Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) (21 page)

The place is packed with people getting their
first coffee fix of the day. I have to stand in line listening to people ordering unnecessarily complex drinks for several minutes before I can order the flat white my brain has been calling out for since it was dragged kicking and screaming from its slumber.

When my coffee
is announced by the bouncy barrista I grab it and spot a table for two, recently vacated by a corporately dressed woman in her fifties. I plonk my protesting body down on one of the seats.

Looking around I see no sign of Morgan
yet, which really doesn’t surprise me. In fact, it’s starting to feel like business as usual with her - I follow through on my commitments and she buggers off somewhere else without another thought for me or what effect her disappearing act might have.

I sit at the table
, sipping my coffee, brooding, and feeling thoroughly miserable. Despite my best efforts to expel it permanently from my mind the intimate body language between Ben and Jia keeps popping up and I’m forced to bash it back down with my proverbial mallet, like I’m playing some kind of gopher game in a video games arcade.

However, every time I manage to dispel
one image, drunk Stephanie, looking like she’s squeezed into her teenage daughter’s dress, pops up. I give an involuntary cringe, thinking about how she’s told all and sundry Estil styled her.

I finish my coffee but there’s still no sign of Morgan. I pull my phone out of my handbag to check my messages and don’t even bother being surprised she hasn’t texted or called me.

I fire off a quick text to say I came, more to make myself feel better than anything else, and then look at what’s on the schedule for the day.

After the styling disaster at the
Wearable Arts I need some damage control in the form of apologies all ’round. I also have a string of appointments with the women who booked with Estil online. I’m hoping they’re going to be understanding about the promotion blunder and accept just a glass not a full bottle of French champagne. Surely they’ll be reasonable? It’s a simple mistake to make, and they must know we’d hardly break even, let alone make a profit, if it were a full bottle.

Here’s hoping
they’re a noble lot.

A
fter having waited for Morgan for the best part of an hour I decide there really is no point flogging this particular dead horse. I stand up to leave as my phone rings. I don’t recognise the number, so assume it must be a work call.

“
Hello, Estil, Jessica speaking.”

“
Yes, hello. This is Portia Moss.” She sounds very brusque.

I’ve only met her
twice but I admit I find her more than a little intimidating. She’s the sort of woman you’d never want to cross, else you may find your tyres slashed, your cat poached, or something equally egregious.

“
I need to speak to Morgan.
Imm
ediately.” She spits out her words with anger and I’m reminded of my very stern headmistress from school, deprecating the outrageous behaviour of the girls who slipped some cheap booze into the Year Eleven school dance.

“
We all would, Mrs. Moss
,” I feel like replying, but instead I go all sweetness and light on her - a strategy someone once told me works wonderfully in changing people’s attitude and bringing a smile to their faces.

“
Morgan’s not available right now, I’m sorry, Mrs. Moss, but I would be more than happy to help you,” I respond.

“
Well. You will have to do then, I suppose. I certainly hope you
can
help me.” She shoots the words down the line at me like spears.

I’m
beginning to think maybe that particular strategy isn’t working. There’s certainly no smile on
her
face.

Before I have the chance to reply, she continues,
“I would like it explained to me, if it’s not
too
much trouble, why my barely seventeen-year-old daughter has received a voucher for a glass of champagne at a drinking establishment in the city from you. She’s still a
child
, for Christ’s sake.”

Oh no, t
he Wearable Arts dress mix up! I’d put a voucher for a glass of champagne in the suit bag for Stephanie, which I’d mistakenly given to Lex. Champagne is perfectly accepted, indeed expected in certain circumstances, for a well-to-do woman in her forties, but was actually
illegal
for a seventeen-year-old girl.

N
ot another screw up!

“
This is
completely
unacceptable. What in Heaven’s name were you thinking? Did she put you up to it?”

“
Lex? No! Of course not. She has nothing to do with it, Mrs. Moss, I assure you,” I respond in dismay.

“
You’re telling me it was
your
idea? To give a minor the means to purchase alcohol at a public bar?”

