by Carmen Reid
As if that could somehow compensate for the tragedy of losing him.
‘What’s up?’ Rich wondered. ‘You’re looking glum all of a sudden.’
‘No, no.’ Annie was brought abruptly back into the cab; she forced a smile on to her face. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Tired, maybe.’
She should take Ed and the babies on a trip, she thought to herself. For a little moment, she imagined leaning against Ed’s chest on a boat on the Seine in the sun, with, somehow, by some miracle, both babies asleep in her arms.
She tried to never compare the two very important men in her life. She accepted that it was possible to love people equally and not have to choose whom you loved the most. After all, didn’t she love all four of her children absolutely fiercely the same?
Even if it was Owen who could make her laugh the most.
She should take them all on holiday. Devote some pure, unadulterated, uninterrupted time to them all …
Her phone rang.
‘Hi, how’s it going? Is Rich with you? Is he behaving? I’m sorry it’s not Bob, but just boss Rich around and he should do a good job. Yeah?’ Tamsin was obviously in a hurry, firing out questions before Annie had a hope of answering them. ‘So shoot two or three hours of rehearsal footage today, lots of backstage tears and tantrums. Tomorrow, shoot the whole show and we want interviews with Svetlana and Elena before, during and after, if poss. That OK? This is going to be great. The TV bosses love it. They think it’s glitzy and different and empowering. Girl-power, Annie. That’s what we’re all about though, aren’t we?’
‘Absolutely,’ was the only word Annie got in.
With that, Tamsin said she had to go.
The taxi was approaching the heart of the city now, driving down a long boulevard lined with trees and venerable old grey buildings.
It wasn’t snowing in Paris; the leaves on the trees were further out than in London and the sun was shining with a warmth which had brought the pedestrians out in a catwalk of spring outfits.
There were many pale beige trenchcoats to be seen, collars up and belts tied. The woman crossing at the traffic lights ahead was striding past in a blue swing jacket with blue and white striped sailor trousers underneath. Everyone was wearing sunglasses with their groomed hair.
Was there still a uniquely Parisian look? Annie wondered as she stared out of the taxi window in fascination. Women in the most expensive areas of London looked just as groomed and glossy. And London girls had, did and would always do funky fashion so much better than Parisian girls. But still, there was a Parisian thing. No one in London would dream of wearing a Breton top like that one, just over there, under a tweed jacket? Would they?
As she watched another older woman walking past along the pavement, Annie suddenly thought she got it. French fashion was mature, respectable. It was bourgeois. This woman in her primrose-yellow belted coat, mid-heeled boots and tiny poodle on a leash was at the age it was best to be in Paris.
She was un certain âge. In her prime. This was when French women went chic and English women went all to seed. Les Anglaises started dressing for comfort, they got doggy and boggy. It was all animals and gardening and letting their hair go grey, not in a slick and shiny way, but in a mad witchy straggle.
Yes, the backbone of Parisian chic was middle-aged matriarchs looking very well put-together and important. They looked as if they had things to do, places to be and people to see, even once they had passed retirement age … maybe especially once they had passed retirement age, Annie thought, seeing two elderly ladies strolling out together in gold necklaces, fine coats and heeled lace-up shoes.
The taxi turned off the main boulevard and into a noless-impressive curving side street. Annie’s head began to crane. Wasn’t that … ? Had they just passed the Hermès shop? And look, oooh, Chanel, it must have been, with an awning as shiny and slick as black patent leather and a single pair of nude-coloured Mary Janes in the window.
Tragically, there was going to be no time to even window-shop on this whistle-stop tour. It was lunch then the rehearsal and tomorrow she would spend all morning at the show and all afternoon at an after-show party. Yes, there were shops at the airport but that wasn’t nearly the same.
Her face was pressed to the glass as Louis Vuitton whizzed past … Yves Saint Laurent! She imagined herself inside, stroking supple dresses and considering a fitting for one of the legendary, satin-lapelled les smokings.
