How Not to Shop (2 page)

Well, OK, to be honest, Annie wasn't wildly enthusiastic about the series name either, but maybe there was still time for a rethink.

The shopping bags in the corner of Dr Yasmin's office contained the framework of the TV presenter wardrobe Annie had bought for herself today in a six-hour non-stop retail session.

Inside the bags – two from The Store, one from Prada and one from H&M – was the culmination of nine years of shopping expertise.

In expectation of the money she was about to earn, Annie had allowed herself to buy several amazing treasures, like the complicated ankle boots from the best shoemaker in London and the jewelled leather long-lace sandals by inimitable Miu Miu.

Then there were slightly more practical items: scoop-necked tops, beads and bracelets from H&M, a pair of vibrant, stretchy dresses by her favourite American designer and two architectural, nipped-in (whisper it,
Westwood
) jackets.

She'd also chosen sling-backed, red patent pumps for walking briskly from shop to shop with the women she'd be making over, and an extravagant bright blue, creamily soft, Chloé silk shirt.

But the most wonderful purchase of all was the Prada skirt wrapped up in layers of tissue paper as carefully as a museum exhibit. The kind of skirt that you didn't get your hands on just by turning up at the Prada shop and hoping for the best. No way. She'd been on the waiting list for that pleated, crinkled, dip-dyed fashion masterpiece for seven weeks, knowing full well it would fly out of the doors without ever hitting a hanger.

Everything she'd bought was vibrant and colourful because she knew television drank in colour and she suspected that the women she'd be making over would be dressed in the dowdy, sludgy colours of the unconfident or fashion-inexperienced.

The shopping trip had cost . . . well . . . including the Jimmy Choo ankle boots . . . Oh. My. Lord. Just over £4,000. Then the Botox with snazzy Dr Yaz, another £600. Ouch.

Ed had warned her. He'd told her not to get too carried away with the TV presenter preparations until she knew
exactly
how much money she was going to be paid and
exactly
how long the job would go on for. But it had been hard not to get very, very excited. Channel Five! And had the producer, Donnie ('call me Finn') Finnigan, not told her over and over again how much 'potential' he could 'sense' in
Wonder Women
? Had he not bandied about phrases like 'bigger than Trinny and Susannah' and 'Look out, Gok Wan'?

Filming was due to start in just a few weeks, so really she had to have something to wear! Finn was just waiting to 'hear the final details' of 'the commission' and he'd promised to get back to Svetlana and Annie this afternoon. So, just as soon as Dr Yaz had finished with her instruments of torture, Annie was going to meet Svetlana, so that they could be together when the news arrived.

'Come to my house,' Svetlana had drawled on the phone in her rich and melodious Ukraine-beauty-meets-serious-Mayfair-millions accent.

'Your house?' Annie had echoed with surprise. Although Svetlana had rarely bought so much as a belt without Annie's advice for about six years, this was Annie's first ever invitation to Svetlana's four-storey, prime Belgravia Divorce Settlement.

But they would be working together now. Annie was no longer a member of Svetlana's service personnel: she was on the verge of becoming her colleague, her slightly more equal – her friend, even? It was interesting new territory. At least in the old roles, they'd both known exactly where they were: Svetlana, the ex-wife of two multimillionaires and one billionaire, and Annie her trusted personal shopper . . . in London. Obviously there was another personal shopper in Paris, one in New York and one a little under-used in Moscow. ('Just for fur, she know nothing, bumpkin from Siberia.')

'And how does that feel now?' Dr Yasmin asked cheerfully.

Although the real answer was: Like you're sticking a long, sharp needle into my forehead! Annie managed a more polite, 'Just fine,' as the assistant continued to dab at her trickling tears.

Ed would never approve of what she was doing here. Very sweetly, he always told her he loved her just the way she was. Although, honestly he had no idea. She shuddered to think what she would really look like if she stopped waxing, plucking, highlighting, manicuring, applying make-up and dressing with care and concentration.

If he ever found out about the Botox and the shopping spree, he'd have one of his rare, but nevertheless unpleasant, freak-outs. But there was no need for him to find out, was there? She kept her own severely tested credit cards well away from his gaze and stored the bills carefully on-line. Plus, apparently men never, ever noticed when you'd had Botox. This was something she was doing, on Svetlana's recommendation, for the searching gaze of the small screen.

At last, the syringeing was over and Annie was allowed to sit up and survey the results in the mirror.

'Now, it may look a little puffy or bruised over the next few days and I always warn my clients . . .' the doctor began.

Oh no, she was going to do the warning bit again and Annie had tried so hard to blank it out the first time: partial paralysis, cardiac arrest, stroke, blah, blah . . .

But no, the doctor had new information. 'It may be hard to express anger, shock or intense emotion. You may have to tell people how you are feeling,' she said.

'Right.' Annie nodded, looking fixedly at her forehead. The lines had gone! Totally gone! Erased! This was amazing! She was coming back here every three months just as soon as her TV salary was hot in her hands. The doctor had performed nothing short of a miracle.

