Blue and Green Should Never be Seen! (Or so Mother says)

by Colette Kebell

  “Oh, I forgot: Silver, Gold or Platinum?” I asked. We had started classifying our customers the previous year. It wasn’t actually based on their wealth, as you might think, but rather on the level of effort required to salvage the situation. Silver meant an easy, short-term consultancy: you know, to bring a lost sheep back onto the right path, while Platinum was reserved for the most desperate cases. They were the ones with orange tans wearing dolls’ costumes and blonde hair extensions, the Madonna wannabes, the people who couldn’t distinguish grandmother attire from a jute sack.

  “This is definitely a Platinum one,” squealed Ritchie. “May I come with you this time, darling? Please, please, please: I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, while reading the email Ritchie had just forwarded to me, and not finding any source of information.

  “Hellllloooooo? She’s from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. I know that means nothing to a mountain girl like you, brought down to civilisation by the flood, but here, among advanced and educated people, that means money. Money means spending power in the most luxurious shops in London. If that isn’t enough to make a point, she actually needs our help. Well, darling, that is indeed a Platinum.”

  His reasoning was impeccable and I had no way to retort.

  “Very well, Ritchie. We’ll work together on this one.”

  “Oh my love, you won’t regret it. Thank you, thank you and thank you!”

  We set an appointment for the following Tuesday; we still had a couple of Platinums and a Gold in need of our services that week.

  In the meantime the work on the building in front of us started with a fanfare. They erected scaffolding all over it and on top of it, the biggest advertisement one could ever imagine, explaining that the new Battersea Fashion Centre was due to open shortly. The ads depicted shoes and purses, in an attempt to attract the bystanders, promising a world of style for cheap money. Jasper was putting serious money into it and I was worried.

  But then it hit me! It wouldn’t make any difference to us; we had a very different market. Jasper had missed the very essence of my job. It was true that I could help people to look smart at a reasonable price, but that wasn’t the point. All that was already available; there were outlets all over the country, and shops where you could buy inexpensive items were out there too. It was mixing them up in the right way that was the secret. He was just building a huge grocery store, forgetting that the chef is the one who makes the difference. You have to have your own recipes and know how to balance colours. It was like Tesco vs. Heston Blumenthal, the colour factory vs. Vermeer, a brick company vs. Michelangelo. Very different ballparks.

  He would make money – more than I could ever imagine – but that wasn’t the point. Well, it was in some respects: after all, I was trying to run a business, but what I wanted to say is that I had a vision, a dream, where people could look good without having to spend a fortune; where they could learn and get better at picking clothes and matching them. The Battersea Fashion Centre would only make items available, without teaching anything. That wasn’t enough: far from it. I had in my mind the examples of a few customers who had decided to go rogue and not take my advice, and they ended up in tragedy, just to come back begging for help later on. If nothing else, I would have a source of raw material just on my doorstep.

  It was time to celebrate our victory, instead of crying with despair. A nice cup of tea was long overdue. I went into the kitchen and brewed one for myself and one for Ritchie.

  “This evening we have to celebrate our victory against Goliath, my dear friend,” I said, putting the cup of tea on his desk “Let’s have a party!”

  He turned his head away from the computer and, with a sceptical look on his face, asked “What? Did you win the lottery that you aren’t even playing?”

  I didn’t believe in the lottery; he was right. I was a firm believer that people make their own destiny and for the majority of us that means working hard and making our dreams come true.

  “No, I didn’t. It’s even better than that.”

  “An American uncle died and left you millions? You got a contract from the government asking you to design the new army uniforms? Because that I would like. Imagine having to do field trips where I have to cope with all those naked soldiers in front of me. That would be a sartorial dream.”

  “No, it’s even better than that too.” While I explained my plot, Ritchie’s jaw started dropping. I didn’t know at that point if he fully realised what I was saying – my vision, The “Master Plan”.

  “Darling, I’m not sure what you put in that tea of yours, but I want some as well.”

  He was sceptical, of course. I was sceptical, too.

  “Come on – the firm will pay for the party.”