She wasn’t really a le smoking kind of girl though. If it came down to a choice between le smoking or a wonderful dress, she knew she’d go with the dress every time.
The taxi was slowing down and pulling up outside one of the grandest hotel entrances Annie had ever seen. She knew Svetlana’s taste always ran to the ultra-lavish but this …
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ she said out loud, feeling nervous at the thought of braving the terrifying lobby this hotel was bound to have, while still all dishevelled from the plane.
She ran her hands through her short blond hair, fished out a lipstick and applied it, glancing herself over in her compact.
There was no point fretting herself to death; she would have to do.
‘What happens next?’ Rich asked.
Rich! He was definitely not coming in here with her.
‘I get off here,’ she instructed. ‘I give you the taxi money and you take our bags to the hotel, then go somewhere for a coffee or maybe another Big Mac. We meet at Le Carrousel du Louvre at three p.m. sharp!’ Annie emphasized. ‘Maybe be there fifteen minutes early, just to be sure.’
‘OK.’ Rich nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’
Annie handed over a bundle of euros, smoothed down her blouse and stepped out, clutching her large and impressive handbag against her like a shield.
The foyer of the George V was … spectacular. No other word would do. Annie couldn’t think when she had ever been somewhere more lavish. Blond marble floors and marble walls shone back at her; crystal and gold chandeliers glittered above her head; and look, the huge vases stuffed with flowers … and the vast tapestries! It was spectacular.
She felt lost, bewildered … bedazzled, in fact.
For a moment or two she couldn’t quite work out where the reception desk was amidst all the opulence of Louis Quatorze chairs, spindly side tables and wrought-gold mantel clocks. Then she caught sight of the elegantly uniformed staff manning the desk.
‘Madame?’ a sleek-haired guy turned in her direction.
At what exact moment did you become ‘madame’ in France? Annie wondered. There must be a crossover period, when women in their twenties, or maybe early thirties, were mademoiselle sometimes and madame at others.
She didn’t hesitate to talk in English, certain that this charming, cosmopolitan monsieur would be far more fluent in English than she could ever hope to be in French.
‘I’m meeting someone here for lunch,’ she told him.
‘Certainly, let me show you through to the restaurant,’ he immediately offered and stepped out from behind the desk.
The restaurant was, naturellement, even more awe-inspiring than the lobby. There was so much dizzying bling before her now, it was almost hard to take in.
Tables were set with rows of shimmering crystal glasses, heavyweight art loomed down from the walls, more chandeliers winked and glittered above, even more marble shone, and huge windows, swagged, draped and pelmeted in taffeta, let in a panorama of the beautiful streets and buildings outside.
There in the centre of the room, like the queen bee enthroned in state, was Svetlana, just as spectacular as her setting, with Elena by her side like a princess in waiting. On the table in front of them, champagne was cooling in a silver bucket and a huge mound of seafood was stacked high on a platter of chipped ice.
‘Annah!’ Svetlana exclaimed and stood up to welcome her.
Within moments, Annie was enveloped in the familiar Svetlana embrace. Perfume, soft skin, warm cleavage, fragrant hair, enormous dangling diamonds: whenever
you greeted Svetlana up close, your senses were bombarded with all of these things.
‘I’m sorry we start without you, but we are so hungry,’ Svetlana apologized.
Once Annie had kissed Elena on the cheeks, she sat down in the chair the ever-attentive waiter had pulled out for her.
‘Seafood and champagne? Is OK for you?’ Svetlana asked. ‘Is all I like to have when I eat out. So good for you and so low calorie.’
Looking at the two fat lobsters resting at the bottom of the seafood tower, plus the dishes of creamy mayonnaise set out on the table, Annie wasn’t quite so sure how true that was, but …
‘Delicious!’ she told her friend.
The waiter poured her a glass of champagne and now she was all set to toast Svetlana and Elena’s success.
‘You’re wearing the dresses, aren’t you?’ she asked, looking at the mother and daughter in turn. ‘They look amazing!’
