Playing Her Cards Right

by Rosa Temple

  Since moving in with Anthony, I noticed how incredibly moody he became when he started a new project. It wasn’t until his piece was well under way and he had a clear visualization of his subject that he became my Anthony again. If I spoke to him while he was working on a new idea he just grunted at me. But always, once he’d stepped out of the confines of his studio, Anthony was the relaxed, easy-going man I’d fallen in love with and who was openly affectionate and kind.

  Anthony’s dark hair was touching his shoulders now but it looked unkempt and was definitely unwashed. It was scooped up in one of my scrunchies to keep it out of his eyes and from the doorway I could see the gorgeous dip at the back of his strong neck. I was dying to kiss it but as he was barely grunting over his shoulder at me I returned to the kitchen to finish dinner. I could always seduce him later.

  The sauce was simmering away nicely so I thought I’d pop upstairs and start some packing for the trip. I took my suitcase down off the rickety wardrobe in the bedroom and opened it up on the bed. It was dark outside, a chilly November evening, and I was looking forward to snuggling up with Anthony on the sofa later when he was out of the studio.

  Anthony had taken up an artist residency at Slater Gallery in Piccadilly. It was a one-year residency and he was part way through it. He should have been doing all his artwork at the gallery but he insisted on completing a series of paintings at home, which meant he was draining himself creatively and being a bit of a grouch with it.

  As artist in residence at Slater’s, Anthony would have to have an exhibition ready at the end of the one-year period. It would consist of everything he’d completed while at the gallery. Anthony wanted to include some additional material he’d been working on in his home studio, causing himself extra pressure, I thought. He was also expected to collaborate with the local sixth form college, giving occasional workshops to A-level Art students. Anthony wasn’t too happy about the workshops. He was fundamentally shy and would probably stand in front of the students with sanguine cheeks while he lectured. I was pretty sure the girls would fall in love with him, though.

  I opened the cabinet in the bathroom. What would I need to pack? I stared at the unopened box of tampons, which surely I should have started using since I bought them. I calculated the days in my head as I threw the packet into my toiletry bag. I got out my phone and looked at the calendar. It confirmed that time had flown by without me noticing not having had a period. It was probably due to the stress.

  I’d spent several days up a ladder having painted three of the kitchen walls. I’d also bought a sketch pad and pencils and had been losing sleep over whether my wedding dress design was really any good. Not to mention the hours in bed spent on Amazon, trying to work out which sewing machine to buy. Knowing me I’d probably come on slap bang in the middle of one of the meetings in Paris.

  I was looking forward to Paris but secretly wishing I could combine the trip with a romantic getaway for me and Anthony. It was too perfect that I was going to be in the city of love for two days and not take advantage of it. But when I put the idea to Anthony he’d said no. He had his painting.

  ‘You’ll have meetings, anyway,’ he’d said. ‘But my residency finishes in spring. How about a week away then?’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ I’d said dreamy-eyed.

  I’d keep the trip all business and I’d have a lovely romantic trip to look forward to with Anthony.

  ‘I turned off the sauce.’ Anthony was in the doorway of our bedroom. ‘It was bubbling over.’

  ‘Shall I put on the pasta?’ I looked up at him as I closed the phone.

  ‘Not yet.’ Anthony pulled my case off the bed, laying it on the floor. He took the scrunchie from his hair, wavy locks curtaining the sides of his face. He gave me a cheeky grin before slipping his T-shirt off over his head and tossing it to one side, and then pulling me onto him on the bed.

  ‘Glad to see you’ve stopped growling at me for five minutes,’ I said.

  ‘Five minutes? I think I can do better than that.’

  I was going to miss Anthony for the next few days but I’d told myself that a Paris with Anthony in it would be a fabulous thing to look forward to.

  When I saw the rain pouring down as we landed at Orly airport, and how grey and miserable the sky was, I was happy the trip was solely for business. The flight had been slightly delayed and I’d sat next to someone who kept slapping his lips every time he sipped coffee, which seemed to be non-stop. Of course, my case was the last one off the conveyor when I was desperate to get to my hotel and relax for the evening.

