by Carmen Reid
Elena felt at sea. Did she mean breaking up with Sye? Did she mean the dresses? What woes? Elena was not here to talk about her woes.
Because Elena hesitated, Mrs Westhoven went on: ‘You’ve obviously had big production problems. You’ve had to change the fabric completely, you’ve had to change your factory, you’ve even messed around with delivery dates.’
Before Elena could open her mouth to defend herself, Mrs Westhoven was tapping at her computer. She called up a spreadsheet and turned it towards Elena so that she could take a look too.
‘The last dresses we bought from you sold … reasonably. Not so amazingly well that I’m desperate to buy them in again, especially if they’re not going to be as well made as the first run. We’ve other lines that are doing better. So try not to take it too personally, but I think Bloomingdale’s can live without the “Perfect Dress”.’
She made little quote marks with her fingers in the air as she said Perfect Dress.
‘There have been some small problems,’ Elena said, finally finding her voice and taking extra care with her English ‘but this has only led us to create a much, much better product.’
‘Oh. Really?’ Mrs Westhoven sounded entirely unconvinced.
‘I’ve brought one of the new dresses with me, I’m sure you’d like to see it.’
‘Well … OK then.’
Elena leaned over to unzip her briefcase and realized that her hands were shaking slightly. Nevertheless, she took out the dress and stood up so she could spread it out over Mrs Westhoven’s desk.
As she smoothed out the magenta jersey creation, she felt a rush of pride in it. It was beautifully cut, beautifully made, and it was a really clever idea. She pointed to the satin-covered buttons and the gorgeous ribbon tie sleeves. She couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t want such a useful Autumn/Winter dress as this. Who wouldn’t look better, more pulled together, wearing this?
Mrs Westhoven put on a pair of swanky, bejewelled reading glasses and bent over the dress. She picked up a sleeve and inspected it closely, running the fabric between her fingers.
‘Sweatshirt material? With Lycra or without?’
‘Stretch jersey with Lycra.’
‘This is nothing special, you could pick it up in any warehouse anywhere in the city.’
Or any skip, Elena thought.
‘No, but we make a special dress out of ordinary fabric. This is our selling point. It is a dressed up, pulled together casual dress. You could wear this with diamonds and heels to look very bohemian at a party. But it is also wonderful with boots and a jacket, looking very, very casual.’
Mrs Westhoven didn’t even pause to consider. ‘No, I don’t think this is what a Bloomingdale’s customer is looking for. I think this dress is tonally confused. It’s not one thing or the other. It’s all wrong, Elena. Not for us.’
Mrs Westhoven was definitely not ‘tonally confused’. The way Mrs Westhoven said this, it sounded final.
Elena decided not to argue. She wanted to fold up the dress and get out just as quickly as she possibly could. Yes, it was an order of ninety dresses – their biggest single order – but somehow she would just sell those ninety dresses to someone else. She would certainly not humiliate herself pleading with Mrs Westhoven.
As she packed the dress back into her briefcase, Elena met Mrs Westhoven’s piercing eyes. ‘Is this because I’m not with Sye any more?’ she asked, surprising herself. The question just bubbled up out of nowhere.
‘No. I’m delighted that you’re not with Sye any more,’ Mrs Westhoven replied coolly, taking off her glasses and setting them down on her desk. ‘When I heard your story … well, I just knew it was going to lead to trouble: the poor girl from the Ukraine moving to America for love. I thought you’d be engaged for a permanent visa within months, and it would all end in divorce before anyone could say “starter marriage”. No, I don’t need any of that and neither does Sye. I told him to get rid of you and I’m delighted he has done so.’
Elena was so stung, she didn’t know which slight to argue first.
She zipped up her briefcase, hands trembling with rage. ‘I’m very sorry you are missing out on our dresses, Mrs Westhoven. I think you’re wrong, I think they are going to be the must-have item this season. The number one go-to piece.’
Elena tried to leave it there. But then, she found she couldn’t.
