Suddenly Annie felt overwhelmingly excited. This could be it! This could be her thing. This could be her business! If she bought Mr Timi Woo's shoes and sold them over here . . . well, even at £120 they would be a bargain, a total steal. There was nothing available in Britain the quality of Mr Woo's shoes for less than £200, or £250 even. She couldn't think when she'd seen a lovelier piece of footwear that didn't come in a signed wooden box.
And the market for bespoke designer shoes was getting hotter and hotter. The Store already sold limited editions of Brian Atwoods and Rupert Sandersons at no less than £300 a pair.
'Paula, you are a genius!' she declared. 'You are a totally, brilliant, fabulous shopping genius.'
'Calm down, girl, you can order yourself a pair,' was Paula's response.
'A pair! I want hundreds of pairs!' Annie exclaimed.
'Maybe you should have a biscuit,' Paula advised.
'A biscuit? No, no, no!' Annie waved the idea away. 'Not everyone can eat biscuits all day long and still look like you. Paula, this is the best thing you've ever told me about.'
'Apart from the day that Donna . . .' Paula reminded her.
'Oh yeah.'
There was no forgetting the day that Donna Nicholson had finally left The Store. Their former floor manager, possibly the evil twin sister of Cruella de Vil.
Dinah for drinks:
Mustard yellow pinafore (Barnardo's)
White, yellow and mustard floral blouse (Topshop)
Blue and white striped tights (Topshop)
Blue sequined beret (Accessorize)
Mustard Mary-Janes (Barnardo's)
Total est. cost: £65
'I'm liking your necklace.'
Five consultations later and Annie was finally packing the goodies gleaned from The Store today into white and gold carrier bags.
There was a top with a hem tear on the sleeve, which she'd bought (double discount) planning to invisibly mend it then sell it (Brand New With Tags) on her site. Then, she'd been given a generous selection of just about to go out of date miniatures by one of the Lancôme ladies, which she would either use herself or donate to her sister, Dinah.
But the best haul of the day had come from The Store's restaurant: three Tupperware boxes full of roasted artichoke salad and slices of fennel and fenugreek lasagne. Annie would offer this to whichever family members turned up at home tonight in search of dinner. She couldn't promise they'd eat it, obviously – that was the problem with The Store's restaurant leftovers, they were made for very low-fat-ladies-who-lunch.
Ed was taking Owen out to a concert this evening. She didn't know what kind of concert, except that it was at the Barbican and he'd got a special rate on the tickets. But this was a good thing, as Ed wasn't really happy unless he got a live music fix at least twice a week and Owen was always willing to tag along, whereas Annie had been dragged to several strange things (Shostakovich and Benjamin Britten, to name two) and had made it quite clear she shouldn't be his number one choice of musical date.
Lana had already phoned to say she was going to be with her new boyfriend, Andrei, this evening,
doing
their homework together
. Annie had tried her hardest not to tut down the line. Probably the most irritating thing about Lana's new boyfriend was that there was nothing wrong with him – absolutely not one thing Annie could complain about. He was the perfect boyfriend and this made her twitch with annoyance because, if she was really honest, she wasn't quite ready to watch Lana fall madly in love. She wasn't ready to be relegated to the sidelines of Lana's affections . . . not just yet.
Annie turned off the row after row of ceiling lights that gave the personal shopping suite its glamorous dazzle, then, handbag and carrier bags slung over her shoulders, she walked down the escalator, already silent and still because it was after 9 p.m. and The Store was closed.
As she rounded the corner from the bottom of the escalator into Accessories on the ground floor, Annie didn't exactly mean to look, she really didn't. She'd intended to keep walking towards the front door, where she was meeting her sister in about three minutes' time, but then there was a movement which forced her to turn her head.
There, in the designer handbag corner, with its golden wooden shelving still lit from above and the new season's patent bags glowing like works of art, Sandra the sales consultant was dusting the scrunchy, slouchy, violet slice of handbag heaven which Annie couldn't seem to get out of her mind.
'Oh babes!' Annie couldn't stop herself from walking over now. 'No one's bought it today then?'
Sandra, an elegant blonde in her forties who'd spent five years in Accessories and knew everything there was to know about selling arm candy, turned to her and smiled: 'No, Annie, not yet. There was a very close call today. A woman was in here for over twenty minutes looking at it, handling it and trying it on. She said something about maybe next week when her pay cheque comes in.'
'Maybe next week!' Annie spluttered. 'It won't be here next week! Why didn't she just take it? Hasn't she heard of credit cards? Some people are just strange . . .'
'Which means it's still here.' Sandra, on tiptoe, took the bag down from its plinth and handed it to its most fervent admirer.
Ooooh, the weight, the softness, the substance, the crackle of patent leather, the gentle jangle of quality fittings. How could anyone ever think about buying a fake bag when the real thing was so very, very stunningly good? Annie herself had occasionally succumbed to the lure of the cheap, fashionable fake but it was always so woefully disappointing compared to the real thing.
