‘Or they could be honest.’ Jasmine throws back her long, bleached-blonde hair. ‘They could say, “I haven’t got any money, the bastard bank lost it all.” You do realize this place’ll close down?’ she adds almost cheerily, gesturing around. ‘In fact, this whole country’s over. It’s a fucking mess. I’ll probably move to Morocco.’ She eyes my shirt suspiciously. ‘Isn’t that Chloé, two seasons ago?’
Trust Jasmine to notice. I’m debating whether to say, ‘No, it’s a tiny label you don’t know about,’ or ‘Yes, it’s vintage,’ when a voice says timidly, ‘Becky?’ As I hear my name I turn round and peer in surprise. It’s Davina, one of my regular clients, hovering at the entrance. I barely recognized her, what with her mac, headscarf and sunglasses.
‘Davina! You came! Great to see you!’
Davina is in her thirties and a doctor at Guy’s Hospital. She’s a world expert on eye disease and pretty much a world expert on Prada shoes, too – she’s been collecting them since she was eighteen. Today she had an appointment to find a new evening dress – but according to the appointment book, she’d called it off.
‘I shouldn’t be here.’ She looks around warily. ‘I told my husband I’d cancelled. He’s … worried about things.’
‘Everyone is,’ I say understandingly. ‘Do you want to take your coat off?’
Davina doesn’t move.
‘I don’t know,’ she says at last, sounding tortured. ‘I shouldn’t be here. We had a row about it. He said, what did I need a new dress for? And that it wasn’t the time to be splashing the cash. But I’ve won a Taylor Research Fellowship. My department’s throwing me a reception to celebrate.’ Her voice suddenly throbs with emotion. ‘This is huge, this fellowship. It’s an incredible honour. I worked for it, and I’ll never get one again, and I’ve got the money for a dress. I’ve saved it up and it’s all secure. We don’t even bank with Bank of London!’
She sounds so upset, I feel like giving her a hug. The thing about Davina is, she doesn’t do things lightly. She thinks about every piece she buys and goes for really classic well-made things. She’s probably been looking forward to getting this dress for ages and ages.
What a meanie her husband is. He should be proud of his wife, getting a prize.
‘Do you want to come in?’ I try again. ‘Have a cup of coffee?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says again, her voice tiny. ‘It’s so difficult. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘But you are here,’ I point out gently. ‘When’s the reception?’
‘Friday night.’ She takes off her sunglasses to massage her brow and suddenly focuses past me, on the rail in my fitting room. It’s holding all the dresses I looked out for her last week. I told Jasmine to have them ready this morning.
There are some gorgeous pieces on that rail. Davina would look amazing in any one of them. I can see the lust growing in her eyes.
‘Are those …’
‘Just a few options.’
‘I can’t.’ She shakes her head desperately. ‘I can’t turn up in something new.’
‘But would your husband know it was new?’ I can’t resist saying. I see this thought register in her head.
‘Maybe not,’ she says at last. Her brow is clearing a little … then it wrinkles anxiously again. ‘But I can’t possibly come back home with any shopping bags. Or have anything delivered. Or have anything delivered to work. All the junior staff will chatter and want to see, and it’ll get back to my husband. That’s the downside of both working in the same hospital.’
‘So how can you buy a dress?’ says Jasmine bluntly. ‘If you can’t take anything home or have it delivered?’
‘I don’t know.’ Davina looks a bit crestfallen. ‘Oh, this is hopeless. I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Of course you should!’ I say firmly. ‘We’re not in the business of giving up. Come in and have a cup of coffee and look at the dresses. And I’ll think of something.’
The minute Davina puts on the Philosophy by Alberta Ferretti, we both know. She has to have it. It’s a black and bitter-chocolate sheath with a trailing wisp of chiffon and it’s five hundred pounds and worth every single penny.
So now it’s up to me to work out how we do it. And by the time she’s dressed again and has eaten the sandwiches which I ordered for her, I have the answer. We are hereby introducing a new, specialist personal-shopping service at The Look called SIP (Shop in Private). By lunchtime I’ve made all the arrangements for Davina, plus I’ve come up with several extra innovations. I’ve even typed up a quick email about it, which begins: ‘Do you feel guilty about shopping in these troubled days? Do you need a new level of discretion?’
