“Right.” I nod several times. “So…so you think we should go with Venetia?”
“Absolutely!” He laughs, puzzled. “Don’t you? Isn’t this your dream come true, coming here?”
“Er…yes,” I say, folding my Alternative Pain Relief Options leaflet into smaller and smaller quarters. “Of course it is.”
“Sweetheart. Darling.” Luke suddenly has a concerned frown. “If you’re feeling at all threatened by my old relationship with Venetia, let me assure you—”
“Threatened?” I cut him off brightly. “Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t feel
threatened
.”
Maybe I do feel a tad threatened. But how can I say that to Luke?
“Good, you’re still here!” Venetia’s silvery voice travels down the corridor and I look round to see her approaching, a clipboard in hand. “You must collect your welcome pack before you go, Becky! We have all sorts of goodies for you. And there was another thing I wanted to mention—”
“Venetia.” Luke cuts her off midstream. “Let me be frank. We were just discussing the fact of…our previous relationship. And I’m not sure Becky feels comfortable with it.” He takes my hand and I clasp his gratefully.
Venetia exhales and nods.
“Of course,” she says. “Becky, I
completely
understand. If you feel at all uncomfortable, then you should certainly consider going elsewhere. I won’t be offended!” She gives me a friendly smile. “All I can say is…I’m a professional. If you do decide to remain under my care, I’ll help you achieve the very best birth experience I can. And, just in case you were
really
anxious”—her eyes twinkle at me—“I do have a boyfriend!”
“Don’t worry! I’m not quite
that
insecure!” I say, joining in with her merry laughter.
She has a boyfriend! It’s all OK!
I don’t know how I could have thought it was anything else. God, pregnancy is making me paranoid.
“So,” Venetia Carter is saying, “you two go away, have a think about it. You have my number—”
“I don’t need to think about it.” I beam at her. “Just show me where the welcome packs are!”
Mrs R Brandon
37 Maida Vale Mansions
Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
20 August 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your letter. I am aware of the investment “bet” between yourself and your husband. Please be assured I will not reveal any of your asset allocation strategies to him, nor “sell them like a Russian spy.”
In answer to your query, I think an investment in gold would be a most wise choice for your child. Gold has done well over the last few years and in my opinion will continue to do so.
Yours sincerely,
Kenneth Prendergast
Family Investment Specialist
GOD, WORK’S DEPRESSING.
It’s the next day, and I’m sitting at my desk in the reception area of personal shopping. Jasmine, who works with me, is slumped on the sofa. Our appointment book is empty, the phone is silent, and as I look around, the place is as dead as ever. Not a single customer. The only sign of movement out on the shop floor is Len the security guard doing his usual rounds, and he looks as fed up as the rest of us feel.
When I
think
what it used to be like at Barneys in New York, all bright and full of chatter and people buying thousand-dollar dresses…And all I’ve sold this week is a pair of fishnets and an out-of-season raincoat. This place is a disaster. And we opened only ten weeks ago.
The Look is backed by this big tycoon, Giorgio Laszlo. It was supposed to be a buzzy, high-concept department store which would take over from Selfridges and Harvey Nichols. But things started going wrong from day one; in fact, the place is a national joke.
First of all, a whole warehouse of stock got burned down and the launch had to be delayed. Then a light fixture fell from the ceiling and concussed one of the beauty assistants, right in the middle of a makeup demonstration. Then there was a suspected outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease and we were all sent home for five days. It turned out to be false—but the damage was done. All the papers ran stories on how The Look was cursed, and printed cartoons showing the customers keeling over and having bits of the building fall on them. (Which were actually quite funny, but we’re not allowed to say that.)
And no one’s come back since we reopened. Everyone seems to think the place is still closed, or infectious, or something. The
Daily World
, who are total enemies of Giorgio Laszlo, keep sending undercover photographers to take pictures of the shop floors and run them under headings like “Still Empty!” and “How Much Longer Can This Folly Last?” The rumor is that if things don’t pick up soon, the place will fold.
