How Not to Shop (40 page)

'Vonderful! Vonderful!' she repeated, over and over. She hugged Harry, kissed him, told him he was 'vonderful' too. Before he could put his arms around her and make up with her properly, she darted out of the room to go and tell Maria.

Never mind, Harry told himself, there was the drive to Luton police station ahead of them. Plenty of time to talk about getting the wedding plans back on track.

His mobile rang again.

When he answered he wasn't surprised to hear the voice of one of the most expensive lawyers in London on the other end of the line.

'Mr Roscoff?'

'Speaking,' he confirmed.

'I don't imagine for one moment that Ms Wisneski will be pressing charges,' Humphrey Twistleton began. 'She obviously only stands to lose . . .'

'Now, listen here,' Harry broke in, 'charges will most certainly be filed today unless we reach clear agreement that certain restrictive clauses in the divorce settlement are removed immediately. Table an emergency meeting for Monday morning. Then my client can begin to
think
about withdrawing charges.'

As Harry hung up, he couldn't help feeling he'd learned a lot from Svetlana.

Amelia's workwear:

Silky grey off-the-shoulder dress (Milly)
Pale blue strappy heels (Topshop)
Multi-coloured beads (Accessorize)
Bluetooth hands-free headset (Nokia)
Total est. cost: £385

'Annie Valentine?'

Annie stared at the page in her A–Z map of London, then looked around for a street sign.

Perry Street! There it was! That's where she was headed. Soho was a blooming labyrinth. Even with a map, she'd been looking for this street for ten minutes now, but a quick glance at her watch told her that it was OK, she was still going to make it for her 10.30 a.m. appointment with Tamsin Hinkley.

She strode briskly along the pavement, paying close attention to the door numbers so that she wouldn't miss 117. The street was one of the narrow ones which lead down towards the grand, open space of Soho Square. On Perry Street the buildings were narrow and old, but smartly renovated, converted into computer, graphics and special FX offices, teeny cafés and boutique hairdressers.

This was a busy, bustling slice of London, every square foot of space pressed into action. Every one of the two or three floors of each building was an expensive office or luxury flat.

89 . . . 93 . . . The closer she got, the more Annie's heart began to thud with fear. She still hadn't spoken to Tamsin in person. When she'd finally found the courage to make the call on Monday morning, a chirpy secretary had informed her that Tamsin was 'interested in meeting' and would 10.30 a.m. on Tuesday be convenient?

Bob had told her that Tamsin was responsible for two cookery series on Channel 4 and Connor had promised to do some research, but possibly due to relaunching himself on the London social scene, he hadn't come back with anything yet.

Number 113 . . . Annie's phone began to ring.

She fished it from her pocket and saw it was Dinah.

'Hi – are you OK?' Annie asked.

'I'm fine. Are you there yet?'

'Nearly,' Annie said and paused for a minute so she could take the call.

'I just wanted to wish you luck,' Dinah told her, 'knock 'em dead and all that, but be cool. If it's not for you, tell 'em to swivel.'

'Swivel?' Annie had to ask. 'Have you been watching too many gangster films? Are you OK?' she asked again. 'Six-week scan today, I'm so nervous I have actually been sick.'

'Maybe it's the other kind of sick. Maybe it's a very good sign.'

'Maybe . . .' Dinah agreed doubtfully. 'What are you wearing?' she asked, wanting to change the subject.

Annie was desperate to tell her, because it was a very, very good outfit. It had taken hours to assemble but it definitely did not look as if it was trying too hard. Getting perfectly dressed was, in a way, all the interview preparation Annie had done. Well, OK, Connor had sat her down for a 'how to talk TV corporate bollocks' chat. That's what he'd called it anyway.

'Talk about building yourself as a brand, they love all that . . .' She couldn't remember much more of his advice.

'It's a great outfit,' she told Dinah, 'coat, dress, great boots, great bag, scarf. I'm rocking. But I have to go now.'

'Loads of luck.'

'You too.'

Just as Annie folded away her phone, a woman stepped from a door several feet ahead of her. Annie only caught a glimpse of her profile before she turned and began to walk briskly in the other direction. But the hair, the high-heeled boots and the tight trousers – it was absolutely, without doubt, Miss Marlise!

Annie began to walk forward again. For several seconds she tried to tell herself that this was just a coincidence, but then she was there. At the door from which Miss Marlise had just emerged. It was number 117.

So this was how Bob had found out about Tamsin Hinkley's interest in a makeover show . . . good grief!

Annie extended a finger with a manicured, palest pink nail and pressed the buzzer.

She let her breath out slowly and set a pleasant, welcoming smile on her face, but her stomach was churning with nerves. Miss Marlise! Bloody Miss Bloody Marlise! She would get the job. She was the famous one. She was the name!

Annie wanted to turn and run away down the street. But she thought of Dinah, and Ed, and Connor. What would they want her to do? If Lana was standing here right now ringing the doorbell, wouldn't Annie tell her to hold her head high and do her best?

What was the worst that could happen here? Nothing. So she wouldn't be any worse off than she was before she rang the doorbell. The best that could happen was that Tamsin would love her and would make her the star of her very own series . . . and even if it was on Channel 1026, it was a start. Another start . . .

