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

by Colette Kebell

  The ones who hadn’t quite got around to adding lower levels yet were constantly pissed off with their neighbours and their contractors, as the roads looked like a permanent building site.

  We rang the bell and a butler (!) came to open the door; he didn’t introduce himself, but he definitely looked like a Jarvis. The entrance hall was completely white, except for an oak staircase going to the upper floors. We followed Jarvis into the lounge, a room that could have easily swallowed my whole apartment and made it disappear. A beautiful oak floor was underneath us and the room was full of modern art – a painting here, a painting there, some sculptures on another side. We sat on one of the four cream sofas, looking towards the door so we could spot Lady Whilsham enter and not get caught off guard dreaming about a place like that. Ritchie kept moving his head from left to right, as if he was watching a tennis match or something, but then so was I.

  “Yesss!” said Ritchie, “we struck the jackpot! GiGi, can you believe this house? I mean it must be worth twenty million. When I get rich I want a house like this, and a wedding in the garden.”

  Something was odd. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I had a gut feeling that a person with such a house surely couldn’t really be too bad at dressing. There was still the possibility they could have hired an interior designer, splashed an awful amount of money to have this place done up. She was hiring us, anyway, so maybe … No, I was still not convinced; it was too perfect. The house had a personality; it exuded people with taste and clear ideas on what they wanted.

  Any doubt disappeared once Lady Whilsham appeared in the doorway. She was in her late-thirties and I couldn’t fault her on anything. Perfect posture, perfect teeth, perfect hair and her clothes … ermm … I wish I could buy them – nothing to fault there either. What in hell’s name were we doing here?

  Ritchie was sitting at my side with his mouth open, starting to realise that if we had to improve the way she looked, we had a serious task on our hands – something that would require extensive planning and a lot (and I mean a LOT!) of research, scrapping all our usual suppliers and going to the top of the range. I mean, having to call stylists and have them work for us.

  We stood and introduced ourselves; my mind was spinning trying to imagine how I could have pitched to her effectively.

  Lady Whilsham was a Paula, and asked to be called by that name. She was confident, assertive and with clear ideas. I realised at that point that she owned the house, and she was definitely the one that had hand-picked all the items in here. It was Her taste.

  “Lady … Paula: I’ll keep it short. What are we doing here? You clearly don’t need our services.”

  She smiled broadly and added, “May I offer you a cup of tea?” while signalling us to sit back on the sofa.

  “That would be delightful,” said Ritchie, who was starting to realise that our fortune was going to disappear like mist in the sun. That is, in some place warmer than London in the autumn. I had already budgeted for a set of Ferragamo shoes that, at this point, were shaking in their little boots and disappearing out of the window.

  Jarvis probably had Vulcan ears, as he was nowhere to be seen, but appeared afterwards with a pot and three cups.

  “Paula, what we do is …” I started my pitch, but with a light gesture of her hand, she made me shush.

  “I don’t need your help, as you can clearly see. But my daughter does.”

  The little Ferragamo shoes were still far away in the distance, but maybe not completely gone.

  “Your daughter?”

  “Indeed. I think she might have some of my husband’s genes; after all. I have tried to educate her to the best of my ability and to her full potential, and that includes dressing properly – but I feel I’ve somehow failed in that task.”

  “How old is she?” asked Ritchie tentatively.

  “Oh, she’s just fourteen, and I’m sure it’s a phase she’s currently going through. The fact is, it seems that I’m unable to convince her to wear anything decent.”

  “What style of clothes is she wearing?” I enquired.

  “I’m not sure about that, but she looks like a tramp.” Paula was visibly upset; in her perfect life she also wanted a perfect teen, maybe forgetting that teens do what they do – most likely rebelling rather than conforming – but that I kept to myself. I wasn’t letting anything out of my mouth until I’d assessed the situation better.

  “Does she know we’re here?” asked Ritchie, increasingly worried.

  “Yes. She wasn’t overenthusiastic about it, but I guess it won’t take much to convince her.”

