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

by Colette Kebell

  “Natalie, I’m not digging a six-footer here!” I complained; that would have taken the whole night.

  “Not to worry, sweetheart: just deep enough to let all this stuff rot with the worms.”

  She started quarrying as well and after an hour we had to stop, because we were both quite tired but also because every few minutes we looked at each other and, without a word, we’d burst out laughing at what we were doing. I made a comment about the neighbours, and that also made her laugh out loud. “I’m going to put the kettle on,” she said eventually. “Take a break.”

  I sat on the edge of the grave and let my legs float into the empty space; it was now almost a metre deep and perhaps it would have sufficed for the clothes. Natalie came back after a couple of minutes with the brews and we admired our work in silence. Eventually she was satisfied with the result and she tossed the lot in. Covering it up didn’t take too long.

  “I’d pay to see the face of your gardener when he discovers this.”

  Natalie burst out laughing again, and I had to sit down holding my belly at the thought of it.

  “You can sleep in one of the spare rooms,” she said, checking her watch, “but I’m afraid the gardener won’t be around until the weekend. The neighbours are curious, though; this should keep them gossiping for quite a few days.”

  Eventually we were satisfied with our work. Even in the dark, you could see the bulge of freshly moved earth, which clearly resembled a grave. That would have made for a great episode of CSI. With a flourish, Natalie picked up the empty bags, put away the shovels and announced it was time to have a nice hot toddy to take off the chill of the night air. I didn’t argue, despite whisky not being my favourite. I have to say that the way she made it, with all the extras, it was delicious and I made a mental note to ask her for the recipe sometime.

  We went to bed not long after, both exhausted.

  CHAPTER 26

  The next day, Natalie was kind enough to make me breakfast. She’s up early every day these days, owing to her gruelling gym schedule and numerous social engagements. I thanked her for an eventful and enjoyable evening and hit the road. It was time to get to the office, as the number of clients requiring me to revisit their wardrobes was mounting up, and from them I was also receiving some extra referrals. I had to seriously start considering what I could do to get Ritchie back; how I could make it up to him.

  I arrived at the office to find Erika, again sitting in the doorway. She was laden with magazines, with multi-coloured post-it notes sticking out of the top of them. I couldn’t believe that she’d returned just one day after she’d been given her task, but, despite having far too much to do to keep my main business going and improving, I felt I owed it to Natalie to try to sort out her interior décor. Erika followed me into the office, sat down and waited. First order of the day was tea and so I asked her if she would mind making it, as I had to check the post and emails. If she really wanted a job, she’d do it. She was happy to, thankfully, as I wasn’t particularly in the mood for small talk with someone who had just presented herself on my office doorstep – especially someone previously employed by Jasper and Lady Can’tLeaveHimAloneToLiveHisOwnLife! (blimey, the titles I’m giving her are getting longer and longer, but this one seemed appropriate; sorry about that!). I was busily going through emails, having already gone through the post, when Erika returned with the teas and sat down expectantly, like a dog waiting for a stick to be thrown. Just as she did, Ritchie came flying into the office yelling at the top of this voice, “Don’t listen to her, don’t listen to her; she’s a spy!!!”

  My jaw dropped and, before I could say “underpants”, he continued, “She’s working for Lady Whilsham and your/her ex!! You mustn’t believe a word she says.”

  He then stopped in the middle of the floor, looking from one to the other of us and promptly closed his mouth. He hadn’t expected Erika to be in the office when he burst in and was now starting to feel a little embarrassed and concerned. I took one look at Ritchie and I could see from the expression on his face that he was not joking; he was being damn serious. I then looked at Erika’s face and saw such a shade of red spreading across it – clear evidence to me that Ritchie had to be telling the truth. I continued to look at her, hoping to stare a confession out of her, but she just sat there in silence. The look of complete shock on her face said it all, and the fact she had been discovered so early wouldn’t have amused Lady StabYouInTheBack one bit.

