The Infomercial
The new year brought with it more changes than I’d expected. When January kicked off I was in great mental shape. I had stopped running off into corners and sobbing my heart out. Anthony and I appeared to have weathered the insanely bleak bad patch and we were both thriving since being back at work.
Anthony was looking forward to his upcoming exhibition at Slater Gallery and enthused about it non-stop. I loved to see him like that.
‘When will you stop by and see what’s happening at the gallery?’ he asked one morning. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and had on one sock. ‘Do you know where the other one of these is?’ He hopped towards me with the socked foot lifted while I searched for the butterfly of my favourite stud earrings.
‘Are you doing a rain dance, Anthony, or do you really want to know where your other sock is?’
‘I really want to know.’ He lost balance and landed on the bed. ‘Please.’
I found the butterfly and turned to him. ‘Well then look in the drawer where you found the other one.’ I returned to fixing my earrings and watched him scramble through his underwear drawer until he’d found the sock. He waved it at me as if it had been missing for years. Of course, it hadn’t been. Anthony just had this innate capability of losing the pair of anything I’d meticulously taken time to match together. I don’t know why I balled socks in pairs; Anthony could un-ball them with his mind.
‘So … when?’ he said after pulling on the missing sock.
‘I’m just so busy at work, Anthony, but I’ll come soon.’
He stood in front of me now and looked serious.
‘Okay, I know you’re really busy, but you’ll make time to come to the exhibition, won’t you?’
‘Of course, what do you take me for? And you’ll come to my rebranding party?’
‘It’s in March isn’t it?’
‘April 8th. Your exhibition starts the week after, right? Just before Mother and Father’s wedding. After my party and your exhibition we’ll both have time to chill out before we fly out to the Caribbean. Perfect.’
‘That’s right.’ He kissed me briefly and raced downstairs. He left without breakfast. He was excited about finalising his exhibition and couldn’t settle. I tried to slow myself down after the whirlwind he’d created, making sure I wasn’t rushing out in odd shoes or anything weird.
It was nice to be normal again, a normal couple just getting on with our lives, and I was in a really happy place.
January sped its way into February and I was still extremely busy but all my plans were coming together. I’d had a successful pre-launch breakfast with buyers from some important fashion houses along with some influential fashion journos and bloggers. Many had said they’d start blogging about the new bags for women and the Shearman Bright rebranding although no one had yet.
I didn’t worry. They were all crazy about the new lines, especially my Every Woman handbags and shoulder bags. The plan was to push the boat out when it came to advertising and marketing, spending as much as we could on magazine ads. The budget wouldn’t quite stretch to television but it wasn’t the best medium for fashion unless you were really well known in the field already and I wasn’t exactly front-page news for handbags. Not yet anyway.
On a day when I was feeling extremely pleased with myself, Anthony already having left for the gallery, I trotted downstairs to the kitchen to grab a banana. I scooped up my phone and keys, dropped them into my bag, and headed for the front door. As soon as I got there my phone started to ring. Damn. I rooted around for it in my bag, retrieved it, and saw Riley’s name flash up on the screen.
‘Hey, Riley.’ My hand was on the latch.
‘What are you doing right now?’ she panted.
‘I’m literally just out the door.’ I pulled it closed. ‘Why?’
‘Go back in and switch on the television.’
‘Er, okay. But why?’ I asked her.
‘Just do it.’
This time I fumbled for the key I’d just popped into my bag, the phone tucked under my chin. My next-door neighbour had returned from a jog and looked at me, puzzled, as I balanced my open bag on my knee, foot on the door, Riley barking commands at me to get a move on. Finally, I found the damned keys.
‘I’m getting there,’ I bellowed, nodding a “good morning” to my neighbour before stumbling indoors onto the parquet corridor.
‘Okay, it’s on,’ I said to Riley who had been talking at me the whole time down the phone. ‘What channel do I want?’
‘You know I told you that Jimmy had this annoying habit of switching on the television first thing in the morning when absolutely nothing is going on? All he’s doing is getting ready to go and open the café but he insists on having what he calls background. He doesn’t even turn up the sound because he doesn’t want to wake me.’
‘Riley.’
‘Because, you know, I don’t have to be up for a good hour or more later than he gets up.’
‘Riley.’
‘So, this morning, same thing. Stayed at mine last night by the way. Anyway, TV goes on and I get up to find he had the bloody infomercials on.’
‘TV’s on, Riley.’
‘Great. Good. So I went up to the box, furious, but not that furious because as it turns out, Jimmy is a genius and he doesn’t even know it yet.’
I exhaled loudly down the phone after a long and agitated inhalation.
‘Riley! Why have I got my television on?’
‘It’s the infomercial, Magenta. It’s by Niles B Bags and every single handbag in the advert is your design.’
‘What? What channel is this on?’
‘Film4. Quick, look! It’s about to run again.’
Flopping onto the sofa and finding the right channel, I found myself looking at one of those mostly annoying but sometimes intriguing infomercials. On screen was an overly made-up woman in a studio with Eighties’ hair. She was holding up what looked like one of my designs for the Every Woman handbag. I turned up the volume as she announced that it was the most practical bag she’d ever had. They cut to a VT and in it there were several clips of town and country locations in which various actresses were swanning around with one of my bags. They were enacting scenes that depicted how happy they were to have discovered Niles B.
Emblazoned on the outer pocket of each bag was a label. When the camera zoomed in the label read: Niles B Bags.
‘Magenta? Are you there?’
I could hear Riley in the background. I raised the phone back to my ear just as the scene cut back to the studio and the snarky face of my arch nemesis appeared on screen. The woman asked how he came up with the ideas.
