by Carmen Reid
The Personal Shopper
By Carmen Reid
Connect with Carmen at www.carmenreid.com and www.facebook.com.carmenreidbooks )
Also by Carmen Reid
Annie Valentine novels:
Holiday Shopping
How Not To Shop
Celebrity Shopper
New York Valentine
Shopping With The Enemy
Stand alone novels:
Three In A Bed
Did The Earth Move?
How Was It For You?
Up All Night
The Jewels of Manhattan
St Judes (for younger readers):
New Girl
Jealous Girl
Drama Girl
Rebel Girl
Sunshine Girl
Party Girl
Chapter One
The first of Svetlana’s new outfits for spring:
Dress in vibrant purple, green and white (Pucci)
Wide green suede belt (Pucci)
Purple boots with rapier heels (Manolo)
White cashmere coat (MaxMara)
Green handbag (Chloé)
Total est. cost: £2,800
‘Sexy, but ladylike’
Annie Valentine, senior personal shopper at the five floors of London retail heaven, called The Store (because less is so much more), watched Svetlana Wisneski emerge from behind the fuchsia velvet curtain of the changing room. The dress clung to the curves of the billionaire’s wife and, in three-inch heels, she towered like a blonde superhuman.
The effect was breathtaking, but Annie, who always exceeded her monthly commission targets, immediately read the dissatisfied look on her VIP client’s high-cheekboned, high-maintenance face.
‘Not working for you, darlin’?’ Annie asked. ‘Not channeling Spring, lambs frolicking, Easter bonnets or April in Paris?’
Svetlana shook her head gravely.
‘Never mind, have no fear, we will find it for you,’ Annie promised, flicking at speed through a rail packed with sensational dresses – Chloé, Missoni, Temperley, Gucci, Versace – so new in they were not yet out of their plastic wrappers.
‘How about Pucci? This could be delicious.’
‘We trrrry,’ came Svetlana’s husky reply.
No-one left Annie’s two hours of personal attention in anything less than the perfect outfit – more usually perfect outfits – blowing three, four, even five times as much as they’d planned to spend because her advice, delivered in a down-to-earth, no-nonsense, London-born-and-bred accent, was so persuasive and so good.
Annie shopped for her customers, for her friends and for herself with unflagging determination.
Nothing was too much trouble for this gold standard professional: she could scour every glossy corner of The Store for the exactly right item and she knew every single designer collection right down to its ‘diffusion’ thongs.
This afternoon’s client, statuesque Svetlana, was a cherished customer. Married to the richest pot-bellied, lumpy-looking Russian in London, Svetlana was one of a select handful of shoppers entitled to a free limousine ride home with her purchases.
Today, early in February, the everlasting winter sales were almost over and the bright new Spring collections were finally breaking through in shades of palest lemon, baby pink, green, green and more green, ultraviolet and sky blue. Svetlana was in to shop for the new season as early as possible because she liked to be first and to have the pick of the new.
For close to an hour, Annie had walked this elite customer and her dumpy personal assistant Olga round every one of The Store’s glittering floors. They’d begun in the cosmetics hall where assistants had brought out compacts and testers and sample sizes, trilling the delights of spring’s ‘fresh new palette’.
While Svetlana had let herself be lavishly made up and manicured, Olga had scathingly pronounced the shimmery nude polish ‘almost invisible’ and ‘far too expensive’.
‘She works for him,’ Svetlana had whispered to Annie when Olga was out of earshot, ‘My husband, Potato-face. He thinks I spend too much money and she is spying on me.’
‘No!’ Annie assured her, although, much to her continued disappointment, she knew nothing of life as a trophy wife, whereas Svetlana was on her third wealthy husband. She’d traded up spouses the way other women trade up houses.
It was obvious to Annie that if she wanted advice on finding a rich husband (and boy, could she do with one, her eye-watering credit card bills had come in this morning), this was the woman to ask. Surely it was just a matter of the right question at the right moment to get the conversation started?
