No. That came out wrong. Obviously I can.
But still, forty-three in two days! And that’s not even counting all the Brandon Communications staff, who still don’t know there’s a party but think they’re going to a conference.
And the other is from Kentish English Sparkling Wine. They want to provide drinks for the party! They’re sending me fifty bottles! All they ask is that they can issue a press release and publish photos of Luke and his guests enjoying their high-quality product. I mean, I’ve never tasted Kentish English Sparkling Wine, but I’m sure it’s delicious.
I can’t help feeling proud as I stride along. I am doing so well. I’ve got the marquee, the drinks, the canapés, the pompoms, and I’ve booked a professional fire-eater called Alonzo, who doubles as a Country and Western singer, if we want it. (He doesn’t sing Country and Western songs while he’s fire-eating. He gets changed and calls himself Alvin.)
St Cuthbert’s is in one of those posh white squares with lots of railings and stucco, and I’m nearly at the school gate when my mobile rings and shows Suze’s ID.
‘Suze!’ I greet her. ‘I’m just outside. Where shall I meet you?’
‘I’m not there! I’m at the doctor’s.’ Suze sounds despairing. ‘Ernie has a terrible earache. We’ve been up all night. I won’t be able to come to The Look, either.’
‘Oh, poor you! Well … should I just leave?’
‘No, don’t be silly! Go to the exhibition and grab yourself a cake. They’ll be delicious. Half the mothers have done a cordon-bleu course. And you could always look at Ernie’s painting,’ she adds, as though it’s an afterthought.
‘Of course I’ll look at Ernie’s painting!’ I say firmly. ‘And we must meet up as soon as Ernie’s better.’
‘Definitely.’ Suze pauses. ‘So … how are you?’ she adds. ‘How are the party preparations going?’
‘Great, thanks,’ I say ebulliently. ‘All under control.’
‘Because Tarkie and I had this great idea, if you’re serving coffee …’
I feel a flash of annoyance. No one will believe I can do this, will they? Everyone assumes I’m totally incompetent and can’t even serve coffee properly.
‘Suze, for the last time, I don’t need your help!’ The words shoot out before I can stop them. ‘I can do it on my own! So leave me alone!’
Instantly I regret sounding so harsh. There’s silence at the other end and I can feel my cheeks turning pink.
‘Suze …’ I swallow. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘You know, Bex, sometimes people want to help.’ Suze cuts me off, her voice suddenly trembling. ‘And it’s not always about you, OK? It’s not because we think you can’t do it. It’s because Luke isn’t just your husband, he’s our friend too, and we wanted to do something nice for him. Tarkie suggested getting the Shetland Shortbread guys to come up with a special shortbread recipe just for Luke. And we thought we could serve it at the party with the coffee. But fine, if you’re that prickly we won’t. Forget it. I have to go.’
‘Suze—’
It’s too late. She’s gone. I try redialling but get the busy signal.
Oh God. She sounded really hurt. Maybe I was a bit defensive. But how was I supposed to know she had special shortbread?
For a few moments I just stand there, wincing. Should I text her?
No. She’s too angry with me. I’ll just wait till she’s cooled down a bit. And maybe had a night’s sleep.
There’s nothing I can do right now. I might as well go in and have a cake.
I head through the school gates, past all the babbling mothers, and follow signs to the exhibition. It’s being held in an airy hall with a parquet floor, and I can already see what Suze means about the cakes. There’s a whole trestle table of candy-coloured macaroons and mini chocolate brownies, and lots of very toned mummies in low-slung jeans, holding cups of coffee and eyeing up the goodies with hostile eyes. Not a single one is eating a cake – so why do they bother to have them?
‘Hi!’ I approach the trestle table, where a well-groomed blonde woman is serving. ‘I’d like a chocolate brownie, please.’
‘Of course!’ She hands me a tiny sliver of brownie in a napkin. ‘Five pounds, please.’
Five quid? For two bites?
‘All for the school!’ She trills with laughter that sounds like icicles and puts my fiver into a felt-covered cash box, trimmed with gingham. ‘Now, are you a new Reception mummy? Because we are expecting the decorated gingerbread houses by Tuesday, and response has been a little disappointing—’
‘I’m not a mummy,’ I hastily correct her. ‘At least, not here. I’m just a visitor. My daughter isn’t at school yet.’
