“Hmm … well … yes, of course; I’m deeply sorry,” (he wasn’t) “but my previous meeting ran over.” Oh dear, now he was going to tell me how important his busy life was and bla bla, bloody bla!
I kept wondering what Ritchie, that little backstabbing Brutus, had told him about me. Did he send him a picture of me? Which one? For sure, the traitor didn’t just rely on showing him the one on our website. We stopped that project weeks ago, as we didn’t have the funds to go online yet. Maybe one he kept on his mobile? Oh my God, I knew it: he sent him the one where I was dancing on the tables in that Irish pub, drunk as a skunk. What’s worse, I was in JEANS!!! That might explain why I had attracted Jasper’s attention, for sure a bad style fetishist, dressed by his mum.
Ritchie, my dear friend of olden times, YOU ARE DEAD! And if you aren’t yet, I’ll kill you with my bare hands once I’m back at the office.
“What are you and Ritchie up to?” I asked, without giving him the chance to poison my ears with his blatant excuses.
“Oh, straight to business? Very well; let’s order a bite first, and then I can lay down my commercial proposition.” He made a gesture to the waitress, who arrived promptly. He ordered a minute steak with coffee, while I decided in favour of the burger Normandie, which I was going to wash down with a French beer. Did he just say “business proposition”? So this was not a date? What were this guy and Ritchie up to, behind my back? If this guy was an entrepreneur and wanted to buy my business he was definitely out of his mind. Yes, we had a little, tiny, weensy, minuscule issue with cash flow, but that was because we had just opened the office in London. Yeah, OK, we overstretched ourselves and although our customer base was healthy, maybe taking on an office in the capital was more than we could chew at this very moment in time. Hey, but don’t they always say in those Dragon’s Den programmes that you need money to make money, or was that something my mother kept saying? Maybe it was just the profit/turnover ratio? Never mind; the chap in front of me meant business in the literal sense of the term. OK, I offer twenty per cent of the business in exchange for two hundred thousand pounds equity (making my firm worth a hefty million. Here, take that counteroffer, Mr Bannatyne, all coming from Ritchie’s share).
“My business proposition is very simple. I’m going to open the largest fashion department store in London; we’re renovating a disused warehouse right in front of your office and we’re going to shame Bond Street and Mayfair. The Battersea Fashion Centre will be the future destination of millions of shoppers from around the world, getting the best quality at affordable prices – and I’ve chosen you to run the store. What d’you think?”
What did I think, WHAT DID I THINK, WHAT DID I THINK? He was kidding me! I run my own company, work for myself! I don’t know this man from Adam and he wants me to run his little store?
“Jasper, I’m not a store manager. We’re a consultancy firm specialising in providing people with new styles, helping them to maximise their looks and appearance. It’s a niche market with very specific customers …”
“I know that,” he interrupted me, “and that’s the beauty of it. You could use your skills to make it a success.”
I didn’t like it, not one single, little bit – and something sounded odd about his proposition.
“What about my firm? I’ve invested a lot of time and effort into it …”
“Griselda, we’ve analysed your business model and it’s not scalable. You’re, what – barely getting by? Yours is a lifestyle business; I’m proposing you manage the new Harrods of fashion, here in London. I’m not interested in your current business.”
WHAT? How dare you! It was true we’d had some financial problems, but hey, we were a start-up company. That was no reason to diminish my business, making it look like a hobby just because he had millions of pounds to spend. Then, he dropped the bomb.
“You’ll have an initial salary of a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, plus commission to be agreed upon. Think about it.”
My head was spinning. That would allow me to buy a house, a walk-in wardrobe, have a gold credit card to swoosh at every corner. Enough of scraping the barrel and going underground; that would open the door to shops I had dared not enter.
“I’ll have to consult my business partner, Ritchie, and see what he thinks.”
“Hmm … well … about that: I’m not interested in Ritchie, I’m afraid. He’s a nice guy, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not the kind of person we’re looking to hire for our store. Maybe I could give him a basic job as a clerk, on one of the floors?”
No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. Ritchie, out of the game? No way. It was hard for me to admit it – I always pretend that I’m the brains, legs and heart of this venture –but the reality was that I couldn’t have done it without Ritchie. He was my partner; we bounced ideas back and forth all the time, and he’d always been there when I needed him. He picked me up when I was on the verge of abandoning everything to stick to a regular job, and he believed in what we were doing as much as I did. And he was my BEST FRIEND.
No way. They could have paid me millions and I’d have still refused.
“Look, Ritchie is part of …”
“This is not negotiable,” he interrupted me, again. Clearly he wasn’t interested in what I had to say, and that ended the conversation.
“Very well, Jasper. I’m afraid I have to reject your offer, then.”
“I see. You’ll regret this, Griselda; you’ll be crushed in the process and it’s a battle you can’t win. Nothing personal: this is business.”
How could he sit there and say this wasn’t personal? He just didn’t get it, did he? This was the very essence of my personality and my life, which was going to be pulverised by a multi-million, multi-national, multi-arsehole business. He was asking me to betray my best friend. This was as personal as it could get!