I don’t want to boast, but I’m quite proud of all my ideas. Customers can come to the personal-shopping department, select their new clothes, and then, in order to remain discreet, choose from a number of delivery options:
1. Have clothes on standby, ready to be biked over to client’s house at a suitable specified time (i.e. when no one else is in).
2. Have clothes delivered in a cardboard box labelled ‘Computer Paper’ or ‘Sanitary Products’.
3. Have a member of staff (i.e. me or Jasmine) pose as a friend, visit home and offer clothes as ‘unwanted cast-offs’.
4. Have a member of staff (i.e. me or Jasmine) pose as a cleaning lady, visit home and secrete clothes in hiding place to be previously arranged.
5. For a more substantial fee, members of staff from The Look (me and Jasmine) will set up a ‘charity stall’ at a location to be arranged,* where the client may ‘purchase’ clothes for a nominal price in front of spouse or partner.
*This option may work better for groups of shoppers.
Davina’s going for the ‘Computer Paper’ option. By the time she left, her eyes were sparkling with excitement and she gave me a massive hug, saying she’d send me pictures of the reception and I’d absolutely made her day. Well, she deserves it. She looks amazing in that dress and she’ll remember the occasion all her life. As I set off for lunch with Bonnie I feel pretty chuffed with myself.
The only teeny doubt which occasionally shoots through my head is that I haven’t run the ‘Shop in Private’ scheme past any of my bosses. Like the MD or head of marketing or director of operations. Strictly speaking, I should have got a new initiative like this approved before I launched it to the public. But the thing is, they’re men. They’d never understand. They’d probably just make lots of stupid objections and time would tick away and we’d lose all our customers.
So I’m doing the right thing. Yes. I’m sure I am.
I’m meeting Bonnie at a restaurant near the Brandon Communications offices and as I arrive she’s sitting at a table, looking as understated as ever in a beige tweed dress and flat patent pumps.
Every time I’ve met Bonnie, she’s always seemed remote and spotless; almost not-human. But I know there’s a hidden side to her – because I’ve seen it. At the last Brandon C Christmas party, I happened to notice her when the rest of us were on the dance-floor singing madly to ‘Dancing Queen’. Bonnie was sitting alone at a table, and as I watched, she surreptitiously helped herself to one of the left-over hazelnut chocolates left on the plates. Then another one. She went around the whole table, discreetly hoovering the hazelnut chocolates, and even folded the wrappers neatly and put them in her evening bag. I never told anyone about it, even Luke – because something told me she would have been mortified to have been seen. Let alone teased about it.
‘Becky,’ she greets me in her low, well-modulated voice. ‘How lovely to see you. I’ve ordered some sparkling water …’
‘Fab!’ I beam at her. ‘And thanks so much for helping out.’
‘Oh, it’s no trouble. Now, let me show you what I’ve done so far.’
She pulls out a plastic folder and starts fanning printed papers across the table. ‘Guests … contacts … dietary requirements …’
I goggle at the pages in amazement. Luke’s right, Bonnie’s awesome.
She’s compiled a full list of guests from Luke’s business and personal address books, complete with addresses, phone numbers and a little paragraph on who each person is.
‘Everyone in the company has blocked off the evening of 7 April,’ she continues. ‘I’ve taken Gary into my confidence, and we’ve invented a full company training session. Here you are …’
Speechlessly, I look at the sheet of paper she proffers. It’s a schedule for a ‘Brandon Communications Training Session’, beginning at 5 p.m. and lasting into the evening with ‘drinks’ and ‘group activities’ and ‘discussion circles’. It looks so genuine! There’s even the name of some ‘facilitating company’ printed at the bottom.
‘This is brilliant,’ I say at last. ‘Absolutely fantastic. Bonnie, thank you so, so much—’
‘Well, it means you don’t have to tell anyone at the company the truth just yet.’ She gives a little smile. ‘These things are better kept under wraps for as long as possible.’