‘Ah. I see.’ The interest in her eyes dies a little. ‘So where will your daughter be going?’
‘I don’t know.’ My voice is muffled by the brownie, which is absolutely scrumptious. ‘She’s only two.’
‘Two months.’ The woman nods knowingly. ‘Well, you’ll have to get your skates on …’
‘No, two.’ I swallow the brownie. ‘Two years old.’
‘Two years old?’ The woman seems riveted. ‘And you haven’t started?’
‘Er … no.’
‘You haven’t got her down anywhere?’ She stares at me with wide, twitchy eyes. ‘Nowhere?’
OK, this woman is freaking me out, with her super-white teeth and stressy manner. I mean, I know schools get full up and everything. But come on, even the waiting list for that new Prada bag was only a year. No school can be more exclusive than a limited-edition Prada bag, surely?
‘Thanks so much for the brownie!’ I quickly walk away. Now I feel all anxious, like I’ve missed the boat and I didn’t even know there was a boat. They should have Vogue for schools. They should have this month’s Must-Have and Latest Trends and timings for all the waiting lists. Then you’d know.
Anyway, I’m not going to get obsessive about this. We’ll get Minnie into a lovely school, I know we will.
I wonder where Madonna sends her kids to school. I mean, not that I’d send Minnie to a school because of the celebrities. Obviously not.
But still. Maybe I’ll look it up online. Just out of interest.
I buy myself a coffee and then head towards the art. Most of the paintings are of flowers, and when I get to Ernie’s picture, right in the corner, I’m a bit startled. It’s … different. It’s very dark and splodgy, and shows a sheep on a dark background that might be a moor …
Ah. Looking more closely, I think the sheep is dead.
Well. There’s nothing wrong with painting a picture of a dead sheep, is there? And the blood trickling from its mouth is quite realistic. I’ll say that to Suze, when we’ve made up. Yes. I’ll say, ‘I loved the blood! It had such … movement!’
‘… absolutely revolting!’
‘Gross!’
I become aware of a cluster of little girls, also looking at the painting. One of them has perfect blonde French plaits and a hand clamped over her mouth.
‘I feel sick,’ she declares. ‘You know who painted this? Ernest.’
‘He’s always drawing sheep,’ says another one derisively. ‘It’s all he can do.’
The others break into bitchy giggles, and I stare at them, livid. They all look like junior versions of Alicia Bitch Long-legs. A bell rings and they hurry off, which is a good thing, otherwise I probably would have said something undignified and immature involving the word ‘cows’.
Suddenly I notice a woman with dark hair in a bun and a queenly air sweeping the room, smiling graciously at people and having short conversations. I watch on tenterhooks as she nears me.
Yes! I thought so. On the lapel of her cardigan is a badge saying ‘Harriet Grayson MA, Headmistress’. This is the one who’s been giving Ernie a hard time.
Well, I’ll give her a hard time. Especially as I still feel guilty about snapping at Suze.
‘Hello.’ She smiles at me and extends her hand. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have
to remind me, are you in Reception?’
‘Oh, I’m not a parent at the school,’ I begin. ‘I’m …’
I was going to launch into, ‘I’m Ernest Cleath-Stuart’s godmother and I’ve got a few things to say to you.’ But now I have an even better idea. No one knows me here, do they?
‘Actually, I’m a professional art scout,’ I say coolly.
‘An art scout?’ She looks taken aback.
‘Yes, Professor Rebecca Bloomwood from the Guggenheim junior department. I’m sorry, I don’t have my card.’ I shake her hand in a brisk, professional way. ‘I’m over here on business. We scouts like to visit school art events incognito, assess the new talent coming through. And I’ve found some, right here.’
I point at Ernie’s dark, splodgy painting and the headmistress follows my gaze uncertainly.
‘That’s by Ernest Cleath-Stuart,’ she says at last. ‘An interesting child, Ernest.’
