by Carmen Reid
‘Oh …’ Annie looked down at the well-worn, rather grubby brown linen sundress, ‘I’ve not been in the mood for pink or red – not for some time.’
‘So you come to Italy to rest?’
‘Yes. Well, that was the idea. What about your best dress? I want to know about that.’
‘Oh, no question, it is made from purple velvet,’ Isabella confided. ‘It is to the knee and a little tight, but not too tight, with bare arms and a low neck. But because it is rich velvet, it is very sexy and womanly.’
‘It sounds wonderful. It sounds like Dolce & Gabbana,’ Annie guessed.
‘And you would be correct!’ Isabella smiled. ‘Is wonderful to save up and once in a while spend some money on a real label, a beautiful piece of clothing.’
‘What’s your best bag?’ Annie asked.
‘A Fendi envelope.’
‘You own a Fendi bag?!’
Annie knew Italians took their luxury label purchases seriously but still, it was surprising to be sitting chatting with a Fendi owner in a tiny café in a village in the middle of the countryside.
‘Yes, but it cured me. It was so obvious when I take this bag anywhere, now I never buy anything again which is so clearly expensive.’
This made Annie laugh.
‘Who is your favourite designer?’ Isabella asked.
‘It has to be Viv,’ Annie decided after just a moment’s consideration. ‘If I could only shop at one place for the rest of my life, it would be Vivienne Westwood.’
‘Ah, yes, very English eccentric.’
‘Perfect for the fashion-forward, funky, fat lady.’
Now it was Isabella’s turn to laugh: ‘But you are not fat!’
‘I’m not exactly a model.’
‘How did you manage to stay at the Villa and not turn into a supermodel?’ Isabella wondered. ‘Everyone round here makes jokes about the hotel. They feed you just vegetable juice and put water into your …’ her eyebrows raised and her meaning was plain: ‘No?’
‘Yes! It’s torture. I ran away – but now I have to go back to return their car.’ Annie gestured to the Bentley further along the road.
‘You run away?’ Isabella cackled with laughter. ‘I think before you return to the Villa, you have to eat a delicious meal.’
‘That sounds like the best idea ever. Oh, you have no idea. I’ve had no sleep for two nights in a row. I’ve had nothing but water, coffee and chocolate for the past … I can’t even remember how many hours. I am practically delirious, my love. You could be a figment of my imagination, for all I know. A spirit sent down to guide me back to fashion enlightenment.’
Isabella made a quizzical face, as if she hadn’t understood all of this, but then she said firmly: ‘No, I am here and I will bring you some lunch.’
After a truly magnificent lunch, Annie drove back to the hotel feeling that her faith in human nature had been restored and her eyes had been freshly opened. Suddenly everywhere she looked there was something truly inspiring to see: startling, fresh colour combinations or zingy new textures jostling for her attention.
Silvery olive leaves shimmering against the impossibly blue sky … a box of bright lemons stacked against a red stone wall … a group of grannies in black lace against shady grey limewash. There were bright, brand new colours, ideas, outfits, details and inspiration everywhere …
For the first time in years, she parked and took random photos with her mobile phone as ideas piled up in her mind. Bright blue and yellow, how had she forgotten how mouthwatering those colours looked together?
Italy was the land of yellow: bright yellow, dusty yellow, ochre yellow, honey, pale baby lemon … click, click, click, she was totally trigger happy until she’d filled up the memory card.
Her road to Damascus moment had come in a tiny café on the road to Milano. Her wearied eyes had been reopened and her jaded palette had been revived. Once again, she was bursting with ideas and enthusiasm for life.
When she couldn’t take any more pictures, she got back into the car and drove through the now familiar country road towards the hotel gates. Even if they made her eat vegetable broth for dinner, she was beginning to realize how much she longed to get into the little pink and golden floral bedroom with the heavenly bed.
There was no way she could even think about flying home tonight. She’d already spoken to Ed and assured him she would be on a plane first thing tomorrow, just as soon as she’d slept for a full twelve or maybe even fourteen hours.
