Christmas at Claridge's

by Karen Swan

  Stella stopped dead at the sight of Mercy hoovering vigorously in Clem’s bedroom. With her spending so much time with Oscar of late, the two women hadn’t met yet and Clem couldn’t tell if she was stunned by the shocking tidiness of the flat, or the fact that Mercy was wearing just her jeans and a fuchsia-pink bra. Mercy, sensing she was being scrutinized, stopped hoovering and straightened up.

  ‘Stell, this is Mercy. Mercy, this is Stell,’ Clem said calmly as the two buxom women quite literally sized each other up. A hug was going to be out of the question: they’d never get near enough.

  ‘I’ve heard lots about you,’ Mercy nodded as she coiled the wire along the back of the Hoover, ignoring the fact that Stella couldn’t take her eyes off Mercy’s chest. ‘All bad.’

  The comment jogged Stella out of her trance and she laughed, albeit nervously. ‘All right?’ Stella nodded in greeting as Clem hobbled back to the sofa to pour her a glass of wine. Stella followed, sporadically looking back at Mercy in amazement. ‘Why is your skin brown? Mine looks like porridge.’

  Clem shrugged. ‘My father’s genes; nothing to do with me. Besides, you’re a lot cleaner than me. I don’t wash as much as you.’

  ‘Mmm, I guess.’

  Stella went to collapse on her usual place on the sofa opposite Clem when she caught sight of the heap of pink and blue-green hides draped across the back of it. ‘Holy cow!’ she cried.

  ‘Well, quite,’ Clem quipped. ‘Only the holy ones are pink, you know.’

  The three of them laughed.

  ‘Is that what you meant when you said, “bounty”?’

  Clem nodded.

  ‘And it bloody is. Is this really for us to use?’

  ‘Mmm hmm.’

  ‘But where did it come from? Can you be sure of the quality? You know we can’t scrimp on that.’

  ‘It’s top-notch, direct from the Alderton Hide factory. Simon got it for me. It had already been ordered for the Perignard account before everything . . .’ She ran out of words.

  ‘Was Clemmed?’ Stella offered, gently fingering the leathers. ‘God, these are gorgeous.’

  ‘I thought you’d like them. Now we’ve just got to spend tonight figuring out what to make them into.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit risky doing it here, though?’ Stella frowned. ‘What if Tom comes back?’

  Clem sighed. ‘He never comes back mid-week any more. Next time I’ll see him here will be Saturday morning, when he comes over for his rugby kit.’

  ‘Has he properly moved out then?’

  ‘Not formally. I think he’s been staying with her so much to “acclimatize himself”’ – she made quote marks in the air with her fingers – ‘for the real thing.’

  ‘How’s all that going? Many viewings?’

  ‘Don’t be daft! It’s not even on the market,’ Clem replied indignantly. ‘I bared my teeth and Clover ran for cover, didn’t she, Mercy?’

  Mercy gave a solemn nod, taking a sip of the red wine from her glass on the worktop, a duster in her other hand.

  ‘She won’t step out of line again, I can tell you,’ Clem said, with a little diva-ish waggle of her head. ‘What?’

  ‘You obviously haven’t seen this,’ Stella murmured, tapping something into her iPad.

  ‘What?’ Clem took it, frowning, before jumping up in horror and smudging her toes. ‘The devious bitch! I can’t believe she’s done that!’ Clem cried, staring at the estate agents’ website, which featured a lovely picture of the very room they were standing in.

  Mercy shook her head, tutting away. ‘Pushy that girl.’

  ‘Pushy’ had become the dirtiest of all words.

  ‘Sorry, hon. I thought you knew,’ Stella said.

  ‘My own home’s on the market and I didn’t even know?’ Clem raged. ‘That’s such a shitty thing for Tom to do! I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. I thought we’d cleared the air.’

  ‘He’s under a lot of pressure, remember,’ Stella counselled. ‘Don’t be too hard on him. It’s probably the last thing he wants to talk about.’

  ‘Yeah, because he knew what I’d have to say about it!’ Clem stomped off into the bathroom to find some nail polish remover and cotton wool balls. She wanted to be understanding and selfless, she really did, but she couldn’t help but wonder whether Tom wasn’t deliberately punishing her for what she’d done. This was, after all, entirely her fault. If the meeting did come to nothing and he had to sell up against his will, it was because it was her fault. She wiped her toenails clean, but didn’t bother reapplying the varnish. It wasn’t like they were going to be going out tonight anyway.

