The Personal Shopper (Annie Valentine)

by Carmen Reid

  It seemed to do the trick. Spencer asked which art school she’d gone to and told her where he’d studied.

  Then he pulled open the curtain, stepped out and asked: ‘What do you think?’ making eye contact now, appreciating that he was dealing with a high-calibre ‘consultant’.

  He looked good. The suit was a great cut but roomier and so a little more macho than the one he’d come in wearing. The pale pink suited his complexion. She couldn’t get past those awful glasses though.

  ‘Nice.’ She stroked down the lapels, then made him turn around so she could run her hands over his shoulders and back, all in the name of smoothing out the suit obviously. ‘Very nice. We’ll put that on the “definitely maybe” rail and then I want you to try this on.’

  She held out a cashmere blend Nicole Farhi. Super-hetero wear.

  ‘This is real quality, Mr Moore.’ She stroked the jacket to emphasize her point. ‘I don’t waste my money on anything inferior.’

  He took the suit from her, meeting her eyes and brushing past her hand in the process, which she took to be an excellent sign. She pulled the curtain shut and grinned.

  ‘“Nowt as expensive as cheap,” as my dad used to say.’ When Spencer made no response to this, she explained: ‘Because cheap things wear out so quickly and have to be replaced.’

  But then Paula breezed in and, not noticing the occupied cubicle, asked in a loud voice: ‘Hey, Annie, what’s on special offer at Asda this week?’

  Annie pulled a face and pointed at the curtain.

  ‘All right,’ Paula said, much more quietly, ‘but I’ve got loads of birthdays coming up, no money and I need to know where to get cheap presents.’

  ‘Later!’ Annie hissed.

  Joy of joys, their boss Donna was now striding into the suite looking as if she’d bitten on a bee: ‘Paula! Annie’s office, now!’ she barked, acknowledging Annie only with a quick raise of the eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, that will be fine, Donna,’ Annie told her with mock politeness. ‘Please make yourself at home in my office.’

  Clearly a major telling-off was about to rain down on Paula’s pretty, plaited head. The two personal shoppers exchanged sympathetic looks and Annie gave Paula a surreptitious wink.

  Oblivious to the latest developments in in-store politics, Spencer pulled back the curtain to have his second outfit appraised.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Annie smoothed down the jacket again, examined it from behind, but told him she wasn’t as happy with this one. Together, they sorted through Dale’s selections for the next possible ensemble.

  Once Spencer was safely back behind the curtain, Annie decided that although she was trying to steer totally clear of Donna, she couldn’t leave Paula in there to face the witch alone.

  She tapped on the door of her office and opened it without waiting for a reply. ‘Is everything OK in here?’ she asked.

  One glance at Paula’s tear-stained face told her that it was not.

  ‘Can I help with anything at all, Donna?’ she went on. ‘Would you like me to explain anything? I do oversee Paula after all.’

  Donna spat out: ‘We’ve had the suite’s sales figures in for the month and Paula’s are way down on January.’

  ‘But February is always lower than January,’ Annie reminded her, trying to keep the indignation out of her voice.

  ‘I’m aware of the general pattern of annual sales, thank you, Annie,’ Donna snapped, ‘but Paula’s figures are much lower than they should be. There’s a job on the shop floor open, so I’m pulling Paula out of here. People come to the Personal Shopping suite desperate to buy new clothes. If Paula can’t sell to them, then who the hell can she sell to?’

  Despite her written warning, Annie couldn’t help mentioning ‘the difficult new collections’ in Paula’s defence. What she would have loved to say was that if Donna hadn’t gone to the trade shows right after she’d been dumped by her girlfriend, then maybe the collections wouldn’t be quite so difficult. The sales team were now flat out trying to shift ‘tulip’ skirts (i.e. universally unflattering sacks) in shades of ‘mushroom’ and ‘taupe’ (otherwise known as hessian), not to mention cashmere trapeze tops in screaming orange and lime.

  ‘Don’t ever, ever complain about my collections!’ Donna looked poised to gouge out an eye now. ‘The Store is proud to showcase some of the most cutting-edge fashion in London . . . in Europe . . . in the world!’

  Annie was bursting to say: I rest my case. But she had her own interests to look after, as well as Paula’s.