'That is brilliant, thank you!' she exclaimed, trying to give the doctor a delighted smile, but feeling a dull tug from the top of her head as her forehead tried, but failed, to move with her expression.

'That feels strange,' she added.

'Yes, it takes a little time, but you get used to it.'

Dr Yasmin removed her paper mask and gave a careful, lower face only smile which Annie at once understood.

When she was back in reception paying her hefty bill, Annie's mobile began to buzz. She checked the screen as she picked it up, wondering if it was her daughter Lana, 16, making an after-school phone call because she'd run out of pocket money, or her son, Owen, 12, making an after-school phone call because he'd run out of food.

No. It was Ed.

Annie answered, then wished she hadn't, slightly panicked that somehow he would be able to tell over the phone that she'd spent close to five grand on her ever-expanding wardrobe and her newly flattened face.

'Annie?' Ed asked.

'Hello, babes!' she replied. 'Good day at school?'

Ed taught at her children's school. Despite her previous conviction that she would never, ever find another good man no matter where in the world she looked, as it happened, she'd not had to look far. She'd just had to look closely, many, many times, before she'd finally spotted him.

'Fine,' he replied.

Before he could say anything else, she rattled off: 'Did you get the dry cleaning?'

'Yes.'

'And the cat food? And post the parcel for me?'

'Yup to both.'

'And write out the cheque for Lana's tennis thing?'

'Yes, ma'am,' he joked.

'Thank you, you're very good.'

'Very, very good,' he reminded her. 'Bet you've not done anything about the Jeep windscreen, have you?'

Oh brother.

The large, ramshackle black Jeep in which she still bowled around London had a serious windscreen chip. Her name was on the insurance policy, so she was sup posed to have phoned to sort this out.

'Sorry, I'll try and remember that,' she told him.

'Where are you anyway?' he asked. 'When are you coming home? And what would you like to eat?'

'Whatever you're making,' she suggested. 'It's always good. I'm going to be out a bit longer, Svetlana wants to see me at her house, in Mayfair! And we're expecting the call, you know, from the TV producer.'

'Ooh! The money call?'

'Here's hoping.'

'I have my early retirement plans all worked out,' Ed teased.

'Am I in them?'

'Oh yeah, don't worry, you'll be invited onto the yacht for a little cruise once in a while. When you can take time out from your hectic TV schedule.'

'That's big of you! And you all bronzed and buff, sailing your boat about all year long . . .'

'Yup, a total Annie magnet.'

'Nice . . .' Annie thought about that for a little moment, but then had to leave the yacht and return to reality. 'And how is everyone else?' she asked.

'They're fine,' Ed replied. 'Lana's still at school, working on something until six, then she's here for something to eat, then she's going to Greta's to talk about their project, allegedly. Owen's practising his violin for a bit then I'm taking him to Scouts.'

Family life was relentless. 'Are you OK doing all that?' She felt guilty now. 'I thought there was something you wanted to go and see?'

Ed was a music teacher, a musician and an avid concert-goer. For Ed, going to a concert, gig or general thrash about with instruments was his relaxation time; if he didn't do it several times a week, he got grumpy.

'No, no I'm fine,' he insisted, 'honestly. Head off to Mayfair. Go meet The Ukrainian.'

Outside Dr Yasmin's surgery, Annie flagged down a cab. Extravagant, but she couldn't take the bus, could she? Not with a Prada shopping bag and a face full of Botox.

Plus, if she saved some time with a cab now, she might make it home while Ed was still out dropping Owen at Scouts. That way, Annie would be able to haul her four carrier bags' worth of booty upstairs and into her office without having to answer any awkward questions.

She glanced at her watch . . . yes, but she would have to hurry. At the thought of what Finn was going to tell them within the hour, her stomach gave a lurch.

Svetlana in her gym:

White Lycra catsuit (Move Dancewear)
Gold and diamond watch (Cartier)
One-carat diamond earrings (second husband)
Three-carat diamond and ruby ring (third husband)
Total est. cost £197,600

'Maybe you have to come train with me . . .'

From Harley Street to Mayfair was a twenty-minute taxi journey through some of the very smartest streets in London. Past the flagship stores of Oxford Street, down by the swanky car showrooms of Park Lane and into streets of the finest, most fabulous red-brick houses London had to offer.

Quiet streets where the black railings were polished to a shine, where front doors were as dark and glossy as patent leather and even the plants and flowers in the window-boxes looked manicured.

Then there were the pedestrians. Were security guards posted on the edge of Mayfair to stop people from coming in unless they'd styled and highlighted their hair, changed into one of this season's designer outfits and bought a very, very expensive bag?

The cab driver pulled up in front of a house so impressive that Annie double-checked she had the right number before she dared to ring the bell.

Yes, it was definitely number 7, according to the piece of paper she'd tucked into the back of her big leather Filofax. Oh good grief, she was going to have to update, she really would have to put away the leather and paper organizer and make another foray into the world of digital data. Surely she could handle a BlackBerry now, couldn't she? They even came in pink and she would back everything up straight away, so there wouldn't be another total wipeout trauma like back in the days of her early Palm Pilot.