  Finally, coming out of customs, I shrugged, heaped my man bag up onto my shoulder, and searched the last few people waiting at arrivals for my driver.

  I saw my name written on a small piece of card and looked up at the face of the person holding it. It was a woman in her thirties with shiny, chestnut-coloured hair and liquid liner ticks at the sides of her eyes.

  ‘I’m Magenta Bright,’ I said, smiling.

  She didn’t smile back. ‘And so we go,’ she said and marched towards the exit.

  Hopping along after her and trying to lug my suitcase higher to stop it banging on my knees, I exited the airport. I followed my driver’s military march to the short-stay car park.

  ‘Boot?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You are sorry? Sorry for what?’ she replied.

  ‘I mean, I’m sorry. What did you say?’

  She patted the boot of the car. The expression on her face told me I was acting like an absolute imbecile.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘Suitcase in the boot. Got you. Yes, please.’

  She clicked the remote central locking on the key fob, grabbed my case from me, and dumped it into the boot of the car before stomping quickly round to the driver’s side. She bobbed her head at the rear door and I obediently jumped in.

  I heard skidding, the beep of a car horn beside our car, and then my ears went blocked. My driver had zoomed off, going from zero to eighty miles per hour at warp speed, screeching to a halt at the exit barrier and then racing out of the car park onto a roundabout. I was pinned to the back seat. The landscape surrounding Orly airport went by in a flash. Parisian suburbia crashed past the window in a blur, my cheeks flapping with the sheer velocity, and I wished I had a religion. Only prayer could stop us crashing. We hurtled towards the southern Arrondissements of Paris. I began to pray to every god I knew to deliver me to heaven if I didn’t make it out of the car alive.

  I couldn’t really be sure how quickly we got to the hotel. I’d closed my eyes and had tried to block everything out. All I knew was that my driver hit the brakes and I was flung forward into the back of the seat in front of me and thrown back again so that my neck whipped half off my neck with a crack. I nodded several times, involuntarily, before my head rocked back into place. I rubbed the back of my neck, picking my man bag up off the floor.

  ‘Boot,’ she declared and leapt out.

  This time she opened the door for me to get out. I tried to catch her eye as I tentatively stepped onto the forecourt outside my hotel, hoping I could at least give her a dirty look. As I tried to straighten my coat and adjust my bag over my shoulder I noticed she was smiling as she got out my suitcase. Well her teeth were showing – she could have been in pain.

  ‘Enjoy your hotel,’ she said. She held up my suitcase. I took it and she dropped the weight of it into my hand so that I toppled forward.

  ‘Er,’ I stuttered. ‘You’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning?’ I had a breakfast meeting with my first designer.

  ‘For sure,’ she said.

  In my heart of hearts I wished she’d said: There’s been a big mistake and I should have picked up the other Magenta Bright. Your proper driver will be here in the morning. But no, this Lewis Hamilton wannabe would be there the next day.

  I limped to the reception and checked in. I called Riley, hoping she’d still be at the office. Ma
ybe she could arrange a new driver in time.

  ‘Oh, hey, Riley,’ I said.

  ‘Magenta, hi, how’s your hotel?’

  ‘All good but I was wondering if you could sort a new driver for me.’

  ‘Is he no good?’

  ‘She. She seems like a lovely person but she must have broken every speed limit from the airport to the hotel. I’m seriously frightened for my life. Could you sort it out?’

  ‘Of course I will. Leave it to me.’

  My fingers were crossed; in fact everything was crossed when I went to bed that night, hoping Riley could be relied on to put this right. I didn’t sleep a wink.

  Chapter 6

  The Bag

  I showered in tepid water to try to revive myself for the impending meeting with my first women’s handbag designer. I hoped Riley had come good on the chauffeur swap and had found me someone less Sandra Bullock in Speed and a bit more Driving Miss Daisy. But my heart sank as I left the hotel and spotted the same driver from yesterday. Her eyes were bright and she looked eager. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I mean bonjour.’