‘Incredibly gifted, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you.’ I nod gravely. ‘Look at the subtle way he plants his message in the … the texture.’ I gesture at the sheep. ‘Look at the form. So easy to underestimate. But as a professional, I saw it at once.’
The headmistress’s brow is wrinkled as she peers at the painting.
‘Quite,’ she says at last.
‘I’m sure an excellent school such as yours is drawing out this unique child and nurturing him.’ I smile at her with gimlet eyes. ‘Because, believe me, you have something very special there. Does he have a scholarship for art?’
‘Ernest? A scholarship?’ The headmistress seems pole-axed at the very idea. ‘Well, no …’
‘I foresee other schools wishing to poach this extraordinary talent.’ I give her another gimlet smile and glance at my watch. ‘Unfortunately I must go now, but thank you for your time.’
‘Let me show you some work by our other pupils!’ says the headmistress, hurrying along beside me as I head towards the door. ‘This is by a very talented little girl called Eloise Gibbons, who’s now left us …’ She gestures at a painting of a field full of poppies, which looks just like a Van Gogh.
‘Derivative,’ I say dismissively, barely shooting it a glance. ‘Thank you so much. Goodbye.’
I stride swiftly out of the school gates and head down the pavement, clamping my lips together so I don’t laugh. Ha. Maybe they’ll start to appreciate Ernie now. And I meant it! OK, it was a bit weird – but I still thought Ernie’s dead sheep was the best thing in the whole place.
As soon as I arrive at The Look I can tell Danny’s already here, from the limo parked outside and the cluster of girls on the ground floor, comparing autographs on their T-shirts.
I head up to the conference room on the top floor – and as I walk in the big meeting is already in progress. There are plates of Shetland Shortbread everywhere, and images of the new collection up on the walls, and the table is full of business people. Danny is in the middle of it, looking like a peacock in a bright-blue and green coat over jeans. As he sees me he waves and pats the chair next to him.
All the top executives from The Look are here, plus some people I don’t recognize who must be from Shetland Shortbread, and Luke’s friend Damian, who has become a consultant to Tarkie. Brenda from our marketing department is doing a PowerPoint presentation, and she’s on some kind of graph showing pre-orders of the new Danny Kovitz collection, compared to last year’s.
‘Absolutely thrilling,’ she’s saying. ‘We’ve never had a reaction like it. So, thank you Danny Kovitz, for a wonderful partnership, thank you Shetland Shortbread for coming on board – and here’s to us all working together!’
‘Awesome job you guys have done,’ says Danny. ‘Hey, Becky, you should have come to Scotland for the shoot! We had a blast! Did my bagpipes arrive yet, Zane?’ He suddenly turns to a boy with dyed-red hair who is hovering behind his chair. He must be one of Danny’s five zillion assistants.
‘Um …’ Zane is already whipping out his phone, looking anxious. ‘I can check …’
‘You bought some bagpipes?’ I can’t help giggling. ‘Can you play the bagpipes?’
‘As an accessory. Believe me, they’re gonna be the new It Bag. Hey, you should have bagpipes in the store display.’ Danny turns to Kathy, the head of merchandising, who instantly grabs her notepad, writes down ‘Bagpipes’ and underlines it three times.
‘We’re also tremendously excited by the pre-launch publicity we’re getting,’ Brenda continues. ‘We’ve already had mentions in Vogue and the Telegraph, and I understand Lord Cleath-Stuart has recently done an interview with Style Central magazine.’
‘Tarkie’s in Style Central?’ I stare at her, wanting to giggle. Style Central is the most cutting-edge Bible for avant-garde designers and fashion editors who live in places like Hoxton. And Tarkie is … well … Tarkie. I mean, he still wears the cricket sweater he had at Eton.
‘He did it with me,’ chips in Danny reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I did most of the talking. Great pictures,’ he adds. ‘He wasn’t afraid to push the boundaries. There’s, like, a real experimental edge to Tarquin, you know?’
‘Really?’ I say dubiously. Is this the same Tarquin we’re talking about? Tarquin who still washes his face with carbolic soap, no matter how many bottles of designer facewash Suze buys him?
