by T A Williams
The American contingent was composed of three stern-faced ladies and they definitely wanted to see a number of items modelled by Debbie. Fortunately, it turned out that she was, as Barbara had predicted, a pretty perfect size 40, and even she herself had to admit that some of the stuff looked really good on her. In all, she had to leap behind the screens and change into eleven separate dresses in the space of less than half an hour. By the end of the session, she was flushed and perspiring.
As Barbara led the ladies out of the room and downstairs to Giacomo and the Mercedes to take them back to the station, Flora came round to give Debbie the good news.
‘They loved the new collection and they loved you, Debbie. You were marvellous. Thank you so very much. You really did us a huge favour.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life.’
‘It didn’t show.’
‘Tell that to my antiperspirant.’
Flora laughed. ‘So did you like the dresses? Which did you like best?’
Although the garments she had worn had included the spectacular evening gown in the shop window, Debbie knew which one she had liked best, by far. It was a very simple, slightly formal dark blue dress with a demure V-neck and she had loved it. It had felt as if it had been made for her. She explained to Flora and saw her nod.
‘This one, you mean?’ Flora took it off the rack and slipped it off the hanger, letting it hang over her forearm, smoothing it with her other hand. ‘I couldn’t agree more. We’re selling a lot of these. It suited you down to the ground. You looked delightful in it.’ As she spoke, she located a very swish-looking carrier bag and slipped the dress inside. ‘Here, take it with our thanks. You got us out of a hole and we’re very grateful.’
Debbie was almost speechless. ‘There’s no need for that, Flora, honestly. I was glad to help.’ She did her best to refuse the gift, but Flora’s powers of persuasion were too good.
‘Take it, please, Deborah. I’d really like you to have it. You’ve definitely earned it.’
* * *
The following Saturday, Debbie went to Flora’s for tea once more. This time, as well as Byron the dog, she found somebody else there. It was Barbara from the FG shop.
Debbie fought off the amorous attentions of the Labrador as she shook hands with Barbara, and saw her smile.
‘Deborah, hello again and thanks again for helping us out. Flora’s been telling me all about you. I gather you’re the principal of the English school.’
‘Temporary principal.’ Debbie went on to recount what had happened to Steven. ‘So there’s lots to do, but I have to say that I’m enjoying it.’ She glanced across at Flora. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I love teaching. But I find I also enjoy the admin side of things: you know, dreaming up new courses, thinking of advertising slogans and so on.’
‘Deborah’s a very good teacher.’ Flora was quick to add her endorsement and Debbie gave her a smile.
‘Thanks, Flora.’ Debbie transferred her attention back to Barbara. ‘Did the Americans place a decent order?’
‘They placed a terrific order. They were really impressed with the clothes and with you. You know what one of them said? She said it was so refreshing to see clothes being modelled by somebody real.’
‘Real?’
‘Professional models can suffer from dead eyes sometimes. You know – it’s just a job and they’re just a clothes horse. You, on the other hand, were a living, breathing real person and they loved that.’
‘You’ve left out trembling and sweating.’
Barbara laughed and carried on. ‘The shop you came to is also our head office. That’s where all the design and marketing gets done and where we sell to trade customers.’ Barbara exchanged glances with Flora. ‘Flora and I were wondering if you might like to help us out again from time to time.’
Debbie looked up from the dog who, by this time, was lying on the floor at her feet, grunting happily as she scratched his tummy with the toe of her shoe. ‘Me? Dressing up again?’ She wasn’t too sure how she felt about that. Her baptism of fire had been pretty terrifying although, deep down, she had rather enjoyed herself, in a strange kind of way. ‘You’d seriously like me to model clothes for you again? But I don’t know a thing about fashion.’
Flora joined in on the side of her marketing manager. ‘Think of what the Americans said. You bring a freshness to the industry. You’d definitely be wonderful. You’ve got a very elegant way about you, you know.’
This was an adjective that Debbie would never ever have dreamt of using to describe herself. For a moment she wondered what Alice would say if she heard this.
Flora carried on. ‘What we need is a tall, slim model who can come in to our head office in Via de’ Tornabuoni from time to time to model clothes for special clients.’
‘Special clients?’ For a moment, Debbie had an image of dirty old men sitting staring at her as she paraded round in flimsy underwear.
‘Mainly trade buyers, like the Americans.’ Barbara maybe noticed her hesitation as Debbie heard her try to sound encouraging. ‘Like I said, Deborah, we sell most of our clothes to the trade, including some of the best-known department stores around the world, including London. From time to time, just like last Wednesday, when we have a new line, we like to be able to show important buyers what the clothes look like on a real person, not just on a hanger.’
‘But surely you have real models who can do that…? Like, what was her name? Mireille?’ Debbie couldn’t understand why they should consider her, a total novice, for this kind of thing.
‘Miren. Of course. We have a string of professional models like Miren we can call on when we have fashion shows, but that’s not the same. We need somebody close by who can just pop in for half an hour every now and then. The best professional models live in Milan or Rome, or even further away like Miren. By the way, her mum broke her pelvis, but she’s going to be all right. The thing is, it’s just not feasible to bring them down here just for an hour or less. You see – your apartment and your workplace are barely five minutes’ walk away from Via de’ Tornabuoni. You’d be perfect.’