‘I am not a poor girl from the Ukraine, I have an engineering degree and a Business Master’s. My mother and business partner is very … a very wealthy woman. I have no need of marrying Sye, not even for a visa.’
Elena stretched herself to her full height, displaying her lean, athletic body to best advantage. With the most condescending face she could pull, she added, ‘And Sye did not finish with me, he still trying to call me ten times a day. I finish with him. Thank you for your time to see me.’
She turned on her heel and swept out of the door, thudding it shut behind her.
In the corridor, Elena kept on walking very briskly, blinking back hot humiliated tears. Ninety dresses … how on earth was she going to find orders in a fortnight for ninety dresses?
When she was out in the street once again, Elena looked around and tried to get her bearings. There was the subway station. Good yes, she could get on a train and get back home, just as soon as she had calmed the huge, bubbling tension building up inside her.
She needed to be nice to herself. She needed to do something caring and generous for herself. She needed to buy something. Right now. As soon as possible.
She began racing down the sidewalk in search of a shop which could help. A drugstore wouldn’t do. Shampoo, even bottles and bottles of discounted shampoo, would not be enough. Elena needed clothing. Nice shiny new clothing, with the tags still on, double-wrapped in carrier bags, with all the shiny promise of newness, of exciting, good times ahead. She needed something lovely, a treat to make herself feel better.
But it had to be cheap, special offer, sale purchase. Only if she was sure she wasn’t paying full price could she be happy.
She soon came across a red poster in a window promising ‘Special purchase – this week only.’ Here were racks and racks hung with all the summer clothes the store was trying to offload at the tail end of September. Skimpy dresses, shorts, frilly T-shirts, everything that had hung out all summer long and not been chosen.
Expertly Elena began to flick through the rails looking for her size. There was a concentrated zeal to her pursuit. This had nothing to do with buying something nice or something needed: it was about buying to fulfil a hungry urge.
Flick, flick, flick … the multi-coloured halterneck tops were rejected; then she moved on to silky, tie-dyed T-shirts. She liked these, liked them enough to buy them anyway. She picked out a pink one and a turquoise blue.
Then she moved on to skirts. The simple linen skirts were nice. She would take the white one and maybe the blue too. To go with the T-shirt. All her size, all looked about right.
Elena didn’t feel satisfied yet. She looked around the shop desperately, grasping the T-shirts and skirts tightly by their hangers. Over here were scarves, necklaces and shiny handbags. Like a magpie, she assessed and then swooped. One pink and white checked cotton scarf; two ropes of pastel glass beads and a shimmery pink clutch bag.
Now that Elena had a hold of all these items, the panic subsided a little. She gathered up her hoard and went to the till, where the cashier smiled at her pleasantly. ‘Hi there and how are you today? We have a fitting room if you’d like to try these on?’
‘No, no, is fine. I’m in a hurry and I need them for …’
Elena paused.
In her hand was her credit card all ready to hand over. All ready to add a few more hundred dollars to the vast, out of control landslide of debt she’d already built up.
Plus, she couldn’t finish her sentence. What exactly did she need these things for? Not to wear. She would never wear them. She would never even take them out of the shopping bag. She
would just put them into a corner of her clean and tidied, calmly ordered bedroom and begin to build up her mountain of unwanted items all over again.
‘I’m sorry,’ Elena blushed and retreated from the till, ‘I think I make mistake, I come back later.’
‘Sure, no problem, would you like me to put these to the side for you? We can hold for twenty-four hours,’ came the friendly response.
‘No, is fine … is fine, thank you,’ Elena said as she backed towards the door.
Out on the sidewalk again, blinking against the sunshine, Elena felt shaky, still panicky, but there was a tiny glow of accomplishment building up inside her. This had been a very difficult afternoon, but somehow she’d managed to back away from her usual stress relief.
The store just a few doors down from the clothes place was a small chocolatier’s. Elena stepped inside and stood in the air-conditioned coolness inhaling the rich aroma and trying to calm herself.
Personally, she had no interest in chocolate. She’d never been given chocolate when she was a child so it had none of the comforting associations that it seemed to have for so many women.