  She showed her teeth and reached for the passenger door. ‘Bonjour. Allons-y?’

  ‘Um, yes. Let’s get going.’ I hadn’t climbed in yet. ‘I didn’t get your name yesterday,’ I said to her, offering my hand. She looked surprised but gave my hand a tightly gripped shake.

  ‘Nadia,’ she said.

  ‘I wonder, Nadia, if you could drive a little slower this morning. I’m nice and early and I don’t think we’re too far from my meeting.’

  ‘Slower?’ Nadia’s brow was twisted into several deep lines. I could tell this didn’t compute.

  ‘Yes, don’t drive too fast. I’m a bit of a nervous passenger so go slower.’ I made a gesture with my hands, moving my palms slowly up and down towards the ground.

  ‘Drive too fast?’ she said. ‘I will.’

  ‘No, I mean don’t drive fast.’ I shook my head side to side. ‘No fast. Slow.’ I hated it when Brits spoke like Tarzan to foreigners but my life was at risk and I wanted to see my family again.

  ‘So,’ said Nadia, ‘my instruction from the boss was drive very fast; the client like the speed to be quickly, non?’

  ‘Non!’ I shook my head. And then the penny dropped. Riley. She told me she spoke fluent French. What on earth had she told the chauffeur company I needed from a driver when my instructions were I needed to be timely? I dreaded to think.

  I grasped at what little French I could muster to try to make Nadia understand that I didn’t need to be anywhere at breakneck speed and that being on time was good enough.

  ‘Non, rapidement, aujourd’hui. Ce matin, conduire lentement, s’il vous plait.’ That small amount of French really hurt my head. At sixteen, I’d spent most of my French conversation classes in the toilet smoking Gauloises. Now my biggest regret.

  Nadia lifted her head in a slow nod, clenching her lips together, and I hoped she understood that I wanted her to slow down. To be on the safe side, when I got into the car I buckled up tight.

  Down the curved drive in front of the hotel Nadia pushed as gently onto the accelerator as I imagined she knew how. She signalled – I hadn’t noticed her use any other controls in the car except gas and brakes before then – and we pulled out onto the fairly busy road. At a speed at which I was able to lip-read full conversations by passing pedestrians, Nadia poodled along the road for approximately five minutes and gently stopped at a restaurant bar just metres from the hotel.

  ‘Here is your meeting,’ she said in a drawn-out voice.

  I looked out, quizzically. According to Google Earth, my breakfast meeting should have been further away. I checked the address on the schedule on my iPad. Nadia was quite right, Bar Bonne Amie. I could just as well have walked. Having completely lost faith in French chauffeurs and my ability to read Google maps, I gathered my man bag and got out.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to Nadia. I leaned over and peered into the passenger side window. Nadia lowered it. ‘As my next appointment isn’t until this afternoon, I’ll meet you back at the hotel at three o’clock.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. Then she drove off like a normal person, observing the speed limit and making appropriate signals. I shook my head.

  After adjusting the front of my coat I pushed open the door to Bar Bonne Amie and went in.

  My appointment that morning was with Clara Marchand, a young designer of leather accessories whose workspace was not too far from the café bar but who obviously wanted to charm me with the food and win me over. She chose the right place. The aromas coming from the kitchen were making my mouth water. So much so I was looking at the counter of pastries and chocolates and, at first, didn’t notice Clara waving to me from the far corner.

  ‘Magenta?’ she called and I peeled my gaze away from the display counter.

  ‘Oh, hello! Yes. You must be Clara Marchand.’

  Clara was a short woman in large dungarees over a red sweater. Her fair hair was mostly hidden by a bandanna, tied in a triangle on her head and knotted at the front. We shook hands and she walked me to a window seat in the corner. On top of the small round table was a large, leather-bound portfolio. An enormous cardboard box was tucked underneath.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Clara, ‘I’ve ordered coffee, hot chocolate, and a platter of croissant and bread with butter and preserves. I didn’t know which you would prefer.’ She nodded to the waitress at the counter.

