Authors: Lindsey Kelk
‘Edward bloody Warren!’ Al’s voice boomed across the room.
Filling the space with the world’s most expensive shit did nothing to dull its acoustics. Possibly something to do with the enormously high ceilings, complete with their own version of the Sistine Chapel frescoes, redrawn to include a man who looked ever so much like Warren, of course.
‘Mr Bennett!’ Edward rose to his feet and met Bertie in a very aggressive-looking hug. For some reason, I’d expected him to be a short man; however he was anything but. Al had to be almost six feet tall, maybe even more before his age had brought him down an inch or two, but Warren towered over him. Yes, there was a touch of help in his Cuban heels but this was not a Tom Cruise situation. He was enormous. Stooping to trade air kisses with Kekipi, I saw that he was starting to lose his hair on the top of his head but what was there was jet black and stylishly cut and when he looked up to fix Nick, Amy and myself with a sharp, level gaze, I couldn’t quite work out how old he was.
‘And the back-up dancers,’ he commented, making no move towards us. ‘They are adorable, Al.’
‘My photographer, Tess Brookes, and her assistant, Amy Smith,’ Al turned to introduce us. I waved my camera in an attempt to verify my profession. ‘And Nick Miller, our esteemed writer – perhaps you’ve read some of his work?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Edward gestured for Al and Kekipi to take the two seats in front of his desk before waving the rest of us towards the many other seating options in the room. ‘Please sit.’
I took a seat next to Amy on the leopard-print chaise while Nick glowered on a black velvet armchair opposite. I frowned, bouncing the weight of my camera between my hands, waiting to feel good about him feeling bad. My brain wanted to laugh right in his face but my ovaries wanted to go over and give him a hug. What was all that about?
‘So, what’s all this I hear about the House of Bennett finally happening?’ Edward might have been a total tosspot to us but he smiled so warmly at Al, I could almost forgive him. At least my brain could; my ovaries were still a bit offended on Nick’s behalf – stupid reproductive organs. ‘I’m all ears, Al.’
‘It’s just as I explained on the phone,’ Al said, unfastening the bottom button of his suit jacket. Today’s three-piece was a gorgeous charcoal grey. I had to admit, as much as I loved Santa Surfer Al, he did look very dapper in his suit. ‘It’s time to do something different.’
The receptionist who had shown us in reappeared as the lift doors slid open in silence, carrying a tray with three cups of espresso and some very promising-looking biscuits. Of course, she sailed right by us and placed them on Edward’s desk. It was only when she sailed right back again that I recognized her. There she was, completely starkers, two photos in on the right-hand side of the room. Crikey. I shook off my English awkwardness and held my camera up to my face to cover my blushes, hoping that Warren wouldn’t ask me and Amy to pose for his wall of nudes: me, because I wouldn’t, Amy, because she would.
‘I think it’s time we both did something different,’ Edward said, taking a leather folder from Kekipi. ‘Preferably on a beach with a cocktail.’
‘You’d be surprised at how boring that can get after a while,’ Al replied. ‘And you’ve been telling me you’re ready to retire for the last twenty years. I’m sure you’ve got a couple of months in you to help an old friend out with one last favour.’
Edward opened the folder and pulled out a dozen or so sketches. Trying to be inconspicuous, I left the safety of my sofa and stood at the side of the desk, snapping away, focusing on the delicate watercolour paintings.
‘Does she have to do that?’ Edward asked Al, seizing up at the sound of the shutter.
‘She does,’ Al replied. ‘But she’s very lovely so don’t worry about it at all.’
Focusing in on the sketches again, I couldn’t help but be surprised at how beautiful they were. Most were watercolour paintings of dresses, all nipped-in waists and full skirts in delicate colours. Zooming in, I saw that these images were not recent. All of them were dated in the bottom left-hand corner and went back as far as the 1970s, the newest from 2006.
‘These are Jane’s?’ Ed asked, his voice softening.
‘We did them together,’ Al confirmed. ‘She did most of the sketches and I did the painting. It was something she always wanted to do. Now it’s something that I
will
do.’
‘They’re very beautiful.’ Ed carefully replaced all of the sketches in the folder and handed it back to Kekipi, who took it with the kind of reverence I had only seen him show for a strawberry daiquiri. ‘And timeless. You’re intending to take the couture route, I assume?’