  Hmmm – now we had to convince a teenager to change her attire, as if that was an easy task. The advantage was, perhaps, that both Ritchie and I were not much older than her and maybe we could somehow connect with her.

  “What’s her name?” I asked, more to delay any further commitment than anything else. Ritchie started getting nervous and biting his nails, as he always does.

  “She’s called Henrietta, but you’ll soon discover that she much prefers Harry, rather than Hettie, for reasons I can’t really understand. “

  “You know, we can’t start phase one, which involves looking at her clothes, without her consent?” I urged. Trust was everything in our job and if we were to have the slightest chance of convincing “Harry” to change her ways, we needed to have her full approval and commitment. Rule one: admit you have a problem.

  “Of course, my dear; that won’t be a problem.” I wasn’t actually persuaded, but at that point what could I realistically do? We had to meet her before making a decision, before we could commit or walk away.

  I looked around, hoping she would suddenly appear, maybe summoned by the Vulcan butler, Jarvis: but nothing happened. Paula spotted my anxiety and said, “Oh she isn’t here at the moment, but she will be later in the evening. Would you mind coming back, let’s say, around seven? We’re having a party and she most likely won’t take part. You could possibly go upstairs with her then and work something out.”

  “It’ll be our pleasure, Madam,” interjected Ritchie. Vulcan Jarvis suddenly appeared, and we knew our time was up.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ritchie and I ran back to the office, as we both kept a wardrobe there for emergency purposes. You never know when you’ll need a change of dress; it might be a warm day and you need something fresher or, like this evening, you might be invited to one of the most prestigious addresses in London. OK, technically they hadn’t invited us; we were supposed to go upstairs and convince good old Henrietta to shut up, give up whatever clothes she was wearing and make Mommy happy. However, I wasn’t going to enter a house like that, at dinnertime, without being properly dressed and neither was Ritchie. Great minds think alike.

  I picked up a red Valentino evening dress, which I paired with cream and gold glitter peep-toe pumps and a matching clutch bag. Ritchie went for a double-breasted grey angora suit from Bottega Veneta, a pair of Kenzo ankle boots and a Kenzo shirt. He decided to button it up to the collar and not to wear a tie, a decision that I fully approved of. If he wasn’t gay, I would have gone for him.

  We were ready to go; it was time. We had great expectations from this job, despite the challenge Paula had put in front of us. Ritchie was still a bit nervous, it being his first time out to visit a client. He usually did the research work and kept in contact with the shops; however, he loved every minute of it. Good: we needed boots on the ground if we were to grow this business of ours.

  We arrived on time in Kensington and parked behind a limousine; a very elegant couple climbed out and we waited until they had entered the house before knocking on the door ourselves. Better not to mix guests and employees (as we were). Vulcan Jarvis probably heard us arriving, as we had barely reached the door, not even touched the doorbell, when he opened the door. We sneaked in and had barely reached the stairs when a familiar voice called, “Griselda?"

  I turned and there he was, good old Jasper, in evening dress, coming out of the lounge
. “What are you doing here?!”

  “Well, I’m working. Nice to meet you too, Jasper, I’m fine; thank you for asking.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I apologise.” He looked around and added “May I call you tomorrow? I think we started off on the wrong foot and … well, I would like to apologise.”

  I was still upset about the trick he’d pulled on Ritchie, but I had to admit he was gorgeous. Considering we were no longer in competition, despite his huge department store on my doorstep, I thought I should probably see him again. After all, I hadn’t dated a real man in ages, probably six months, so what would be the harm? Let’s not allow him to think I’d turned into a cold fish – and we’ll see what happens.

  “Sure: call the office in the morning and we can arrange something.” Vulcan Jarvis was giving me killer looks, as I took the liberty of speaking to one of the guests – surely a capital sin in his mind.

  “Will do.” He hurried back into the lounge and, gosh, he had a nice bum. Why did his bottom inflate when I liked him and deflate when I was upset with him? Maybe he had one of those emotion sensor devices attached to it. I made a mental note to check at the first opportunity.

