True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

While Lucy studies a sign to the right of the doorway, oblivious to the fact that it’s simply a list of cafés and restaurants, I stand in a stupor, gazing up at a green canopy, reminding myself over and over again that this really doesn’t have to be painful.  Swivelling round in search of Beefy, I’m relieved to find him standing right by my side, oozing sympathy from every pore.

‘Are you alright, miss?’

‘No,’ I manage to gulp.  ‘Stay with me.’

Suddenly realising the error of her ways, Lucy springs into action.  Grabbing me by the arm, she tugs me through the doorway, and into the depths of Hell.

‘This way,’ she growls, guiding me straight ahead as if she knows exactly where we’re going.

Besieged by perfume and handbags and meandering bodies, I stagger forwards, my pulse in overdrive.  I’ve already broken into a sweat.

‘First floor,’ I wail.  ‘He said it’s on the first floor.  We need an escalator.’

I’m yanked to the left.  More handbags flash past and then they disappear, only to be replaced by some sort of mad, multi-coloured chocolate fantasy world.

‘Chocolate,’ I gurgle, my eyes dilating.

‘Not now.  You can treat yourself later if you’re good.  Up here.’

I’m hauled to the right and met by a winding Victorian staircase, complete with ornate tiles and oak panelling.  Following in Lucy’s wake, I grab hold of the handrails, and begin to climb.  A few steps later, I’m launched back into modernity.  A wall of bright light hits me and my stomach lurches, and then my heart beat does a manic dance.  I’m surrounded by women’s clothing.

‘We’ve made it,’ Lucy exclaims, shooting a look right, then left.  ‘We’ll find the personal shopping bit, no problem.’

With Lucy in the lead and Beefy bringing up the rear, we begin to wander aimlessly through a labyrinth of cream walkways, past endless rails of designer clothes.  Here and there, I notice a name – Donna Karan, Versace, Stella McCartney, Escada – and I wonder what on Earth I’m doing here.  I’ve never worn a designer label in my life.

‘Evening wear,’ Lucy squeals.

Without warning, she veers off to the right, into a separate section that’s guarded by a ball gown in a glass case.  And I follow, my mouth lolling open at the rails of long dresses: some tight and sleek, some huge and billowy.  I daren’t even breathe on them, let alone touch one of these things.  I’m half way round the room when I catch sight of a simple black gown displayed on a stand.  Slowly, I circle it, taking in the fact that it’s silk, that there’s a lace-up bodice and yes, a split down the side.  With nervous fingers, I reach up and inspect the price tag, and my lungs seem to shrink.  Eight thousand, eight hundred pounds.  This just won’t do.  No way am I letting Dan blow that kind of money on a frock.  I let go of the tag and resolve to leave.

‘You’re not getting out of this,’ Lucy snarls, grabbing hold of my forearm.  ‘Come on.’

At top speed, she drags me back out of the evening wear section.

‘But have you seen the prices?’  I come to a halt right next to a fluffy orange jacket.  ‘Look at this.’  Grabbing the tag, I glance at it and nearly pass out.  ‘Two grand.’

‘Shush,’ Lucy hisses into my face.  ‘You’ll give yourself away.’  She fingers the price tag of a thin white jacket.  ‘Shit!’ she exclaims.  ‘Nine hundred and five pounds!  Where did the five come from?’

‘We need to go.’

‘No.’  Pausing to feel the quality of a pashmina, she shrugs.  ‘No limit,’ she reminds me.  ‘He wants to treat you.  So just get on with it.’

I’ve never heard such a ridiculous statement.  How the hell am I supposed to just get on with it?  For a start, I’ve no idea what’s in fashion.  And worse than that, I’ve absolutely no idea what suits me.  I’m a ticking time bomb of clueless anxiety.  This is bound to end in disaster.  I’ve pretty much made up my mind that we’re leaving when we stumble into a collection of bikinis.

‘Personal shopping,’ Lucy whispers, pointing into a corner.  ‘This is where it’s at.’

I follow the direction of her finger and spot a set of frosted black doors emblazoned with a simple sign: ‘By Appointment.  Harrods.’  I swallow hard.  So, this is it.  We’ve made it.  No turning back.  A bolt of something shoots straight through me, and I’m pretty sure it’s terror.

‘Let’s just go down the pub,’ I mutter, tugging at Lucy’s jacket.

‘No,’ Lucy mutters back.

‘But it’s too posh.’

‘And it’s too late.  Quick.  Look like you’re rich.’

