen skinny trousers – again with biker stitching details – mannish blazers cut from the cream skins, and knee-length cardi-coats made from blonde shearling on the body, with
jumbo-knit wool arms that Stella had ingeniously knitted on two broom handles. Even the colour palette of chocolate, ivory, caramel, frosted sage green and old rose looked considered, rather than
opportunistic, and no one would ever have guessed that most of it had been harvested from factory-floor cuttings.

It had cost nothing but time, and the result was a tight, directional collection that spoke to a refined woman with demanding, high-end tastes. There was nothing here that undermined the
Alderton Hide brand, in fact it enhanced it, bringing the company’s niche aesthetic down to a personal level. Tom didn’t know it yet, but Clem, Stella and Mercy had done him proud.
Alderton Hide would be able to continue without compromise – to anyone.

Clem slipped the jumpsuit off and handed it to Stella to snip the remaining threads, while Mercy was finishing the stitching on the oval knee-pads.

‘Tea anyone?’ Clem asked, pulling her T-shirt over her head and trying to suppress a yawn. She was so tired she felt sure she could sleep on a spike.

Stella looked across at her. Clem was pale and had lost a bit of weight – the back-to-back curries hadn’t been enough to assuage her anxieties about Tom’s threat. ‘Go to
bed. We’re nearly finished here. There’s nothing more you can do. We’re going to have to get busy again in the morning getting this place straight.’

‘Yeah, well, we won’t try too hard on that score. It’s not like we want it to sell,’ Clem said, looking around at the mess – stray cuts of leather and suede, and
miles of coloured thread littered the floor, and there were takeaway boxes piled up on the worktop. The flat looked like hell and it was going to take another team effort to get everything straight
and cleared out before the open day started the next morning. Tom had texted to say he’d be over at 10.30 a.m. – his meaning being: be gone by then! – and the most important thing
was that the collection was ready to ship out: she had already boxed everything that was loose, like the hats, wrist-warmers and phone covers, and had hung the jackets, gilets and trousers in
polythene covers on Stella’s collapsible market rails.

‘You’re sure you don’t need me?’ Clem asked, feeling guilty, but already walking towards the bedroom.

‘Be gone,’ Mercy murmured. Her own duvet and pillow were stretched over the sofa in readiness. Once Stella had filled her in on the siblings’ tearful showdown, she’d
stayed over for the rest of the week, getting her sister to look after her youngest son while they made the final push towards completing the collection.

Clem fell into her bed, barely able to muster the strength to pull the duvet around her. Her hand automatically slid under the pillow, feeling as it always did for the small silk envelope that
was the closest thing she had to a security blanket. She reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, her eyes falling on the dust-bagged Birkin sitting on the chair by the door, ready for its
guest-of-honour appearance at tomorrow’s festivities. The room fell into darkness and sleep began to creep up her body from the toes first, but in those few moments before oblivion won,
another emotion started to pool in her stomach – something she was too drowsy to articulate clearly, but which felt akin to fear.

It was Shambles who woke them, screeching to be let out of his cage and almost inducing a heart attack in Stella, who’d been sharing Tom’s room with her.

‘
Jeezus
,’ she muttered, leaning against the doorframe, one hand over her heart, as Clem moaned in the next room and Mercy snored from the sofa. ‘I nearly died . .
.’ Stella mumbled, rubbing her eyes and pushing her crazy hair back from her face. She was wearing one of Tom’s shirts which, in spite of it being a strapping
17½
-inch
collar, still strained at the chest.

‘What time is it?’ Clem moaned indistinguishably, her head under the pillow. ‘It’s too early.’

‘It’s . . .’ Stella faltered.

Silence descended upon the flat once again and, deep in her feather-filled vacuum, Clem wondered whether her friend had fallen asleep standing up. Reluctantly lifting her head, she pushed the
pillow off and looked up to find Stella – mouth agape – pointing at the clock on the far wall.

They were late, that much was instantly apparent. Clem jumped out of bed and ran to the door. Ten past ten.

‘No!’ Clem gasped, looking around at the flat, which looked more like a landfill site at that particular moment. ‘Mercy wake up!’ she cried. ‘Tom’s going to be
here in twenty minutes.’

Within seconds, all three women were standing in a frozen panic in the centre of the room.

‘There’s no way we’ll get this cleared in time,’ Clem wailed, her fingers tightly bunching the hair by her temples. How could they have overslept, today of all days?

Stella took charge. ‘Mercy you clean up. Hoover first, it’ll look a whole lot better when the floor’s clear. And stuff all the cuts into a bin bag with the curry boxes. Clem,
you and I need to get these clothes outta here.’

‘Right,’ Clem nodded, grateful for the orders and dashing back into the bedroom to pull on some ribbed leggings and a sloppy joe.

Stella didn’t even bother. She just pulled on a pair of Tom’s hooped rugby socks under her Uggs and a parka, and started carrying the boxes down the stairs.

‘What are you doing? We can’t leave them there,’ Clem cried as Stella started piling them up in a perilous tower behind the front door. ‘Tom’ll see them.’

‘Yes, but why would he think they’re anything to do with us?’ Stella replied calmly. ‘They could belong to any of the other flats. He’ll just walk straight past
them. So long as they’re not in your flat, it’ll be fine.’