‘Shit the bed,’ I breathed down the phone to Riley. ‘Niles bloody Benson. But how?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said. ‘Cassandra bloody bitch! She took the designs and copied them before handing them in at production. Can you believe that? Magenta, she can’t get away with it. Neither can he.’
‘Riley, they just did.’
I turned up the volume further only to hear that sleaze, Niles Benson, talk about how he was inspired by his girlfriend who could never find anything in her handbag. The bastard. Cassandra must have told him my inspiration for the neat inner and outer pocket designs.
‘Riley? You still there?’ I asked after several minutes of staring at advertisements for wholegrain cereal and holiday villas.
‘Of course I am. Are you okay?’
‘Well, not really,’ I said, bewildered. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Find Cassandra and kill her?’
‘I mean after that. My great plan, my big idea, it’s all been ruined.’ I shook my head, still not believing it.
‘But you have the copyright,’ said Riley.
‘Laws on copyright for fashion designs are so flimsy. I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘You could try.’
‘It hardly seems worth it,’ I said. ‘He’s made them and he’s selling them. I can’t just start selling them, too. He’s even called them the bag for every woman. They even stole my name.’
‘There must be something you can do. What do copyright laws say?’
‘Well, when it comes to designs of any kind, and that includes fashion, you have to prove that your design is ground-breaking or life-changing in order for it to be considered an art creation. Only then would a judge be interested if you tried to take someone to court over stealing your design,’ I said feeling totally defeated. ‘Firstly bags are not ground-breaking and secondly the rules on copies and knock-offs are crap to say the least. Even if I did get there first there’s nothing to stop someone else doing a rubbish copy and selling it for a quarter of the price. I know the bags aren’t the pinnacle of originality but they had something and with the right marketing strategy and the Shearman name, I thought they’d really take off.’
‘You still have all of that on your side, Magenta. Name, reputation, loads of interest. You can still go for it.’
‘Well, I can still go for the rebranding idea, I suppose,’ I said reaching for a shred of hope. ‘I mean there are other designs for women’s bags – that hasn’t changed. Only now I’ve lost what I thought was going to be my show-stopping idea. I need to rethink this. I’ll see you later at work, Riley. And thank you for this.’ I had my eyes closed and found I was madly twiddling my hair in a mixture of frustration and sadness. I took a deep breath.
‘I’ve just emailed an order through for one of Niles’s so-called bags for every woman,’ said Riley. ‘We’ll check out the quality. I bet it falls to pieces in no time.’ She was doing her best to stay positive.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said sotto voce. ‘See you later.’ I hung up.
Damn. Was this really happening? I called Anthony to let him know but the call went straight to his voicemail. I’d tell him later over dinner. He’d be just as angry as me.
On the journey I sat on the tube planning Cassandra’s accidental death and a torture chamber I’d keep Niles in for the rest of his life. I chastised myself as I got out of the train for not having put pictures of the bags on Instagram already. I was building up to a big reveal and now I’d have to rethink everything.
I wanted to scream, cry, and kill someone at the same time. Instead, I popped into Jimmy’s and ordered caffè macchiatos for everyone in the office and bought a huge bag of his millefeuilles. I had to drown my sorrows and I’d eat and drink the whole lot if I had no takers.
Riley arrived fifteen minutes or so after me after having had the same coffee and cakes idea.
Later, Riley and I sat in my office, awash with caffeine, plummeting from a sugar rush, and staring blankly at the coffee table between us.
‘So,’ I said.
‘So,’ she said. ‘What happens now?’
‘Are there any cakes left?’ I asked.
Riley lifted her eyes as far as the plate covered in crumbs. ‘No, we’re all out,’ she said.
‘Then we better get to work.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘We can’t let this blip – and I’m going to call it that – we can’t let this blip sabotage months of hard work and effort.’
‘No,’ said Riley, also jumping up. She stomped a purple Doctor Marten boot on the floor. ‘We won’t be defeated.’ She balled her tiny fists and slammed them onto her hips. She opened her mouth as if about to make a proclamation and then turned to me. ‘So, what do we do?’
‘Get onto Instagram, release the pictures of the new designs. Get into a dialogue with every fashion blogger we know, then find a dozen more of ones we don’t but who have large followings. I want everyone talking about the rebranding. I want everyone talking about shoddy fakes and how no self-respecting fashionista settles for them. Then I’m going to announce that tickets will be on sale soon for the rebranding party. I’ll make sure our charity rep has a blazing speech ready and I’ll start the most glamorous guest list I can. I’ll need to contact Anya, see if I can get a shoot of her and some of her model friends carrying Shearman Bright designs. It’ll be our poster for the event. Niles B can take his infomercial and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.’
Riley was doing the Running Man as a victory dance next to the coffee table. Her little fists were pumping and her red tutu skirt was bouncing up and down. She grabbed me to dance with her. By the time we’d twerked, tap-danced, and were midway through the funky chicken I had to stop.
‘Wait,’ I said, holding my stomach. ‘I’m several cream doughnuts past my limit. I need to stop.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Riley, bending over and pressing her side.
I made it over to my desk and grabbed the phone. ‘Anya is still holed up with her man but she’s in London,’ I said. ‘I need her to pull in some favours for me before she flies off again. New York I think. So, I’ll need samples and a photographer and studio for a shoot with Anya and friends. Let’s do this.’
Riley nodded. ‘And what about Niles bloody Benson?’ she said. ‘And does Cassandra get away with it, too?’
‘We can’t focus on the negative, Riley. It never gets you anywhere. We’ve got a party to plan.’
I could tell Riley wasn’t happy about that part of the plan but she gave me the thumbs-up sign as she left my office.
I dialled Anya and she answered straight away.
‘Anya, I need you.’
‘Of course, darling. Just tell me vere I have to be, bring visky, and you have yourself a deal.’