My eyes narrow. If she thinks she’s going to blame the “lost” dress on me, she can think again. Biting my lip in case I say something that will get me the sack I stare at Laura, wondering where the Scarecrow and the Tin Man are when you need them.
“This is a very serious matter, Natalie. And looking at me like that is just not making it any better.”
I look down at the floor, then think what the hell and stare at her again.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” I say as coolly as I can.
“Then who does it have to do with, Natalie?” God, she’s actually enjoying this, I realize.
“I don’t know,” I say flatly. I want to add,
I’m so not a Westwood person, and you should know that,
but it would only incriminate Julie.
“Fine, as you wish,” Laura says icily. “But I guarantee this is not the end of this particular issue. Now, hadn’t you better get back to your client? Or are you also ignoring that aspect of your contract, too?”
“I didn’t want to leave my client in the first place,” I say pointedly, and turn to go back to the cash desk. But the girl isn’t there anymore. I quickly look round the shop, but she isn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Julie,” I cry out quickly, “did you see my client?”
“The girl with the Marc Jacobs bag? She left a few minutes ago.”
“But she hadn’t paid!” I cry. “She didn’t take the goods with her, did she?”
But I know the answer already. Of course she did. They were all bagged up and ready to go.
I hear a hollow laugh behind me as Laura walks over.
“Looks like your paycheck really is going to have a dent in it this month,” she says as she walks past with her lips in a tight smile. “I’m afraid to say, but one more problem, Natalie, and I’m going to have to let you go.” Before I can say anything, she disappears into the stockroom, leaving me shaking with rage and humiliation.
“You all right?” asks Julie. “Just ignore her—she’s probably got PMS or something.”
But I can’t ignore her. I am so angry and upset I don’t know what to do with myself. How dare Laura say that she’s going to have to let me go, when she was the one who forced me to leave my bloody “client” to look at the stupid dress? And Julie—doesn’t she realize this all happened because of her?
I look up to see Alistair and Lucy peering through the window.
“Cheer up!” Alistair tells me jauntily as he follows Lucy into the shop.
I attempt a smile, but there’s no use—my face is fixed in a massive frown. I unenthusiastically ask them what they’ve been up to.
“Oh, you know, this and that. Went to the Ground Floor Bar last night. Going to some party with Lucy’s university mates tonight—the usual debauched lifestyle that my parents abhor,” he says, rummaging through the Maharishi rail. “Luce, d’ya think these trousers would suit me?”
Before she can answer, Laura reappears from the stock cupboard and Lucy walks over quickly to talk to her about next week’s shifts while Alistair pretends to be a proper customer.
I halfheartedly pretend to help him find a pair of trousers, but I can’t really focus properly. Instead, I’m trying to think of ways to pay Laura back. Spiders in her shoes, salt in her coffee—really mature things like that.
Julie wanders over. “Alistair, don’t even think about the Maharishis. They’d look ridiculous on you,” she says sternly.
He grins at her. “So, Julie. Going out tonight? What will it be, the toilets at the Market Bar, or what about the Electric? I’ve heard that the White Swan lays on quite comfortable sofas—much more comfortable than those cold metal basins in Canvas . . .”
Julie grabs Alistair by the ear. For someone with such a small frame, she can look pretty fearsome when she wants to. “One more word, just one more word and I will throw you through the window and onto the street. Do you hear me?”
He looks up, doe-eyed. “Not one more,” he agrees. “I think it’s really wonderful that two people can express themselves so freely . . .” His eyes are glinting cheekily, and I find myself grinning in spite of myself. God, he’s attractive, I think, momentarily forgetting how pissed off I am.
Before Julie can hit him, Lucy comes over. “Alistair, behave.”
He grins. “I didn’t say anything. Did I, Natalie?”
He looks at me imploringly and I give him a half smile.
“Natalie, ignore him. So anyway, what can we do for the pair of you?” asks Julie.
“Just thought we’d pop in and say hello,” says Lucy.
“Just thought you’d come in and borrow some clothes, more like,” says Julie. “Well, no can do. Laura’s here and you’ve got no chance. Sorry, darling, it’s jeans for you tonight.”
Lucy shrugs. “Oh, well, never mind. Alistair, are you ready to go?”