  She wandered back into the sitting room to find Stella had her top off, too, and was comparing hers and Mercy’s industrial-strength bras.

  ‘Blimey!’ Clem laughed, forgetting her upset for a moment. ‘Mrs Crouch’ll think we’re having an orgy in here tonight,’ she said, making no move to go to the window and close the shutters.

  ‘It’s so tropical in here you could grow mangoes,’ Stella said distractedly, closely examining Mercy’s bra straps. ‘Anyway I reckon there’s still a gap for seriously gorgeous bras in bigger sizes. It’s just a nightmare, isn’t it, Mercy?’

  ‘Most of mine look like they could double as hammocks for baby hippos,’ Mercy replied seriously.

  ‘We should talk,’ Stella said, eyes slitted in deep concentration.

  Clem, who, being a B-cup, knew nothing of such woes and most of the time went bra-less, walked over to the heap of hides and dragged the topmost one into the centre of the room. ‘Another time maybe. Right now we need to decide what we’re going to do with these,’ she said, sitting next to the hide cross-legged and lightly stroking the pile.

  Stella joined her on the floor and Clem could see from the intensity on her face that her mind was already whirring. ‘Well, the first thing I’m thinking is a jumpsuit – you know, biker-style, really tight and sexy, tab closures–’

  ‘Oh! Adore!’ Clem interrupted excitedly, clapping her hands. She loved watching Stella at work.

  Stella dragged the rest of the hides over and began counting and measuring them, writing down dimensions in a small Orla Kiely notebook. ‘And I really love this green. Imagine a pencil skirt in that.’

  ‘I so can,’ Clem said dreamily, accessorizing it in her head with her vintage Fifties Roger Vivier stilettoes. There were such great benefits to being Stella’s friend.

  ‘Imagine the dry-cleaning bills,’ Mercy quipped on her way through to the kitchen, the Hoover trailing behind her. ‘And you’ll need sharp needles for sewing that or they’ll snag.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’ Stella called after her.

  ‘Worked in a factory making tents once. I can stitch a straight line like you wouldn’t believe,’ Mercy cackled.

  Stella grinned back, her smile fading as she looked at her notebook. ‘The thing is, Clem, this is all gorgeous, but is there going to be enough profit margin in these pieces to make it worthwhile? You can’t charge for a pair of trousers what you’d charge for – I dunno – lining a wardrobe with the stuff, even if you end up using less leather and less man hours. It’s just a different market, different mark-up. I’ve done costings for all the other pieces we’ve made so far, and I reckon that even if we sell everything, we’re still only going to pull in twelve grand.’

  Clem looked at her, appalled. ‘But that’s nowhere near enough!’

  Stella shrugged. ‘It’s a tough business.’

  ‘Can’t we whack twenty per cent on everything?’

  Stella looked at her doubtfully. ‘There’s a recession going on, remember? If we can get the punters into a bit of a shopping frenzy we can apply a small premium – you know, it’s a one-off opportunity, limited edition and whatnot – but they’re not fools. People won’t pay just anything. These hides will obviously help bump the profits up. We can maybe get up to . . . what, twenty grand?’

  Clem visibly deflated. ‘Still not enough. How are we going to really make
some proper money?’ She leaned against the sofa, her long legs crossed at the ankles, one foot jiggling anxiously. She had to think. There had to be something they could do that would bring in the amount they needed. If the entire collection couldn’t do it, then it would need to be one incredible item. One standout, special piece that money couldn’t buy—

  ‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed, sitting up so suddenly that the wine in her glass sloshed alarmingly high, threatening to splash the pink suede, and bringing Mercy, who’d started cleaning in the bathroom, running back through, Marigolds now added to her ‘look’.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she cried.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Clem whispered.

  ‘What?’ Mercy and Stella asked in unison.

  Clem dashed into the bedroom and came out several moments later holding the bright orange dust bag. ‘This!’ She smiled, pulling out the Hermès bag. ‘This is our golden ticket.’

  Stella paled. ‘Your mum’s Birkin? What are you gonna do with that?’

  ‘Auction it.’

  ‘No way!’ Stella screeched, almost dropping the glass on the precious hide herself.

  ‘Yes, way.’

  ‘But it’s priceless. You told me yourself it’s one of those rare, money-can’t-buy ones.’

  ‘A shooting star, exactly – which’ll be why it goes for such a premium. These babies sell for five grand, entry level. But this one’s got provenance, a contrast lining that’s, like, super rare, and it’s croc. I’ll ask for fifty as a reserve bid.’