Annie widened her smile as a voice crackled over the intercom: 'Can I help you?'

'It's Annie Valentine,' she said. The buzzer sounded and the door lock was released.

She followed the sign pointing up a flight of narrow, rickety stairs and found herself in a small, bright white office where a girl with a short, funky blond haircut was seated on a high stool with castors, at a desk which tilted upwards like an artist's drawing board. A set of white earphones were attached to her head.

'Annie Valentine?' The girl stood up and came forward to shake her hand. 'Hi. I'm Amelia. Tamsin will be through in just one second . . . oh here she is now.' Annie didn't even have time to take another breath and let out her rising anxiety.

'Annie, hi,' a warm, resonant voice announced from the doorway of the office.

Annie turned to face one of the most striking-looking forty-somethings she'd seen in a long time walking towards her with her hand already extended. Tamsin had very long caramel-coloured hair, straight at the top, but curling into soft ringlets which fell down past her elbows. She was fit and athletic looking, so could easily carry off the pink silk miniskirt and black thigh-high boots she was wearing, especially as she'd toned down the body-con look with a loosely draped violet sweater On the elegant wrist of the elegant hand being offered to her, Annie saw the pink and purple bangle she'd bought last week from Topshop. Suddenly her nerves seemed to lift, her smile broadened and for the first time since she'd seen Miss Marlise, she began to feel hopeful.

'Hi Tamsin, lovely to meet you,' she enthused. 'I have that bangle!'

'Do you? Isn't Topshop great? I buy so many things there.'

'This season's little skirts are perfect . . .' Annie jumped in.

Tamsin nodded: 'I have two already. OK, follow me,' she added, 'we'll go chat. Amelia, if you could hold my calls, that would be fantastic.'

On the short walk along the corridor Annie glanced at the framed photographs, award certificates and publicity pages and felt in awe once again. There was Tamsin being cuddled, kissed and congratulated by a host of famous TV faces. There was a front page story about one of Tamsin's new programmes . . . oh my goodness she was the producer of that?

Tamsin cast a glance round at her.

'Oh, sorry,' she said, 'it's my willy-waving wall, don't let it put you off. I'm not really like that.'

'No . . . erm . . . it's impressive,' Annie managed.

'Nice boots,' Tamsin said as she opened her office door and waved Annie in. 'I don't think they came from Tosho.'

'No,' Annie confirmed.

'Don't tell me,' Tamsin instructed her. 'I'll just want to go there and splurge.'

Tamsin had a very pretty office with a white-painted wooden floor, dusty pink walls, a white sofa, a white desk and two of those high end perspex dining chairs. One wall was filled with a white bookcase crammed with DVDs, labelled boxes and white box files. Such a girlie space, Annie couldn't help thinking. It even smelled perfumed. If Annie had been able to breathe in and out normally, she'd have identified the scent as gardenia and jasmine, but she was feeling another burst of nervousness now.

'Bob was kind enough to send me a showreel of clips from the series you were doing with Donnie Finnigan,' Tamsin began once she'd offered Annie one of the 'ghost' chairs and settled down in the other one herself. 'You were good;' Tamsin went on, 'very good with the women, making them feel at home on screen. You looked as if you were really enjoying yourself.'

'Yes,' Annie agreed.

'I love the girl with the short hair who comes out to you! Tina? That's fantastic TV!' Tamsin said eagerly.

'Do you? Yes!' Annie agreed. 'She sent me a thank-you card and said I'd changed her life.'

'But you're not working on the series any more?' Tamsin's head tilted. She fixed cool grey eyes on Annie and clearly awaited further explanation.

Annie racked her mind for Connor's advice here. Something about artistic differences, creative strengths, differing ethoses, or should that be ethes?

'Finn
hated
that Tina makeover: he pulled it. Plus he had no money and I was the presenter who didn't have a proper contract, so that was handy for him.' From what she'd seen of Tamsin so far, Annie decided she was the kind of person who could stand the truth; who would, in fact, appreciate the truth.

'How was the show working out?' Tamsin asked next.

Here was another kicker. If Annie hadn't known Miss Marlise had been sitting in this very same chair being asked this very same question just ten minutes or so ago, she might have said, diplomatically, 'I thought the first episode looked pretty good,' and left it at that.

Instead, she was going to have to say more.

'I don't think it was working at all,' Annie began, 'the whole idea was just . . .' she paused, with remnants of Connor's lecture in her mind. She was supposed to be positive about everything, at all times.

'Stupid?' Tamsin suggested.

'Yes,' Annie agreed with relief, 'we were supposed to turn these women into completely different people in half an hour. Life isn't like that. Not even on TV! And when I did completely transform someone, they couldn't handle it and as for bossy Miss Marlise – you know, from
The Apprentice
– she was always making everyone cry.'

Now that was bitchy and unnecessary, but Annie hadn't been able to stop herself. She'd suddenly felt a burst of fury at Finn and his ridiculous Wonder Women. She'd quit her very well paid job of nine years for that show. They'd given her the least money and they'd fired her for no reason. And as for Miss Marlise, she had done everything to undermine Annie at every turn and been delighted to see her go . . . Well, now it was Annie's turn to kick her in the pants.