Flora echoed the sentiment. ‘You’d be just what we want.’
‘I’m sure you aren’t interested in money, but the pay would be quite good.’ Barbara then went on to name an hourly rate that almost made Debbie’s knees go weak. ‘And, of course, if there’s anything you see that you like, you could have trade rates for any clothes you want to buy.’
‘Erm… how often do you think you’d need me? I’m really very busy at the moment.’
‘It wouldn’t be very often. Say, half an hour once or, maximum, twice a week. Some weeks, nothing at all. As I say, it would only be for very special clients.’
Debbie stared down at the dog, desperately trying to think of a valid excuse, but nothing came to mind. There was no doubt – she owed Flora a big favour. So there wasn’t really any way she could say no. Besides, the extra money would come in very handy. She took a deep breath.
‘All right, I’ll try it. But please keep a close eye on me, and don’t be afraid to tell me if I’m doing it wrong.’
‘That’s wonderful, Deborah, and you’ll be excellent, I’m sure. Thank you so much.’ Flora gave her a big smile.
‘Super, Deborah! You couldn’t stand up for a moment, could you?’
Debbie did as asked and felt Barbara’s eyes on her body again. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but she knew she would have to try to get used to it. ‘Could you drop in some time on Monday and I’ll get one of our girls to measure you up properly? We need to be sure of your exact size and shape.’ She glanced across at Flora. ‘And she looks pretty well perfect to me. Now, your lovely long hair is delightful, but could we maybe send you to a salon just to tidy it up? At our expense, of course.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Debbie suppressed a smile. Alice would be glad to hear this after so long.
‘Excellent. We’ll get it sorted out for next week. Tha
nk you so much.’
Flora reached over and patted Debbie’s wrist. ‘And don’t worry. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.’
* * *
The following week, Debbie found herself in the hands of a very pricey hairstylist, followed by a manicurist and, scariest of all, Britta, the ex-model. Britta was Danish, even taller than Debbie and, although she was probably well into her forties, she was stunningly beautiful, in a rather forbidding way, with platinum blonde hair, a quarter of which had been shaved off, leaving just blonde stubble above her right ear.
It was Britta’s job to teach Debbie the basics of how to stand, turn and walk. Although on the face of it this all sounded pretty simple, it was complicated a hundredfold by questions of posture, even breathing, and the addition of often frighteningly high heels. By the end of half an hour with Britta, Debbie was a nervous wreck.
It came as a great relief to find that her next session as a model turned out to be much less intimidating than the preparation. She was called in to model a selection of the following year’s summer fashions for two smiley Japanese ladies who didn’t say a word. Half a dozen times Debbie paraded in front of them and then disappeared behind the screens to change clothes as fast as possible. All the while, the Japanese ladies sat immobile, occasionally scribbling on clipboards or sipping tea, smiles firmly in place. Afterwards, Barbara told her these two were responsible for fashion buying for the best-known chain of department stores in Japan – and they had liked what they had seen. Debbie went off feeling relieved and even beginning to think she might quite enjoy this very profitable sideline.
Her main job, meanwhile, continued to occupy her fully, often for twelve hours a day. Although Steven had been released from hospital, he didn’t come in to work, and Giancarla told her she was taking him food and generally looking after him. Of course his absence meant that Debbie had to do all his work as well as her own, but she found she enjoyed it a lot. Student numbers continued to rise as new classes were formed and soon the new teacher, Sam, had a full timetable.
Sam was a tall, gangly boy from Southampton who had been teaching in South Korea for the past three years. His decision to return to Europe, partly prompted by Korea’s belligerent northern neighbour, had coincided with Debbie’s advert for a teacher, and he was proving to be very good at his job. He was also proving to be very popular with the students and staff – in particular, Debbie noticed, with Rory. Pretty soon the two of them were inseparable and Debbie found herself wondering whether this friendship might lead to something more significant. Certainly, Rory was looking happier these days and Debbie was delighted for him.
Over the next few weeks, she was called in twice to model clothes for trade clients and, the more often she did it, the more relaxed she began to feel about being a human clothes horse. The people, Americans and Canadians, were far more interested in the clothes than they were in her, and she soon managed to feel quite detached from the comments she was hearing. Whether compliments or criticism, she very quickly learnt not to take them personally. She did her best, however, to avoid falling into the syndrome Barbara had described as dead eyes and made a point of doing her best to look animated. According to Barbara and Flora, her work was greatly appreciated and the orders continued to flood in.
The end of November approached and the days grew ever shorter. The weather finally turned, and a wave of cold, damp air descended upon Florence. She invested some of her spare money in a wonderful warm duck down jacket and some lovely new boots. Walking past the Duomo, huddled into her coat and scarf, it was hard to believe that only a few months earlier the temperature had been in the mid thirties.