  ‘Fifty thousand?’ Stella spluttered. ‘You’re mad. No one would spend that. No one could spend that, apart from Victoria Beckham or the Ecclestone sisters.’

  ‘Oh yes they could. It’s just a matter of getting the word out. There are international collectors who’d come from all over for this – do you have any idea of what the Asian or Middle Eastern markets would pay to get hold of this? There are plenty of people on the Alderton Hide client list alone who’d qualify.’

  Stella put her glass on the ground and clasped her friend by the shoulders. ‘Clem, listen to me. I’m deadly serious about this: She – will – kill – you,’ Stella said slowly, no mirth in her expression.

  Clem’s eyes met hers. She knew Stella was right. Her mother would never forgive her for doing this. It was the most precious item her mother could have given her, everyone knew that, but they didn’t know it was tainted as if it had been revealed as a fake, that it had been given as a bribe. Consequently, she couldn’t look at it and hadn’t even opened it; she’d just hidden it at the back of her wardrobe, trying to push it – and everything it now represented – out of her mind.

  Clem shrugged. ‘She’ll thank me one day. It’s the only way to bring in enough money to save her darling boy’s company.’

  ‘Clem—’

  Stella was silenced by a muted slam, followed by a tinkle of laughter floating up the stairs – all three women stared at the door in horror.

  ‘Oh, you have got to be kidding! Today?’ Clem hissed as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. She looked down at the heap of hides on the floor. There was no way she could explain why they were there. ‘Quick, we’ve got to hide these. Help me get them into my room.’

  All three women lifted a corner each of the 9-foot hides, managing only five at a time.

  ‘Damn, they’re so heavy,’ Stella panted as they dragged the first batch through to the bedroom and threw them over the far side of the bed. They ran back into the room and picked up another batch, but the sound of keys in the door made them freeze in the middle of the room.

  ‘Mercy, quick!’ Clem whispered. ‘Put the chain on and lean against the door. Don’t let them in.’

  Mercy gathered her bosom in her arm and ran across the room, just as the door started to open. For a fraction of a second, Clem’s eyes met Clover’s as she and Stella shuffled with the second batch of hides across the floor, but Mercy got her shoulder to it and, putting her considerable weight behind it, slammed the door shut again.

  ‘Hey! What’s going on?’ Tom shouted, using his fist on the door. ‘Clem, open up!’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus! This would happen . . .’ Clem giggled as they dumped the hides in her room. There was one batch left to move. ‘Just . . . just a minute,’ Clem shouted back. ‘Just wait a sec.’

  ‘What’s happening, Clem? Who’s in there?’ Tom demanded, pounding the door so hard that Mercy, leaning with her back against the door, bounced to the movement. She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes as Stella and Clem formed a pincer movement towards her bedroom for the third time.

  ‘It’s not like this in my other job,’ Mercy muttered.

  ‘There,’ Clem said, throwing her duvet over the hides and emptying the contents of her wardrobe onto the bed and floor to complete the look – instantly undoing all Mercy’s hard work. ‘OK, Mercy, let them in,’ she whispered.

  Mercy undid the chain and opened the door, Tom almost falling in as he prepared to rain down another set of blows. ‘What the . . .?’ he exploded, before falling mute in the doorway at the sight of Clem and Stella lying on the sofas, drinking wine, Mercy dusting – all three of them in their underwear.

  ‘What?’ Clem blinked calmly.

  ‘W–w–why did you chain the door?’ he stammered, taking in the large amount of cleavage in the room.

  ‘Mercy was just cleaning behind it.’

  ‘I thought . . . I thought you were being attacked or something,’ Tom roared.

  ‘God, Tom, you’re so melodramatic. Take a chill pill! Come and have a glass.’

  But Tom was too flabbergasted. He looked at Mercy, unsure of where to start.

  ‘Oh, have you met Mercy yet?’ Clem asked, seeing his confusion. ‘She’s our new cleaner. Been with us for almost a couple of months now.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Mercy said, nodding gravely in her enormous hot pink bra.

  ‘Does she . . . always do the cleaning half-dressed?’ Tom asked, his voice weak and looking bewildered.

  Mercy and Clem looked at each other. ‘Not always.’ They shrugged. ‘But you’ve obviously set the heating to tropical temperatures for Shambles . . .’

  ‘What? And you hadn’t thought to turn it down?’