‘I’d like them to be worn, not admired from afar,’ Al said, his tiny coffee cup disappearing into his beard. ‘But I do want to create something special.’
Edward templed his fingers and rested his chin on top. ‘And you’ll distribute through Bennett’s, of course?’
‘There’s very little point having a clothes shop in the family if you can’t sell your own clothes,’ Al nodded. ‘But ultimately, I would like to open standalone stores. I’m looking at locations in New York, London, Paris and Milan. They wouldn’t roll out until phase two, of course.’
Leaning back, Edward whistled as I took a couple of gratuitous photos of his throne. His actual throne.
‘No point in half measures,’ he said, scratching a bushy black eyebrow. If he could have transplanted both eyebrows onto the bald patch on top of his head, he would have been absolutely golden.
‘Absolutely,’ Al agreed. ‘Which is why I’m here. No point going to anyone but the best.’
‘I am flattered of course,’ he replied. ‘And I’d love to work with you. What are you looking at, timings-wise?’
‘We have everything in place.’ Al sat up, straightened his tie and beamed. ‘And I’m not getting any younger. I want to show next spring.’
‘You want to show Spring Summer next September?’ Even through the viewfinder of my camera, I could tell that Edward didn’t look nearly as convinced as Al. ‘That’s awfully soon.’
‘And the Autumn Winter shows in spring are even sooner,’ Al nodded. ‘And that’s what I’m talking about. A twelve-piece capsule collection to show in February.’
‘But it’s already July!’ Edward looked as though Al had just told him he was planning to knock up his grandmother. ‘It’s not possible.’
‘I thought that too,’ Al said, glancing over at Kekipi. ‘But I made a few calls, Kekipi made a few calls and it turns out most things are achievable with the right connections and an open cheque book. So what would it take to get your team on board?’
‘No one from my team is available.’ Edward held out his arms with a puppy dog sadness. ‘But you don’t want one of my team, do you? You want me. And I am entirely at your disposal.’
With a slap on the desk as loud as thunder, Al stood up and reached across to shake Edward’s hand as Kekipi rolled his eyes.
‘Drama queens,’ he muttered while I captured the Kodak moment.
‘Kekipi, why don’t you take the ladies out to see the sights,’ Al said, giving Kekipi a good-natured shove. ‘Edward and I can manage the business side of this without boring the four of you.’
Glad to get out of Liberace’s playroom, I nodded, and dragged Kekipi out of his seat.
‘And the “writer”?’ Edward asked, raising an eyebrow in Nick’s direction.
‘I think he might want to stay,’ Al said without asking. ‘You three can take the car, Nick and I will walk back.’
‘Have the best time,’ Amy said to Nick in a low voice, waving with both hands.
‘She’s a delight,’ he said as I stowed my camera in its bag. ‘It’s interesting how much you can tell about someone from their friends.’
‘It’s interesting how much you can tell about someone who has none,’ I replied. ‘Like she said, have the best time.’
‘Oh, I will,’ he assured me, grabbing my arm as I passed. I swallowed hard and froze. ‘I usually enjoy myself, no matter how substandard the material is I’m given to work with.’
Wrenching my arm away and feeling somewhere between whitely furious and get-me-a-bin nauseus, I slid my feet through the ankle-deep carpeting and into the waiting lift, punching the button for the lobby. I needed to put as much distance between myself and that man as possible, both vertical and horizontal.
‘Shopping, then?’ Kekipi asked.
‘Sure,’ I nodded. ‘Shopping.’
Prison never seemed like a preferable option but thinking about it, I would much rather end up there for not paying my credit card bills than for ripping Nick’s heart out of his chest and ramming it down his throat.
So, shopping it was.
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
I sat down on small wooden chair, dropping shopping bags all over the floor and collapsing onto the table in front of me.
‘
Buongiorno
.’
A waiter smiled politely at Kekipi as he seated himself with considerably more grace, taking off his grey checked jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair.
‘
Buongiorno
,’ he replied. ‘
Due caffe, per favore. Grazie
.’
‘
Prego.
’ The waiter waltzed wearily back inside the café, leaving me and my enabler to wallow in the spoils of our shopping trip.
‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about; you’ve got what, four bags? Five? It’s nothing.’ Kekipi whipped out his phone, furrowed his brow for a moment and then popped it back in his pocket. ‘And they’re all fabulous investment pieces.’