Debbie loved her new flat more and more, although she saw very little of it. She was up early most days and often didn’t get in until eleven or later. The only downside was that, annoyingly, from time to time, she was woken by noise on the stairs as Flora’s son brought yet another of his conquests back to the flat opposite for a tryst. On one particularly noisy occasion she very nearly went out to remonstrate with them, after being woken at three o’clock in the morning by squeals and giggles from the landing directly outside her door. But out of respect for Flora, she bit her tongue and said nothing. The following Saturday, on one of her regular weekly visits to the villa for tea and cakes, she toyed with the idea of bringing up the subject of her son, but decided against it. Either Flora already knew he was an inconsiderate so-and-so, or she would be appalled, and even maybe offended, at criticism of a member of her family.
However, noises in the night aside, Debbie really did love her flat and she was immensely grateful to Flora. The fact that she could walk out of her door and straight into streets and squares that had been frequented by Michelangelo himself was enchanting. Apart from the obvious must-see places like the Duomo, she never ceased to be amazed by little discoveries she made almost every day. She learnt early on that it was always a good idea to look upwards. She soon discovered statues, frescoes and curious architectural features on so many buildings she had previously dismissed as run-of-the-mill. Every day she spent in Florence increased her love for the city and its illustrious past.
From time to time she walked up to the rose garden if she felt she needed a bit of peace and quiet and, every time, she came away feeling more relaxed. As she put it to her mother during one of her regular weekly phone calls, she was starting to feel as if she belonged.
Then, one Saturday night, around mid-December, all hell broke loose. From about ten o’clock onwards, Debbie started hearing footsteps and voices on the stairs. A few glances out of the little spy hole confirmed her worst fears – her neighbour was having a party. She deliberately stayed up, watching an old black and white movie on TV until one o’clock, before heading for bed. Although she finally managed to get off to sleep, she was woken a couple of hours later by a cacophony of noise and the sound of breaking glass. Pulling on a jumper over her pyjamas, she went to the door and opened it.
She was greeted by a scene of Bacchanalian confusion. A girl wearing a sparkly silver dress and just one shoe was slumped on the top step, shards of broken glass from a smashed champagne bottle spread around her. The door to the neighbour’s flat was wide open and somebody had turned the music up to its maximum. Some sort of unidentifiable Europop song was belting out so loud that the glass pendants of the chandelier were dancing. Three people of indeterminate sex were locked in an erotic huddle against the far wall and she could see a familiar tall figure leaning against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette. Debbie had had enough.
Slipping on her shoes, she gripped her jumper tight about her and stormed across to confront him. As she came up to him, he blew a cloud of smoke in her face and gave her a welcoming smile, accompanied by a blast of alcoholic breath that almost stripped the skin from her face.
‘Ciao bella. Where’ve you been hiding?’
Flora’s son was a reasonably good-looking man, around her age, but he was clearly very drunk, or worse. Her rage boiled over and she gave him an earful.
‘I live over there on the other side of the landing and I’m sick and tired of the way you think you can just do whatever you want, at whatever time of night you want, and you couldn’t care less about anybody else.’ If she had been speaking English she might well have used considerably stronger language, but her teacher hadn’t taught her much in the way of Italian invective. Even so, she thought she caught sight of something on his face – guilt, maybe?
‘Oh, did we wake you?’ He took another long drag on his cigarette, but at least this time turned his head away before exhaling. ‘I’m very sorry about that.’ He didn’t look it.
‘Listen. I’m very, very tired. Either you take this party into your flat and turn that music right down or I’m going to call the Carabinieri. They might be very interested to know where the smell of marijuana’s coming from.’
His expression turned to one of concern.
‘There’s no need for that. We’re just having fun. Don’t you ever have fun? Why don’t you
come and join us?’
‘You’ve got one minute and then I’m making the call. And I’m very tempted to call your mother as well.’
‘My mother?’ He looked bemused, maybe worried.
‘You heard me. Just grow up and try to behave like a decent human being, will you? Try showing a bit of consideration to others. Don’t just think of yourself. Right: one minute, starting now.’
She marched back across the landing and closed the door securely behind her. As she stood there waiting, wondering whether she should in fact carry out her threat to call the police, she could feel her pulse racing. She was beginning to realise what could have happened to her, dressed in her pyjamas, in the midst of a bunch of strange people – most of them drunk or stoned, or both.
As it was, she didn’t have to make the call – at least not this time. To her relief, the music was suddenly cut off and she heard mutterings and movement on the landing. Seconds later, the door opposite closed remarkably quietly, and peace returned to the building.
The next morning when she got up, it was to find that somebody had cleared up the broken glass and a semblance of normality had been restored. Considering that a minor victory, she decided not to say anything to Flora on this occasion, hoping her son would have learnt his lesson.
Certainly, for the next few weeks, peace and quiet returned to the building and Debbie heaved a sigh of relief.
* * *
The school closed for a two-week break over the holiday period, and Debbie flew home to spend Christmas with her parents in Bristol, followed by New Year with Alice in Cambridge. Everybody commented on her newly-acquired elegance – her auntie actually used that very word – and Debbie was secretly rather pleased. The stylist in Florence had hardly touched her hair, just cut it a bit, but it looked so much better as a result. And, of course, with some of the new clothes she had bought, and the amazing dark blue dress Flora had given her, she felt really rather stylish.