With a gloomy sigh, Jasmine turns a page and starts reading the horoscopes. That’s the other problem: it’s hard to keep your staff motivated when business is down. (Jasmine is my staff.) Before I started this job I read one of Luke’s management books to get some tips on how to be a boss, and it said it was “crucial to keep giving your team compliments in bad times.”
I’ve already complimented Jasmine’s hair, shoes, and bag. To be honest, there’s not a lot left.
“I like your…eyebrows, Jasmine!” I say brightly. “Where do you get them done?”
Jasmine looks at me as though I’ve asked her to eat baby whale. “I’m not telling you!”
“Why not?”
“It’s my secret. If I tell you, you’ll go there too and then you’ll have my look.”
Jasmine is skinny, with trails of bleached-blond hair, a nose stud, and one blue eye and one green eye. She could not look less like me if she tried.
“I won’t have your look!” I retort lightly. “I’ll just have good eyebrows! Go on, tell me.”
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “No way.”
I feel a surge of frustration.
“When you asked me where I have my hair done, I told you,” I remind her. “I gave you a card and recommended the best stylist and got you ten percent off your first haircut. Remember?”
Jasmine shrugs. “That’s hair.”
“And this is eyebrows! It’s
less
important!”
“That’s what you think.”
Oh, for God’s sake. I’m about to tell her that I don’t care where she gets her stupid eyebrows done (which is a lie, as I’ve now become obsessed with them), when I hear footsteps. Striding, heavy, senior-management kind of footsteps.
Quickly Jasmine shoves her
Heat
magazine under a pile of sweaters and I pretend to be adjusting a scarf on a mannequin. A moment later, Eric Wilmot, the marketing director, appears round the corner with a couple of smartly suited guys I’ve never seen before.
“And this is the personal shopping department,” he says to the men with a fake-jovial air. “Rebecca here used to work at Barneys in New York! Rebecca, meet Clive and Andrew from First Results Consulting. Here to throw a few ideas around.” He gives a strained smile.
Eric was only promoted to marketing director last week, when the previous one resigned. He really doesn’t look like a man who’s relishing his new job.
“We haven’t had any customers for days,” says Jasmine flatly. “It’s like a morgue in here.”
“Uh-huh.” Eric’s smile tightens.
“An empty morgue without any dead people,” she clarifies. “It’s
deader
than a morgue. ’Cause at least in a morgue—”
“We’re all aware of the situation, thank you, Jasmine.” Eric cuts her off briskly. “What we need is solutions.”
“How do we get people in through the doors?” One of the consultants is addressing a mannequin. “That’s the question.”
“How do we maintain their loyalty?” chimes in the other one thoughtfully.
For goodness’ sake. I reckon
I
could be a consultant if all you do is wear a suit and ask totally obvious questions.
“What’s the unique selling point?” the first chimes in again.
“There isn’t one,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. “We’ve got the same old stock as everyone else. Oh, and by the way, you might get ill or injured if you shop here. We need an edge!”
The three men all stare at me in surprise.
“The public perception of danger is obviously our greatest challenge,” says the first consultant, frowning. “We need to counter the negative coverage, create a positive, healthy image—”
He’s totally missing my point.
“It wouldn’t matter!” I cut him off. “If we had something unique, that people really
wanted
, they’d come in anyway. Like, when I lived in New York I once went to a sample sale in a condemned building. There were all these warnings outside saying Do Not Enter, Unsafe, but I’d heard they had Jimmy Choos at eighty percent off. So I went in!”
“Did they?” says Jasmine, perking up.
“No,” I say regretfully. “They’d all gone. But I found a fab Gucci trench coat, only seventy dollars!”
“You went into a condemned building?” Eric is goggling at me. “For a pair of shoes?”
Something tells me he isn’t going to last in this job.
“Of course! And there were about a hundred other girls there too. And if we had something fab and exclusive at The Look, they’d come here like a shot! Even if the roof was falling in! Like some really hot designer diffusion range.”