As the big electric gates began to open, Annie suddenly remembered the state of the car and an ominous feeling started to grow in the pit of her stomach. As she reached the top of the driveway, she saw Carlo step out of the front door and stand, very seriously, awaiting her return.
She parked the Bentley, opened the door and stepped out of the car hesitantly.
‘Ah … Mizzzzzzz Valentina, welcome back to our hotel,’ Carlo began, with a smile which didn’t look perfectly genuine.
Then the smile faded and Annie could no longer say that Carlo even looked pleased. No, definitely not pleased.
In fact it might be fair to say … as he walked slowly towards the car and then, even more slowly, around it, taking in the dents, the scratches, the scrapes and the crushes … yes, it would probably be fair to say that he looked, well, utterly horrified.
Chapter Forty
New York
Lana’s more Lana-ish office look:
Grey short-sleeved jersey tunic (Perfect Chic sample)
Black footless tights (Bloomingdale’s)
White sneakers (Keds)
Black hairband keeping fringe from face (drugstore)
Skull and crossbone earrings (same)
Darkest purple lipstick (Maybelline)
Total est. cost: $45
LANA RAN HER hands along the rail of NY Perfect Dress items once again. She looked at each of the garments in turn, carefully.
The red one was gorgeous, with punky studs and very clever styling. The black was also totally edgy and funky. The tunics made up in Parker’s designs were stunning. She loved the orange with swirls of red, the black with emerald green, but the blue and yellow – the one she’d worn on her night out with him – now that she was looking at it again carefully, there was something troubling her about this one.
It was undoubtedly a totally fashion forward print. But something tugged just a little, the way it had from the moment she had first seen the print.
‘Who’s getting the dresses?’ she asked Gracie, who was tapping out address labels madly at her computer on the other side of the office.
‘Let me just call up the full list, Elena sent it through just before she went out. OK, let’s see: six boutiques in New York have four items each … ten dresses went out by express delivery to London, to the style-setter stores there, so they should have them by now. Then two stores in Paris and one store in Milan are all taking samples from this capsule collection.’
‘Right, and any news about sales yet?’
‘No … but Elena said it was too early to worry.’
‘Ha! Haven’t we all been worrying about sales ever since we had this mad idea?’
‘But just look at those dresses, girl, and do not tell me they’re not going to sell.’
‘You’ve not had a furious mother on the end of your phone yet.’
‘No. That’s true. But that’s because my mom thinks I’m working in a lawyer’s office and if she ever found out about this—’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘When are you going to tell her?’
‘When these dresses …’
With a grin, the two girls chimed together: ‘Fly from the rails!’
But still, an hour or so later, Lana went back over to the dress rail. She pulled out the blue one with the yellow swirls and looked it over carefully.
‘What is it with you and that dress?’ Gracie wanted to know.
Lana couldn’t explain. It was like an underc
urrent of doubt. A seed. An inkling. There was just something about this blue and yellow print that gave her a feeling of déjà vu.
What did she mean exactly: déjà vu – seen before? Was that really what she thought? Had she honestly seen this pattern before Parker had shown it to them? Exactly the same? Or just something like it … but where?
She looked at the shape of the paisley pattern. The way the strange stretched ovals flourished to a point and the swirl of pattern inside the shapes. She concentrated hard. There was somewhere … somewhere right at the back of her mind she knew she’d seen exactly this pattern before.
She closed her eyes and tried to let her mind go blank, hoping the answer might just suddenly appear. It didn’t.
Back at her desk, she typed in ‘paisley pattern’ and searched through many, many results. She was no wiser. It was no use. She hated to have to do it, but she’d have to call in expert fashion advice.
So Lana went to the dress, took a photo of the print and sent it to her mum.
‘What are you doing?’ Gracie asked.
‘You promise you will not freak out. Not even slightly.’
‘I promise.’
‘I’ve just sent a picture of that dress to my mum.’
