New York Valentine

by Carmen Reid

  ‘Annah!’ came the booming, gushing, heavily accented voice of one of Annie’s very best friends, Svetlana Wisneski.

  Annie would probably have told anyone else in her life that she’d call them straight back as soon as she was dressed. But Svetlana, an extraordinarily glamorous former Miss Ukraine, who’d been married to not just one, but several of the wealthiest men in the world, was not a woman who waited for return phone calls.

  So Annie sat down on the edge of her bed in the de-sexing beige pants and industrial bra and prepared to listen.

  ‘In New York … is a disaster!’ Svetlana exclaimed dramatically.

  ‘Oh no! Has Elena’s boyfriend left her?’ Annie jumped to the conclusion, ‘What’s-his-name?’

  ‘Sye? No. No. This all lovely little romance for them. Tscha …’ Svetlana dismissed the thought, ‘no this is bizzzzzzneeeeez. Elena not coping. Not coping one little piece. Her new American business partner has left. Gone! Taken money, left debt with factory. Disaster!’ she repeated. ‘We have orders for dresses but we have no money and no factory to make them!’

  ‘Oh no,’ Annie sympathized.

  Elena was Svetlana’s lovely, determined and totally business-headed daughter. Although Svetlana had always sought fame and fortune by marrying the richest husbands available to womankind, Elena, a young twenty-something, was trying to turn herself into a business success story.

  Svetlana and Elena’s backstory was a little more complicated than most mothers’ and daughters’.

  In her early twenties, the beautiful Svetlana had had an affair with a married politician back home in the Ukraine. The affair had resulted in the unwanted baby Elena. When Svetlana decided to seek a husband, and her fortune, in the biggest, shiniest cities of Europe, Elena had been taken to the countryside to live with relatives. Svetlana had let many years slide by, hoping she wouldn’t have to face up to her daughter again.

  But two years ago when a furiously determined Ukrainian beauty had turned up on Svetlana’s Mayfair doorstep, dressed in skimpy clothes and sporting a terrible hair-dye job, Svetlana had realized this was her past well and truly catching up with her.

  Although at first they’d wanted to rip the blonde tresses from each other’s heads, it was still amazing to Annie how well things had settled down. Though, much to her mother’s distress, Elena didn’t seem remotely interested in rich husbands and mega-divorce settlements. In fact, she’d gone to business school, then earlier this year she’d persuaded her mother to found a dress label. Now Perfect Dress had small offices in London and New York and was about to launch a second, fledging collection.

  ‘What I do? What I do?’ Svetlana was asking in a voice that sounded unusually frantic.

  ‘Maybe you need to go over and see her,’ Annie suggested.

  ‘Ah no, is terrible timing. Just terrible. I’m too busy with Perfect Dress in London. So many orders – so many clients to talk to, visit, keep interested – and now possibility of no dresses! I can’t go. Harry is too busy to look after everything when I am away and the boys … I can’t leave my boys for so long. You know how Igor still worries me.’

  Igor was Svetlana’s last and most significant ex-husband. He was the father of her two boys, who were currently (though a former Russian volleyball champion was working on this) the only heirs to Igor’s vast Russian gas fortune.

  Although Svetlana was now married to Harry Roscoff, a QC, a divorce expert and one of London’s best legal minds, there had been Igor trouble before. Igor had once tried to sneak his sons out of the country and, although Harry had stopped the plan in its tracks, it had shaken Svetlana to the core.

  She could hop to Paris or Milan at the drop of a hat for a business meeting or shopping weekend, but crossing the Atlantic and spending serious time away from her younger children just wasn’t an option.

  ‘Who do we know?’ Annie asked, thinking out loud: ‘who do we know who could go over and help? I take it Elena does need help? It’s not that she wants to sort this out on her own?’

  ‘Yes, of course! She need help!’ Svetlana insisted, ‘this biziniz partner take money. Un-paid the biggest sums and then exito! Elena in distressed. Big distressed. Not is knowing what’s to do.’

  Annie had known Svetlana long enough to recognize that when her English got all tangled up she was really quite upset.