This idea has been brewing in my mind for a while now. I even tried talking to Brianna, the chief buyer, about it last week. But she just nodded and asked if I could bring her the Dolce diamante dress in a size 2 because she was going to a premiere that night and the red Versace was too tight around the butt, and what did I think?
God knows how Brianna got her job. Well, actually, everybody knows. It’s because she’s Giorgio Laszlo’s wife and used to be a model. In the press release when The Look opened it said this would qualify her perfectly to be chief buyer, as she has the “knowledge and savvy of a fashion insider.”
It didn’t add “unfortunately she has not one brain cell.”
“Diffusion…designer…” The first consultant is scribbling in his little book. “We should speak to Brianna about that. She’ll have the right connections.”
“I believe she’s on holiday at the moment,” says Eric. “With Mr. Laszlo.”
“Well, when she gets back. We’ll progress that idea.” The consultant snaps the book shut. “Let’s move on.”
They all stride off again, and I wait till they’ve rounded the corner before giving a harrumph of frustration.
“What’s up?” says Jasmine, who has slumped back down on the sofa and is texting something on her phone.
“They’ll never get anything off the ground! Brianna won’t be back for weeks, and anyway, she’s hopeless. They’ll just have meetings and talk…and meanwhile the shop will go bust.”
“What do you care?” Jasmine gives an indifferent shrug.
How can she just watch a business collapse and not try to do
something
?
“I care because…because this is where I work! It could be a success!”
“Get real, Becky. No designer’s ever going to want to do an exclusive range here.”
“Brianna could call in some favors,” I protest. “I mean, she’s modeled for Calvin Klein, Versace…Tom Ford…. She could persuade one of them, surely? God, if I had a famous designer friend—” I stop, midflow.
Hang on. Why didn’t I think of this before?
“What?” Jasmine looks up.
“I
do
know a designer,” I say. “I know Danny Kovitz! We could get him to do something.”
“You
know
Danny Kovitz?” Jasmine looks skeptical. “Or, like, you’ve bumped into him once?”
“I really know him! He used to live above me in New York. He designed my wedding dress,” I can’t help adding smugly.
It’s so cool, having a famous friend. I knew Danny when he was a nobody. In fact I helped get him his first break. And now he’s this international fashion darling! He’s been in
Vogue
and had his dresses worn to the Oscars and everything. He was interviewed in
Women’s Wear Daily
last month about his last collection, which he said was based on his interpretation of the decay of civilization.
I don’t believe a word of it. It’ll have been something he threw together at the last minute with lots of safety pins and black coffee and someone else sewed up for him.
But still. An exclusive Danny Kovitz line would be fabulous publicity. I should have thought of this before.
“If you really know Danny Kovitz, ring him up,” says Jasmine challengingly. “Right now.”
She doesn’t
believe
me?
“Fine, I will!” I whip out my phone, find the number for Danny’s mobile, and dial it.
The truth is, I haven’t spoken to Danny for quite a long while. But still, we went through a lot together while I was living in New York, and we’ll always have that bond. I wait for a while, but there’s no reply, just a bleeping sound. He probably lost his phone and canceled it or something.
“Problem?” Jasmine raises one immaculate eyebrow.
“His cell phone isn’t working,” I say coolly. “I’ll call his office.” I dial international directories, get a New York number for Danny Kovitz Enterprises, and dial. It’s nine thirty A.M. in New York, which means there’s not much chance of Danny being up, unless he’s had an all-nighter. But I can leave a message.
A male voice answers. “Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”
“Oh, hi there!” I say. “It’s Becky Brandon here, née Bloomwood. I’d like to speak to Danny Kovitz.”
“Please hold the line,” the voice says politely. Some kind of rap blasts my eardrum for a few moments, then a bright female voice comes on the line.
“Welcome to the Danny Kovitz fan club! For full membership information, please press one—”
Oh, for God’s sake. I switch off and dial the main number again, avoiding Jasmine’s gaze.
“Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”
“Hi, I’m an old, very close friend of Danny’s,” I say briskly. “Please put me through to his personal assistant.”