‘So she knows all about NY Perfect Dress?’ Gracie asked, her tiny tadpole eyebrows shooting up into her bright orange fringe.
‘Yes! Didn’t I tell you she was yelling down the phone at me at five this morning? She knows and she’s not happy. Especially as we’re hoping she can break the news to Svetlana and save us all from getting fired.’
‘Does Elena know that your mum knows?’
Lana nodded: ‘She heard the phone ringing at 5 a.m. But Svetlana doesn’t know yet and really, my mum has to be the one to break it to her. None of us can handle that scary lady.’
‘No,’ Gracie agreed. ‘So what’s with the blue and yellow dress?’
‘I’m sending my mum a picture of this print because it looks familiar to me.’
‘Yeah well, no wonder, you wore it to your date with PB.’
‘No, I know that. But ever since I first saw this print I’ve had the feeling that I’ve seen it before.’
‘Don’t be crazy!’ Gracie dismissed the suggestion. ‘You know how serious that would be – Parker knows how serious that would be. If he’d copied someone’s print, we could get sued! We could be ruined. He knows that, he’s a professional designer.’
‘Well, fine, I’m probably completely imagining it, but I’ve just sent it for a second opinion, OK. My mum knows stuff.’
For a moment, Gracie looked as if she was about to cry.
‘I’m sorry …’ Lana began, ‘I know how much you like him … and there’s no reason not to trust him. I just want to be really, really careful.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Gracie replied, tilting her head up. ‘We’re businesswomen, aren’t we? We can’t let some dumb little crush get in the way of our future careers. Do you think your mom will reply soon? Isn’t it, like night-time in Europe?’
Lana picked up her phone. ‘We’ll see. If she doesn’t reply, I’ll give her a call. We need an answer and I kind of hate to admit it … but my Mum knows fashion. If anyone can tell us if that print has been used in a big way before, it’s going to be her.’
Lana couldn’t know that thousands of miles away, under a pink bedspread in the Villa Verdina, Annie was lying in the deepest sleep, dreaming of toenail varnish and tunics, Fendi bags and brightest lemon yellows.
On her bedside table lay her mobile phone but it was switched off.
Chapter Forty-One
London
The pavement fashionista:
Green tight cropped trousers (Oasis)
Pale grey leather jacket (AllSaints)
Graffitied vest top (Portobello market)
Yellow wedge-heeled espadrilles (holiday buy)
Total est. cost: £270
ANNIE BURST THROUGH the arrivals gate with a delighted smile on her face and took in a big lungful of warm, second-hand, London air. She had slept for fourteen hours and rushed to catch her Svetlana-paid first class flight home to London. She had her all-important fashion mojo back; now she was touching down in her town and it felt fantastic.
No one could make her drink courgette juice, or commandeer a Bentley, or take on Eastern European hard men armed with switchblades. She was back! The new, improved Annie: fitter, slightly fatter than the ideal, but so much more fashion-forward.
A quick glance at her watch told her there was still plenty of time until she had to be at Ed’s school for the concert of the season and still hours to go before the twins’ birthday party this afternoon. She was on a mission to buy presents. The long Italian shopping trip she’d planned for herself had never happened, but never mind – she was at the airport and there was no shortage of shops.
Her zest for the new had returned. Her eye was in and she didn’t doubt for a moment that her once unsurpassable shopping skills were back.
First stop was the toyshop where she powered on through until she had a mini mountain of gifts for Micky and Minette.
Next, she hit the surfer style shop and, thinking of Randall, bought Owen a pink T-shirt and a pair of board shorts. Ed got a linen shirt, pink with loud checks, Italian label, so that she could pretend she’d brought it all the way back from Milano.
Bulging bags in hand, Annie walked through the airport with a happy, springing feeling in her step. She was back! Wherever it was she had been for the past few months – miserable and uninspired, overworked and under-appreciated – it didn’t matter any more, because she was back. Life felt shockingly good all over again.
