I can only assume that this is because these things – double-barrelled clients, and the society pages of Tatler – are her particular area of expertise. And, I suspect, more to the point, because she’s cheesed off that Ben was the one who brought me under his umbrella in the first place, without her being the one to scout me, as is their usual arrangement. And that she wants to stamp her authority and opinions on Libby Goes To Hollywood as a way of asserting her position.
But I can’t complain. I mean that in its truest sense. I can’t complain. Ben owns sixty-five per cent of my company, and has put tens of thousands of pounds into it. And Elvira is his right-hand woman, so he’s always going to take her opinion over mine.
I’m just hoping that maybe, just maybe, today’s meeting might swing things a little more in my favour. I’ve been working really hard on the designs for a new collection of chunky bronze cuffs, studded with semi-precious birthstones, a few of which I’ve got to show Ben and Elvira today. I’m also armed with promising sales figures from the most recent collection that the factory in Croatia made for me, and …
I can hear that the front door is opening, and that Elvira and Ben are on their way in. Seeing as this means Elvira must have used her own door key, I’ll have to have a little word with her about privacy as soon as … actually, let’s be honest, I won’t have a word with her about privacy at all. This is her place – well, her father’s, but who’s splitting hairs? – and I’m staying here as close to rent-free as makes no difference. She could tap-dance in unannounced, in the middle of the night, with a marching band playing loud oom-pah-pahs right behind her, and I’d still keep my mouth shut.
‘Libby? You here?’
‘I’m right here, Ben!’ I reply, heading out of the back room and into the as-yet-empty showroom space at the front. ‘Hi! Great to see you both.’
Ben, who I go up to kiss on both cheeks, is looking as immaculate as I’ve ever seen him: sharp suit, open-neck shirt, and a hot pink silk pocket square, just to give the nod to the fact he’s the kind of multimillionaire venture capitalist who invests in fashion businesses rather than anything mundane like steel production or microchip technology. But Elvira … well, she looks positively extraordinary. She’s rocking a tiny paisley kaftan that only just covers her practically non-existent buttocks, Grecian sandals that lace up as far as her equally nonexistent thighs, a Hermès Birkin bag in the crook of one emaciated arm; her silver-blonde hair, in milkmaid plaits, is pushed back from her face with a colossal pair of sunglasses.
‘Elvira!’ I contemplate giving her a kiss too, but her forbidding aura of haughtiness puts me off. ‘Thanks so much, again, for all this.’ I wave a hand around the showroom. ‘Obviously I haven’t really had a chance to think about how I’m going to fit it out, yet, but it’s such a great space, I’m sure it’s going to be—’
‘I need water,’ she says, abruptly, cutting me off and starting to head up the stairs without waiting for an invitation. ‘Do you have flat mineral in the kitchen?’
‘Mineral water? Er … no, only tap. I can pop up the road to the shop, if it would—’
‘No time for that,’ she throws over her shoulder, clearly a woman in the midst of a dehydration emergency. ‘Tap will have to do.’
‘So, Libby, good to see you settled here,’ Ben says. His tone, as ever, is brusque, but I’m used to this by now and know that he (almost always) means kindly enough. ‘It’s a little fancier than … sorry, what’s the name of the place you were living before?’
‘Colliers Wood.’
‘A little fancier than Colliers Wood, huh?’
‘Yes, it’s lovely.’ I pick up my stack of bronze cuffs and the paperwork for my sales figures, and start to follow him up the stairs towards the living room. ‘Thanks, Ben, for getting Elvira to let me have the place.’
‘It’s nothing. Besides, El’s been talking about the idea of you working out of a showroom for months now, right?’
‘Yes, she has. In fact, that was one thing I was really hoping we could speak about today, Ben.’ We reach the living room; Elvira has gone on up to the next floor to source her urgent water from the kitchen. ‘I mean, I love having the showroom too, obviously, and it’s going to be fantastic for meetings with my bespoke clients and stuff … but I suppose what I’m still really hoping for, one day soon, is to actually start up my own shop premises. And I guess I’d really just like to be sure that that’s something you’d be supportive of, as well as the whole showroom thing, when the time—’
‘I thought you’d moved in.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I thought you’d moved in.’ Ben gestures around the living room. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’
‘Oh, right! This is all my stuff!’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No, no, I like to live with … er … a very minimalist aesthetic …’
‘You’re kidding,’ Ben repeats. He nods in the direction of the Chesterfield. ‘I mean, is that old thing part of your minimalist aesthetic?’
‘Well, no, but I like to mix minimalism with … vintage quirkiness.’
‘That’s vintage quirk, all right.’ Ben wanders over and peers, gingerly, at the sofa. ‘It doesn’t have mice, or anything, does it?’
I’m offended, on behalf of the Chesterfield, that this is the second time today someone has implied there are things living in it.
Or, more accurately, offended that it’s the second time someone has implied there are creepy-crawly, rodenty things living in it.
As opposed to the actual things living in it. Which are – and I’ll keep this ever so brief, because it makes me sound nuts, no matter how I put it – Hollywood screen legends.