‘Absolutely,’ I agree fervently. ‘The fewer people who are in on the secret, the better. I’ve got a list of exactly who knows and it’s tightly controlled.’
‘You seem to have things very well in hand.’ She smiles encouragingly. ‘And how are the party arrangements themselves going?’
‘Really well,’ I say at once. ‘I mean … I haven’t quite finalized everything …’
‘Have you thought about employing a party planner?’ enquires Bonnie mildly. ‘Or one of the concierge services? There’s one in particular that several of my employers have used, called The Service. Very efficient, I can recommend them.’
She takes out a notepad and scribbles down a number. ‘I’m sure they’d help with organizing, sourcing, providing staff, whatever you need. But it’s just a suggestion.’
‘Thanks!’ I take the paper and put it in my purse. That might not be a bad idea, actually. I mean, not that I need any help. But just to tie up any loose ends.
The waiter arrives, and we both order salads, and he refreshes our water. As Bonnie sips meticulously, I can’t help eyeing her with curiosity. If you think about it, this is the Other Woman in Luke’s life. (Not in a Camilla Parker-Bowles kind of way. Definitely not. I’m not falling into that trap again of thinking Luke’s having an affair and hiring private detectives and getting myself all stressed out over nothing.)
‘Did you want some wine, Becky?’ says Bonnie suddenly. ‘I have to remain professional, I’m afraid …’ She gives a regretful smile.
‘Me too,’ I nod, still fixated by Bonnie.
She spends more time with Luke than I do. She knows all about huge areas of his life that he never bothers telling me about. She probably has all sorts of interesting insights on him.
‘So … what’s Luke like as a boss?’ I can’t resist asking.
‘He’s admirable.’ She smiles and takes a piece of bread from the basket.
Admirable. That’s so typical. Discreet, bland, tells me nothing.
‘How is he admirable, exactly?’
Bonnie gives me a strange look, and I suddenly realize I sound as if I’m fishing for compliments.
‘Anyway, he can’t be Mr Perfect,’ I add hurriedly. ‘There must be things he does that annoy you.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She gives another closed smile and sips her water.
Is she going to bat away every question like that? I suddenly feel an urge to get underneath her professional veneer. Maybe I could bribe her with a hazelnut chocolate.
‘Come on, Bonnie!’ I persist. ‘There must be something that annoys you about Luke. Like, I get annoyed when he answers the BlackBerry all the time in the middle of conversations.’
‘Really.’ Bonnie gives a guarded laugh. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Yes you could!’ I lean across the table. ‘Bonnie, I know you’re a professional, and I respect that. And so am I. But this is off the record. We can be honest with each other. I’m not leaving this restaurant till you tell me something that annoys you about him.’
Bonnie has turned pink and keeps glancing towards the door as though for escape.
‘Look,’ I say, trying to get her attention. ‘Here we are together, the two women who spend the most time with Luke. We know him better than anyone else. Shouldn’t we be able to share our experiences and learn from each other? I won’t tell him or anything!’ I add, suddenly realizing I might not have made this clear enough. ‘This is strictly between you and me. I swear.’
There’s a long pause. I think I might be getting through to her.
‘Just one thing,’ I cajole. ‘One teeny, tiny little thing …’
Bonnie takes a gulp of water as though stiffening her nerves.
‘Well,’ she says at last. ‘I suppose the birthday-card situation is a little frustrating.’
‘Birthday-card situation?’
‘The staff birthday cards, you know.’ She blinks at me. ‘I have a stack of them for him to sign for the whole year, but he won’t get round to it. Which is understandable, he’s very busy …’
‘I’ll get him to do them,’ I say firmly. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘Becky.’ Bonnie blanches. ‘Please don’t, that’s not what I meant …’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say reassuringly. ‘I’ll be really subtle.’
Bonnie still looks troubled. ‘I don’t like you to be involved.’
‘But I am involved! I’m his wife! And I think it’s monstrous that he can’t be bothered to sign his own staff’s birthday cards. You know why it is?’ I add knowledgeably. ‘It’s because he doesn’t care about his own birthday, so he thinks no one else does too. It wouldn’t even occur to him that anyone cared.’