  Eventually I asked Ritchie to take a seat and elaborate on his proclamation, all the while leaving Erika to sit and listen. She just might have learned something from this. Ritchie couldn’t tell me quickly enough. He’d been restocking shelves, in what he later referred to as the most mundane job he’d ever had, in this little boutique shop in Camden, when he had received a phone call from Harry. She had overheard a private conversation between her parents, talking about planning to have Erika work with GiGi and try to steal her ideas, her way of dealing with her customers. The Battersea Fashion Centre was doing OK, but they soon realised that they were missing the personalised experience that only someone like GiGi could give. They were good at business, they were good at cost-cutting; but they had finally understood that what they were missing was “a soul”. Erika was the key to stealing that and trying to inject some fresh ideas into the mall, which otherwise would just become a low-cost shop.

  Upon hearing that, Ritchie had to do something. He’d spent half that afternoon trying to convince his new boss to let him have the day off the following day, and when he refused he’d just walked out altogether, not caring about the consequences. He simply couldn’t stand by and let this happen to me. As soon as Ritchie fell silent, I had one thing to say!

  “Erika, I would like you to leave my office immediately and never return.”

  She then looked at me, dropped her head almost to her lap, or so it seemed, dropped the magazines she’d been holding and left, without a single word of explanation, apology or anything else. I sat there, so happy on the one part and disappointed on the other.

  “I love you to bits!! Don’t you ever try to leave me again,” I said, all the while almost running from behind my desk to hug and kiss him.

  We stood there in the middle of the office, crying in each other’s arms and unable to speak for the joy of having finally found each other again. Eventually we sat on the sofa, and only after a few minutes were we able to talk to each other. Like magic, all the bitterness and hard feelings we’d both had during the past few weeks disappeared. I had my old Ritchie back and he, I hoped, had me.

  “I feel like a worm for what I did to you. Leaving and all – that wasn’t right,” he said, in tears. I could barely contain my emotion; on occasion when alone I’d almost cursed him, but I also knew he needed something solid, a regular income for his new life, and I couldn’t honestly blame him for his decisions.

  “Don’t: you had your reasons, and I accept that.”

  “No – you don’t get it. I spoke to Lillian yesterday, as I missed her house-warming party and she had a go at me. She told me about all the times you hadn’t taken a salary, just to ensure I had one, and all the other bits. I couldn’t have imagined it; I hated myself for the way I behaved, but at the same time I couldn’t find the courage to face you.”

  Lillian – that big mouth. It was supposed to have been a secret, but at that point I didn’t mind; just the opposite. If that’s what it had taken to give a kick up the backside to Ritchie, I had to thank her and buy her a big dinner. And she’d introduced me to Raffaele. Bummer: I was in her debt, and I’d better do something before she started thinking I was an ungrateful bitch.

  “Forget about all that; we have work to do.” I explained about the job with Natalie, the new idea about the “Wardrobe Assessment Service” and how busy I was getting again.

  “Are you taking me back?” he asked in disbelief.

  “You’re a partner, fifty/fifty – remember? You never left,” I said and that cheered him up. �
�Maybe Erika did us a favour …” He looked at the folder and magazines that Erika had dropped on the floor and, while pondering an idea, he started shuffling through the pages. “Hmm … not really. As boring as her bosses … sorry about that.”

  “No need to apologise,” I laughed. “Do you want to do the interior? Because if that’s the case, I have to bring you up to speed on Natalie.”

  “Sure, but I want some of the old stuff as well, like that fashion assessment of yours. Just to diversify.”

  “Knock yourself out. Open the inbox and take your pick.”

  I went back to my office and started going through my emails. “I LOVE THE BOARD OUTSIDE THE WINDOW, BY THE WAY,” Ritchie shouted from his desk. “MUST BE AN EYESORE FOR THE COMPETITION.” I laughed aloud, but I was actually glued to a new email that had popped in that very moment.

