by Carmen Reid
There was only a scattering of hands left now.
‘OK … only keep your hands up if you’re not wearing heels.’
A pause. The audience looked around and began to clap: only one hand was left in the air.
‘And we have our winner! Come on down!’
As the audience clapped and whooped, the winner stood up, picked her way through the crowd, heading towards the stage. Blushing frantically, she was hooked up with a microphone.
Several minutes later, Nancy from the audience was standing right beside Annie, panting with nerves and looking as if she might cry.
Annie immediately put a calming hand on her arm: ‘Well done, you’re going to be fantastic … deep breaths, inner calm,’ she whispered, away from her mic.
As Nancy answered a handful of questions about herself, Annie sized her up and tried to think through the items on the designer rail. Nancy was obviously not a fashionista; in fact, some might even describe her as a little frumpy, but she was not the worst case Annie had seen. Not that Annie ever really thought of anyone she helped as a case. To her they were all clients in need of personal attention and helpful coaxing.
Nancy was somewhat solid looking with a terrible frizzy blonde bleach job and a tendency to blush deepest red. But Annie was looking for the good points: delicate skin, a chiselled nose and rosebud mouth, plus the kind of muscular behind that Beyoncé would be proud to shake, and eyes intriguingly between blue and green.
Lots of cooling colours, Annie was thinking: soothing blues, gentle greens, cool greys. With a stream of friendly questions, Annie chatted to Nancy, then led her over to the clothes rail as the cameras closed in on their faces.
‘I know it’s hard, but try to pretend that the cameras aren’t here,’ Annie whispered. ‘Just smile and relax.’
Nancy’s face tensed up into a tight-lipped grimace as they began to look through the selection together.
‘Now, what gorgeous things have we got here, Nancy, my lovely?’ she said, trying to sound bright and breezy. ‘And everything is your size, so don’t be shy. If you see something you like, jump on in.’
But as Annie’s hand moved efficiently through the items, there was bright red, orange-red, pink, yellow, here was hot pink and more bright pink …
Ebeny, the stylist who’d helped Annie to make the clothes selection was standing by proudly. She was grinning from ear to ear looking delighted with herself, in her teeny cut-off denim shorts with some complicated blouse and waistcoat thing going on.
Fashion, high fashion: that was what Annie wanted. She and Ebeny had picked all the most cutting-edge items from the most cutting-edge designers. But now, Annie went through the rack again. Nancy was looking at Annie for inspiration and Annie felt the stirrings of panic. Would anything here work for Nancy?
Lana’s words at The Store came ringing back into Annie’s mind: ‘You always had such amazing taste … You used to have such brilliant style …’
Annie could feel the sweat breaking through. Her hands searched the rails: a fuchsia-pink silky blouse by Preen, a golden metallic jacket, kaftans spun from heavy satin – how was any of this going to work for Nancy?
Nancy was wearing jeans by M&S, a faded black cotton cardi and clutching at a handbag that was frayed at the edges with use. She was a lovely, mumsy person who needed a trip round John Lewis, not a Haute Hippie maxi-dress.
Amazing taste … brilliant style …
Still Lana’s words were haunting her. Fashion. Annie was supposed to know all about fashion. This was the ultimate fashionista makeover. C’mon!!
‘Right.’ Annie began to make her choice – a sea-green metallic blazer, a multi-coloured silky top, vertiginous heels and the woven, cashmere Missoni shorts which Paula had promised were going down a storm … and which probably alone cost £800.
‘OK – let’s get to the changing room and see how quickly we can turn you into a runway sensation.’
There was clapping, the music started up again and Annie guided Nancy from the stage.
They were only meant to take a few minutes, so before Nancy knew what had hit her, her clothes were off and thousands of pounds’ worth of silk, cashmere, satin and suede were slipped, wrapped, pulled and buckled on to her unsuspecting frame.
Hair and Make-up dived down on her in a frenzy of blusher, hairspray, gloss, tweezers and mascara.
Then Nancy was up on her feet, suddenly six foot tall and impossibly wobbly in sand-coloured sandals with skyscraper heels.