‘Ah.’ Bonnie nods slowly. ‘Yes. That makes sense.’
‘So, when’s the next company birthday? Who’s next on the list?’
‘Well, actually …’ Bonnie turns a little pink. ‘It’s my own birthday in two weeks’ time …’
‘Perfect! Well, I’ll make sure he’s signed the cards by then.’ A new thought strikes me. ‘And what’s he going to get you as a present? What did he get you for Christmas? Something really nice, I hope.’
‘Of course! He got me a lovely gift!’ Bonnie’s bright voice is a little forced. ‘This beautiful bracelet.’
She shakes her arm and a gold link bracelet falls down from under her sleeve. I stare at it, speechless. Luke bought her this?
I mean, it’s not a bad bracelet. But it’s so not Bonnie’s colouring or style, or anything. No wonder she’s hidden it up her sleeve. And she probably feels she has to wear it to work every day, poor thing.
Where did he get it anyway – totallyblandpresentsforyoursecretary.com? Why didn’t he ask me?
Things are becoming clearer to me. We need to coordinate, Bonnie and me. We need to work as a team.
‘Bonnie,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Would you like to have a proper drink?’
‘Oh, no …’ she begins.
‘Come on,’ I say coaxingly. ‘Just one tiny glass of wine at lunchtime doesn’t make anyone unprofessional. And I promise I won’t mention it.’
‘Well,’ Bonnie relents, ‘perhaps I will have a small vermouth on the rocks.’
Yay! Go Bonnie!
By the time we’ve finished our salads and are sipping coffees, we’re both a million times more relaxed. I’ve made Bonnie laugh with stories of Luke doing yoga on honeymoon, and she’s told me about some previous boss trying the lotus position and having to go to Casualty. (She was too discreet to mention who it was. I’ll have to Google.) And most importantly, I’ve hatched my plan.
‘Bonnie,’ I begin as the waiter presents us with the bill and I swipe it before she can protest. ‘I just want to say again, I’m so grateful to you for helping me with the party.’
‘Really, it’s no trouble at all.’
‘And it’s made me realize something. We can help each other!’ My voice rises in enthusiasm. ‘We can pool our resources. Think what we can achieve if we work in partnersh
ip! Luke doesn’t need to know. It can be our own private arrangement.’
As soon as I say ‘private arrangement’, Bonnie looks a little uncomfortable.
‘Becky, it’s been very pleasant spending time with you,’ she begins. ‘And I do appreciate your wishing to help. However—’
‘So let’s keep in touch, OK?’ I interrupt. ‘Keep my number on speed-dial. And anything you want me to nudge Luke about, just let me know. Big or small. I’ll do whatever I can.’
She’s opening her mouth to protest. She can’t backtrack now.
‘Bonnie, please. I really care about Brandon Communications,’ I say with sudden warmth. ‘And it might just be that I can make a difference to things. But I’ll only know that if you keep me in the loop! Otherwise I’m powerless! Luke tries to protect me, but he doesn’t realize he’s shutting me out. Please let me help.’
Bonnie looks taken aback by my little speech, but it’s kind of true – I have felt shut out by Luke, ever since he wouldn’t let me go to the trial. (OK, not trial. Hearing. Whatever it was called.)
‘Well,’ she says at last, ‘I didn’t see it quite like that. Of course, I’d be glad to let you know if I ever think there’s anything you could … contribute.’
‘Fab!’ I beam. ‘And in return, maybe you could do the odd little favour for me?’
‘Of course.’ Bonnie looks as though she can’t quite keep up. ‘I’d be glad to. Did you have anything specific in mind?’
‘Well, yes, actually, I did have one small request.’ I take a sip of cappuccino. ‘It would really, really help me out if you could do it.’
‘To do with the party?’ Bonnie is already getting out her notebook.
‘No, this isn’t to do with the party. It’s more general.’ I lean across the table. ‘Could you tell Luke that a gym is better than a wine cellar?’