‘Well, now.’ Trevor, our managing director, speaks for the first time, and everyone turns to listen. ‘While we’re all gathered here, I would like to single out another person at this table. Becky was the inspired member of staff who came up with this collaboration. First, introducing Danny Kovitz to the store in the first place – and now forging a relationship with Shetland Shortbread. Well done, Becky!’
There’s a smattering of applause and I start to beam modestly around, but Trevor holds up his hand to stop it.
‘Not just that. As we’re all aware, times are hard for the high street at the moment. However, Becky’s department has demonstrated a rise in sales over the last month of 17 per cent!’
He pauses for effect, and everyone else shoots me looks of either awe or hatred. Gavin, our menswear director, has gone all red around the neck and has a sulky frown.
‘And Becky’s customer testimonials are incredible,’ Trevor adds. ‘Jamie, would you like to read some out?’
‘Absolutely!’ Jamie from Customer Services nods enthusiastically. ‘Here’s one from Davina Rogers, a doctor. “Dear sir, I would like to commend you on your personal-shopping department and in particular, Rebecca Brandon. Her far-sighted and discreet approach to shopping in these times has made all the difference to me. I will be returning many times.”’
I can’t help glowing with pleasure. I had no idea Davina would write a letter! She emailed me a picture of herself at her reception – and she did look spectacular in that Alberta Ferretti dress.
‘Here’s another one.’ Jamie reaches for another print-out. ‘ “Finally someone understands what women need and want when they shop! Thank you so much, Chloe Hill.”’
I remember Chloe Hill. She bought up about ten pieces from the new Marc Jacobs collection and left them in the store. We arranged that the next evening, Jasmine would go round to her house with the clothes in a bin bag and pretend to be a neighbour returning to New Zealand, off-loading unwanted clothes. Apparently Chloe’s husband was there and was totally fooled. (The only hitch came when he suggested Chloe might give some of the clothes to their cleaner and accused her of being small-minded when she said not in a million years.)
‘In honour of this achievement,’ Trevor is saying now, ‘we would like to present Becky with this small token, and ask her: how on earth did you do it?’
To my astonishment he produces a bouquet of flowers from under the table, passes it across to me and leads a round of applause.
‘There’s no doubt who we’ll be announcing as Employee of the Year next month,’ Trevor adds, with a twinkle. ‘Congratulations, Becky.’
‘Wow.’ I can’t help blushing with ple
asure. ‘Thanks very much.’
Employee of the Year! That’s so cool! You get five grand!
‘And now, seriously.’ Trevor barely waits a beat. ‘How did you do it, Becky? Can you explain the secret of your success?’
The applause dies away. Everyone around the table is waiting alertly for me to answer. I bury my face in the flowers and smell them, playing for time.
Thing is … I’m not sure I want to explain the secret of my success. Something tells me no one here would understand about delivering clothes to customers in bin bags. And even if they did, they’d all just start asking tricky questions like when did we start this initiative and who approved it and how does it accord with company policy?
‘Who knows?’ I look up at last with a smile. ‘Maybe all my customers are just trying to support the economy.’
‘But why only in your department?’ Trevor looks frustrated. ‘Becky, we want to harness your methods and apply them to all departments, whether it’s because of a particular product … a sales technique …’
‘Maybe it’s the department layout,’ suggests a young guy in glasses.
‘Yes, good idea!’ I say quickly.
But Brenda is shaking her head. She’s quite bright, Brenda, that’s the trouble.
‘Customer service is the key, in my opinion,’ she says. ‘You’re obviously pressing the right buttons somewhere. Could I come and observe you for a few days?’
Oh my God. No way do we want Brenda skulking around. She’d instantly realize what we were doing and blab to Trevor.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say hastily. ‘Jasmine and I work very well as a team, with no one else. My worry is that if we start messing with the formula, we might jeopardize the success we’ve got.’
I can see that word ‘jeopardize’ lodge in Trevor’s brain.
‘Well, let’s leave it for now,’ he says heavily. ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing. Good work, everyone.’ He pushes his chair back and looks at me. ‘Danny and Becky, would you like a spot of lunch? We’ve booked a table at Gordon Ramsay, if that suits?’