The skin of her legs was so white between the sandals and the cashmere shorts that Annie could only think: tights! We need tights! But there was no time. The entry music was already playing. The audience had begun to slow-clap with anticipation.
Nancy looked … Nancy looked …
The metallic blazer was stunning, it gleamed blue-green like a bluebottle. The silky top and the cashmere shorts … well, not one of the happiest pairings, Annie had to admit. But too late to change anything now.
And wasn’t this fashionable clashing? Wasn’t everything meant to clash and mismatch? She kept seeing combos on the catwalk that she wouldn’t have dreamed of making. This was now. Annie could hit her fashion stride again. She just had to be bold.
The jacket gaped because Nancy had a much more generous bosom than was ever seen on the catwalk. Her cheeks were deeply rouged and her hair was now in spiky points instead of frizz.
‘All set?’ Annie asked, big smile in place.
‘I haven’t seen myself,’ Nancy protested.
‘You look amazing!’ Annie assured her.
‘Yeah … ummm … wild!’ Ebeny seemed to agree.
‘Are you sure?’ the make-up girl asked.
‘I can’t walk,’ Nancy protested.
‘Take my hand, I’ll lead you in.’
To the beat of the music, Annie and Nancy strode on to the set. For a moment or two, the clapping sped up, but as they made it to the front of the stage the claps trickled off and were replaced with a ripple and then a wave, a loud, crashing wave of laughter.
What?!
Heat burning her cheeks, Annie’s smile froze. And just at that moment she spotted Lana in the audience; her daughter’s face the picture of shock.
Annie turned to look at Nancy and of course, clear as day, scales falling from her eyes, she could see that Nancy didn’t look good: she didn’t scream fashion or channel cool, Nancy looked utterly, unmistakably ridiculous! And even worse – she had begun to cry.
Chapter Six
London
Svetlana at home:
Yellow python-print blouse (Chloé)
Cream woollen trousers (Yves Saint Laurent)
Cork and leather high heeled wedges (Jimmy Choo)
Double four-carat solitaire ring (first husband)
Solid gold and ruby rope necklace (richest ex-husband)
Total est. cost: £42,000
‘SO THEN WHAT happened?’
‘Well, we got off the stage as quickly as we could,’ Annie admitted, the horror of the event hideously fresh in her mind, ‘I apologized to everyone for making such a complete balls-up, then I went and hid in my dressing room … and cried. Finally, my boss, Tamsin came in and told me I was to take a week’s holiday. Starting immediately.’
‘This is not good,’ Svetlana said, shaking her immaculately coiffed head. ‘Not good.’
‘It wasn’t so bad. Tamsin promised me I wasn’t sacked and I wasn’t in trouble. She said I was just overworked and in need of a break. She’s very professional, but she’s human. She pointed out that the show’s ratings are good, they just need me to get back on form.’
As she waited for Svetlana’s words of wisdom, Annie let her eyes wander around the splendour of the room. She was perched on a priceless mahogany chair in the exquisite ‘salon’ of Svetlana’s four-storey Mayfair home, aka: the divorce settlement.
Hanging from the silk-lined walls were pieces of art that Annie recognized as important, gallery-worthy and unimaginably expe
nsive. Those hand-embroidered curtains alone must have cost up in the five figures.
But despite the vast difference in wealth, Annie no longer found it difficult to think of Svetlana as a friend. They had begun their relationship as personal shopper and favourite client but after several adventures, shared business interests, plus young daughters who worked together, their friendship had been firmly cemented.
Svetlana was also seated on a spindly, but nonetheless antique and hand-crafted chair. Annie glanced at her beautiful pale, high-cheekboned face. The Ukrainian face and figure, which had made Svetlana her fortune, were impressive. Svetlana admitted to forty-ish, looked not one day over 33, but Annie suspected she must be more than 45 by now.
The surgically enhanced cleavage and flat stomach were tucked into tight, bright Chloé and Saint Laurent. Svetlana’s luscious blonde hair was teased, tousled and piled into a Brigitte Bardot style half beehive and the nipped skin was taut all around her jawline.