“
Yes… well, that is, no. It was a mistake, Mrs. Moss, and I’m so very sorry about it. You see, there was a mix up with the dresses for the Wearable Arts gala dinner and your daughter ended up with the dress that
should
have gone to another Estil client. Who is incidentally a grown woman legally allowed to drink. It wasn’t my intention whatsoever your daughter go to a public bar and drink alcohol. The voucher was intended for my other client. My forty-year-old client.” I pause momentarily to catch my breath. “Please accept Estil’s sincerest apologies, Mrs. Moss.”

“
I see.” She seems to have calmed down a little following my hurried speech, which is a huge relief. “Do you realise I could report you for this?”

Oh God.

“Yes, I do. But please, Mrs. Moss, it was an
honest
mistake
. There was never ever any intention to give Lex … Alexandria a voucher for champagne. I swear to you, it was an absolute one off and it’ll never happen again.”

“
Well,
that
is unequivocally certain. It shan’t happen again. I don’t think we’ll be needing your services any further, Jennifer. I’ll leave it there,” she snaps.

Jennifer?

Feeling crestfallen and more than a little panicky at the thought of losing one of Estil’s only clients I respond, “Mrs. Moss, I
beseech
you to reconsider. Despite the unfortunate mix up I assure you we at Estil are very excited to work with you and with your daughter again.”

Beseech you
? Swallowed a Shakespearean tragedy, Jess?

“
Perhaps I can offer another styling session for either yourself or Alexandria? On the house?” I add hopefully.

“
Thank you, Jennifer. I appreciate the sentiment and I’m glad you’re taking full responsibility for this despicable situation. But I pride myself on being a woman of conviction, and my mind is made up. That will be all. Goodbye.” She hangs up before I have the chance to protest again.

What
a mess! Morgan’s going to go absolutely nuclear. First the champagne bottle mess, then Stephanie’s dress debacle, and now this? She’ll accuse me of singlehandedly destroying Estil. And it’d be fair enough too.

Why didn’t I check each suit bag carefully before I handed them over to each cl
ient? Jess, that’s Styling 101 - make sure the client gets the clothes they’ve paid for, not the clothes that belong to random strangers.

What a right royal screw up.

Despite feeling utterly crestfallen at my seeming inability to get anything right these days, I use the map in Mum’s car to find my way to one of the new clients who’s responded to our online offer. I even manage to arrive a few minutes early.

My phone bleeps at me
and I pick it up to see a message from Laura.

Sorry. Came on too strong. Just upset. Come over soon? L xx

She did come on too strong, she’s certainly right about that, but I guess I get where she was coming from - she was upset for Brooke and needed to take it out on someone. She was just being a good friend, really.

Well, to
Brooke, anyway.

I text her back.

No prob. Love to. Be in touch. J xx

I really don’t want to be reminded of my messy love life right now, but at least
she’s apologised for going so ballistic on me.

I bury my head in my hands.
What a mess.

The only thing I feel I can get
any vague sense of control over right now is Estil, so I decide to just work, work, work and forget about Scott, Laura, Stephanie, Ben and Jia, and anyone else who might want to cause havoc in my increasingly addled brain.

I put my phone back into my handbag and get out of the car.
Now, what’s this woman’s name again? That’s right: Tracey Hill.

She answers the door almost as soon as I’ve rung the doorbell.

“Hello! Jessica?” she enquires, looking very animated and pleased to see me.

“
Yes, and you’re Tracey, right?” I smile at her, quickly assessing what I have before me.

She’s
in her thirties, probably a size fourteen or so, dressed very casually in a pair of boot cut jeans and a V-neck t-shirt, with medium length brown hair. She has a line of three hideous bulbous moles, complete with their own garden of sprouting hairs, on the right smile line from her nose down to her mouth. Why would you not have those things removed? I mean, do you want to spend your whole life with people trying in vain to avert their eyes from the alien-like growths on your face while talking to you?

“
That’s me,” she trills. “Great to see you, come on in.”

She closes the door behind me and guides me to the living room. It’s a
nice room, very homely and cosy, and I do my level best to forget about her line of moles as I peruse the photos on her walls.

“
These are fantastic. Did you take them?” I enquire, pointing to a cluster of photos of what look like temples and beaches in Asia.

“
Yes, I did. We had a holiday in Thailand about two years ago now. I fancy myself as a bit of an amateur photographer.”