‘I was completely broke before I got here,’ I replied, pushing one of the bags with the tip of my toe and trying not to convert the many euros I had parted with into pounds. As long as they were euros, it didn’t count, did it?
I took my own phone out and placed it on the table, waiting for the inevitable call from the credit card company to confirm that I had, in fact, been killed by a desperate shopaholic who was now trying to calm her murderous impulse by spending money that I didn’t have in assorted Milanese boutiques. ‘Now I’m completely broke and horribly in debt.’
‘But you’re completely broke, horribly in debt and the owner of some very beautiful shoes,’ he reasoned. ‘Those little black pumps you were insisting on wearing made me so sad. They looked as though they were about to crawl off your feet and throw themselves into a volcano.’
While we were shopping, everything he had suggested had made so much sense. I did need new flats and maybe spending money on a pair of handmade Italian shoes rather than picking up three identical pairs from Primark for a tenner was an investment. And I couldn’t walk around Milan with one pair of jeans, one stained T-shirt and one borrowed too-tight vest, could I? So, the new J Brand jeans were vital. And what with the weather being so unpredictable, I definitely needed the adorable printed Red Valentino cropped trousers for when it was too hot to wear my jeans. If I thought about it, I could rationalize all of it, from the Cosabella lingerie, past the satin-front Vince sweater, down to the Sergio Rossi black patent pumps, but sitting here looking at it all, I had epic shopper’s remorse. Al was paying me well for this job but I was hardly on
Pretty Woman
money and Kekipi wasn’t about to pony up any cash in return for my sexual favours. In fact, he’d probably chuck me a few quid to keep my clothes on. In this version of the story, I was the one who had made the
huge
mistake.
‘Any dessert?’ The waiter popped back up with an impressive display of elaborate cakes and a “please buy these, I’m on commission” smile.
‘We’ll take one very fruity thing and one very chocolatey thing,’ Kekipi replied without looking. ‘You need some sugar, you look tired.’
‘I need my head looking at,’ I mumbled, eyes on a particularly lovely and especially expensive stripy, teal Missoni dress. I could always take it back, I thought, reaching down to stroke it gently. Although, it was very nice … Maybe prostitution wasn’t the worst way to make a living if it kept me in pretty things.
‘Right, I held my water while we took care of business,’ Kekipi waved towards the bags, still looking very pleased with himself, ‘but enough is enough. Spill. I want all of it.’
‘All of it?’ I asked, wondering how quickly I could heterosexually gross him out. ‘Really?’
‘Right up until something goes in somewhere I never want to think about,’ he confirmed. ‘But as soon as it comes out, you can pick up the story again.’
I pulled a hair tie out of my handbag and wrapped my hair up and away from my face before I started my story. It was absolutely roasting out and I was thankful that Kekipi had chosen this place for our coffee stop. We were inside what I had to imagine was the world’s most beautiful shopping centre, all high glass-domed ceilings and intricately tiled floors. Where Meadowhall had a Paperchase, this place had a Prada. It was fancy.
‘You can skip over the part where you fell out of a window but leave in the bit where you got arrested, Amy filled me in on all of that,’ he said as our coffee and cakes arrived. ‘I want all the stories about boys but remember to leave out the actual penetration. I know, I’m such a prude.’
Such a prude?
Whatever Kekipi and Amy had got up to the night before had exhausted her to the point of turning down our shopping-slash-gossiping trip in favour of an afternoon on her arse. Without her to interpret, I was able to get through my story relatively quickly. Kekipi, for all his dramatics, really was a great listener. He shook his head, gasped and nodded in all the right places, sneakily encouraging me to reveal far more than I had originally intended. No wonder Al kept him so close over the years: he must know where all the bodies were buried.
‘And that takes us up to this morning, which I suppose takes us up until now.’ I stuck a tiny silver fork into a giant chocolate-covered pastry and tried not to drool as a mountain of cream oozed onto my plate. ‘So what do I do?’
Kekipi speared a glazed strawberry on his fruit tart and chewed thoughtfully.
‘Tell me why you slept with Charlie,’ he said, moving on to a raspberry.
‘Because I love him,’ I replied automatically.
‘But why did it happen when it did?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you rush straight from the airport and into his arms? Really think about it.’