‘Tschaaaaaaaa!’ Svetlana said at last, her favourite expression of exasperation, ‘I need to think how I can help you, but now we have to go to the sitting room upstairs and watch this presentation our daughters want to make for us.’
Twenty-five minutes later, Annie was sitting in the first floor drawing room listening to the sound of Svetlana’s manicured nails being tap, tap, tapped impatiently against a mahogany armrest.
This was her clue that Elena and Lana, standing in front of them with expectant, impassioned looks on their faces, had not made their PowerPoint case entirely convincingly.
Svetlana and Annie had watched as image after image flashed up on the screen. They’d seen the charts, which showed that sales of Perfect Dresses were going down in all the major fashion capitals. They’d seen images of all the designs, which Svetlana had approved for the new season. Then Lana had shown them drawings, photographs and mocked-up toiles of the new direction they were hoping to take.
With fascination, Annie had seen the ideas unfold: red leather, stud detailing, colour clashes, colour blocking, ruched hemming, mismatched buttoning … it was so different from Svetlana’s first pure and simple idea of a dress company which made elegant, feminine shirt-dresses that could be worn day to evening.
It was obvious that their daughters cared deeply about the new ideas.
‘If we don’t change direction, we won’t have a business in another year,’ Elena said firmly, looking from Svetlana to Annie.
Svetlana said nothing, she just continued with the fingernail tapping.
Elena turned to Annie: ‘What do you think about our new ideas?’
Annie squirmed on her Chippendale. She didn’t want to speak first. Yes, she was a partner in this business, but she was a small partner. Svetlana was the one who’d put up most of the money.
‘This is mainly Svetlana’s company,’ Annie said gently. ‘I think it’s important to know what she has to say first.’
Elena and Lana’s eyes immediately turned towards Svetlana.
‘I’ve already been talking to buyers about these ideas and they really are interested,’ Elena added, her voice a mixture of impatience and pleading.
There was an agonizingly long pause.
Annie watched the drumming fingernails and found herself trying to place the blood-red shade of varnish. Chanel, surely? Svetlana would only use Chanel polish – or was she more of a Dior woman?
‘Elena … and Lana.’
Svetlana’s deep voice finally broke the silence. Everyone straightened to attention with the feeling that this was going to be important.
‘When I start Perfect Dress, I have a simple plaaaan,’ Svetlana said, in the melodious accent which many years in London had only mellowed slightly: ‘elegant dresses in beautiful fabric which an elegant woman can wear anywhere. Day or night.’
Elena was nodding, almost too hard.
‘Elegant and simple. No giiiimicks. I did not want one thing this season, one thing the next. I wanted black, navy blue and other true colours in wool jersey, silk jersey, taffeta. It was a simple idea: quality at a price above the high street, but below designer label. This is my simple idea. And now that we have had one season of slow sales, you are in panic and you want to ruin my business.’
Oh, that sounded harsh. Annie could feel her stomach clench with the tension building in the room.
‘We would still run a line of the classic Perfect Dresses,’ Elena protested, ‘but we need fun, fashion and young ideas here or it will not work.’
‘One season, Elena. We already have three very successful seasons behind us,’ Svetlana went on, ‘we have one not so good season and you are in a panic. If you change now, just as we start to get a name, you will ruin everything.’
‘I am not going to ruin this label!’ Elena countered, eyes flashing. ‘You’re going to ruin it. Nothing in fashion stands still. You can’t make the same thing year after year and hope people will keep on buying. It’s impossible!’
‘You are being impossible!’ Svetlana fired back. ‘Just stick with my plan and it will work. I know how much my friends love these dresses. Some of them will not wear anything else.’
‘Oh yes, your friends. Well as long as we have your friends buying our dresses we will all be fine, won’t we!’ Elena snapped.
Annie cleared her throat. She didn’t know exactly what to say, but she would have to intervene before this got too personal and ugly.