  Hello GiGi

  My name is Osheena. Sorry to bother you, but I thought it was worth a try writing to you. I love fashion; I spend my days window-shopping and I’ve got more ideas than money. I’m trying to develop my own style and at the moment I think I’m getting somewhere, but I’m quite young and I feel I might need some direction. My parents do not understand me and always criticise me because I spend almost all my salary on clothes, saying that I should save for rainy days and all the sorts of things you might expect from sensible parents, and probably have heard yourself. Having said that, I feel there’s a sense of satisfaction when all the things I buy fit together and, I know it’s hard to explain, but I feel a better person when I can achieve the right combination of clothes, colours and accessories, to a point that I’m even more cheerful. I even think I’m better at work, with my friends, in my life. It might sound silly to you and I find it difficult to explain to you what’s going on inside me, I can barely explain that to myself. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I would like to have some help, some direction, if I may ask.

  I understand you deal with high-end fashion and most likely, I couldn’t afford even a quarter of what you might have in mind. However, maybe we could find some sort of arrangement. I’d be happy to buy my own stuff and if it isn’t high-end, so be it: I’m used to that. (It might sound silly, but I believe people shouldn’t necessarily spend a fortune to look good.) Maybe I could pay your fees a bit every week?

  I appreciate you might not be interested; as I said, it’s a shot in the dark, but sometimes dreams are what makes the world go round, aren’t they?

  Cheers!

  Osheena

  I read the email twice, and I laughed out loud, to a point where Ritchie turned in my direction to see what was happening, as if maybe a comedian had entered the premises without him noticing and had started his gig.

  So I wasn’t alone in this world; there were actually other people out there like me, who felt the same way. Well, I did know I couldn’t be the only one, but finding a sympathetic soul out there was indeed refreshing.

  I looked at the couple of pictures she had attached and thought, “Hmmm … not that bad.” Nothing in what she was wearing was expensive, but it worked. I actually had in my wardrobe that same skirt that she was wearing in her second picture, although I wore it with completely different clothes. And she was pretty, with a tall, slender figure, the kind that could wear almost anything and look good. She looked great. It didn’t take me half a second to make my mind up: I would help her, and if that meant doing a pro bono, so be it. Ritchie was in too much of a good mood to complain, and business was picking up. So, what the frock, I thought; let’s just do it.

  Osheena

  I’ll be happy to collaborate with you on your “quest”. Please come to my office either tomorrow afternoon (even out of hours, until 7.00 pm) or the following day, same time.

  I’m sure we can figure something out.

  Kind regards,

  GiGi

  I pressed the “send” button and a sense of relief permeated me. That was the difference from Jasper’s outlet. We were working with people to make them feel better; they were in the business of selling stuff.

  Another email came in a few seconds later.

  Dear GiGi

  I’m an executive in an investment bank in Canary Wharf. I came across your website by chance (actually my wife mentioned it, as she’d seen an advertisement in Battersea) and I thought that maybe you could help. I appreciate that what I’m going to ask isn’t exactly your area of expertise, but I thought it was worth a try.

  .

  Maybe you could be of assistance in meeting us, where I could explain how to best fulfil our needs and point us in the right direction? That would be fantastic.

  Looking forward to hearing from you,

  Timothy Robertson

  “RIIITCHIEEEE,” I shouted.

  “YES?”

  “YOU TAKE THIS TIMOTHY GUY AND HIS WIFE! PRESENT YOURSELF AS ONE OF THE SENIOR PARTNERS AND GET HIM AN APPOINTMENT ASAP, PLEASE.”

  “GOT IT. LEAVE IT TO ME.”

  Flippin’ Nora: what a day.

  CHAPTER 27

  What a date!

  I was expecting that a cook – sorry, a chef – would pick a very good restaurant for a first date. Hey, they’re supposed to know their stuff, right? Raffaele took me completely by surprise instead, driving all the way down to Surrey; then from the M25 we went through country roads that became smaller and smaller until we reached this fabulous little restaurant, set in a very old cottage and surrounded by trees. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d have missed it. No cars outside is usually a bad sign for a restaurant, but I had to reserve my judgement, at least for a while, before starting to share my point of view.

