Authors: Elle Field
My life has become one big blur of customers and
functions. Over the past few months Arielle’s has become a huge success and I
barely have a moment to think, but Felicity is paying me more than enough for
all my hard work. The more I get to know her, the more I realise she’s truly
eccentric but great fun once you get over her memory lapses.
I have more than enough for the course tuition fee but I’ve
not applied. My reasoning – or lack of it – could rival Felicity’s sometimes.
It feels like it could be pointless, even though I do miss London, but I see no
point heading back to do a course I don’t need or going to work somewhere where
I would have no control like I do here. Despite talking on the phone to Piers
most nights, he doesn’t know about these feelings.
The thing is, it would have been a different matter if I was
working somewhere where I had no say instead of every say, but Felicity pretty
much lets me run the place. I was in on the decision to hire more staff to take
care of the influx of customers as my consultations take up most of my time and
Felicity wanders in and out when the mood suits. I’m involved with every
decision, and I can’t see this happening in London; I can’t see myself getting
to do consultations and helping people like Luella out.
Our biggest success so far is local TV anchorwoman Luella
Jones who had hit a career-stopping middle-age blip. Cue me. Luella still
thought blue eye shadow was acceptable, in an ironic way, yet Luella takes
herself
very
seriously – it’s how she
won all her awards. Luckily, Luella realised her wardrobe was neither serious
nor ironic, it was laughable, and her friend had just had a very successful
consultation with me.
The invites poured in for her to launch local charity events
and attend other soirees once I rectified the errors in her previously
stone-set ways. We also made an exception and supplemented the service to
consult her on her hair and make-up. What had the wardrobe and make-up
departments been
thinking
? I
suspected sabotage to get her out but they were sorely mistaken if they thought
Luella Jones was going anywhere. I made sure of that.
Arielle’s is taking off and I truly love it. After Luella
mentioned the reason behind her revival live on air, which I suspected hadn’t
been sanctioned and put on the auto-cue, appointments increased by 400 per cent
– thank you, Luella! Why would I want to rock this boat?
‘So, who have I got today then?’ I ask Chelsey, one of the
assistants.
I like Chelsey, a smiley late teen with eyes like saucers
and shocking cropped neon pink hair – shocking for the senior residents of
nearby Christchurch where Chelsey lives with her aunt and uncle. (Christchurch
is referred to locally as “God’s playground” because of all the pensioners who
live there.) She makes me a mean cup of tea but the problem with her is that
her name painfully reminds me I used to live in Chelsea. With Piers.
‘First appointment is a Mrs P,’ she answers, snapping me
back to lonely Bournemouth.
‘Mrs P?’
‘Yep, that’s what she booked in under.’
‘Ooh, secret celebrity do you think?’ Tasmin, the other
assistant pipes up. Tasmin is to Chelsey what chalk is to cheese; she’s on the
conservative side of preppy, much to Felicity’s delight. Somehow the two of
them together shouldn’t work, but they do.
‘Maybe.’ I secretly hope she’s right because who else would
book in under such an anonymous name unless they need privacy?
I’m soon proved excruciatingly right and wishing Mrs P. was
an egotistical run-of-the-mill woman with delusions of grandeur. When Mrs P.
arrives, fifty minutes late, I’m in the back discussing the window display with
Felicity. I like to change it twice a week, much to the staff’s horror;
window-dressing is time-consuming. I feel it keeps the crowds coming back
though and it gives me great pleasure to draw all the attention away from all
those shopkeepers on the avenue who had spoken to me unkindly and slammed their
doors in my face.
‘I’ll get Arielle,’ I hear Tasmin say as we debate dresses
over denim. Felicity loves having dresses in the window; I maintain you can
still look hot in jeans and have all your dreams come true in a tight-fitting
low-rise pair in a gorgeous distressed grey, teamed with pointy stiletto rock-girl
boots in shocking silver and a loud motif-printed tee. A modern day Prince
Charming would love it, but Felicity at times seems to think it’s still 1920.
‘If you’d just like to take a seat,’ I hear Tasmin continue.
I sigh. I thought Mrs P. was a no-show which means Felicity
will do the display. Dresses again.
‘Celebrity?’ I ask when Tasmin appears, remembering the Mrs
P. book-in name.
‘Nope, or at least no one I recognise.’
Saying that, Tasmin had no idea who Luella was. Telly news
is passé, apparently, and Internet TV is the way forward – picking your own
news and not bothering with the conformity of set schedules. At times I feel
ancient around Chelsey and Tasmin... they are only five years younger than me.
I sometimes feel more in touch with Felicity who is old enough to be my mother.
‘I’ll go have a squiz,’ Felicity offers. She returns a few
minutes later looking pleased.
‘Well?’ I demand because I feel rattled. Celebrities unnerve
me; I don’t know how they cope with the pressure of being recognised. The
thought of how they are constantly scrutinised rattles me because it reminds me
of my dreadful “perfect couple” days with Piers and the stupid circle rules.
Not nice.
‘She is!’
‘Who?’
‘That designer girl off that cable show,’ she answers in
that vague way of hers.