  ‘Who do we know who could help?’ Annie asked again. She was looking down at her body in disgust. Control pants and minimizer bras only worked when you were standing up. As soon as you sat down, not one, but two uncomfortable rolls of flab bulged out, squeezed downwards by the bra and upwards by the pants. She’d have to get an all-in-one – but then where did the flab go? It had to burst out somewhere. Would she have monster shoulders and padded hips?

  ‘We know you!’ came the reply. ‘You are needs go New York. You, Annah. You need to help Elena.’ Taking a deep breath, Svetlana added, as calmly and as grammatically as she could: ‘I do not know one other person who could do this better.’

  ‘Huh?’

  For a moment, Annie was speechless.

  Then her thoughts began to gather. Of course it was lovely, wonderful to be asked. But Svetlana never seemed to understand, or maybe she never wanted to understand, that Annie had a life too. Annie had a TV career and a family and tiny children, and could not just drop everything to be at Svetlana’s beck and call.

  ‘I can’t go to New York …’ for so many reasons, Annie told herself, but the one she began with was: ‘I’m in the middle of filming.’

  ‘For how long?’ came the sharp question, ‘how many weeks this go on for?’

  ‘Another two months,’ Annie said, also a little sharply.

  Did everyone think that she just swanned about in front of the camera for a day or two then banked an enormous cheque? It wasn’t like that at all. She slaved when she was filming. She slaved for long, long days and she travelled all over the country to incredibly non-glamorous destinations. Yes, she had long breaks, but they were precious – they were for catching up on all the family time she’d had to miss when she was filming.

  ‘Annah, please, you cannot just take break and go out to help Elena? You know fashion. You great business lady. Remember the fashion show in Paris?’

  How could Annie forget?

  ‘We not have Perfect Dress without that show, Annah, and it was all because of you. Just for a few weeks … pleeeeeease?’ Annie didn’t think she’d ever heard Svetlana plead before.

  ‘New York, Annah. Think how exciting …’ Svetlana quickly moved into full-on persuasive charm mode. ‘She have apartment in wonderful area, just off Fifth Avenue. You can go and stay.’

  ‘No, Svetlana, I’m sorry,’ Annie said quickly, batting the images of skyscrapers, yellow cabs, avenues and cocktails right out of her mind, ‘I can’t go. I would love to go. You know I would do anything to help the two of you. But right now it isn’t an option. There’s a whole crew, a whole filming schedule. Plus, my family. I have babies! Everyone’s counting on me.’

  Svetlana gave a strangled shriek of frustration before blurting out: ‘But Annah, what are we going to do?’

  Chapter Two

  Melissa made-over:

  Red V-necked knit tunic (Asda)

  Pink frilled blouse (Mango)

  Cropped jeans (Mango)

  Purple funky Mary Janes (Camper)

  Messenger bag (Kipling)

  Total est. cost: £155

  ‘Haven’t a clue …’

  Annie arrived at the studio by car. Not just any old car, the studio car, complete with driver wearing black leather gloves and a shiny peaked cap.

  ‘Thank you, darlin’. Exciting day ahead for you, is it?’ she asked him as she and Lana gathered their bags together and prepared to get out.

  ‘Collecting James McAvoy from the airport next …’ the driver revealed with a wink.

  ‘Ooooh, is he coming here?’

  ‘Nah, news studio in town.’

  ‘Shame.’


  As Annie headed inside, there was a flurry of activity as people saw her coming. Receptionists fluttered about with signing-in forms and visitor passes. A girl with a clipboard offered to walk her to her room and carry her bags.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Annie assured her, smiling, ‘I’ve been carrying my own bags for some time now, I’m sure I can manage a little bit longer.’

  Lana, awkwardly trailing in the shadow of her mum, gave a quick wave before peeling off in the direction of the crew area while Annie headed to the VIP star suite.

  The door was decorated with a handwritten sign which read How Not To Shop, stuck on with bright blue gaffer tape. As soon as she pushed it open, Annie registered the crowded room and the busy hum of activity.

  ‘Hello my darlin’s, look busy, I’m here!’ she announced and all heads turned in her direction.

  There was Amelia, the producer’s PA, folders in hand, pencil tucked behind one ear, iPhone up against the other and something truly fashion-forward slipping from her shoulders.