I opened my purse, put a twenty-pound note on the table to pay for a lunch I hadn’t consumed, and left the table. He stood up to shake my hand, but I refused. Exiting, I noticed that his bum was not as great and juicy as I’d first thought.
“How did it go?” asked Ritchie, when I exited the elevator and stormed into my office, barely holding back my tears. “Oh, don’t tell me,” he continued, “I can see for myself.”
He followed me into my office, but he remained standing on the threshold of the door.
“Do you want to talk?” he asked me cautiously.
I explained to him the business proposition, except for the part about him being left with a simple clerk’s job, if he was lucky.
“You must be crazy! I mean, a hundred and twenty grand? Think about how that could change our life, the spin we could give to that place.”
“Ritchie, we have something here that we’ve built together. It might be small, but it’s our dream, what we’ve discussed many times sitting in bars sipping beers. We made that dream come true, our dream come true. I don’t want to lose it.”
He was upset and started biting his nails, as he always does when he’s nervous or mulling something over. You should be edgy, Ritchie, especially if you knew the whole truth.
“Oh, sod it!” he eventually exclaimed. “We’d lose our independence, we’d have to deal with a bunch of tourists who wouldn’t appreciate our efforts, and we’d be left with just a hefty amount of money to spend. You know – buying a house, clothes, maybe a car and a place in France for vacationing. How ordinary. It wouldn’t be worth it, darling; you made the right decision.” And so he went back to his desk.
I knew he was disappointed, but at least he didn’t give me a hard time (much). That’s what real friends are for. He didn’t need to know.
CHAPTER 6
Marianne was the very one who put the seed in my mind. After that initial visit to the underground retail shop, we went to another secret location in Ascot, which specialised in accessories.
She was lost at the beginning, as the place was full of handbags and shoes, and she didn’t know where to start.
I have to explain one thing to you: I have a photographic memory and also a wardrobe memory, if such a thing exists. Let’s clarify this point. If I see something related to fashion, I can remember (and I mean it) the exact colour, size, shop (or the wardrobe) where I saw it and in which rack. I’m not sure how I got this gift, but there it is, possibly something related to the evolution of the species – you know, one of those freaky mutations that happen once in a while in nature and allow the survival of the fittest.
“Look, Marianne, this purple bag would go perfectly with the dress you bought last week.” I showed the item with such enthusiasm it almost slipped from my hands. You can’t understand what I feel when I find a perfect match. It’s pure joy, true romance – like Romeo meeting Juliet, Fred and Ginger, gin and tonic or even the Queen and Prince Phillip. Two items a world apart, from different backgrounds or nations, come together to perfectly fit a woman. Gee, it’s like when a bridge is finally finished and the architect contemplates the beauty and the result of his efforts; Leonardo painting the final brush stroke on the Gioconda. It gives a sense of accomplishment that can be felt in your bones, makes you vibrate and resound, finally in harmony with yourself.
Marianne looked at me, embarrassed, and asked, “Which one? We bought so many.”
I couldn’t believe it; she was almost hopeless. “Come on Marianne: the long dress, the pale-grey, lightweight knitted Ted Baker we found in Windsor, the one with the metallic border that twisted down the front. Can’t you see it? – the bag, the clothes and that pair of shoes, the purple and grey square-fronted, peep-toed Nicole Farhi ones with the circular heel that you showed me last week, the ones in your wardrobe on the left side.
At that moment it clicked. I was right in that obscure place in Ascot and I coined what would become my motto: “The Clothes, the Shoes and the Handbag maketh the woman.”
“Yes … ermm … I think you’re right. Now I see it.” I wasn’t completely sure if she actually got it or if she was only going along with me without having a clue what I was talking about. But I didn’t really care; I was on a mission to make her look good, stand out from the crowd, become an example for all those women out there who don’t have a style. There is hope. You can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and with a little help from your friend GiGi you can also come out on the opposite side safe, sound and beautifully elegant. May the fashion force be with you.
She was still struggling to match items and colours, but she would learn. And if she didn’t, I was only a phone call away. We ended our safari a couple of hours later, tired but satisfied with the prey we’d caught.
Her request for help came the following day, when Marianne and her hubby had been invited to dinner by some friends of theirs. I arrived at the house in a hurry, as soon as I’d finished work, but a good hour and a half in advance of when my nanny duty was due to start, and it was pandemonium.
The girls let me in and I ran upstairs, two steps at a time, like a firefighter when someone’s life needed saving. The room looked like the aftermath of an explosion: clothes all over the bed, shoes dispersed on the floor – and I could actually see one hanging from the en-suite handle – various items strewn around, unpaired, and Marianne sitting on the floor contemplating the mess. Her eyes were lost in the empty space in front of her and she was repeating, almost chanting, “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!”
I braced myself and sat down next to her, hugging her. I hoped she wasn’t going to start crying, as I couldn’t have stood that, and she would definitely have made me cry too (it’s infectious!). I needed to keep my calm if I wanted to save the day.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked tentatively, and she looked at me as if I was an alien.
“I don’t remember what goes with what. I tried a few combinations, as you said, but … I don’t remember and everything seems so difficult when you aren’t around.” I caught her before she started sobbing and ruined her make-up.