It’s always “that this” and “that that” with Felicity. She’s
dreadful with specifics and has no clue how infuriating that is to those who
aren’t privy to the inner workings of her mind. But, I respect her for so
dedicatedly living in her own world the majority of the time and for seeing
things others don’t see. I have no clue what I’d be doing now if Felicity
hadn’t seen my “talents” all from me sitting on a pavement.
‘Helpful,’ I can’t help mutter sarcastically at her though.
‘Oh, you know who I mean, dear. She designs houses.’
‘She’s an architect?’
‘No, no, what’s the word?’
‘Interior designer,’ Tasmin supplies helpfully.
‘That’s it! Well done, dear!’ Felicity beams at Tasmin like
Tasmin has just announced the solution to world poverty.
‘Major league or minor?’ I ask business-like. Someone has to
keep their head in the shop and it’s never Felicity… that’s how she landed
herself in such a big mess in the first place.
‘Minor at the moment, I’d say,’ Felicity weighs up. ‘But
make sure you get a photo of the two of you in case she hits the major league.
We’ll use it as publicity.’
‘Will do.’
With that pre-analysis over, I head out front to meet the
mysterious Mrs P. and I’m pleased to see Chelsey busy at the till ringing up
lots of lovely purchases for some more happy customers. I spy Anita, who is
becoming quite a regular of ours, buying some fabulous slate-grey Japanese
gothic Lolita dresses I found on Etsy – Victoriana at its finest – and note
with delight that she’s wearing the burgundy velvet jeans we sold her last
week. I love customers like her.
Mrs P. is sat on Ob’s consultation sofa, her back to me,
staring out onto the street. The consultation area is still in the front
window, but it’s now more for show than anything else. I conduct the
preliminary chat there – unless the client is particularly shy – and then we
retreat to my newly created office in the back. We sometimes draw crowds when
I’m sat out front; when that happens I like to keep us on display if I’m
wearing a particularly fabulous outfit – I guess some of my London peacock
qualities have remained.
With Luella I had stayed out front and she loved it. She
said it finally felt like she could see her audience and left us a hefty tip in
thanks. I hope Mrs P. is also of the generous celebrity persuasion.
‘Mrs P,’ I trill. From the back she doesn’t look like she
needs consulting. Her sleek chestnut brown hair is resting perfectly on the
back of her candy pink cashmere sweater and I spy the latest must-have handbag
by her feet that are enclosed in what look like Thula Sindi killer heels. I am
spectacularly jealous if they are. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I apologise,
even though she’s the one who was late. The customer is always right, after
all. ‘I’m Arielle.’
She turns towards me. ‘I know who you are.’
I smile, unsure of her hostile tone. Maybe it’s not hostile,
but it’s certainly brisk and not very friendly.
She continues. ‘I know exactly who
you
are, Arielle Demi Lockley.’
‘Excuse me?’
I’m confused. In the press I’ve always gone by Arielle
alone, so how does she know my full name? Looking at her, I see she does look
familiar though. Maybe I
have
seen
her TV show but how does she know me?
‘Have we met before?’ I ask, grimacing at her murderous
glare.
‘No,’ she icily replies. ‘But I believe you know my husband
quite well.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m Lara. Lara Penrose,’ she expands seeing my blank look.
Still, it doesn’t hit me, not until she helpfully supplies
“Noah’s wife”. Oh boy...
‘Noah’s wife?’ I repeat to make sure I’ve heard her
correctly. She can’t be Noah’s wife. That would be bad.
Very bad
.
‘Noah’s wife,’ she trills. There’s a hint in her tone and a
glint in her eyes that I can’t quite fathom, but I assume it is rage. Or, wait,
is that
laughter
? No, can’t be.
‘Oh.’ A million excuses swirl in my head, each as pathetic
as the last.
I can’t believe he’s told her, that she’s tracked me down,
that she’s
here
. But now I recall Noah mentioning his
friend,
the interior designer, the one he lived with who had moved
back to Hampshire. By friend he had obviously meant his wife, and here his very
gorgeous wife is, stood right in front of me.
My face floods with colour as I recall that evening with
Noah, what happened between us before I discovered he was married. I want the
ground to open up and swallow me.
‘Is that all you can say?
Oh
?’
‘Well, I didn’t realise he was married until–’
‘Did he not think to tell you?’ she spits at me. Her eyes
though, don’t quite reflect her words. ‘How fitting considering–’
‘Considering what?’ I interject nervously. I don’t like her
ominous pauses with her weirdness because Lara looks like she could break me in
two. I’m not saying she’s big but she’s toned. I can’t run for two minutes
without stopping and collapsing to the ground like I demonstrated to the avenue
last week when I attempted to chase after a shop-lifter. I suppose my tight
grey Thakoon skirt with its restricting zip down the back making it even
tighter, never mind the five- inch
Natacha
Marro
heels hadn’t help me, but in sweats and trainers I’d have only lasted a minute
more. Lara looks like she regularly hits a gym and not just for the great
smoothies or the sauna. I have no chance.
‘How much I’ve heard about you.’