  In the corner was Ginger, the make-up girl, various other production bods and—

  ‘Hi, you must be Melissa, lovely to meet you!’ Annie greeted the woman sitting in front of the glaringly bright mirror as Ginger applied foundation with a damp sponge.

  ‘Yes … hello …’ Melissa turned to Annie with a shy smile.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Annie asked, giving Melissa a friendly handshake. ‘Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Ginger is a genius. She can even make me look halfway presentable if I’m very, very nice to her, bribe her with free handbags and that kind of thing.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ Ginger smiled at Annie, ‘have you got something exciting for me?’

  ‘No, my darlin’ not one exciting parcel has arrived at How Not To Shop towers for weeks. And … Amelia? We’ve not heard anything about the one and only bag, have we?’

  Amelia shook her head sadly: ‘I did call again, yesterday, but I don’t want to pester …’

  ‘No, no, we definitely do not want to pester,’ Annie agreed.

  Despite talk of the ‘it bag’ being dead and buried, anyone who worked in, around, or even within smelling distance of fashion knew that there was only one bag to carry this season.

  It was chic and yet it was slouchy, it was structured, but casual, it came in many deep, subtle colours, including sea green with matt silver hardware. It was made by Mulberry. It was the bag Annie had to have. But the sea green was completely unavailable. Limited edition. Sold out before it had even made it to the shops!

  Both Annie and Amelia had made several calls to the head office to ask if there wasn’t just one last bag somewhere which could be bought for Annie Valentine, you know, of How Not To Shop.

  Annie still had a slightly odd feeling when she remembered how insistent the PR had been about the impossibility of sourcing a bag for her. Wasn’t she cool enough? she’d wondered.

  ‘It’s not as if I want it for free …’ she’d tried to make clear.

  ‘No, we are absolutely sold out. Half of the waiting list has been left disappointed.’

  ‘Couldn’t you maybe make some more?’ Annie had dared to suggest.

  ‘That would just ruin the concept of limited edition!’

  ‘Maybe you should think about making your next edition slightly less limited, then.’

  Annie let out a sigh and told Amelia, ‘It wouldn’t happen to Alexa Chung, would it? They even named one of their bags after her. And who’s the other really cool English girl in New York? You know the one who writes that column for Vanity Fair?’

  ‘Emily Wilmington,’ a little chorus replied.

  ‘Yeah, it wouldn’t happen to the lovely Emily Wilmington. Every time she leaves her beautiful Manhattan apartment, she’s probably tripping over all the freebie goodies designers want her to wear,’ Annie said, trying not to sound too resentful.

  ‘Wasn’t there a bag named after you?’ Amelia recalled with a mischievous grin on her face.

  Ah, the Annie V bag: that patent pink plastic disaster of the summer.

  ‘Let’s draw a veil, my love, let’s draw a veil,’ Annie said, not wanting to relive that memory.

  ‘Now, Melissa, while Ginger makes a gorgeous job of your beautiful skin and oooooh green eyes, I am ever so jealous … tell me all about yourself. Why did you want to hand yourself over to the How Not To Shop team?’

  ‘I love your show,’ Melissa gushed, looking a teeny bit star-struck.

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘And I’ve been ill and my husband had to give up his job to look after me …’

  ‘Oh you poor thing,’ Annie sympathized and reached over to squeeze Melissa’s hand.

  ‘So there’s been no money or fun in our house for ages. But I’m much better now and he’s just had news about a new job …’

  ‘Fantastic!’

  ‘ … so I thought I’d celebrate by getting some new clothes and cheering myself up. But it’s been so long, I’ve looked out there in the shops and …’

  ‘You’re lost,’ Annie chipped in.

  ‘Totally! Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘I know darlin’ – it’s all leggin’s and stonewashed jeggin’s and tunics, I mean – NEON!?! It’s just about enough to make anyone over the age of nineteen scream!’

  ‘There.’ Ginger applied a final pat of powder to Melissa’s nose.

  ‘Can we just tousle her hair a little, make it a bit softer? Maybe use the tongs?’ Annie asked, looking at Melissa’s reflection.

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ Ginger replied.

  Once the tonging and tousling was done, Melissa looked herself over carefully in the mirror. She was trying to control the wide-eyed look of surprise from breaking out all over her face.