“Surely. So what are you lovely ladies up to tonight?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Bar Rumba,” Julie says with a twinkle in her eye. “I think it’s time to explore my Latin side, if you know what I mean.”
“Going with anyone special?” Alistair asks in a deadpan tone.
“Yes.” Julie stares at Alistair, daring him to ask her who. Instead, he turns to me.
“I see. And you, Natalie, what exciting plans do you have for this evening?”
“I’m not sure,” I say after a pause. I’d like to be going out with him and Lucy, but I can hardly say that. “Maybe dinner at Momo.”
“Momo, huh? Very nice. Well, I guess it’s just me and you, Luce. Shall we start at the Elgin and take it from there?”
Lucy is staring at a silk boiler suit with intensity.
“It’s no use; it’s staying right on the hanger,” says Julie.
“Yeah,” says Lucy, shrugging, “I know. Okay, Alistair, let’s go. But drinks are on you—you completely wiped me out last night.”
As they sashay out of the shop, I wonder if I’d have been going with them if I hadn’t said I was going out.
“I’m not surprised you’re blushing,” says Julie. I look up quickly. Is it that obvious I like Alistair?
“Honestly, having a hot date and not telling me. So come on, who is he?”
I stare at Julie blankly. What is she talking about?
“Momo?” she says, prompting me.
“Oh” I say unenthusiastically. “It’s not really a date. I mean, it’s just dinner with someone . . .”
“Sounds like a date to me.” Julie grins. “So what are you going to wear?”
“Oh, I dunno, probably just jeans.”
I don’t want to tell her that as I’m not actually going to go, it doesn’t really matter what I wear.
“Jeans? Hmmmm. Not looking for any action, then, are you?”
I look up, shocked. “No!”
“Well, just asking. Tell you what, how about jeans and that black Gucci top that was in the window last week?”
“You mean that one that opens down to the waist?” I know the one she means. It’s the sort of thing J.Lo would wear. Or anyone else with a stomach so flat it doesn’t crease when you sit down. I, incidentally, am not in possession of such a stomach.
“No—that one’s nice, but not for dinner. I was thinking of the backless one,” says Julie thoughtfully. Now she’s talking, I think. I saw someone try that top on earlier and it’s amazing. I imagine myself walking into a smart restaurant with a sexy backless number and high heels. But then I shut it out of my mind.
There’s no way I’m borrowing clothes, and there’s no way I’m going out to dinner with some investment banker. I’m going to call Simon and cancel. I’ve had a shitty day and the last thing I need is to spend the evening in the company of a money-obsessed City type who expects me to do whatever he says in return for giving me a platinum card.
“I’m not sure it’s really that sort of dinner,” I say with a little smile. Julie means well, but I still haven’t forgotten that it’s mainly her fault that Laura hates me.
“Suit yourself,” she says, wandering off to pounce on a customer eyeing up some Clements Ribeiro bags.
I look at my watch. I can’t procrastinate any longer; I’ve absolutely got to call Simon to tell him I can’t make dinner. Going to meet him would be madness. I simply can’t walk into Momo and have a date with some guy who thinks I’m called Cressida and great pals with his old family friend Leonora.
Plus, I don’t even know where Momo is.
I wander over to the stockroom to get out my mobile phone, but Laura calls me before I get there.
“Natalie, since you seem to have time to stare into midair, could you make yourself useful and go out and get some coffee and milk? We’ve nearly run out and I’ve got a couple of clients coming late this evening. Actually, better get some wine, too. Go to Corney and Barrow and ask for my usual, would you?”
Laura always offers coffee or wine to regulars or people who look like they’re going to spend serious money. Or who could become regulars. Apparently you just get a feel for who you should offer coffee to, who you should offer wine to, and who you should just leave alone. Julie generally tries to offer everyone wine because once a bottle is open we are allowed to finish it after work. But Laura has cottoned on and made a rule that no one can offer wine without asking her first. Which generally means she’s the only one who dishes out the wine these days.
I nod at Laura and wander out onto Ledbury Road. Actually, I’m relieved to be out of the shop—I could do with some fresh air. Plus, Corney and Barrow is right opposite The West Village on Kensington Park Road, a lovely little boutique that’s got a really sweet floaty skirt in the window. If I can get the coffee really quickly, I’ll have time to try it on before buying the wine and Laura won’t be any the wiser.