‘Right,’ I answer slowly. ‘Right. Perhaps we could step into
the back?’ Is that wise though? At least out here I have witnesses when she
kicks my unfit ass.
‘Good thinking,’ she agrees. Great, we’re agreeing! This is
a step forward. ‘We have a lot to
talk
about.’
Wait? Have I just imagined a menacing emphasis on the word
“talk”? She didn’t really imply it menacingly, did she? I imagined that, right?
‘After you.’ I indicate to the back.
‘Oh no, I’ll follow
you
.’
She can now stab me in the back, literally, and isn’t
knife-crime on the rise, too? I make it though without any incident, but
unfortunately for me Felicity is oblivious to the frantic looks I shoot at her;
she beams at us as we enter the office.
As I sit down and she closes the door behind us I’m reminded
of being trapped in that interview room with Penelope Whitter, the demon MD.
Penelope suddenly seems like an amateur compared to Lara. Broken ankle? No,
Lara is going to break my neck. I shudder at the thought.
‘You look worried, Arielle.’ She picks up a pen from my desk
and twirls it around. ‘Are you?’
‘Well–’
I hesitate. You’re not supposed to show weakness in the face
of adversity, are you? I don’t like her pen movement though. Can you cause
someone serious injury with a Bic biro? Or is that a diversion so I don’t see
her impressive heels coming towards my face?
No way does Lara needs this appointment with her quirky
Henry Holland tee that she’s teamed with an understated pair of white ripped
Karl Lagerfeld skinny jeans. I feel dowdy in the old Diesel jeans and plain
black Gap tee I changed into to do the window display once I thought Mrs P.
wasn’t going to make an appearance. I wish I’d changed back into my
Poltock
& Walsh dress as I really need my
fashion-heightened confidence considering
these
circumstances.
‘A little apprehensive, perhaps,’ I decide to admit.
She smiles at me for the first time, putting down the pen.
If this is some sort of torture technique, it’s working. Should I try and make
a dash for the door before my bloodshed begins?
‘Noah and I were over when you stayed that night,’ she
explains, looking friendlier than before.
News to me. Maybe she wants me to confess and
then
she’ll kick my ass, say she was
provoked. I raise my eyebrow.
‘
Really
, Arielle.
We shouldn’t have got married in the first place. Rebound flings are ugly things.’
She sighs. ‘You should have let him explain. He’s been so miserable.’
This is an interesting tactic of hers, but I’ll play along
with her games, for the time being. ‘I thought he was a cheating pig. Would you
have stayed to hear his lies?’
‘I understand. The
trouble with that one is that he thinks with his
trousers
before anything else.’
‘Don’t all men?’ I joke. Wait, are we bonding? What’s going
on?
She laughs. ‘True, but it would have saved a lot of
heartache if you had stayed and talked to him.’
I stare at her. Why would I want to talk to someone whose
room suggested he was still married and, to make matters worse, had a son? What
sort of a person does she think I am?
‘I saw the photo,’ I
coolly say. ‘The three of you. I think it’s pretty obvious why I ran out on him
when everything suggested he was cheating on his wife and son.’
‘You saw
my
son.
Zac. That’s who I left Noah for –
Zac’s
father. Like
I said, Noah and I should never have got married in the first place, though we
did have something I guess.’ A frown appears on her face. ‘I suppose that’s why
we kept it a secret from our families but no matter how I tried with Noah it
always seemed to come back to Ant, that’s
Zac’s
father, and for Noah it always came back to you.’
Hearing that feels like a stab to the heart and I’m not sure
why. ‘It’s been months since I ran out on him though. Why hasn’t he got in
touch?’ My head is spinning.
‘He wanted to. He knew from his parents you were at home –
they spoke on the phone – but he wanted our divorce sorted before he saw you,
to give you no reason to turn him down,’ she clarifies seeing my face.
Bewildered doesn’t begin to explain how I feel. I thought
Noah was a cheating scumbag and now I’m being told by
his wife
of all people
that he’s not a cheat and he’s
always
been in love with me
.
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to hear; well, four years
ago certainly. Pre-Piers. My life is finally getting back on track and given
Noah was the one who derailed it in the first place...
‘Why has he sent you?’ I ask.
‘Because he knew you’d never talk to him.’
‘Right,’ I acknowledge, but I’m secretly thinking that Noah
is a chicken for not facing me in person. I wonder how Piers would behave if
these were our circumstances?
Piers
.
My choices affect more than me, they impact Piers who has already been through
so much because of me. Our ever-increasing phone conversations leave me
positive that we might just be OK.
‘I’m sorry Lara,’ I carefully say. ‘I’m not sure what you
expect me to say but I need some time to get my head around this.’
‘Of course.’ She looks sympathetic. ‘I’ll leave you my
number. Call me if you need a friendly ear to bend as you look shell-shocked. I
hope we can be friends one day,’ she adds, smiling warmly at me as I stand up
and head to the door.
What am I supposed to say to that? I was totally unprepared
for this
consultation
and now my
nicely ticking-along life has just become topsy-turvy once again.