But she wanted to buy something small. A present. She wanted to simultaneously scratch the buying itch and do something generous for the woman who had helped her understand it a little bit better.
With cash, not credit, Elena went to the counter and picked out a bespoke selection of chocolates and candies, had them wrapped in a pink box and tied with a an exuberant flourish of pink and white ribbon.
Once it was in the shiny plastic bag and Elena had it in her hands, she felt her panic subside, just as easily as if she’d just splashed out $300 on discount summer clothes. This was good. This was definitely progress.
She beamed at the cashier as she left, stepped out of the store, and walked right into Sye.
‘Elena …’ he began, but then he just held open his arms and wrapped them around her as she fell against him.
‘Sye!’ she exclaimed, ‘Sye.’
For several moments, they just remained tightly entwined, feeling each other’s hearts thud terrifyingly fast and loud.
Then Elena felt his hand stroke the back of her neck and she was suddenly crying against his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. Whatever thoughts she might have had about trying to end this relationship had vanished as soon as she’d set eyes on him.
‘I don’t think Mom will change her mind, even if you are very nice to me,’ he said gently.
‘No,’ Elena said against his shoulder.
‘She told me you were coming to see her, so I rushed over as fast as I could. I had to see you and … well, you haven’t been easy to see lately.’
‘No,’ she said again, wanting the tears to stop, but they came thick and fast, creating a stain on his shirt.
He still held her tightly.
‘Have you followed me from Bloomingdale’s?’ Elena asked, lifting her head and scanning his face anxiously.
Sye smiled and nodded.
‘So … did you see me in the clothes store?’ she asked, wondering why he was still holding her and not speed-dialling a psychiatrist.
Sye nodded again.
‘I had a crazy moment.’
‘No … you had a sane moment,’ he told her. ‘You didn’t buy another double shopping bag with a double knot on top.’
She searched his eyes. He was smiling, but he also looked concerned, sympathetic.
‘Did you know?’
‘About the compulsive shopping bag thing? Elena, anyone who’s been in your bedroom knows.’
She rested her head against his shoulder and had the most wonderful feeling that from now on, everything had a very real chance of turning out OK.
Sye kissed her on the forehead then told her: ‘You’re worth full price, baby. Try to remember that.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Connor in town:
Tight black T-shirt (Diesel)
Purple chinos (Jermyn Street)
Black ballet pumps (Freed)
Black messenger bag (Mulberry)
Total est. cost: $570
‘Time for another cocktail.’
‘Flatiron-slash-Union Square is like the best neighbourhood. Seriously …’
Connor’s New Best Friend Freddie, cocktail in hand, was holding forth.
Connor had only stepped off the plane a few hours ago, but already he was hunkered down in the bar of the nanosecond, surrounded by beautiful people, looking utterly at home.
Was Freddie’s hair real, or fake? Real? Fake? Annie wondered. It was hard to tell. Especially after a second martini. He was light black – were you allowed to say light black? But his hair was bleach blond, very straight and either made of plastic or totally covered in some heavy-duty hair product.
Still, real or fake hair aside, this was Annie, out in another achingly cool New York bar. Again. At home, she hadn’t had a night out in months. Here it was routine. You ate out, you went out, you didn’t even make breakfast at home, and she had the great gaping hole in her bank account to prove it.
‘My famous NBF lives round there,’ Freddie added.
‘So who’s that?’ Connor asked.
‘Emily Wilmington.’
‘Emily Wilmington?’ Annie repeated ‘No way.’
‘Yes way. Waaaaay yes.’
‘I’ve seen her. She lives on Elena’s street,’ Lana chipped in. ‘That’s where we’re staying.’
‘Are you on 16th? Get outta here.’
‘Do you know Emily Wilmington?’ Annie asked.
‘Of course I know her, she’s my NBF.’
‘Would you give her one of our dresses?’
‘Mum!! That’s a brilliant idea!’ Lana exclaimed.