I break out into a little jog and wave at Michael as I pass Joseph. He smiles and puts his hand to his mouth in an “I’m soooo bored” way. Then I pop into Tom’s deli to buy the coffee and cut through Colville Terrace and Portobello Road to get to The West Village. The skirt is still there—it’s bright pink with psychedelic spots in a cool A-line. I walk in and find one in my size, and then take a couple of tops into the changing room with me for good measure. Which is a mistake, because they are both perfect. The skirt isn’t—it makes my hips look about a million inches wide—but both tops are really nice, and I can only afford one.
One of the sales assistants wanders over.
“That’s pretty,” she says.
It’s funny, but working in a shop doesn’t seem to make you more cynical. At least it doesn’t make me more cynical. I know that Julie often tells people they look nice just so they’ll buy stuff; yet when someone tells me something suits me, I always believe them.
“It is, isn’t it,” I say, staring at my reflection. “It’s just that the other one looks nice, too, and I can only buy one.”
The girl nods in appreciation of my predicament. “Why don’t you try on the other one again,” she suggests.
I go back into the changing room and switch tops. When I come out, she frowns slightly.
“You’re right,” she says. “That one’s great, too. This is going to be tough.”
“This one would look great with trousers,” I say, looking at myself in the mirror.
“Absolutely,” says the girl. “Although the other one would be better with skirts.”
“Hmmmm,” I agree. “Which do you think would look best with jeans?”
“I don’t know,” says the girl after a little hesitation. “Why don’t I get you some jeans to try so you can see?”
I nod gratefully as she pulls out a selection of dark indigo jeans, and I take them back into the cubicle.
“Definitely that one,” says the girl when I reemerge. It’s a blue halter-neck, and I have to admit it looks lovely with the jeans. Which also look fantastic, like my legs go on forever.
“Do you think the top looks better than the jeans?”
“The jeans?” The girl is now clearly confused. Evidently she is not used to people with enough money for only one item of clothing and no idea what kind of item they are after.
“Sally, can you cash up this evening?” I hear an older woman ask the girl assisting me. Cash up? Already? I look at my watch in alarm. Oh, shit shit shit—it’s twenty to six already. I’ve been gone nearly forty-five minutes.
I run back into the changing room and tug off the jeans and top, throwing them over the door to the girl, along with my credit card. “I want the jeans,” I say, pulling on my trousers, “and the blue top. But I need to be really quick, okay?”
She has the slip ready for me to sign when I reemerge, red-faced and breathing heavily, and without looking too closely at the
Amount
line, I sign and grab the bag. Then I nip into Corney and Barrow, buy five bottles of Sancerre, and run all the way back to Tina T’s.
I’m panting heavily by the time I get in, and manage to hide my West Village bag behind the cash desk before Laura sees it.
“Natalie, where have you been?” she says crossly, taking the wine and coffee from me.
“Sorry . . . big . . . queue. . . .” I gasp. Am I really this unfit? I must start exercising more. Or, you know, just start exercising.
“Hmmm, well it’s six, so you may as well both start packing up,” she says briskly. She obviously wants us out of the shop before her clients come round.
Julie raises her eyebrows at me. “You ready to go?” she asks. “Laura said she’d cash up tonight, so I’m ready if you are.”
I nod, and walk over to the stockroom.
“It’s okay; I’ve got your bag here,” Julie calls before I get there, so I turn back to the cash desk, grab my West Village bag, and walk over to the door.
“Bye, Laura,” I call, and get a brief nod in response.
“Sorry about that; I just couldn’t wait to get out of there,” sighs Julie, lighting a cigarette as soon as we’re out of the shop. “I managed to get this gorgeous Gaultier top into my bag and Laura’s been hovering round me like a fly to . . . well, you get my drift. Ooh, I see you’ve got yourself something for tonight, too,” she says, grinning, peering inside my West Village bag.
Oh God. Tonight. I didn’t call.
I open my bag and pull out my mobile and the piece of paper I wrote Simon’s number down on. I dial furiously, but there’s no answer. He must have gone home already.
I reluctantly put the phone back in my bag. Then, buoyed up by my new purchases, and feeling slightly reckless, I stop suddenly.
“Julie,” I say slowly, “remind me where Momo is, would you?”