  Jarvis coughed to bring some order into that unexpected event, and off we went upstairs to meet with Henrietta. Jarvis opened the door and announced us. Frankly I was expecting something more formal from him, like hitting a gong or the ringing of a bell to announce us: come on Jarvis – didn’t they teach you anything? Anyway, Henrietta was lying on her bed, busy texting some friends or updating her status on Facebook.

  “So, you’re the fashion people who are supposed to sort me out?” she asked, not even looking, but immersed in whatever she was doing on her phone.

  “Hmm … we are indeed the ‘fashion people’, but I can assure you we’re not going to do anything that you won’t agree to. And definitely we aren’t here to sort you out.”

  “That’s not what Mother said.”

  I was upset. No, I was furious. Years of hard work, and someone called us to sort things out? How dare she? Ritchie nudged me. He knew these were the sort of things that infuriated me.

  “Let me explain how we work. We look at your wardrobe, we talk to you, and we give some suggestions on what to wear. That’s it. If you want, we can help further in choosing the right attire, based on your tastes and personality. Or you can ignore what we have to say and carry on doing and wearing what you want. If you think you’ve found the perfect style for you and you’re happy, we can call Vulcan Jarvis and we’re out of your life.”

  “Who’s Vulcan Jarvis?” she asked. For the first time she looked at us instead of her mobile. Ritchie started giggling.

  “Ermm … well, I mean, we call the butler and off we go.”

  “Oh. Yes, I think Vulcan Jarvis sounds quite appropriate. Sometimes I also wonder if he’s from this planet.”

  Now that I had her attention, albeit involuntarily, I pressed on. “So, what do you think; shall we have a go? I promise it isn’t going to be painful.”

  “I suppose so. I actually think it might be fun.”

  “Great. I’m GiGi and this is Ritchie.” Keep the ball rolling, I thought, now that she’s engaging; don’t let her go.

  “I’m Harry.” She was a pretty girl, and showed signs of maturing into, probably, a stunning young woman. Lady Whilsham must have had her when she was very young. Or maybe she was adopted. I tried to see if I could spot any resemblance, but with all that heavy make-up, it would have been difficult.

  “So, let’s see. It seems you like vintage clothes.” She was wearing a large, baggy male jacket, which she’d either got from her granddad or bought in some charity shop. The trousers were very tight and paired with fuchsia shoes that didn’t go with anything else she had on. A flowery shirt was barely visible from underneath the jacket, as she was wearing a sort of bandana around her neck and a tartan scarf. It wasn’t winter yet and I doubted Lady Whilsham was skimping on the heating bill, so it must have been some sort of fashion statement. Her long, dark hair was pinned at the nape.

  “May we have a brief look at your wardrobe?” I asked, sensing that she wouldn’t complain about that.

  “Sure. Oh, the ones on the left are mine, and those on the right are the ones Mom bought.”

  Something wasn’t right. On the left side, Dirty Harry had a mishmash of clothes, some indeed vintage, others not – regular T-shirts, coloured items. I couldn’t see any pattern in what she was buying, nor a rationale that would bring them together. It seemed like a hoarder’s wardrobe where she stored different things, maybe worn randomly. The right-hand side didn’t catch our attention; imagine what a rich mom with an attitude for perfection would buy, and there you were. Nice, but boring; for Harry, at least.

  Ritchie was also perplexed. “Could you tell me more about this vintage thing? I mean, it doesn’t seem you have much old stuff in here. Is it a new thing?” he asked her.

  “No, that’s just to piss off my mother.”

  Both Ritchie and I burst out laughing. Indeed, both of us understood where she was coming from, especially considering Lady Whilsham’s quest for perfection. That seemed to break the ice a little among us. “So you’re not really into vintage clothes?” he pressed.

  “I don’t think so. As I said, it’s to piss off my mother. And to be unique, I suppose.”

  “We’ve all been there, darling.” Ritchie was in his element; he was enjoying every minute of it, considering his past.