And this was such a great piece! If she bought this bag, she could dress it up, dress it down. She couldn't think of an occasion that would be inappropriate for the bag. It was big, but not too big, soft but with structure . . .
Annie slipped it over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored column, then quickly took it off and handed it back to Sandra.
'I have to go,' she said sharply, more to herself than to Sandra, or indeed the handbag.
'A stunning investment piece,' Sandra, began, only for Annie to chime in with her so they said together: 'It will go with absolutely everything.'
'Definitely not tonight, my love,' Annie called, walking away from the source of temptation as quickly as she could, 'Night-night.'
She passed the Chanel counter, scooped a blob of £120 a jar face cream from the tester pot and rubbed it into her hands, then blasted herself thoroughly with the No. 19 tester bottle.
Spotting her sister on the other side of The Store's locked glass doors, she hurried over.
Outside the two hugged hello, then looked each other over approvingly for fashion pointers. Whereas Annie was labelly and slightly 'glam conservative', Dinah at the age of thirty-three was still a high street shopper, totally dedicated to fashion.
'Not just a pinafore, but a
tulip
-shaped pinafore, now that is very on-trend. Totally wouldn't work with my boobs though,' was Annie's first comment as she stroked the material of her sister's mustard-coloured dress and admired the bravery of teaming it with striped tights, a flowery blouse and a blue beret. But then Dinah did work at an art college. There were certain standards of zaniness which had to be maintained.
'Lovely material, really good quality and the exact colour of your shoes.' These things did not escape Annie's notice.
'Aha, yeah, I bought them together, matching set, at Barnardo's for twenty-five pounds.' Dinah gave a smug little smile. She just loved to subvert Annie's mantra that great quality only came at a price.
'Bargain,' Annie had to agree: 'possibly because you are the only person in the Western world who suits mustard yellow.'
'Mmmm . . . I'm liking your necklace.' Dinah was now homing in on the ornately coloured and twisted brown, black and golden whorls round Annie's neck.
'Totally plastic, Brixton market, £4. It's yours for £3,' Annie offered.
'Hand it over and I'll buy you a drink,' was Dinah's offer.
'OK. Where are we going by the way?' Annie asked, 'and is the Dry One meeting us there?'
'Oh yeah. I've made sure there's a
selection
of mineral waters available,' Dinah replied, rolling her eyes.
'To think, we used to really like him . . . and what very, very good times we used to have,' Annie said with mock sadness, as arm in arm, heels clicking rhythmically together, the sisters set off down the street in the direction of one of the more secluded wine bars in Kensington.
'It can't go on for much longer, surely?' Dinah asked.
'Who knows?'
They were talking about Connor, their long-term friend. Once gay, vivacious and hilarious, a highly successful TV actor with a starring role in a prime time Sunday series, he was now a far too highly successful TV actor, about to renegotiate his contract, still gay but, instead of vivacious and hilarious, stone cold sober and almost as obsessed with his health as his career.
Both Annie and Dinah were convinced if they could just force one tiny little chilled Chablis into him he'd be back to his old self. Unfortunately, in Connor's opinion, 'That's just the booze talking, you're all just as dependent on it as I used to be.' Which was just totally irritating and boring.
The sisters were already settled down with large glasses of wine when Connor arrived, looking even more tall, dark and utterly knicker-droppingly gorgeous in real life than he did on the box.
After greeting, kissing and hugging them with plenty of fuss, Connor found a barman, who obviously recognized him, hovering at his elbow offering to take his order and bring his drinks to the table.
'Perrier with plenty of ices and slices,' Connor told him with a dazzling smile. 'Anything for you, girls?'
When Annie and Dinah shook their heads, Connor took off his slinky black raincoat and pulled up a chair.
'Service, girls,' Connor beamed at them, his newly whitened smile splitting his beautifully boned face: 'That's what we want.'
Pushing back his luxurious black hair, he stretched out his muscular arms (well, he did have a daily personal trainer) and, hands clasped behind his head, he leaned back.
'So what's the news? What's happening? How many handbags has Annie bought this week?'
Annie snorted in reply to this.
'Is Dinah still married to Bryan?' Connor asked next, teasingly because there was only one answer to this question.
Dinah gave a nod and smile.
'Is Billie still their only child? Not the slightest hint of another?'
'Yes!' Dinah insisted, 'and no!'
'Are Annie and Ed still happy?'
'Oh yeah,' Annie said, flicking up an eyebrow.
'Owen and Ed?'
'Likewise.'
'Most importantly then, is Lana still going out with Andrei and is Andrei still driving Mummy Annie up the wall?'
Gossip of a romantic nature was the kind Connor did best.
Annie nodded, groaned and took a sip of wine.
'Oh dear, oh dear, drowning our sorrows,' Connor noted snugly, 'looking for support from our faithful old poisons. You really should come to AA with me Annie, there are so many good-looking people there these days.'
'Good-looking people no longer matter to me,' she reminded him, 'unless they're wanting makeovers, babes.'