Nine
‘Hi, I’m Fleur Jan,’ the publicist says, coming forward, her hand held out to me.
‘Hi,’ I greet with a smile.
Fleur’s eyes are very large, a much deeper blue than mine, and are enhanced by false eyelashes that she bats with great effect. Her hair is cut very short around her lovely face. Dressed in a brown pencil skirt and a pink top she is effortlessly chic.
‘What we will be doing today has nothing to do with publicity for the company, but Mr. Barrington knows how much I love shopping so he asked if I wouldn’t mind going shopping with you. Of course I said yes,’ she explains with a twinkle in her eyes.
‘Cool,’ I say, some of Fleur’s enthusiasm already rubbing off on me. Fleur is a good change after the drawling Mr. Benby.
‘Mr Barrington mentioned formal attire, beachwear and a pair of new trainers.’
I nod. Wow, he remembered the trainers. The man is thorough, I will give him that.
‘Do you want a coffee or tea or shall we hit the road?’
‘Hit the road.’
We walk together to the lift. Fleur calls it and turns to me. ‘Do you have any specific shops or do you want to leave it to me?’
‘You decide everything.’
And that turns out to be an excellent decision as Fleur proves to be an expert shopping companion. She knows exactly where to go to get what.
Our first stop is Selfridges. Fleur guides me towards a cosmetics counter.
‘This girl is a genius. She can make a chimp look sexy, so listen carefully to her advice,’ she says about a sweet-looking lady standing behind the counter called Aisha.
I am popped on a high stool, given a hand mirror and taught how to make the best of my make-up.
‘Have you ever tried wearing waterproof mascara?’ Fleur asks smoothly. Her face is innocent, but it is clear that Blake has mentioned something about my smudged mascara.
Together the three of us choose two lipsticks, some sparkly eyeliner, cream blusher and waterproof mascara.
‘Now to the perfume department,’ directs Fleur. ‘Something terribly exotic to go with your dark hair and gorgeous eyes.’
Afterwards, Tom drops us off at the front entrance of Harrods. I have never been inside before, but Fleur seems to know her way around, and we quickly make for the first floor where we pick up what Fleur calls the basics: a white blouse and plain black trousers. We walk out of the side entrance of Harrods on the east side and enter Rigby and Peller. Fleur has made me an appointment for a fitting. The woman who calls me into the changing room is middle-aged with large strong hands.
‘Most women are walking around in the wrong bra size,’ she says, and makes me bend over while she fits me with a bra. It turns out so am I. I am not a 34A but a 32B. When I have chosen the designs I want Fleur flashes her company credit card.
‘Now let’s go get the good stuff,’ she says, batting her eyelashes.
‘How much are you allowed to spend on me?’ I ask curiously.
‘Actually,’ she says, ‘Mr. Barrington didn’t see fit to set a limit.’ She winks conspiratorially. ‘So we make hay while the sun shines.’
We walk around the back of Harrods and down Old Brompton Road. Fleur is a mine of information. She knows everything about fashion, what’s so in, what’s so out, what’s in if you are not really in, what gets the best second-hand prices when you want to flog it.
She suggests a beautiful red and silver handbag in Gucci. ‘To die for,’ she says.
‘It is a limited edition. Pure crocodile skin,’ explains the snooty-faced sales assistant helpfully.
‘OK,’ I agree, bewildered by the price tag. I stand by the counter while Fleur pays and wonder what sort of reception I would have received if I had come here alone.
‘Let’s go,’ Fleur sings merrily.
Then I am being led into Chanel. All my life I have dreamed of owning a Chanel bag. Once someone gave me a fake Chanel bag for Christmas and I waited until a reasonable time had passed before giving it away to a charity shop. If I can’t afford the real thing I don’t want to pretend.
Fleur is clever. It is as if she understands; here her suggestions are unnecessary. All she says is, ‘Choose.’ I feel I am in Aladdin’s cave. It is impossible to choose, but in the end I pick the classic black with the leather interlaced gold chain strap. When Fleur goes to the counter she says, ‘And we’ll have that pink one too.’
‘That’s nearly seven thousand pounds!’
‘Yes, but we have no limit. Besides, every girl needs a pink handbag. What else can you carry when you want to dress in white?’ Fleur argues reasonably. She phones Tom to come and pick up the packages.
Almost in a daze, I am led into and out of a string of designer boutiques. Most of the shop assistants seem to recognize and head for Fleur immediately.
‘Cupboard love,’ Fleur dismisses, as they flutter around her with accommodating smiles. ‘I am often here helping the wives of our high profile Middle Eastern clients spend their money.’
Fleur seems very sure of exactly what will look good on me. We buy a cream and gold suit, a red cocktail dress; a backless, sequined, black evening gown, and a sleeveless signature dress from Pucci, and of course shoes to match. Fleur decides that I will need a black pair of court shoes for the trousers, dainty diamond-studded stilettos, two tone sandals, tall brown boots, and multi-colored, ultra fashionable platforms.
‘Right, we are almost running out of time, but first a quick trip to Versace. Versace can be too gaudy and whorish, but this season they have something that I think will suit you perfectly.’
That something turns out to be an electric blue silk shirt that is almost the same color as my eyes and skin-tight black leather trousers.
‘Exactly as I thought—fantastic,’ she says, pleased with herself. She looks at her wristwatch. ‘Perfect timing. Let’s have some tea.’