  “In that case, you’re a genius.” We both laughed loudly and decided that we were done for the day. It was time for celebration.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Today we celebrate victory against the empire of evil and bad taste. It has been a long battle and a few of our credit cards and savings accounts perished in the process. Their sacrifice will not be in vain and they will be remembered – mostly because the bank keeps sending those annoying payment notes through the post. We feared for a moment for our lives, but Ritchie and I came out of it safe and sound. We’re here to stay, and to work for a better-dressed world. May the force (of fashion) be with you.”

  I admit, I’d had a couple of tequilas too many, but I meant every single word of it – whatever I said: I’m not so sure I remember. We had invited a dozen of our friends and that, perhaps, was a mistake, considering Ritchie’s worried face at the mounting drinks tab. But hey, for once I felt confident that our enterprise was on the right track; we had to celebrate.

  I met Ritchie’s boyfriend that evening as well, after months of shilly-shallying: a Jonathan Rupert. Rupert was his surname. Probably Ritchie had felt he was the right one and avoided presenting him to me for fear of my passing bad judgement. He’s never been like that – ah, the love. Jonathan was a nice chap with a Mediterranean look and dressed in a grey suit; he was probably an “Armanian”. He had a part-time job in a coffee shop, while for the rest of the day he worked as an unsuccessful fashion designer. I felt he was already part of the family: he was indeed of our breed, spending his hard-earned salary on his appearance.

  They were a nice couple, and as soon as Ritchie started circling around me, trying to guess my approval or denial, I put him at ease by gesturing a thumbs-up. It was none of my business, to be honest, but I just wanted to see him happy and I thought he surely was.

  Further down were Helena and Adam, talking with Anne-Marie. The couple I’ve known since I was a kid, and Helena actually grew up in the same road as Ritchie and me: my two oldest mischievous friends. She wasn’t from a rich family, but when you’re a kid those things have little significance in life. We were as thick as thieves and inseparable. For some unknown reason she had a south London accent that made her mumble most of the time, making it hard to understand what she was actually saying. Adam, on the other hand, came from a family with old money and he was as posh as could be, although if one could forget his heritage, he was actually a down-to-earth guy. After an undisclosed number of elocution lessons, Helena was finally ready to be presented to the family and became Adam’s wife. Despite as much effort as they could muster, from the parents of both sides, to divide them, they were in love and thriving. In five months’ time she would give birth to their first child and that was an even better reason for celebrating tonight.

  Anne-Marie was also an old friend. We had met at school when her parents moved to England from France. Wine started becoming more popular in the UK and her father spotted a business opportunity in the import/export sector, making him one of the most influential distributors of French wine in the country. Anne-Marie and I clicked from the very beginning and soon afterwards I introduced her to my circle of friends.

  A few other old friends w
ere around that evening too, mostly from school, with the exception of Marianne, the most amazing talent scout I could ever hope to meet.

  Ritchie and I had a few gifts to share with our dear friends (who, incidentally, were also our involuntary marketing managers occasionally) that evening and after another round of drinks, we made a sign to the waiter, who helped us to hide the treasure.

  During the previous few weeks, we had reached an agreement with a few underground distributors to have a first sneak peek whenever they received new designs or samples. They didn’t need convincing, considering how much our customers or we spent in their shops and, therefore, it was actually a no-brainer. On the other side, being the first to have access to their new arrivals was a strategic advantage for us: less struggle for sizes, less of a kerfuffle to continue visiting shops that, frankly, were not exactly on our doorstep. In addition, as we had spent a few pennies to develop a proper computer program to manage our customers and their inventories, we had the possibility of instantly matching any new arrival to what our customers already had and therefore being proactive.

  The program was developed professionally, not a botched job made by two IT incompetents like Ritchie and I. A top-notch R&D developer from Hewlett Packard called Spencer made it; he happened to be married to an old friend of mine, Jasmine, who also happened to share my passion for fashion. Women can be extremely convincing, at times. As far as I understood, the negotiation went like this:

  - [Jasmine]: This friend of mine will need your help with a custom-built program, one you surely can do easily, to manage a clothes inventory.