  ‘If only I knew how.’ Clem sighed, prompting a muffled squeak of indignation from Clover. ‘Anyway the flat looks good, doesn’t it?’ Clem said, prompting Tom to tear his eyes away from the décolleté on show and notice the sparkling surfaces and dust-free floor.

  ‘Oh . . . yeah . . .’ he said, brightening up, before spotting the carnage in his sister’s bedroom. ‘Well, apart from your room. Another wardrobe crisis, was it?’

  ‘Obvs!’ Clem gave a throaty chuckle as she shared a look with Stella.

  Clover, who was looking furious at the clique of loquacious, undressed women – stepped forward. ‘You were carrying something,’ she said to Clem.

  ‘Me?’ Clem repeated, eyes wide.

  ‘Yes. When the door opened, I saw you . . .’

  Clem shook her head. ‘Not me. I’ve been charged with emptying this bottle of wine and keeping the sofa warm, and I’m taking my responsibilities very seriously.’

  Clover’s mouth tightened. They both knew perfectly well that Clem was lying, but she didn’t say anything further. She couldn’t. It was Clem’s word against hers.

  ‘Are you staying for supper? We thought we’d get a takeout.’ Clem smiled at Tom.

  Tom snapped his attention back to her. ‘No, I . . . I’ve just come back to look for my Hermès tie. That meeting’s at eleven tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

  ‘Tch, hardly! What d’you think the mess in there’s all about?’ she said as he wandered into his room and began rummaging through the wardrobe.

  Stella winked at Clem as their eyes met again. Clem refilled Stella’s and Mercy’s glasses, but pointedly didn’t offer one to Clover, who was still awkwardly standing around them.

  ‘Dammit, where is it?’ Tom groaned, coming back out,
his hands gripping his hair. ‘It’s not there. I keep bloody losing everything at the moment.’

  ‘Well, if you are going to insist on living between two homes,’ Clem said lightly. ‘And before you ask, no, I haven’t worn it.’

  ‘Why don’t you wear the one I bought you for Maisie and Finn’s wedding? You know, the striped Ralph Lauren one?’ Clover suggested.

  ‘Because that’s too . . . clubby,’ Tom rebuffed. ‘It’s a morning suit tie; it’s not for a lounge suit. Besides, the Hermès one was Dad’s. I always wear it to important meetings. It brings me luck.’

  ‘It really doesn’t.’ Clem sighed.

  Clover, who was pinker and more animated than Clem had ever seen her, pinned her overly bright eyes on Clem, and Clem had a feeling that her agitation was less to do with Clem’s flippancy than Tom’s flat rejection of her suggestion. ‘By the way Clem, did Tom mention that the estate agents are hosting an open day here next Saturday?’

  Clem’s eyes remained fixed upon Clover’s, though she could see Tom stiffen in her peripheral vision. She tilted her head interestedly. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. There’s been so much interest in the flat, they felt that was the best way to go. So you might want to get your cleaner to work her . . .’ Clover’s eyes strayed to the carnage in Clem’s bedroom ‘. . . magic here on Friday.’

  Clem saw Mercy straighten up menacingly, but Clem just smiled. ‘Sure. If that works for you, Mercy?’

  Mercy, surprised but taking her cue from Clem’s languid demeanour, shrugged. ‘No problem.’ She nodded.

  ‘All settled, then’ Clem smiled, trying her best to simper. She knew exactly what Clover was trying to do. The news that the flat was being marketed at all had been intended as a body blow, never mind that there was significant interest. Bless Stella for giving her the heads-up first. To be forewarned really was to be forearmed. It gave her an idea. ‘But you guys will have to do the tours. I’m busy,’ she added, as if as an afterthought, sipping her wine.

  ‘Sure,’ Tom said eagerly, visibly relieved that she’d taken the news so well. ‘What’ve you got on?’

  ‘Oh, you know, girl stuff,’ Clem replied, winking across at Stella. They had a collection, a cash cow and now a date where Tom was guaranteed to be out of the way. It was almost too perfect. On the very day Clover expected to sell the flat, Clem would instead gazump her with a cash injection that would bring all her plans crashing around her feet. Everything she tried to do, Clem would cancel out – they wouldn’t need to sell the flat, Tom wouldn’t need to move out, the business would be saved and everything would go back to how it had been. She sighed, stretching out longer on the sofa and shooting Clover a winning smile, that of the victor. For the first time in a long time, things were beginning to come together.