Once Svetlana had toured the new collections of the designers she regularly chose – Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy for dressing up, Donna Karan for casual – Annie had tried to entice her into some different, more colourful, directions: Missoni, Pucci, Matthew Williamson.
The billionaire’s wife had looked mournfully through the rails: ‘No, no . . . well . . . maybe . . . I don’t know if Igor will like it,’ she’d declared. ‘He likes sexy but ladylike, always ladylike.’ As if, over the two years they’d shopped together, Annie hadn’t realized. ‘Sexy but ladylike’ was Svetlana’s mantra and Svetlana’s marriage was her career.
She hosted bi-weekly dinners and monthly cocktail parties, she attended endless business receptions, made charming small talk for hours, always looked impeccably elegant, and all for the benefit of Igor and his empire. Svetlana had staff to organize: cooks, housekeepers, cleaners and maids. She had five houses in three countries to furnish, refurbish and decorate. Clearly, it was a demanding, full-time job being Mrs Igor Wisneski. But as she’d confided to Annie – when Olga was once again out of earshot – she was approaching 35, and in need of all the help she could get to maintain her position.
Although Svetlana was tall, naturally ice blonde and breathtaking, not to mention the mother of the gas baron’s two sons and heirs, despite an extremely skilful mid-section facelift and perky breast enhancement, her place as drop dead gorgeous status wife was never taken for granted.
Annie knew the former Miss Ukraine was working tirelessly to maintain the interest of Potato-face, enduring a gruelling daily workout with a martial arts expert, fortnightly colonics and all manner of other invasive beauty injections and treatments.
Now she stood before Annie, with a far more satisfied expression because she could see she was a knockout in the tight, belted Pucci.
Hand on slinky hip, Svetlana considered herself studiously in the three-way mirrors before finally announcing: ‘I don’t know why I’m ever unsure about your ideas, Ahnnah’ – she’d never got the hang of ‘Annie’ – ‘You are always, always correct.’
‘You need a pale coat for that dress,’ Annie suggested, ‘I have a white cashmere, knee-length, beautiful cut. I’ll have it brought up along with a new Chloé – just in this morning – to hang off your arm.’ She winked at Svetlana who, like Annie, could never resist a soft, dreamy leather bag, jangling with gold links, buckles and the latest ‘must have’ logo.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Paula, the other personal shopper on today, put her head round the curtain which separated Annie’s section from hers.
Annie shook her head and raised her eyebrows: ‘Urgent?’ she asked.
‘Your bid’s been exceeded on the vintage Miss Selfridge . . .’ Paula began.
Although she had primed Paula to keep an eye on the items she was bidding for on the internet today, this news wasn’t important enough to justify abandoning Svetlana just as she turned her mind to new handbags.
‘Thanks, but don’t worry about it,’ Annie instructed, and with a swish of 18 inches of genuine Asi
an hair extension, painstakingly braided into hundreds of tiny plaits each with a bead sewn at the end, Paula was gone.
Svetlana had firmly decided on three evening gowns, five day dresses, two trouser suits, a coat, four pairs of shoes and two handbags. She was debating the Manolo boots, a ball dress and ‘something to cheer Olga up’ when Paula appeared at the curtain again.
‘Help!’ she mouthed at Annie, who gave a little sigh. She suspected this was about Paula’s next client. Paula wasn’t exactly bad at her job, she was just young (24), inexperienced, and so obsessed with fashion that she couldn’t translate what was hot into what would really suit and work for someone.
She would quite happily stuff a chunky 54-year-old lawyer into Juicy Couture and studded gold mules because ‘Wow, that is so now! So happening!’
Usually Annie tried to make sure Paula’s clients were of the rake-thin, fashionista kind who wanted to be talked through combining a baby doll with a tulip skirt, gaucho belt and cork wedges by an expert, but this afternoon Annie had Svetlana, so Paula had to look after new client, Martha Cooper.
‘Can you excuse me for just a few minutes?’ Annie asked Svetlana, who was turning from side to side in front of the mirror trying to decide whether the handbag in her left hand was a better match with the coat than the handbag in her right hand.