  More panic overtook me when I realised the place was empty and the lights off. What was this going to be, a dinner with the ghosts?

  And then Raffaele took out of his pocket an old key, the size of a mobile phone, opened the door and started searching for the light switch.

  “Is this your place?” I asked him, stunned.

  “I wish. No, it belongs to a friend of mine. Come inside,” he said, after he’d managed to revive the place.

  “Business must be tight.”

  “Ha, ha, ha – no, today it’s closed. I asked if I could use his kitchen, and here we are. I didn’t want to take you to a restaurant; I would have endorsed their job by doing that.”

  “Rather competitive, aren’t you?” I said. In the meantime, I started looking around. The place was cool, old-style but properly done: low ceiling, Tudor walls where you could see the beams supporting the house. A huge inglenook fireplace was on the left and I could count just ten tables. This was indeed a cottage business, if you’ll allow me the pun: but what a marvellous way to earn a living! A little place like that, old friends as customers, defined working hours and a passion instead of a job. I felt almost the same about what I was doing.

  “So, your place will look like this?” I asked, thinking about the restaurant he was about to open.

  “Not really, but this is a nice place nonetheless. Wait here a second.” He went back to the car and returned with a bottle of red and a corkscrew. “Mind opening this while I unload the food from the car and get ready?”

  “Not at all.” I didn’t have anything handy to remove the plastic at the top of the bottle, so I punched through it directly with the corkscrew. Sod it: I was going to be formal and all pretty and educated, if I had the chance.

  He approached the fireplace, threw in some fire starters and kindling and pronto, in a few minutes the atmosphere was created.

  “You have to help me with the cooking,” he added, while he was still sipping his wine.

  “Me? Sure; if you want fried eggs, or maybe beans on toast, I’m your girl. I can give you the recipe if you want.”

  “Ha, ha. Well, I’ll pass on that offer, thanks. Nothing to worry about; I just need a sous-chef to help me with the preparation. I can finish the rest off.”

  “A sous-chef? Sounds like either your little personal slave who peels the potatoes and chops the onions,
or someone you can bark orders to at will.”

  “No, that would happen if you were working in my kitchen as a regular. With guests, I’m worse. So, what do you think?”

  “Well … in this case: yes, chef!”

  “Atta girl! Give me a minute to unload the rest.” He went back to the car and I sipped my wine, mesmerised by the orange colours of the fire and the ruby reflection in the wine. He returned bringing a couple of boxes, balancing one on top of the other. I closed the door behind him, placed my glass on a table near the fireplace and grabbed one of the boxes. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

  “Thank you.”

  Blimey, it was heavy; what did he have in mind to feed me – a goose? I followed him and we started unpacking.

  “Starter is going to be Singapore chilli crab, and for main, quail cooked three ways, with mushrooms and celeriac purée.”

  “Sounds complicated.” I started worrying; I was definitely out of my comfort zone.

  “Oh, it isn’t! Here, take this.” He handed me a crab. I mean, not like the ones you find in the supermarket, but already … oh my gosh, how do you say? “Peeled”? Nah, you don’t peel a crab; you take off the hard stuff. Was there even a term for such a thing? He gave me a hammer and for a moment I stood there stock still, not knowing what to do. Surely, he didn’t want me to kill the poor animal.

  “They’re already dead,” he said, as if reading my mind. He passed me an apron and then started bashing the thing. It seemed easy; I did the same, and the beast slipped away as I hit it on a corner, and fell on the ground. Shit! What about a bit of cooperation, you little monster? We laughed; him from enjoyment, and me from embarrassment. I picked it up and I was ready to murder the thing again (or die trying) when Raffaele showed a bit of compassion and helped me out.