  - [Spencer]: (while watching telly) Hmmmm.

  - [Jasmine]: I also found Hillary is going to the designer outlet in Ashford next week, I might tag along.

  - [Spencer]: OK, I got the point, but not now: I’m watching football.

  - [Jasmine]: Surely those carpets look disgusting, don’t you think? We should think of changing them one of these days.

  - [Spencer]: Yes, but why don’t …

  - [Jasmine]: … And the kitchen would benefit from a coat of paint. You promised that months ago.

  - [Spencer]: Hmmm.

  - [Jasmine]: You’re a computer genius; surely it can’t be too difficult to write a simple program for my dear friend.

  - [Spencer]: Do we have to talk now? Spurs are playing …

  - [Jasmine]: … And the shed’s a mess. We should do a trip to the dump this weekend, sorting out all that wood and rubbish you have in there.

  - [Spencer]: Ermm …

  - [Jasmine]: I was looking at our finances, and maybe we could cut that Sky Sports subscription, you know. Since we’ve had it, nothing is getting done in this house, maintenance-wise.

  - [Spencer]: I’ll do it one of these evenings, whe …

  - [Jasmine]: You know that my car is almost six years old, and it’s started making funny noises? I actually think it might be unsafe to drive. We talked about that new Volvo …

  - [Spencer]: I’m doing it – now calm down, OK? … See, the laptop is on! And I don’t want to be disturbed. Gimme a few days, will ya? (Television off.)

  And, as if by magic, the program was delivered in record time. The only thing to do was to fill it with all the information we had collected and we were ready to “rock and roll”. Yeah, of course Jasmine got a big present; who do you think I am?

  CHAPTER 9

  Following my first assignment, news spread fast, and Marianne’s transformation did not go unnoticed. While she had always been the centre of attention, now it was for the right reasons. She had amazed her circle of friends by her transformation, and now the news was that the new Marianne was cool: someone to envy, to look at and wonder about.

  But eventually she had to spill the beans to some of her closest friends. Right, she got some help. At the beginning this caused outrage among them, the words “cheating”, “deceitful” and “unfair” were thrown in the air a couple of times; but the smartest ones mulled it over, and eventually came to terms with the matter. After all, now Marianne was the star of the show, the one person people were looking at whenever there was a dinner party. Some phone numbers were covertly exchanged, promises not to disclose the secret were made, and from that moment on, I was in business.

  The phone call from Marjorie came a few days later. Introduced as Marianne’s auntie, she was a woman in her mid-fifties, lived in the Millionaire Street in Crowthorne and shared her mansion with a dozen cats. She was also referred to as “Lady Gaga”, for reasons far removed from her musical tastes, and she was a widower. Marianne told me that, after her husband’s departure, “Lady Gaga” – how should I say? – let herself down following the dark side of the force. Because my time was precious and I was a young, talented girl in search of her own space in the world, Marianne thought it suitable to inform Marjorie that my services would come at a price – either a flat fee of twenty thousand pounds, all inclusive, or a daily fee of five hundred pounds for a minimum of three weeks, five days a week. In the latter case, Marjorie would have had to pay for the clothes herself. They haggled for a while and eventually settled for eighteen thousand pounds on a flat-fee basis.

  I was astounded: even if I spent half of the money on clothes (which sounded unrealistic, considering my bargain underground contacts), that was more than a third of my annual salary.

  The doubts started visiting me at night. Blimey, I would have to file a tax return; and what about my job as a secretary? Would I be able to fulfil the expectations or will it turn into a disaster? The implications were huge: not only could I upset a potential customer, but Marjorie was a relative of Marianne’s and it wasn’t unheard of for relationships to turn bitter for much less than that.

  After a night spent tossing and turning in bed, I found myself resolute in my decision to make this work; on a temporary basis. What do they say in Dragon’s Den all the time? “Are you prepared to quit your job and dedicate all your energy to this enterprise?” I was indeed, but because I still had almost 20 days of vacation left, I took the safe option of using them instead. I didn’t say that, though, to the imaginary Peter Jones asking the damn question.