‘My lovely girls,’ she began brightly, ‘you are both so clever and so talented, you don’t need to fight about this. Fighting is not going to help us to move forward.’
As Svetlana and Elena turned their angry faces towards her, Annie found herself looking into two sets of identical glaring grey-green eyes and felt unsure of her next move.
‘What do you think, Annah?’ Svetlana asked. ‘You have worked in fashion for a long time, we could not have started this business without your help … so what do you think?’
‘Yeah, Mum, can’t you see we’ve got some great ideas here?’ Lana asked.
Annie knew her input was important, but the problem was, she just couldn’t decide. She’d been feeling so ‘off’ lately: in the changing room with Lana – then at that terrible, haunting live event.
She couldn’t decide. She honestly didn’t know. Some of the ideas looked exciting and radical, but should the label stick with simple and elegant or go for a much more fashion look? She had no idea.
Annie’s internal fashion radar, the one that had bleeped Yes, it’s a hit or No, disaster, steer clear! and guided all her choices was out of service. It wasn’t sending out any message at all. The battery was flat. Or the mechanism had stopped working altogether. Maybe her life in fashion was over. Help!
Diplomatically, she began: ‘I like lots of your new ideas.’
She saw Lana’s shoulders sag. Obviously, Annie’s tone of voice had given her away. She did like the ideas, but she couldn’t leap on them, get excited about them. They didn’t convince her enough.
‘But like me, you think we stay with our original formula,’ Svetlana finished the sentence brusquely.
‘She didn’t say that!’ Elena protested.
‘Muuum, come on. We know what will sell in New York better than you do!’ Lana insisted.
‘I don’t know,’ Annie admitted.
‘If Annah is not convinced, it will be very hard to convince someone else,’ said Svetlana with an air of finality.
‘Maybe we need to try one more season with the originals and if we really don’t feel it’s working—’ Annie began.
‘Too late. You will be too late!’ Elena exclaimed. ‘Someone else will produce dresses which fill this gap in the market and the opportunity will be gone. This is our one chance to jump in. If I could just make you see it!’
She gave a little shriek of frustration. Snapping her laptop shut, she marched out of the room.
Svetlana called after her in Ukrainian.
Elena shouted something back in their mother tongue, which sounded ver
y angry.
‘Tschaaaaaah!’ Svetlana vented her annoyance.
‘I can’t believe you, Mum!’ Lana exclaimed, ‘How many more fashion disasters do you have to have before you realize you’re wrong? I mean that TV event – that was terrible! You’re stale and if you don’t watch out, you’re going to be over!’
‘Lana …’ Annie warned. But she had the feeling she was too late. This was not her little girl any more; a grown-up, self-possessed adult was standing opposite her, demanding the right to be taken seriously and treated equally.
‘No. You don’t get it,’ Lana stormed on, ‘I’m not coming back to London. We’re not just going to let this dress company die. I will not come back to do some stupid course in stupid Dagenham. I’m going home! To Manhattan!’
‘Ah! They will come to see that we are right,’ Svetlana promised. ‘Children always want to run before they can walk. They want to rush out a line for the summer. Impossible! It is already May. If you rush something like this, you always make big mistakes.’
She took a sip from her crystal flute of champagne and insisted that Annie do the same.
‘No running after your daughter, Annah, you are too much a – what-is-it? Mother hen. Even if she runs all the way to New York, stay strong, in the end she will run back to you.’
‘Do you think so?’ Annie asked, totally upset by the big row. ‘Elena too? Do you think she will come running back?’
‘I know so.’
There was a discreet tap at the door.
‘Come in Maria,’ Svetlana replied.
Annie couldn’t help giving a tiny sigh of envy. Svetlana had domestic staff. There was Maria, the stalwart Filipino maid who cooked, cleaned and looked after the boys when they weren’t in school. There was also a part-time tutor and a part-time chauffeur and a gardening service.
No rushing round throwing together ready meals at 7 p.m. after a hard day’s work for Svetlana. Annie knew her friend arranged herself elegantly in her drawing room, sipped at a cocktail and waited for Maria to announce the evening’s menu.