  ‘I really don’t mind that at all.’

  As we settled in and exchanged pleasantries about the flight and the weather the waitress appeared with two carafes: one of coffee and one of hot chocolate. Which to choose? Very closely behind the drinks came the platter. I was in continental breakfast heaven for the next hour or so. Clara didn’t hold back. She grabbed the pain au raisin I had my eye on. With crumbs down our clothes and the chocolate moustache Clara had acquired after her first sip of the creamy drink, we began the meeting.

  Clara opened out her portfolio and I was stunned into silence. These designs were better than the ones I’d seen on her website. She’d enticed me with some designs in an email but must have kept the main event for the meeting. Her designs of women’s handbags, shoulder bags, purses, and more were enough to convince me that this was a woman I could work with. Between the pages of her leather-bound portfolio was the promise of designs that would suit the Shearman brand very nicely.

  A platter of croissant crumbs later and so much caffeine I was seeing double, I had more or less asked Clara to sign on the dotted line. I welcomed her as a new designer to Shearman.

  ‘I’m so excited about these, Clara. Your drawings are incredible.’ I flicked through the pages again. ‘I’m thinking I ought to do something more significant than just having an announcement about the new women’s bags,’ I enthused. ‘I’m thinking rebrand or something really exciting like that. A relaunch. Something big. I’d have to speak to my marketing consultants first, though. I’ll do that as soon as I’m back.’

  ‘Thank you, Magenta. You don’t know how happy I am to have my designs under your label,’ said Clara. ‘I wasn’t going to say this but you’re my idol. I’ve read every interview you’ve ever done and I can’t wait to start working with you.’

  ‘Me too, Clara. I’ll have my solicitor draw up a contract. Maybe for a period of six months to start? I’ll have to look closer at the work involved and decide on an appropriate number of designs that I’d need from you over that length of time. I don’t want to tie you to an overly long contract, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Right now I’d sign my life away.’ Clara had a beautiful smile. It lit up her already playful face and I couldn’t wait to start planning a Shearman rebranding party.

  From beneath the table Clara drew out the cardboard box.

  ‘I was so carried away I forgot about the samples,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to have so
mething to take home with you. I had prototypes made up but they’re not the best quality leather. Money and time, you know? Anyway these are for you.’

  She took out six designer bags one by one and laid them either on the table or over my shoulder.

  When I got up to pay for breakfast I got confused about which bag I came with. I fumbled around in my Shearman man bag to find my wallet. The wallet was well hidden in the vast pocket of the man bag among all my junk and I wished it was more easily accessible because the girl on the till was becoming impatient. Eventually I found my wallet and paid the bill.

  ‘Thank you, again,’ Clara said.

  ‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m back,’ I told her.

  She gave me a kiss on each cheek and a customary extra one before I left.

  With a satisfying meeting under my belt and just two more to go, I headed off to satisfy a niggling feeling I’d had since packing the day before. While rummaging in my bag at the café I’d noticed, again, the unopened box of tampons.

  I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time before the next meeting to find a pharmacy, buy a pregnancy test (no biggie since I was sure it would be negative), then jump on the Metro, have a quick walk around the city centre, take in some sights, pick up a souvenir for Riley, and be back at the hotel for Nadia to pick me up at three. Perfect.

  I walked for a few minutes following the signs for the nearest station. Just before the Metro I spotted the green cross over the door of a Pharmacie.

  After a good search in a somewhat cluttered store I found a shelf of pregnancy kits. I thought I’d take the test at the hotel after my next meeting. Once I could satisfy myself I wasn’t pregnant I could then relax and have a period. I hadn’t worried Anthony with any of this; I didn’t see the point. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a baby with Anthony one day, but this wasn’t the time.

  The man behind the counter rang up the price. I was flustered as I reached into my man bag because I’d asked him several times, in English, how much it cost and he didn’t understand. As I rummaged for my credit card one of the bags Clara had given to me dropped on the floor. I went to pick it up and another fell off my shoulder. This happened a few more times as if I was in a Seventies’ comedy sketch.