I force myself to focus on her eyes as she speaks, but he
r moles are bouncing up and down like a group of Highland dancers with each word, mesmerizing me with their protruding hairiness.

Snap out of it, Jess.

What is it people say about photos? Ah yes, “You’ve got a good eye.” That’s the one.

“
Thanks. Now, where should we begin?”

She seems pretty keen to start, so I cut the small talk and we get down to business. I launch into my now familiar routine of questioning her about her lifestyle and dressing habits
- you can’t put a stay-at-home-mother of three small children in sky-high heels and white pencil skirts, can you? It turns out she’s a part-time civil servant in the city and has two primary school-aged children. So practical, simple clothes for home time and stylish, conservative work wear for the office. Easy.

We’ve gone right through
her measurements and determined she’s a pear-shape body type, so migrate to her wardrobe where I teach her about how to take the emphasis away from her somewhat generous posterior and focus on her significantly smaller waist.

“
So can you see how the large buttoned pockets on the bum of these jeans really draws attention to this area?” I make a circular motion over her ample buttocks as she surveys herself in her mirror.

“
Mmm, I guess I can see what you’re talking about. But I always thought having big pockets with buttons and details meant you looked at the jeans instead of at the bum.”

“
Sorry, Tracey. Doesn’t work that way. You’re drawing attention to your bottom, not disguising it. Which is all very well for the likes of J-Lo, I guess, but not so much for mere mortals like us.” I smile at her, enjoying getting into the swing of styling things.

“
Oh,” Tracey replies in a decidedly disinterested tone. “So are we all done now?”

I
look at my watch and notice we’re bang on one hour’s worth.

“
Well, it’d be useful for me to go through your wardrobe to see what works for you and what doesn’t and for you to try some combinations you might not have considered. Believe me, you’ll feel like you have an entirely new wardrobe by the time we’re done.”

She looks a little agitated.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I think I’ve got it. You’ve been very helpful. Why don’t you grab your things?”

I feel slightly bemused as s
he ushers me unceremoniously away from her wardrobe and down the hall.

“
When do you want to go shopping?” I ask. I pull out my diary and look at dates. “I can do Thursday this week any time in the morning, or Friday between one and ….”

She cuts me off mid-sentence and I look up in surprise.
“Not necessary, but thanks. Now, your website mentioned the free bottle of champagne at Foxtail. Moët, wasn’t it?” She looks very eager, moles lifting as she smiles at me in heightened expectation.

“
Umm, yes. It did say a bottle, Tracey, but look the thing is it was actually meant to be a glass only. I stuffed it up, but it says glass now.”

She crosses her arms and begins to tap her foot.
“You’re telling me you’re reneging on the deal?”

“
No, not at all. Just it was a mistake and it’s meant to be a glass. A bottle costs more than the hour we’ve just had together. You understand, don’t you?”

I hope this woman isn’t going to play
hardball here.

“
Well, that’s what they call false advertising, isn’t it? I thought I was getting a bottle, so I’m expecting a bottle.”

This woman
wouldn’t be considered the type to be afraid of confrontation, that’s for sure.

K
nowing when I’m beat I reply, “You can have a bottle. But how about you let me go through your wardrobe with you now?”

That way I can recoup my loss here and scrape a tiny profit from this debacle.

“I said it won’t be necessary. So if I can have the voucher…” She holds her outstretched hand out at me.

“
I’ve only got vouchers for glasses, sorry.”

“
Well then, how many glasses are there in a bottle? Five? Give me five.” She moves her hand closer towards me in expectation.

The fight is clearly l
ost so I reluctantly pull five vouchers out of my bag and pass them over to Tracey with a shaking hand in return for the cheque she wrote me for a paltry hour’s work. All that lovely champagne gone down the proverbial gurgler, thanks to this bolshy, pear-shaped client with bad jeans.

Another
problem to add to the growing litany. I only hope the other new clients are more understanding than Tracey and her small village of hairy moles.

***

As it happens, thankfully I’m in luck. I see two more clients later in the day and both of them are very gracious about the mix up, accepting the glass of champagne with gratitude. Plus they both spend two hours with me and I arrange to meet one of them for a shopping session the following day. Profits look like they’re back on track and I start to feel a little more positive about Estil as the day comes to a close.