  She heard Spencer opening the changing room curtain, so knew she had to get back, but before she did Donna managed to issue another threat: ‘And don’t you dare abuse your staff discount, Annie Valentine, I’m keeping a very close eye on your transactions. If I find anyone has used it apart from you . . .’

  Just because she couldn’t find anything witchy to say about Annie’s sales she had to resort to this. Vicious cow.

  Spencer was happily admiring himself in the mirror. ‘This is fantastic! You’re a genius!’ he enthused, which cheered her up immediately. ‘I’d never have thought of Romeo Gigli. I thought he was for girls.’

  ‘Italian,’ she told him. ‘You can’t go wrong with a good Italian. Mr Moore—’ she began.

  ‘Please, call me Spencer.’ He straightened the heavy silk tie and admired his reflection in the mirror.

  ‘OK, Spencer . . . we have to talk about your glasses.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes we do.’ Annie leaned in to tell him gently, as if breaking seriously bad news, ‘I’m sorry, this may come as a terrible shock, but those are gay glasses.’

  ‘Oh? The glasses? The glasses are gay?’ He sounded completely taken aback.

  ‘Yup. Definitely,’ she assured him. ‘Your shoes too. Too pointed and with top-stitching. I’d even say the belt as well. Women pick up on these things and you are giving off a gay vibe. Which is obviously great . . . if you’re gay. But you’re not. Right?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘You need something smaller, maybe with a silver frame . . .’ She reached up to take off his glasses and stared quite unapologetically at his face. Not bad, she was thinking, in need of some general upgrading but some excellent period features.

  ‘You’d look very handsome with contacts,’ she told him. ‘We definitely need a moss green tie for you. With those distracting red frames, I hadn’t noticed your eyes were green. We need to find you ties in exactly the same shade. But don’t wear them with the pink shirt . . . obviously.’

  Spencer had the decency to blush slightly. He was really quite nice; she was warming to him by the moment and wondering how she could arrange an out-of-store meeting . . . or at the very least a follow-up shopping session.

  ‘Try on the Paul Smith,’ she told him. ‘I’ll go in search of ties.’

  As she stepped out of the suite, she ran right into Delia.

  ‘Annie, I’m back . . . laden down!’ An even happier Delia was carrying one of The Store’s pink rubber shopping baskets and waving a shiny, gold-lettered bag from the cosmetics department: ‘Oh, I’ve been pampered,’ she confided, ‘let me tell you!’

  She held open the bag to show Annie the array of mini pots, sachets and trial sizes the girls in Cosmetics had no doubt been charmed into handing over to her.

  ‘OK, here’s my basket.’

  Annie ushered her to a till well away from the shopping suite. Donna would be out of there like an angry wasp any moment and Annie didn’t want to be caught doing anything Donna could sting her for. But there was no question of letting Delia down.

  Annie tapped her code into the computer and rang up Delia’s treats: four pairs of Sloggi super-comfort thongs, size 22, Chanel’s No. 5 bath soap and a Mac nail varnish in brightest orange.

  All good choices. Every woman, no matter how hard pressed, needed box-new, comfortable thongs in the knicker drawer, a perfectly indulgent bar of soap and a flash of designer colour, even if it was just on the nails.
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  Delia picked up the soap and sniffed it deeply: ‘I love this. Absolutely love it. And I get to smell like Nicole Kidman,’ she cackled. ‘In a big bag please, Annie.’ Delia winked at her. ‘Today I’m a customer at The Store, not just the cleaner.’

  Delia was just bustling out of sight when Donna stormed out, looking for her next assassination victim. Annie should really spike Donna’s mineral water with Valium, she thought. For everyone’s benefit.

  Donna spotted her at the till and for one long, eerie moment stared straight at her. But then she carried on.

  With a selection of ties in her hand, Annie headed back to the suite, taking a moment to pep-talk Paula, before she returned to Spencer.

  ‘C’mon, girl,’ she said and passed Paula a tissue. ‘Don’t let the Queen of Spleen get you down. Do a stint on the sales floor and then I’ll wangle you back in here again. Honest. You just need practice. More experience with the customers. Donna forgets how long I’ve been doing this for. C’mon.’ Annie worried about the proximity of Paula’s nails to her tearful eyes. ‘We’re supposed to go out tonight, aren’t we?’ Annie reminded her. ‘So, get changed. Glad rags on. Touch up the face. I’ll be with you in’ – she checked her watch – ‘twenty or so.’