Once again Tom comes to collect the packages, and we find ourselves a table in a French patisserie full of women. We order cream tea. I bite into a buttered cream and jam filled scone ravenously.
‘It is wonderful that you can eat so much and still be so slim. I have to be careful,’ Fleur says, sipping lemon tea and breaking off small crumbs of her croissant.
‘Missed lunch,’ I say, swallowing.
Once I catch Fleur looking at me with an unreadable expression.
‘Do you have to do this often for Blake?’ I ask.
‘To be perfectly honest, I have never done this before or heard of Mr. Barrington asking anyone else to do something similar, and though I was flattered to be asked, I was also dreading it. I thought you would be a brash gold-digger, but you are an unassuming breath of fresh air. It has been a delight to take you around.’
After tea, Fleur and me climb into the Bentley and Tom takes us to a hairdressing salon that belongs to one of the top hairstylists in the country. We walk into the perfumed space and a young girl with bright red hair comes to greet and lead us into a private area. Two glasses of champagne arrive on a tray.
‘Go ahead,’ Fleur encourages. ‘You’ll be grateful for it when you are at your next appointment.’
‘Why? What’s next?’
Fleur smiles cheekily. ‘Full body wax.’
My jaw drops when the celebrity stylist himself appears. He noisily air-kisses Fleur on both cheeks and does the same with me. Then he stands back to look at me thoughtfully. Tipping his head slightly to the side he reaches for my hair.
‘Oh,’ he exclaims, rubbing it between his fingers. ‘Virgin hair. You have never bleached or permed it, have you?’
I shake my head.
‘It is a sin to cut such hair. Come, come,’ he says leading me to a single chair in front of a mirror and waiting while I sit. ‘We will leave the length, but we will do something wonderful for this heart-shaped face. We will give it a fringe.’
He picks up his comb and scissors. When he is finished I can hardly believe what a difference a fringe has made. My eyes are suddenly enormous and my little chin now looks delicate and cat-like.
‘Beautiful,’ declares the stylist flamboyantly.
‘Very beautiful, indeed,’ agrees a smiling Fleur.
While Fleur is paying, I stare at myself in the mirror. It is truly amazing how much a fringe can change one’s face. I look so different I almost don’t recognize myself.
‘This is where I say goodbye,’ Fleur says from behind me. I turn around to face her. ‘Tom will take you to the beauty salon where you have your last appointment. That over with, he will take you to the apartment where you will soak in a lovely bath and then you will dress in your new clothes. I believe you have a hot date at nine.’
‘Thank you, Fleur.’
‘The pleasure was all mine.’
‘I don’t know if we will ever meet again, but I’ll never forget you.’
‘Nor I you,’ she says, and bending forward plants a light kiss on my cheek.
My next stop is in High Street Kensington. In an all-white salon an olive-skinned, middle-aged, barrel-like woman in a white trouser uniform with a clipboard, smiles and introduces herself as Rosa Rehon. Rosa is Spanish and has retained her thick accent despite having been in England for fifteen years. She shows me into a small room with a beautician’s bed.
‘Ever had a full body wax before?’
‘No.’
‘No problem. We use three different waxes here. For the longer hair, the medium length, and for the pesky short ones.’
The waxes are heating in three pots. Each one is a different color.
‘Shall we do waist down first?’
‘Will this hurt a lot?’
‘Well, it depends on your pain threshold. Some people fall asleep while I am waxing them.’
‘Really?’
Her pearly whites flash. ‘Really. Pop on board. We will start with the legs.’
I reluctantly climb on the bed that has been lined with paper, and lie down.
Rosa paints a thin layer of warm wax on my calf and lays a strip of cloth on the wax. ‘Ready?’ she asks.
I nod and she rips.
‘Ow,’ I cry.
‘The first one always hurts. The next one will be better,’ she says.
She paints another layer of wax and, stretching my skin, rips it off.
‘Ow,’ I cry again.
‘It gets better after a while,’ she consoles unconvincingly, and launches into a monologue about how she and her husband have jam sandwiches every night while they are watching TV. ‘Sometimes, on weekends we will turn to each other and say, “Shall we have another?” and we do,’ she enlightens.
Despite a penchant for innocuous jam sandwiches, Rosa turns out to be a hair Nazi. She will not tolerate even the smallest hair anywhere. A painful hour later, I am red and hot and stinging all over. I have been asked to assume embarrassing positions so any stray hairs around what Rosa calls the bum hole can be ripped off.
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ I ask.
‘It looks prettier this way,’ Rosa says, as she rips another offending hair out.
My reply is another cry of pain.
When it is all over Rosa squints at my face. ‘I can do your eyebrows for free,’ she offers. ‘Eyebrows don’t hurt at all.’
‘Yes, I know. Some of your customers fall asleep.’
Again a flash of strong teeth. ‘Well, shall I? I can make them look very beautiful.’
‘OK.’
The Rehons have a son in art school apparently, and Rosa fills me in about him while she works on my eyebrows. When she is finished she applies aloe vera gel before bringing a round mirror and giving it to me. The skin looks red and a little swollen but Rosa is right—my eyebrows actually arch and frame my eyes rather fetchingly.
After that torture the manicure and pedicure are a pleasure. I watch the orange nail varnish that Billie so painstakingly painted onto my fingers and toes yesterday get wiped away. On the drive to the apartment I examine my French manicure and have to admit it is very pretty.
The car comes to a stop at a tall white building with a glass-fronted entrance.
‘Here we are,’ says Tom, switching off the engine.