  “Which one of the two is more important to you?” He was doing great, so no point in me interrupting, just to ask the very same questions.

  “I suppose being unique. I rather want people to notice me, not being like everybody else. We all wear uniform at school, so when I’m out I want people to talk about me, comment; give me attention, I mean.”

  “OK, I think I get the point.” Ritchie opened his bag and fired up his laptop. A minute later, he was sitting at the desk with Harry discussing a couple of ideas.

  “You see, this is a quite new Scottish designer, I was thinking you might like something like that, perhaps?”

  “Hmmm …”

  “And for example you could have those other couple of items that match with that shirt?” He was showing a pair of skinny jeans and T-shirts from House of Holland, plus some other dresses. He briefly switched to Bregazzi and my heart sank: Come on, don’t you dare move on; stay on that damn page and put it all together …

  Ritchie didn’t disappoint me. He knew what he was doing and how to strike the right chords. He was taking care of the customer rather than the purchaser.

  “Oh, I think I get what you mean. I think that would actually piss off my mother even further.”

  “Darling, let’s not forget your mom is footing the bill. Our point is that you can build a style without being trashy.”

  It was almost nine in the evening and it was getting late. The host didn’t even bother to ask if we were hungry. “Harry, have you eaten already?”

  “Yes, I had dinner early, as there were all those guests and I didn’t want to mix with them. You know, all those stories on how tall I’ve become … I hate it.”

  “Well, we’ve pretty much finished our exploration. So if you’re interested, would you be so kind as to let your mother know?”

  “Oh yes.” She seemed excited to have us around, giving advice that was more suitable for her age. Maybe we had a chance to make another customer happy. “I’ll definitely tell her you convinced me.” She had a nasty grin on her face and we braced ourselves. Our job can be tricky at times.

  She pushed a button near the phone and Vulcan Jarvis teleported himself to the door. It was time to leave.

  CHAPTER 14

  The contract from Lady Whilsham arrived by fax just as I was supposed to be going out for lunch with Jasper. We classified her as a Gold client, as we had serious doubts that Lady Mummy (Whilsham) would allow Harry a decent budget. In addition, she’d decided she would pay for the clothes directly, so our earn
ings would come only from consultancy. Despite the thirty-million-pound mansion (or was it twenty million as I guessed earlier?), she bartered on the price as if we were stealing her last pennies. We had to start the following day.

  Meanwhile, Ritchie started his nagging dance around me, trying to get me to reconsider that offer from Jasper. He had mentioned it a couple of times previously and each time I had dismissed his remarks. That frustrated him even further, because it was obvious in his mind that we could accomplish more from within a large organisation, not forgetting also that we would finally have had a decent salary to live on, rather than keep scraping the barrel or reinvesting in the company. That is, when we weren’t investing in our own wardrobes. The bank wasn’t particularly happy about our line of business; sometimes they didn’t get what we were doing, and when they did understand, we were right in the middle of a crisis and the numbers didn’t look good.

  That morning Ritchie was on a mission, thinking I would change my mind. “Drop it, Ritchie. It’s just a date.”

  “I’ve never questioned you, GiGi – ever, ever, ever before. But this time you’re making a big mistake.” No, I was not …

  “I told you, we’d be simple employees. They’ll squeeze us like a lemon and as soon as they don’t need us any more: thank you very much, here’s your statutory redundancy pay and off you go”. And even, probably, forget to thank us for our service.

  “You don’t know that’s what’s going to happen. If they want us, they have their reasons.” Well, they want me, dear friend; but they made it quite clear you’re out of the picture. They don’t see in you what I see – your friendship, your dedication and your passion. Why don’t you let it go, Ritchie? Do me a favour and let it go. We already have troubles; we can’t afford any more. If he only knew how many times I hadn’t taken my salary just to be able to afford his. How many times I’d had to sell my most precious possessions on Ebay to keep us afloat, begging for favours and pushing some old customers to meet payment deadlines.