‘Of courrrrse.’
In the cream-carpeted reception area, Annie saw Martha, a very tall, slouchy late thirties, who had turned up for her consultation in the universal uniform of the busy stay-at-home mum: washed-out jeans, washed-out T-shirt, washed-out face, long hair with four inches of root, green gym shoes and Martha’s own personal touch, a truly diabolical grey parka. No wonder Paula had panicked.
For a second, it struck Annie that such a lack of care about appearance, fashion and what people thought of you was almost enviable. Then she imagined how she would look without heels, red lipstick, foundation and a full head of blond highlights and the moment passed.
‘Hi, Martha, I’m Annie Valentine, lovely to meet you.’ Annie held out a hand and gave her most reassuring smile. ‘Have you been looking around?’
‘Yes . . . and now I’m even more worried,’ came Martha’s reply.
Annie was used to dressing all kinds of women: WAGs, rich wives, wealthy daughters, business highflyers, fashion mavens and of course, women who’d clearly lost their way somewhere along the line. She hadn’t had such a needy case in her suite for some time. Poor Martha, she’d wandered the floors, clocked the price tags, made no sense at all of the more complicated garments and now here she was, faced with one of the most glamorous shop assistants she’d ever encountered: Paula, as lithe and elegant as a young Naomi Campbell, complete with nutcracker buns and ultraviolet talons.
Although Annie was a little more real looking, she was still extremely groomed and elegant: a shimmering (originally mouse-brown) blonde, expertly made up with perfect brows, French manicure and light tan, tastefully dressed, high-heeled and utterly convincing in her role of persuading endless women and occasional men to part with serious amounts of money in an effort to look more stylish and attractive.
Martha was probably now convinced she did not belong here.
‘You are going to have such fun with us today,’ Annie told her, keeping hold of Martha’s hand, so that she couldn’t bolt.
In fact, Annie loved clients like Martha. You had to start slowly with the most sober clothes The Store had to offer, but these clients were always the most grateful and the most enduringly loyal because Annie helped them to work out all the things a woman needed to know about her look – ideally by 20, but definitely by 30.
By 30, according to Annie, every woman should have put in the hours in the fitting room to work out the colours, the shapes and the cuts that flattered. Round neck or V? Knee-length or longer? High waistbands or low? Shades of red and orange or blues and purples?
By 30, every woman should also have grasped the power of one great accessory and have the fundamentals of a personal style in place.
Great dressers also understood the importance of trademark items, such as Princess Diana’s blue blazer; Mrs Thatcher’s pussycat bow; Victoria Beckham’s bustier; Liz Hurley’s white jeans.
These were the secrets, the dressing lessons, which Annie could reveal.
‘You’re a lovely height,’ Annie told Martha straight away.
‘Pros and cons . . .’ was Martha’s reply. ‘Dress waistbands come in under my armpits and don’t get me started on the problems of finding trousers long enough.’
‘We’ll work with it,’ Annie promised. ‘Follow me into my boudoir.’
In the airy, opaque-windowed room at the heart of the Personal Shopping area, Annie and Martha sat down together on the fuchsia velvet sofa for a preliminary chat, while Paula hovered close by.
‘So, how old are your children?’ Annie wondered, not needing to ask if Martha had any.
‘Oh . . . Six, five and just turned two.’
‘You must be busy,’ Annie sympathized.
‘I must be insane!’ was Martha’s response.
‘And are you going back to work?’
‘Yes . . . first job in seven years and nothing from my Life Before Children fits . . . and I’ve no idea what people wear in offices any more. It seems to be all cardigans, sparkly skirts and high heels.’ Martha ended with a plaintive: ‘Help!’
‘OK!’ Annie was almost rubbing her hands. This was going to be easy – not to mention a joy to put right. Martha was tall, still a size 12-ish and with the right clothes and a bit of care and attention, she wouldn’t recognize herself.