  Spencer was tiring of trying new things on. Men’s shopping tolerance was so tragically low, she’d noted before. It was time to close the deal with him . . . on all fronts.

  Two suits, four shirts, two green ties (he must have liked the eye compliments), a pale suede blazer – dangerously expensive but he went for it when she told him (fairly truthfully) how very like Pierce Brosnan he looked in it – two T-shirts and six pairs of new boxers, because ‘You never know,’ she’d winked at him cheekily.

  ‘I’ve never, ever bought this much all at once before.’ He looked concerned at the packed rail they’d amassed.

  ‘You look great in everything,’ she assured him. ‘You’re going to love wearing these clothes, you’re going to get total value for money from them and wear them to bits. You’ve got to start going out straight away. This week! Tonight!’ Was that hint enough?

  But nothing came, so she prompted: ‘What’s your idea of a good night out?’

  He thought for a moment before telling her: ‘You know what I like? A really well-made gin and tonic in a great bar. Somewhere with atmosphere, not too noisy, not too quiet. Somewhere . . .’

  ‘Classy,’ she finished his sentence.

  ‘I can’t stand cocktails and girlie drinks, happy hour all that sort of thing,’ he added.

  ‘No, no. Me neither,’ she nodded and fibbed outrageously, ‘Cocktails? Oh no . . .’ but these words just served to summon up Paula, in a spray-on black dress and neon heels, and her high-volume question: ‘Annie, are you ready yet?! We’re going to miss happy hour at Freddy’s and we’re sharing a jug of margaritas after the day I’ve had.’

  Classy. Oh yes.

  ‘Theatre? I bet you like the theatre?’ Annie made one last attempt at somehow connecting with Spencer, as she rang up his purchases.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m going to the Noël Coward thing that’s just opened, what’s it called again?’

  Sunshine was breaking through the clouds.

  ‘After the Ball? When are you going?’ Annie could barely contain her grin.

  ‘Thursday night, I think.’

  ‘No! Really,’ she gushed. ‘My friend is in one of the lead roles and that’s the night he’s invited me along. He says Thursday night is the real theatre buff’s night.’ She was making this up as she went along. Every word. Well, OK, apart from Connor being the lead.

  ‘Really!’ Spencer didn’t sound quite as pleased as she’d hoped.

  ‘I might see you there then, in your fabulous new clothes.’

  ‘Well, yes . . . That would be nice . . .’

  ‘And contact lenses,’ she advised. ‘Either a small metal rim or contacts. Definitely.’

  ‘Right . . . er . . .’

  It was hard to judge from so few words whether Spencer was pleased at this turn of events, or worried that he now had a stalker on his hands.

  Chapter Seven

  Megan’s outfit for her ex-husband’s wedding:

  Missoni dress (The Store)

  Manolo boots (The Store)

  Gucci bag (Gucci)

  Philip Treacy hat (The Store)

  3.5-carat emerald engagement ring (Ex-husband)

  Cartier diamond watch (Ex-husband)

  Asprey gold and diamond bracelet (Ex-husband)

  Est. cost £220,000

  ‘I want to look everything his cheap little girlfriend is not.’

  ‘Nooooooooooooo!’ shrieked Taylor. She yanked the four-figure silky, frothy Matthew Williamson creation up over her head and tossed it onto the floor.

  ‘No more empire lines! I’ve tried on six now and they all make me look fucking pregnant!’

  ‘Taylor!’ Megan warned in knee-jerk reaction to the swearing.

  Annie was so exhausted, she was going to have to lie down and mainline an energy drink when this ordeal was finally over. She’d already been with Taylor and her terrifying mother, Megan, for one and a half hours: they’d booked a double session.

  Dressing them was like the Personal Shopper Olympics. Annie was always surprised when they came back to her, because she was sure these Vogue, Harpers and Net-a-porter experts, these females wealthy enough to shop for everything they could possibly need in The Store, even groceries, knew far more about up-to-the-nanosecond fashion than she ever could.