And, to be honest, I don’t really think they live in the sofa, as such. It’s more just that they appear from it. Because the sofa itself is … magical? I mean, this is the best – in fact, pretty much the only – explanation I’ve been able to come up with myself.
I said I’d sound nuts, OK? But there’s honestly no other way for me to explain it.
‘No, it doesn’t have mice! Anyway, Ben, as I was saying, I’m really glad we’ve got this opportunity to have a bit of a chat about things, because—’
‘What’s going on down here?’ Elvira demands, as she reappears at the bottom of the stairs, having come down from the kitchen. ‘What are you two talking about?’
‘Well, I was just saying—’
‘I was asking Libby if she has mice in this old couch,’ Ben says. ‘I mean, did you ever see anything like it?’
‘I didn’t.’ Elvira gazes at the Chesterfield. ‘God, I kind of love it.’
I’m astonished by this. ‘Really? Everybody else I know hates it.’
‘Oh, well, nobody knows anything about vintage furniture, darling. Not unless they have an eye for this sort of thing.’
Her tone suggests that she herself does have an eye which, to be fair, she does, if that extraordinary feature in Elle Decor was anything to go by.
‘It’s an old film-set prop, actually,’ I say, relieved to have found something to bond with Elvira over, after months of our uncomfortable alliance. ‘From Pinewood Studios.’
‘No.’ Her eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘How did you get hold of something like that?’
‘I used to be an actress,’ I say, before adding, swiftly, ‘well, just an extra, really. But I was working on a show at Pinewood a couple of years ago when I first moved into my old flat, and a – uh – friend of mine who worked there too had an arrangement with the guy who ran the props warehouse. Anything they didn’t really want any more was fair game to take away.’
‘And nobody else wanted this?’ Elvira puts her Birkin down on one of the sofa’s cushions and runs a hand over the blowsy apricot-coloured fabric. ‘God, people are such idiots. This is a stunning piece!’
‘El, honey, you can’t be serious.’ Ben lets out a short bark of laughter. ‘This old heap of junk?’
‘Don’t be such a philistine. This must
have so much history, I’m sure, if it was at Pinewood all those years.’
I can feel myself redden. We may be getting along the best we’ve ever managed, me and Elvira – practically besties ourselves, now, in comparison to our usual strained relations – but I don’t think we’re anywhere close to a situation where I might confide in her the full extent of my Chesterfield’s ‘history’.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You know, darling, if you’d like to get it refurbished, I have some amazing furniture restorers on my speed-dial—’
‘God, no!’ I practically yelp. Because – and I’m very far from an expert here, trust me – even though I may not have seen a Hollywood legend appear from the sofa since Marilyn Monroe, almost exactly a year ago last June, I have a gut feeling that it’ll only ever work again if it stays exactly like this. So yes, it’s a bit grubby, and yes, that smell of moist dog still never quite fades, no matter how many times I open a window and fan fresh air in its direction with a tea-towel. But for all I know, even the merest squirt of Febreze is going to take away its remarkable powers for ever. I’m not going to risk it. ‘Thanks so much for the offer, Elvira,’ I continue, ‘but I kind of like it the way it is.’
‘Oh! Well, that’s up to you, I suppose.’ But she’s looking at me with a little more respect than usual. ‘I can understand you don’t want to take away from the soul of the piece.’
‘That’s exactly it.’ I beam at her. ‘And in fact,’ I go on, hoping to use this unexpected moment of positivity between us as a springboard to more important things, ‘talking of souls, I’d really love to have a conversation about the next phase of plans for Libby Goes To Hollywood.’
‘That’s exactly why we’re here,’ Elvira says. ‘I mean, now that you’ve got the new studio, obviously it’s time to start moving things forward.’
‘Great!’
I feel a rush of relief at how well this is all going for a change. Our previous meetings have all been so awkward and stilted. I’ve been intimidated by her gawky beauty, her ineffable style and her screaming poshness, and she’s probably been … well, not intimidated by a single thing about me. Visibly irritated, you’d probably have to say, by my all-too-apparent lack of screaming poshness. And now here we are, conversation (comparatively) flowing.
I take a deep breath, and begin the little pitch I’ve been practising in my head. ‘Well, I’ve been looking at the sales figures from the website, and they’re really on their way up over the last three months. So I’ve been thinking I’d like to—’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s what we wanted to speak about, too.’ Ben sits down on the Chesterfield, either forgetting or ignoring his concern about rodent inhabitants. ‘El and I were talking in the cab over here, and we both think it’s really time to wind up that side of the business, and focus your energies more on the bespoke commissions.’
‘Yeah,’ says Elvira although, because she’s so screamingly posh, this comes out as a yah. ‘Specifically the bridal commissions. After all, I think we can all agree that’s where your greatest talents lie, Libby.’
‘What? No. I mean … I don’t think we can agree that’s where my greatest talents lie.’ I stare at them both. ‘That might be where my biggest margins have come from these last few months, but if you have a look at the website sales, the charm bracelets and opal rings have been doing really, really well. And,’ I go on, remembering that I’m still holding a couple of my new bronze cuffs, ‘I’m really hoping this sort of thing is going to be a big seller, too, when I launch them on the website.’