  I explained to my boss that my granny was on the verge of dying after a vast degree of suffering, and there were unavoidable matters I should attend to in Scotland – and so off I went. Poor Granny: she’s been sick at least twenty different times and in different parts of the empire during my short working career. The unbelievable thing was her timing; she was always unwell during the sales period, especially after Christmas and during the summer sales. But hey, you can’t control such things. They were all happy, once I was back at the office, that she always recovered fully soon afterwards. If she only knew …

  The following day, the alarm clock buzzed at 7.00 am and I was as ready to fight as I could be. Most importantly, I was ready not to disappoint my first real customer but to show her the path to enlightenment.

  I arrived at her house at 8.30 am sharp, in the very best outfit I could put my hands on. Wow! I had to drive through a majestic, silver-birch-lined driveway and the sun was shining through the leaves, giving the trees a lovely glow. I parked in front of the two-storey, yellow-brick Georgian building and my eyes were sore from the opulence of the place. I could see on the far left side a beautiful lawn, perfectly mown, and further down a small lake. Lines of red and white roses were surrounding the main building. On the right was a triple garage and … stables. This place had stables as well? Or maybe they were the cats’ mansions. If I wasn’t allergic to cats, I could have asked her to adopt me … OH-MY-GOD! How could I forget about that? I had been so engrossed with the opportunity offered to me, by daydreaming of making fashion my way of living, that I had forgotten this minute, ickle, insignificant detail.

  I was stuffed.

  “Oh, my dear, please do come in.” We shook hands and she invited me to follow. The lounge hosted at least twelve cats, but something told me “Lady Gaga” was not restricting all her little furry friends to that one ro
om. For sure, there would be more upstairs, and in the kitchen and bathroom…

  “Would you like a nice cup of tea, my dear? I’ve put the kettle on …”

  “That would be very nice of you, Miss Johnston.” I looked around, hoping to find one of those tennis umpire chairs to put as much distance between her beloved creatures and myself as I possibly could, but there was none. That is a level of sophistication that interior designers have not reached yet, so I made a mental note of it.

  “Oh, please – call me Marjorie; no need for formalities here. But please, sit down.” She made a gesture towards a brown leather sofa that had more scratches than a Freddy Kruger victim and moved one of the five or six cats that were using it as a bed. A meow signalled that the cat was not amused by the sudden change of position. I braced myself and sat between a Persian and a Heinz with at least 65 different flavours of cat in it. Marjorie introduced the family, one by one, and off she went to the kitchen to prepare a cuppa.

  Eighteen thousand pounds was not enough: not even close! Marjorie was in her mid-fifties, but she could easily have been seventy-five. She was wearing a pair of baggy dungarees and a red and pink flowery shirt. A straw garden hat was covering her curly, blond-white hair, which probably hadn’t seen a hairdresser in the past twenty years, making her look like Uncle Jesse’s British sister, straight out of The Dukes of Hazzard. I didn’t dare imagine what was waiting for me in her wardrobe.

  A cat was snuggling on my shoes, while another one showed some interest in my Mulberry handbag at my side. Keep your claws off it, or I swear to God …

  “Tea’s ready, my dear.” She served the beverage in a set of fabulous cups and … hang on … a Tiffany teapot in silver???? That was an exquisite item and, while I admit there are areas outside fashion that are complete black holes to me, I can recognise a piece of art when it’s right under my nose. Maybe there was hope after all. I started looking around and, underneath the cats, there were indeed some nice pieces of furniture; they also kept some of them clean by means of their furry status. The paintings on the walls were not to my taste, mostly ancient stuff, but I could see that they also had some value. The only exceptions were a couple of abstracts down by the window, near the garden, that could have been reproductions of Kandinsky. I actually had the same poster in my bedroom years ago … hang on! Reproductions wouldn’t fit well with Chippendale furniture and Tiffany teapots. Was it a test, or was it genuine? Help: am I getting the real measure of this woman???