She would take a taxi home and ask the driver to pass through all her favourite shopping stretches as he went: she wanted to gaze in windows, watch the passers-by, see the new looks and feel inspired.
Her mind turned to Nancy, the unfortunate woman who’d been on the live event just before Annie had run away to Italy. The knitted shorts – eek! The metallic jacket Annie had inflicted on her! Annie would come up with a whole new look for Nancy and they would re-shoot.
She was back and she was never going to let anyone go on screen looking anything less than amazing. Otherwise, it would all become a compromise and a waste of her talent and their time.
As soon as she was back in the studio tomorrow morning, she would set that mistake right. And as for the Perfect Dress situation: she would help to sort that out too.
She settled back into the cab and watched London unfold outside her window. The magic Italian goggles were still working; everywhere she looked she saw inspiration.
There was a girl with long, dark hair sporting a deep fringe and grey leathers, so very chic and Left Bank, loving her bright green satchel. There was a black guy with his hair in braids and his torso wrapped in a tight pink polo shirt, completely cool.
She loved that blue and white striped awning over a flower shop where red roses were bursting with life in the windows boxes …
‘I’m back, I’m home, it’s all going to work out just wonderfully,’ she told herself, but under her breath, in case the cabbie chucked her out for being a crazy lady.
They passed a perfectly turned out woman with a scruffy dog on a bright blue lead. The dog was wearing a polka-dot blue neckerchief and looked adorable.
Even Dave could be beautified. That’s what he needed, a neckerchief! Then instead of looking like a mongrel, he might look like a sort of cheeky pirate dog: a rascal rather than a lost cause.
In her tote bag, Annie’s phone began to bleep.
She pulled it out and read: ‘Still on for meeting? My office 11.40 a.m.? Tamsin.’
She read that again. Meeting? Tamsin? Her office at 11.40 a.m.?
‘Today?’ she texted.
Back came: ‘If ur still on.’
How could she have forgotten? Well maybe kidnappings, Bentleys and hair-raising mountain drives could be blamed … but today she was supposed to be meeting Tamsin, to prove she w
as all set to return to work and brimful of new ideas. She checked her watch … in forty-eight minutes.
‘Yes fine. See u,’ she replied because – in this mood – she was more than ready to prove herself.
The cab was approaching the stylish streets now. The outskirts of Knightsbridge where blondes flicked their £200 blow-dries and stalked up and down the pavements in nothing less than £500 shoes, clutching designer bags under their arms to ward off evil glances.
And just then Annie’s eye caught the red dress in the window. Red: her signature colour. Dress: her signature item. In fact, this wasn’t a dress … it was one of the dreaded tunic dresses.
But even from the back of the cab, she could tell it was a quality piece. It looked soft but substantial, fitted but draping, cool but well made. The shop window model wore it with black leggings and a black leather cap.
Annie liked the wide sleeves, elbow length with one of those strap and button arrangements holding the softly rolled-up fabric in place. Would that be a good outfit to wear for a showdown with her producer? A meeting to prove she was back on track?
The taxi was crawling forward, the light red again on the busy junction ahead.
Was Annie finally going to embrace the tunic? Wouldn’t a funky red tunic with the perfect sleeve be exactly the right thing to wear for this meeting and then on to the school concert this afternoon?
Dressing for school events was always fraught with difficulty. Too mumsy was bad, too fashion was bad, too designer was bad, too inconspicuous and mousy was all wrong as well.
How not to embarrass your children (and in Annie’s case, husband) while not being upstaged by every other yummy mummy in the audience was a very tricky look to pull off. In short, a minefield.
Stopping to buy the red tunic would involve getting all her luggage and shopping bags out of the cab, hauling it all into the shop and then having to flag another cab down later.
Not stopping would involve a protracted outfit crisis in front of her wardrobe as the time ticked down to concert hour.
The lights changed to green and the cab driver put his car in gear.
‘Hang on a second,’ Annie instructed him. ‘I think I want to get out here instead.’
