“There’s no need for that.”
The following weekend I went to look at the shed, or “the office” as we started to call it. We had a tiny electric heater, more cable extensions and plugs than any person with common sense would have allowed in a wooden structure, but it was “home”.
Who would have imagined that? – From a simple secretary with a passion for clothes I ended up with my own firm, a job full of surprises which allowed me to meet wonderful people. It wasn’t always easy, but I knew I could make my own destiny. What was most important, I had people around me who loved me and whom I loved, even if, at that point, I hadn’t yet found that elusive boyfriend. Ritchie was right, I should have worked harder on that front. He took a chance and even if he didn’t have a happy ending, he had found love. He would still keep looking for the love of his life, having lost, who might have been the one (as far as he was concerned), and I sincerely hoped that he would find another. I should also do the same. In that very moment, I understood what was missing from my life, what I needed was to be to feel fulfilled.
What was waiting for us in the future who knew, maybe one day we could become big enough to take London by storm; but at that point, I admit, I was only daydreaming.
The End
******
More from this author…
Blue and Green Should Never be Seen!
(or so Mother says)
COLETTE KEBELL
CHAPTER 1
Norwegian jumpers for Christmas? Oh, come off it! I do have some ethics, after all.
This guy is driving me nuts.
You might think the decline started in 2008, when the recession hit us all, but actually no. The BIG problem started when I decided I could improve the world by expanding my business. Adding a male section to my personal shopping website seemed the right thing to do at that time. After all, why limit my expertise to only half of the world? I was wrong – no, I was deeply wrong, on so many levels.
At first people thought, unbelievably and for a reason I could not fathom, that it was a dating website and spammed me. “Hey, is it you in that picture?” or, even worse, “What size are you?” Among those, there was the odd genuine person who would have benefited from some style advice. But let’s be frank: they were only a few. Despite my polite answers (after all, I am a Personal Shopper) I soon realised there was no hope.
The latest request, received today, was from a Jasper Barnes, allegedly working as an entrepreneur in London, asking me to find him a Norwegian jumper. Size was included in the email. Personally, I don’t have anything against Norwegian jumpers. Some of them are beautiful. My best friends wear them. The problem is how to explain to a grown-up man that those sweaters make you look like Pippi Longstocking’s Norwegian uncle. May I offer you some reindeer jerky while you’re waiting?
Being a personal shopper is a dark art, with few tangible rewards. With the business spread by word of mouth, my clients would never admit they needed my assistance. Not even if they were put under torture. Let’s be honest: who would admit to being in need of a style consultant?
People need advice, and, often a fresh point of view helps in rejuvenating a wardrobe that, with time, has become boring. But would they admit it? Not a chance!
It’s like being an alcoholic: the first step is to admit you need help, and acknowledge that that pair of leggings, now you’re in your mid-fifties, don’t suit you anymore. When you have recognised that, you’re on the road to recovery, and my services will help you.
I started by chance, when I was in my late twenties. I’m a compulsive shopper, and I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. The right to shop should be up there in the constitution (if I still lived in America, that is), just below the “free exercise of religion” and the “freedom of speech”, and above the “right to keep and bear arms” (unless they come in different colours).
A sort of Amendment 1B: Congress shall make no law in respect of the free exercise of shopping; or abridging the freedom of a shopping spree; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble (except during the sales period), and spend on clothes and shoes. Banks shall invest in the people’s right to their pursuit of happiness, by means of fashion design.
So the big question is, do I satisfy a potential customer – someone who might have thousands of pounds to spend – and forget my beliefs? Is it worth bending my ethics to please a client, just because we are in a post-recession period (and I actually need the money)?
The simple answer is, “NO. Never. Not a chance in hell. Zilch.”
Dear Jasper,
Thank you for contacting me at GiGi-Personal Shopper. I reviewed your request for helping you to find a Norwegian jumper for this Christmas but, unfortunately, I have to decline the request.
As a Personal Shopper, I should inform you that we do not shop for specific items upon request. We prefer a more personal approach, where we spend time understanding our customer needs and have a full review of their current style in order to then propose suitable alternatives. It’s a slow process, I suppose, that would not fit your requirements.
I appreciate the difficulties you might have encountered in finding the above-mentioned item. To be honest, I recollect my grandfather having one, a long time ago, but since then they seem to have entirely disappeared from the face of the earth.
I definitely have in my memory a scene from the Norwegian film “Troll i Ord”, 1954, where they wear one. Since “The Eiger Sanction” (starring Clint Eastwood, 1975), where the main character moved on to wearing a neck jumper, fashion seems to have evolved, somewhat, inexplicably.
I asked my partner to research the matter, and I understand there are niche markets for the item you requested. Please see the attached list for websites and shops (mostly in Norway) that could fulfil your desire for tradition.