  ‘Delicious,’ Annie said. ‘I hope you were watching her every step so you can copy all of this when you get back home.’

  ‘Yes!’ Melissa smiled.

  ‘You better, she’s make-up girl of the moment and one lesson with her would cost you over £300.’

  ‘You’re next,’ Ginger instructed Annie. ‘Sit down, gown up, phone off,’ she said sternly, ‘I’m not trying to apply the signature red Annie lips while you chitter-chatter on the mobile.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Annie gave a little salute, ‘but let me just show Melissa the clothes we’ve brought in for her before you get started.’

  Although Ginger gave a sigh, she nodded agreement.

  ‘Come over here,’ Annie instructed Melissa: ‘this entire rack is just for you. We had your measurements, so we went out and scoured for the gorgeous new you.’

  For a moment or two, Melissa just stood and looked at the rack as she was faced with a riot of fabric and colour.

  ‘Go on, pull things out, hold them up, take a look – dive in!’ Annie encouraged.

  Melissa’s hand went straight to a chiffon blouse sleeve in a vibrant red and pink print.

  ‘Lovely,’ Annie said, ‘you can try that on first.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Melissa said immediately, ‘I love the way it looks, but I wouldn’t wear it.’

  ‘Why not? If you love the way it looks, you should wear it, or at least try it!’

  ‘No, no … too …’

  ‘Stop! Shhhh! Whatever you’re about to say, I’ve heard it before and I’m not listening. Too young, too bright, too feminine, too this, too that. Try it on! You might be surprised. This is the new you: healthy, cheerful, well Melissa. Recovery girl. Ready to go on out there again and be part of the world.’

  Although this was delivered in Annie’s most upbeat and encouraging voice, it seemed to make Melissa fold in on herself, and suddenly she looked upset.

  ‘I know,’ Annie said, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing hard, ‘I know. It’s a big step. A big change. Whenever people come to see me, I know it’s a critical moment. They come before the big job interview, or after the divorce, or post-baby. They don’t quite know who this new person inside is and they certainly don’t know how to dre
ss her.

  ‘So they come to me for a few clues. Yeah, I might know about fashion and which figure looks best in what shape but deep down, I think you know what you really want and it’s up to us to work it out together. So I know you want this blouse,’ Annie said, and pulled it from the rack.

  ‘We’ll tone it down at first, have just the sleeves and the collar poking out from underneath this delicious soft red jumper.’ She pulled a short-sleeved, V-necked knit tunic from the rack. ‘You’ve got great legs, I’ve noticed,’ she added, pulling tight cropped jeans from the rack, ‘so now it’s just shoes. Look down there at my selection … which ones make your heart beat faster?’

  Encouraged, Melissa’s hand moved along the row of shoes. All sorts of shapes and colours. All in her size! As her hand hovered over the violet Mary Janes, Annie said: ‘Stop! I think those will be perfect!’

  ‘I put on two stones being ill—’

  ‘Shhhh!’ Annie interrupted. ‘I put on two stones having twins. We’ll get there. We’ll get it off. Slowly but surely. We’ll get there.’

  ‘No, but … what I was going to say was that I don’t mind. Before, I’d have minded a lot. But now, I’m just so happy that I’m well again, that everything’s working OK. That’s why I want to dress nicely. Dress what I have. Just the way I am.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Annie agreed, feeling more than a hint of guilt. Wasn’t that always what she was telling people to do? Dress the body they were in. Not the one they’d once had or hoped one day to have. Dress for the here and now.

  As Amelia led Melissa away to try on her first outfit, Ginger ushered Annie into the make-up chair.

  ‘Go on then,’ Annie told her with a grin, ‘see if you can make me ten years younger.’

  ‘Easy,’ Ginger said with a wink and zoomed in on Annie’s eyebags with a corrector pen.

  When the generous layer of matte, studio-lights-friendly warpaint had been applied, Annie smiled at herself in the mirror.

  ‘Nice job,’ she told Ginger.

  There was a tap at the door and head cameraman, Bob, stuck his head round: ‘Hey Annie, are we almost ready for act one, scene one?’ he asked.