It helped of course that both Elena and her mother had wonderful figures, beautiful faces and icy-blond hair, but still Annie could see that the dresses were good.
Svetlana’s was fuchsia pink, one of Svetlana’s favourite colours, with long, elegant sleeves and a flattering ruffle at the neckline and the wrists.
Elena’s was more businesslike: navy with satin collar and cuffs. But the styles, the fit and the fabric looked really good. Perfect, in fact.
‘Stand up, Elena,’ Svetlana urged. ‘Show Annie how cleverly we cut darts at the back, to shape into the waist and then out at the hem.’
Elena made a tiny scowl, but then stood up and came to stand beside Annie so she could appreciate the dress in full.
Annie took hold of Elena’s hem and felt it between her thumb and fingers. ‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘a really nice feel. Silk crêpe?’
‘Ya, with just a little Lycra for fit and shape,’ Elena told her. ’For winter we will do wool mixes as well as the silk.’
‘This is so exciting!’ Annie told them. ‘So how is the show coming on?’
Elena sat back down and told Annie with another little scowl of annoyance: ‘Mother has left it all in the hands of some event organizer. He has booked the venue, the flowers, the models, even the DJ. Our involvement only begins this afternoon when we get there.’ She flicked a glance at her watch.
‘It will be fine, I spoke to him this morning,’ Svetlana told her daughter with a shake of her head. ‘In business, you must learn to delegate. What you think of our hotel, huh?’ She directed the question at Annie.
‘It is absolutely breathtaking,’ Annie assured her. ‘Is your room unbelievable? In fact, can I take a little peek at it after lunch?’
‘Room?’ Svetlana asked, shaking her head again. ‘Suite, Annah, we have a suite, no one stays in just a room. How can you? There is not enough space for all the things.’
Elena was scowling again.
‘She thinks waste of money,’ Svetlana explained, reaching for one of the oysters on the mound and squirting it with a lemon half wrapped in gauze to ensure that no pip fell out and ruined the culinary experience. ‘I have to explain to Elena is all PR, everything we do is PR. When we meet journalists and press at the show tomorrow, we say, “Yes, we’re at the George V,” and everyone understands we are rich, we are successful, dresses are going to be worn by rich and successful women and then it all take off, vooom.’ She imitated take-off with her hand to make sure Annie got the idea.
‘Cash flow, Mother,’ Elena said warningly from the other side of the table. ‘You know nothing about business cash flow. We had a big lump sum of capital and now we’ve spent all of it! The bill for the George V is going to cause a business overdraft and we’ve not even sold one single dress yet!’
‘Yes, but how many buyers are coming to our show?’ Svetlana asked.
‘Forty-five,’ Elena answered and allowed herself a little smile as she teased a piece of lobster claw meat out with a silver pick.
‘They will buy,’ Svetlana assured her and gave Annie a roll of her eyes. ‘I have the big ideas, Annah, Elena does the numbers.’
‘I think you make a really great team,’ Annie said, smiling at both of them, trying to make this as conciliatory as possible. She took a sip of champagne and felt the bubbles melt in her throat and travel with comforting warmth down to her stomach.
Feeling hungry now, she picked off several of the juicy fruits de mer for her plate, dolloping mayonnaise on the side, regardless of the fact that neither Svetlana nor Elena were touching the stuff.
‘Now tell us all about the filming, Annah, what does Tamsin want us to do? What is her plan?’ Svetlana asked.
So Annie told them, at length and in depth, and by the time the three had discussed it in full, it was well after 2 p.m. Time for Svetlana to sign for the lunch, despite Annie’s objections, and for the hotel concierge to summon up a taxi to rush them to the Louvre.
As the cab pulled up as closely to the Louvre as it could, Annie was relieved to catch sight of Rich. His camera was already up on his shoulder as he captured the bustling fashion scene in full swing.