‘Well … yeah … if I like your dress enough, then I will pass it on to her. She gets a lot of stuff and, believe me, most of it is …’ Freddie pulled a face, ‘sooooo tacky.’
‘Our dresses are definitely not tacky,’ Lana said sternly.
‘Lana …’ Annie turned to her daughter, ‘has Elena told you? She wants to have a fashion show, so that all our potential customers can see just how amazing the new dresses are.’
‘A fashion show? Genius!’ Lana agreed.
‘A fashion show?’ Freddie clapped his hands gleefully. ‘Waaaaaay exciting. I know this hotel. Soooo cool. My friend’s the manager, I’m sure we could do a deal.’
‘Will you invite Emily to our fashion show?’ Lana asked quickly.
‘I will ask her but her schedule …’ Freddie rolled his eyes, ‘impossible!’
Annie couldn’t help smiling at Connor’s NBF, Freddie, who was also Emily’s NBF. It was a complex web of relationships.
‘Having a lovely time, Annie?’ Connor asked, moving his arm around her, ‘or missing home?’
‘You know, sort of both. If I don’t think about home, I am having the best time ever. But as soon as I stop for a moment to think about the babies, I miss them very much.’
‘Time for another cocktail.’
‘Maybe. What do you think of Lana, by the way?’ Annie asked in a whisper. ‘Don’t you think she’s turning out so beautiful?’
Connor turned and took a long appraising look at Annie’s daughter, who was currently deep in conversation with personal trainer Gawain. In true personal trainer mode, Gawain was drinking a grassy green pure vegetable and wheatgrass concoction.
‘Roddy’s looks and your brains,’ Connor said cheekily, ‘a totally winning combination. She is going to go very far.’
Annie smacked his arm: ‘Roddy’s looks? Don’t I have any looks left?’
‘Nah, not really. You’re a saggy mum now. That is your USR.’
When Connor saw how much this made Annie’s face fall, he promptly called Gawain over.
Gawain, the buffest, trimmest man Annie had ever set eyes upon, positively skipped across to sit beside them. He was so dainty and light on his feet, Annie was convinced that he must once have been a ballet dancer. H
is muscles were firm and tight but tiny in the way she’d seen on the occasional dancer body she’d helped to dress in her days at The Store.
‘Hi there, I’m Gawain, professional body re-sculptor, proprietor of Train with Gawain, trademark,’ he said and held out his hand for her to shake.
She took his hand and shook it, although he’d done this only thirty minutes or so before when he’d come in and met her the first time. Maybe it was a self-promotion thing. He aimed to tell you his name and his profession so often that you always remembered him.
‘Gawain, my darling,’ Connor began, ‘Annie and I were talking about her physique. She’s on television in Britain, you know.’
Annie could have done with slightly less of the appalled surprise in Gawain’s, ‘Really?’
‘Yes and, just like me, she could do with a little shape-up, don’t you think?’
‘Stand up,’ Gawain instructed Annie.
Annie really did not want to stand up in some hipper-than-hot Manhattan bar and be professionally appraised by a body re-sculptor. But Connor prodded her and she got to her feet.
Now everyone at the two tables they’d occupied was looking at her.
‘Yeah … I’m getting it,’ Gawain said, ‘and turn.’
Annie shuffled round in the tight space, trying to ensure that her well-padded derrière didn’t deal a death blow to any of the astronomically expensive cocktails.
Gawain leaned over and prodded a surprisingly sharp index finger into her lower buttock. When she wheeled about in surprise, the finger went into the rounded bulge of flab around her tummy.
‘I’m checking out the muscle structure,’ he told her.
Muscle structure? Well in that case, she really didn’t think he would find what he was looking for.
‘Have you ever been in shape?’
Annie, still standing, not sure if she was allowed to sit down again or not, considered this question. She’d spent a lot of her adult life running after small children, running up and down stairs and walking very fast along London pavements in high heels. All this activity had kept her relatively slim in the past. But since the arrival of the twins, there had been much less walking, much more snacking, and the weight/food/activity equilibrium had been shot to bits.