Elvira glances at the cuff I’m holding out for her to inspect. ‘Pretty,’ she says, with a dismissive shrug, not even bothering to look properly at it. ‘But that’s not really the direction we see the business heading in, is it, Ben, darling?’
‘Nope, not really,’ Ben says. He’s taken out his phone, and is tapping away on the screen. ‘Listen to El, Libby. She knows what she’s talking about.’
‘Right, I’m sure, but I know what I’m talking about, too.’ I can’t quite believe I’m actually saying this to the pair of them – the de facto owner of my business, and someone as scary as Elvira – but needs must. Besides, after our moment of bonding over the sofa, I think she’ll respect me more if I stand my ground. ‘Look, it’s not that I don’t enjoy bridal commissions—’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’ Elvira bestows me with a rare smile. ‘That piece in Brides has led to hundreds of enquiries, no? And – so far – dozens and dozens of actual orders.’
‘Sure, and like I say, it’s not that I don’t enjoy it.’ I take another deep breath. ‘It’s just that … well, the brides who’ve come to me after that article pretty much all want exactly the same thing.’
‘You mean the vintage-style tiara they featured in the magazine article Elvira arranged for you?’ Ben glances up from his phone. ‘The one,’ he adds, in a meaningful sort of way, ‘with the three hundred per cent margin?’
‘Yes, OK, I get that it’s good for profit.’ I stare, rather desperately, in Elvira’s direction, wanting to appeal to her sense of creativity. ‘I just really wanted to have a bit more say in the design process. Rather than just replicating the same thing over and over again.’
She looks back at me. ‘Well, I do get that,’ she says.
‘I knew you would!’ I can see a tiny little chink of light here, I really can. ‘Look, Elvira, perhaps if you could have a closer look at some of the pieces I’m working on at the moment, not just the cuffs, but also OH MY GOD, IT’S A RAT!’
I wasn’t planning on finishing the sentence this way, but then I wasn’t expecting to see an actual rodent, just the sort that Ben has been suspicious about, scurrying out from the Chesterfield’s squashy cushions.
I act, I think, with commendable speed under the circumstances – after all, it’s my sofa, so therefore my rat, and I want to be clear I’m taking full responsibility for the horror – by pulling back my right arm and hurling both bronze cuffs towards the rat’s head.
I mean, I’m an animal lover, so I’m not actually trying to kill the thing, just scare it off, or, I don’t know, knock it out.
But Elvira, the moment she sees the cuffs go loose, screams as if I’m about to accidentally injure a newborn infant.
‘Don’t hurt my baby!’ she screeches, diving into the cuffs’ trajectory, but too late. One of them has actually made contact with the rat – its tail end, I think, and not its head – and it has let out a little squeal.
I’m confused, for a moment, as to why a rat would make a noise like that, and – much more importantly – why on earth Elvira is calling it her baby.
But then Ben is on his feet too, hurrying over to help Elvira tend to the creature.
‘Is he all right?’ he demands. ‘Did it hit him?’
‘I think so! Oh, my poor baby!’ Elvira is actually gathering the rat up, into her arms, and raining kisses down on its head. ‘I think it got him on the leg! At the very least,’ she adds, turning to me with a look of murderous fury in her eyes, ‘he’s totally fucking traumatized!’
‘I don’t … sorry, but I honestly don’t think rats can feel trauma, can they?’
‘He’s not a rat! He’s a dog! My dog!’
My mouth falls open. ‘Oh, God, Elvira, I didn’t—’
‘He’s a Xoloitzcuintli,’ Ben says, gruffly.
I blink at him.
‘A miniature Mexican hairless!’ Elvira spits. ‘The Aztecs considered them sacred!’
All I can honestly think to this is: more fool the Aztecs. Because, seriously, this dog is a peculiar-looking beast. Well, obviously, given that I have just mistaken him for a large rat.
‘He’s only eight weeks old,’ Elvira is going on, continuing to examine and kiss the dog/rat in equal proportion. ‘He’s just a puppy! How could you attack him like that, Libby?’
‘Elvira, again, I’m so sorry. I didn’t attack him … well, OK, I threw the cuffs, but only because I th
ought he was … er … well, you know … and Ben had been saying he thought there might be mice or something in the sofa …’
‘He was in my bag!’ Elvira points a shaking hand at her Birkin bag, still on the Chesterfield, that the dog must have just crept out of. ‘And really, Libby, what did you think I wanted water for, when we got here?’
‘I’m sorry, I just assumed … is he OK?’ I add, taking a step closer, albeit a little bit gingerly, but Elvira jumps back as if I’m brandishing an entire arsenal of dog-injuring weaponry.
‘You’ve done enough,’ she snarls. ‘Ben, darling, can you get a cab? I want to get Tino straight to the vet.’
‘Of course, hon.’ Ben shoots a rather weary look in my direction as he heads back to the sofa to pick up his phone. ‘Jeez, Libby,’ he says. ‘What is it with you and other people’s dogs?’
This is a rather unfair reference to the first time he met me – a time that, until now, both of us have chosen never to reference again – when I accidentally got myself stuck in a dog safety gate in my underwear.
A Night In With Grace Kelly Page 2