The long white tents stretching from the huge glass pyramid in the centre of the Louvre’s courtyard flapped elegantly in the breeze. Bustling all around were busy and über-fashionable people. Women in sharp jackets and dark glasses were snapping into mobiles; slouchy, scruffy models were smoking by the fountain. Everywhere everyone was beautiful, even the tanned middle-aged men, in cashmere overcoats, velvet scarves and Prada shades.
‘Oh, this is so amazing!’ Annie exclaimed as she climbed out of the taxi. ‘I need to do this every season. I need to be here,’ she gushed, desperate to get inside the tent and find out which other fashion shows she could sneak a look at.
What was going to be on sale next year? She needed to know now! And right here was where she could find out. This was the beating heart of planet fashion.
Even Elena looked impressed. She let the taxi driver unload the two big holdalls of dresses and shoes from the back of the car, but then she took charge of them both herself.
One over each shoulder, she was determined to carry them alone, shaking her head at Annie’s offers of help.
‘Rich!’ Annie called over to the cameraman. ‘We’re over here!’
He turned but carried on filming.
‘Lovely!’ he called out as the three women began to march towards him. ‘The girls are in town.’
After he’d made them turn, walk back, walk towards him one more time, and then again, promising this time he would definitely have it, Elena called a halt.
‘Is enough!’ she instructed. ‘We have to check in, find our girls and get started. There is so much to do before tomorrow.’
Rich didn’t just listen to Elena, he also took a long appraising look at her. Annie saw him do it. He looked and he looked and he very obviously liked. But Elena didn’t even hold eye contact with him for any longer than necessary. She didn’t even seem to notice the other approving glances she attracted from so many men here.
She was very, very focused.
Svetlana, Annie and Rich – still filming – all tailed Elena as she briskly followed the signs posted up to direct visitors to the main entrance.
When she had reached the impressive mouth of the biggest billowing white tent, they stood in a little group behind her as she went up to one of the men behind the busy reception desk.
‘Svetlana Wisneski and Elena Ljubicic of Perfect Dress. We have space booked in …’ She paused to look through the sheaf of papers Svetlana had handed on from Patrizio, ‘… area thirteen for this afternoon and for our show tomorrow morning.’
There was a young girl standing in the reception area. She was slouching against a pole, apparently trying to blend in and not be too conspicuous. This girl had been waiting here for almost an hour now and had considered many, many times the possibility of going home. But some stubborn instinct had kept her waiting, kept her hoping, long past the point when hope should have faded.
When she heard Elena introdu
ce herself to the reception desk, the girl suddenly stood up straight, pulled back her shoulders and felt a surge of excitement rise up inside her.
‘Perfect Dress?’ she asked as she came forward towards them, shyly.
‘Yes,’ Elena and Svetlana replied together. ‘I’m Anoush, I come to model in your show,’ she said, still shy and hesitant.
Everyone looked at her a little more closely. She was so small and so dainty. She could hardly have been over 5 feet 4 inches and she looked nothing like the glamazon models all three women had expected. But she was undoubtedly pretty with her mocha skin, molten eyes and halo of soft, frizzy hair.
‘Hello.’ Elena was the first to reply; she held out her hand for Anoush to shake. ‘Is this your first show?’
When Anoush nodded in reply, Elena smiled encouragingly and told her: ‘Yes, it’s our first show too.’
The receptionist was tapping at the computer; then he made a phone call; finally, he turned to the three women, their brand-new model and Rich, who was still determinedly filming.
‘Area thirteen is booked for today and for all of tomorrow,’ the receptionist told them in clipped English, ‘but not for you. Is booked for Escada. I have looked up every single other reservation and I do not have one for Perfect Dress, or Wisneski or Ljubicic.’
Elena looked through the sheaf of papers in her hands: ‘But you must,’ she insisted, ‘we have records … we have an invoice … maybe if you look up the name of the man who made the reservation?’
The receptionist took the papers from her and began to look through them with a puzzled expression. After he had carefully examined every page he shook his head at them sadly. ‘I don’t know what this is,’ he began, ‘but this is not from us. This is not our paper, this is not our logo. Mesdames, this is a fake.’
Chapter Seventeen