‘Paula is your shopping guide for today, so’ – Annie shot Paula her ‘pay attention’ look – ‘she is going to help you buy not a trouser suit. Sooo over! But trousers which fit and flatter. I’d recommend grey, straight legs – not too narrow, not too wide – then a short, toning, but not matching, bang-up-to-date, swingy jacket with a single button. OK?’
Martha nodded.
‘Then you need to find day shoes which fit and that you love in a colour to go with the suit. Now, Martha, you are not allowed brown or black shoes and I’m not even going to mention navy. I’m sorry, these are my rules!’ but she winked at Martha, so it wasn’t too bossy. ‘Go for gold, green, purple, red, orange, yellow . . . Something lovely. Who needs black?
So, once you have the shoes,’ she went on, ‘you’re to find three knockout tops which go with the trousers, jacket and the footwear. Three is the minimum. No slacking, we make you work here. Then, your final mission for today, should you choose to accept, is to find a colourful skirt that goes with all three tops, the shoes and the short jacket. OK? Got me?’
Martha and Paula nodded obediently.
‘This way, I promise you’ll be beautifully dressed for the office every single day. Obviously if you want to look at raincoats, umbrellas, boots, cardigans . . . or make-up,’ there was a noticeable stress on this final item, ‘Paula can advise, but get the basics in place first. You can always come back to us. In fact we’d love you to come back. We’re a bit like the dentist, we like you in for regular check-ups.
‘Now . . . just one last thing, my darlin’, then I really have to get back to my other client, how are you planning to . . . er . . . style your hair for work?’ Annie had considered the question carefully and had decided this was the most tactful way to frame: For goodness sake girl, get a decent cut and colour!
‘Style my hair? Style . . .’ Martha repeated the word slowly as if it was foreign to her, ‘my hair?’
Annie nodded encouragingly.
Martha gave a deep sigh then blurted out: ‘All I’d like is to be free of head lice just long enough to remember to actually get to the hairdresser’s.’
‘Oh! Oh no!’ Annie, who’d once had to deal with an ‘outbreak’ on her son’s head, at least had some sympathy, but Paula took several steps backwards and now looked as if she wanted to run screaming from the room.
‘I’m clear at the
moment,’ Martha added quickly, sensing The Store’s personal shopping staff weren’t as used to talk of head lice as her mother and toddler group.
‘I’d forgotten about those beasts,’ Annie said, trying to resist the urge to scratch her head at the thought. ‘So . . . well . . . better get the haircut as soon as you can, before they pop up again. Right!’ Annie had to get back to Svetlana, no doubt about it. ‘Off you go, you two. And make sure I get a look at the finished result!’
‘Now what?!’ Annie wanted to know when, twenty minutes later, Paula was back again. ‘I can’t do your job for you!’
‘Donna! In your office,’ Paula warned.
This was not good news. Annie tried to see as little of her witch of a boss as possible, but there were several days in every month, carefully recorded in Annie’s diary, when Donna was a hormonal madwoman who had to be avoided.
‘She’s logged on to your computer!’ Paula added.
No doubt about it, Annie would have to go, and just as she’d finally begun to hit Svetlana for some priceless new husband advice.
‘I am so sorry,’ Annie told Svetlana and Olga. ‘There’s a tiny problem I have to sort out.’
‘No matter,’ Svetlana assured her. ‘We are finished here. Everything is decided. We get ready to go now.’
‘OK, I’ll see you in a second,’ Annie said as she rushed out of the changing room towards the windowless matchbox of an office which housed her desk, files, company computer and, most importantly, personal laptop, which right now was plugged into The Store’s internet connection and up and running on her eBay homepage.
Personal shopping at The Store was Annie’s day job. Around it, she crammed in private home makeovers via her Dress to Express service, then there was the Annie V Trading Station on eBay which did great business selling designer items: BNWT (brand new with tags), new, nearly new, secondhand and vintage.
Where did Annie source these items? Her own staff-discounted wardrobe, The Store’s sale rail, the bargain bins of other shops, junk shops, charity shops, other eBay auctions and sites. Annie had a saleswoman’s eye for a great bargain and a profitable resale.