“Not a problem.” I said, very unsure of where to start. I looked at the clutter around me, trying to recognise some familiar items. “You said it’s a dinner with friends. How many? I mean, is it a dinner where you sit at a table, or a sort of cocktail party with nibbles etc.?”
She was coming back. “It’s sort of a cocktail party, around twenty people – you know the kind of thing, where waiters are going around and you pick what you like from the platters.”
“OK! Got it.”
Another look around and I knew what I had to do. I picked up a Nougat dress in pale grey with a pastel floral pattern running down one side. What set it off was the silk under-dress, which was barely visible at the bottom, but leaves you feeling rather sexy with the silk next to your skin, and, I paired it up with a pair of Jimmy Choo lamé sandals; the metallic light-grey colour would go perfectly with the bag that I was holding.
“Try this combination and let me know what you think.”
She stood up and reluctantly tried the beautiful outfit I showed her, then the shoes and the bag. A big grin spread across her face; eventually she nodded, satisfied. Just the look on her face was worth running there. “My hubby will be happy. He’s in the study and he usually refuses to come out until I’m ready. For once I’ll be downstairs early; he’ll be shocked.” She looked around and realised what a state their bedroom was in.
“Don’t worry; you go and enjoy your dinner. I can sort this out. Let me know when you’re going so I can come downstairs and look after the girls.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this …”
“Don’t worry; it’s a pleasure – really.” She left the room and I started sorting out the clothes. She had actually made some room in her wardrobe and thrown away the monster clothes. They would probably be sitting in the local charity shop soon, ready to make some old lady happy.
I arranged them by colour – and then it hit me. I ran to the girls’ room and asked, “Do you have any labels that you could spare? And a pen?”
The girls were happy to comply and off I went, back to the main bedroom, ready to rock and roll.
After a while Marianne called, to say they were going. I went downstairs to close the door, and guys, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Mr Barzani was all affectionate, a sort of hungry Pakistani octopus who had just found its next prey. Marianne grinned and winked at me and off they went.
“Girls, we have a project to do,” I shouted from the hallway, once the door was safely closed behind me. “Bring the computer.”
It wasn’t a working evening, but for a good hour I amused them while trying to work out an Excel sheet, glad that the two girls knew more about computers than I did. We looked at the end results and we were all satisfied. Uzma was in charge of typing and Laila gave her input to make the spreadsheet look pretty, with fancy colours and borders.
Job done.
One Excel spreadsheet listing all the new clothes in a table, while in another two there were the all the bags, shoes, coats and accessories that could be matched. What ingenious work: now you could list what to wear and BANG, you got the answer. Laila suggested we could actually add pictures of all the items, because just with the numbers it wasn’t pretty. The girl had a brain, despite her early age.
So then we started a photographic safari. It was a new game and the kids were more than happy to oblige, making my life easier. The expedition ran without any hassle and by ten in the evening we were done. A masterpiece was created.
I sent them to bed and went downstairs to finalise the work. I thought that in addition to the “What to wear” sheet I should have done a “What not to wear” one – the combinations that would definitely lead to a disaster. Those would have given Marianne the opportunity to change and experiment without being bound to my model. I printed the lot and placed it in a folder in her walk-in wardrobe, to be found by Marianne once she returned.
The day after, I learned that the new outfit had earned her a huge amount of praise. Even Mr Barzani demonstrated his appreciation very passionately
during the night.
From that moment on, I became her consultant; she also suggested I could buy items on her credit card, or alternatively she would happily pay cash for my effort. She gave me the freedom to go and buy clothes on her behalf. The clothes matrix I prepared proved very useful, freeing her from the dependence of having me around. From nanny, my job had now officially become Fashion Consultant.
CHAPTER 7
“WE GOT A JO-O-O-O-OB!” shouted Ritchie from the other room. Finally! The move to London had almost bankrupted us; we still had a decent number of customers I was serving, but it was definitely not enough. If we wanted to go global, we needed some capital injections from the rich, tasteless women from the capital.
“What kind of job?” I shouted back.
“A rich one, darling. A Lady Whilsham is in need of our services and comes highly recommended by Mrs Lewis, who comes recommended by Mrs Peasmarsh and blahdi blahdi bla …”
“Hey, don’t criticise my system! – and bring Mrs. Lewis’ folder. I need to refresh my memory.”
The system was simple, but an effective one. I archived a description of each item I bought for each customer, plus a personality profile and a few additional notes on likes and dislikes. While I was bound to secrecy (I don’t want to spill the beans, and let new customers know actually how much one of my previous customers needed me), a certain amount of hints were allowed. Not openly saying, but letting it be understood that we, as a firm, had some input in certain matters that we weren’t at liberty to discuss, but that made some difference in the end, etc., etc., etc.
“Open a new file on Lady Whilsham. Sounds posh, by the way. What kind of services?” My head was spinning; each new customer was an individual one, posing different challenges – new attire to buy, then soon discover their personalities, what made them what they were. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of new customers in the morning.
Blue and Green Should Never be Seen! (Or so Mother says) Page 3