  She suspected she was brought in, like the UN, to serve in a peacekeeping role when this precocious 16-year-old went frock hunting with her beautiful mama.

  Taylor was, like every teenage girl, a special shopping challenge.

  She was extraordinarily pretty with long flicky blond hair and the lean, perfectly proportioned body and dewy complexion born of great genes and lashings of money.

  Taylor was made of fresh air, skiing holidays, summers on the beach under factor 30, sensible boarding-school food, a mild eating disorder and daily workouts on the hockey pitch.

  Here to choose outfits for Taylor’s father’s remarriage, it didn’t look as if they were ever going to agree because Megan wanted Taylor to wear something sweet and girly, whereas Taylor wanted the kind of dress a 30-year-old vamp would consider daring.

  Taylor had dismissed all suits as ‘bo-oh-ring’, including a gorgeous pale pink Miu Miu which had inspired her to say: ‘Look at me, I’m Lady Penelope,’ and then do a really quite funny impersonation of the Thunderbirds puppet.

  In pale blue velvet and lace, while Megan and Annie had sighed at how divine she was, Taylor had pulled a face and gone: ‘Yeuchh! What a drip!’

  All the cute empire lines had been tossed off in horror and Annie was beginning to wonder what more The Store could offer.

  ‘I want the black wrap! Pleeeeease,’ Taylor whined, sounding more and more like the spoiled and pampered princess she was.

  Megan drew herself up to full height, formidable in head to toe Dior, sighed and looked at Annie for back-up before explaining once again: ‘Taylor, you cannot wear black to your father’s wedding. Absolutely no! Look,’ she added bitchily, ‘I don’t think he should be marrying a twenty-two-year-old Romanian gymnast either, but we can’t go in mourning and that’s final.’

  Annie had to turn her mind to very sad and lonely thoughts, to prevent herself from snorting with laughter at this.

  The hour spent finding Megan’s perfect outfit for the social and emotional ordeal of attending her exhusband’s remarriage had passed satisfyingly well.

  Megan had come in with a wonderfully clear idea: ‘I want a severely smart dress. Nothing soft, nothing flouncy, nothing flared. I want perfect tailoring, I want to look everything his . . .’ dramatic pause to deliver these words as witheringly as possible, ‘cheap, little girlfriend is not: sophisticated, cultured, complicated, intelligent, elegant and grown-up.’

  Annie, with a Parisian vis
ion of chic in her mind, had installed Megan in a changing room then run from floor to floor bringing her everything that could possibly comply with this description.

  It hadn’t taken long to find the dress: cream with an olive-coloured leaf print, narrow skirt, tight waist with a wide striped belt, close-cut bodice with a high ruffled neckline.

  ‘It’s not soft,’ she’d promised Megan, ‘it’s supremely elegant.’ It was also Missoni and comfortingly extortionate.

  Wide, three-quarter-length balloon sleeves completed the dress, so Megan could display her most extravagant gold bracelet, diamond-studded watch and enormous emerald ring to full effect.

  ‘I want suede stiletto boots to go with this and, of course, a hat,’ she’d instructed.

  These had taken longer to get exactly right, but finally, a vision of ex-wife perfection had been created.

  ‘Genius.’ Megan had allowed herself to smile in the mirror.

  Annie had stepped back to admire her handiwork. The tiny hat with long, spiked pheasant feathers was breathtaking on top of Megan’s angular silhouette. How did Megan look? She looked just what she was: an extremely beautiful, bitter brunette who was far, far from over the biggest disappointment of her life. Her marriage to Mr Fabulously Wealthy Bigwig had ended and she was still devastated by her loss of status.

  Although – Annie couldn’t help thinking – surely the jewels and the annual allowance, generous enough to make small African nations weep, must be of some comfort? She wondered if Megan had thought about finding a new husband yet . . . and did she dare to ask her where she was going to look?

  ‘The best thing about this outfit,’ Megan had noted with triumph, ‘is that, with jewellery, it will have cost him five times more than what the bride will be wearing. Poor little girl, she has no idea what she’s in for. Romanian gymnast!’ she’d snorted. ‘Let’s hope that Victor and his penis will be very happy.’