Warmest (if you find your jumper) regards
GiGi Griswald.
You might have wondered about my surname. My dad is Swedish with perhaps a sprinkle of German (hence the surname), while my mother is actually Italian. We also have a pinch of Maltese and French somewhere in our ancestry, but that’s another story. I took my passion for clothes and fashion from my mother; otherwise, I would have had my own flat-pack clothes shop by now. What I found funny is that they called me Griselda, which means “Dark Battle” or some such in German. The reason behind that is still a mystery, and the two are not willing to give up the secret anytime soon.
I grew up in New York until I reached my tenth birthday, and then the family went back to Milan for a couple of years. The latter period was fundamental to my fashion imprinting, before we moved to the UK.
In my mid-twenties, I had what “they” call a credit-card problem. To me, it wasn’t an issue at all, and although I admit I was late with my payments, I thought I was exercising my rights, as per Amendment 1B above. Unfortunately the Bank Manager, a little sad man with no sense of imagination or social compassion, thought otherwise. He gave me an ultimatum: repay your debts or else!!
At that time, I was working for a small firm of solicitors in Berkshire and I hated every minute of it. At school I wasn’t great – not bad, but definitely not great. I found that many of the subjects were boring, or at least they were presented as such. No wonder I failed my GCSE in Domestic Economy – except I then become one of the most influential fashion trendsetters (not the dog) in the kingdom. Yeah, there is that little detail that I’m still not super-rich, but hey, the business is thriving, so no complaints there.
After a family meeting in my teens, we (?) decided that, owing to my non-bright school career, I should settle for a less demanding profession, and eventually the word “secretary” came out of someone’s mouth; I don’t remember whose. I was indeed fast at typing and quite smart, and during those years of teen-laziness, the job suited me well. Earning money was no longer an issue, except for the fact that I like shopping.
Yeah, you bet: by the tenth of the month I had made many shopkeepers happy. In some cases, I think
I even contributed to sending some of their children to university, considering the amount of money I spent. Something needed to be done. In order to be successful in life, you need to have a plan. I had one, although maybe mine wasn’t the smartest one.
My plan followed the dictate of the major business universities of the world, such as Harvard and Oxford, and was a “best of breed” in the industry. It was simple, clear and concise: I needed more money. As you can imagine, that didn’t take me very far; after all, I was still a simple secretary. But even in the world of secretariat, people can progress and enhance. There are CEOs all over the country who need a bright mind to sort out their mess – what they call a Personal Assistant, which is nothing other than a secretary with a posh name and a hefty salary. You name it, the world was my oyster, and I only needed the right knife and right technique to open that damn mollusc. I needed to find my niche.
The first objective was really quite simple: find a job, get some experience under my Ferragamo pink belt, and then move on to a higher-paid job. After one year of window-shopping and struggle, I was ready to make my move. And so I did. The new job was paying a substantial three thousand pounds more a year (gross) than my first one. No more rummaging in the TK Maxx sale bargain bucket, like a homeless person in search of that discarded treasure in the bin, which never comes. No more scavenging the Primark department store in search of that shirt that, if well matched with a proper skirt and accessory, will not look cheap. Maybe I could even avoid delaying buying until the sale season. To be honest, I quite liked the word “season” associated with the sale one. That was a perfect description of me – a real bargain hunter, who lets the prey’s population grow until it’s time, and then goes in for the kill.
The reality hit me in the face two pay packets later, when I realised there was this guy going around called “Mr Inflation”, who took all the fun out of my hard-earned, well-deserved salary. “Mr Inflation”: a kryptonite who sucked all the spending power out of my wage.
The bastard.
A revised strategy was soon due, so I started working some evenings and weekends as a nanny. It wasn’t going to earn much, or change my life, but, it gave a bit of oxygen to my finances, although I knew from the start that it would be more like the last breath on a sinking “Titanic” rather than a fresh breeze in the spring. But I landed distinctly well, with a Pakistani family not far from where I lived. At that point, I was still living with my parents in a decent-sized house near Bray. The neighbourhood was wealthy and in need of good, trustworthy nannies who could guard the precious and beloved children while their parents went out for a boozy night. They were family friends, lived across the road, and with a small push from Mum, there you go. I was hired.
******
If you want to continue reading Blue and Green Should Never Be Seen! (Or so Mother Says) you can find it on Amazon from this link:
http://mybook.to/BandG
If you want to keep up with the news of what is coming next please check my website at www.colettekebell.com to find out more.
You can also find my author pages at
https://www.goodreads.com/ColetteKebell
or
https://www.facebook.com/ColetteKebellAuthor
Or join me on twitter @colettekebell
I am still writing as I have enjoyed writing this as much as I hope you have enjoyed reading it. Thank you once again for buying my book and hopefully those that are to follow.
The Retail Therapist Page 10