Keeping hold of me, she opens the doors and drags me into a reception area.  I come to a halt, staring aimlessly at a perfectly-primped woman behind a perfectly-polished desk.  It’s Lucy who makes the first move.

‘This is Maya Scotton,’ she announces, in an unusual sort-of upper class accent.  ‘She has an appointment with a personal shopper.’

‘Good morning,’ the receptionist replies.  ‘We’re all ready for you.’

She motions towards a luxurious seating area from where an impossibly slim, supremely elegant creature is currently eyeing us up as if we’re her prey.  She doesn’t look like a personal shopper at all.  In fact, with her jet black bob and her tight grey dress, she looks more like a ruthless assassin straight out of a James Bond film.  Glancing down at her stilettos and silently wondering if they come complete with retractable daggers, I shuffle uneasily from one foot to the other.

‘I don’t like it, Maya,’ Lucy hisses.  ‘That woman’s looking at me funny.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

The assassin glides forwards, effortlessly.  Her lips rise into an I-could-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands type of smile and suddenly, I’m half expecting her to wrestle me to the floor and crack my skull between her thighs.  Gathering every last atom of self-control, I do my absolute best to seem sober. 

‘My name is Tatiana,’ she announces.  Jesus, such precise consonants, such curly vowels, all wrapped up in something that sounds vaguely Russian.  ‘I’ll be accompanying you this morning, Miss Scotton.  I’m sure that we’ll manage to find everything you’re looking for.  Where would you like to begin?’

I stare at Tatiana and she stares right back at me, all dark-eyed and intimidating.

‘Can’t we just sit down?’ I ask, detecting a wobble in my voice.  ‘It’s just that I’m a bit tired and ...  Can’t you just show me things?’

Tatiana’s eyebrows straighten out, like cheese wire.

‘Of course, madam.  Follow me.’

I do exactly as I’m told.  Accompanied by Lucy and trailed by a nervous-looking bodyguard, I’m led into a private room.  Once inside, I head straight for the sofa, collapsing onto it and bouncing into the air when Lucy lands next to me.  While Beefy stations himself in a corner, I survey my surroundings: a coffee table in front of us, a door to the left which probably leads to a fitting room, a huge mirror, an imposing pot plant or two, a bank of windows giving out over Knightsbridge.

‘Can we offer you some refreshments?’ Tatiana purrs, almost menacingly.

I’m about to suggest a cup of tea when I hear Lucy’s voice sidling its way into the conversation.  ‘What have you got?’

‘We can get you anything you like, madam.’

‘Champagne?’

I check out my idiot friend.  Jesus, after the session in Slaters, we’re already half-cut.  A couple of glasses of bubbly and I won’t be able to tell a skirt from a hat.  But then again, it can only make this entire, hideous experience a fraction less hideous.

‘Bollinger La Grande Année?’  Tatiana folds her arms in front of her taut stomach.

‘That will do nicely, thank you,’ Lucy replies.

While Tatiana disappears in search of alcohol, I remain silent.  Angst is bubbling up, threatening to spill right over the brim.

‘This is awful,’ I complain.

‘No it’s not.’  Lucy scowls at me.  ‘How often do you get to do this?’  She wafts a hand about at nothing in particular.  ‘Any normal woman would give her right arm for this. But you?’  She squints at me.  ‘You’re not normal.’

Returning with a tray laden with two champagne flutes, a bucket and a bottle of something fizzy, Tatiana sets down the offerings in front of us and pours out two glasses.

‘Thank God for that.’  Lucy’s eyeballs swivel a couple of times before locking onto the glasses.  In one fell swoop, she leans forwards, grabs a glass and knocks back her drink.  ‘Now, that’s better.  Have you got any more of this stuff, Tatiana?’

‘Of course, madam.’

‘Excellent, we’re going to need at least three bottles.’

The Russian hit-woman doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit fazed by Lucy’s announcement.  She simply nods, gracefully.  Finally, my breathing is back under control.  Deciding that if I’m going to be strong-armed into a shopping trip, I’m going to bloody well enjoy it, I pick up my own glass and finish it off.

‘What are you looking for today, Miss Scotton?’ Tatiana asks.

I rummage around in my head for an idea.  What am I looking for today?  I have no idea.  I’d like to say ‘combats and T-shirts’, but I’m pretty certain that Mr Foster has other ideas.  At last, stifling a burp, I say the only thing that comes to mind.

‘Clothes.’

Slapping my lips, I fix my attention on the champagne bottle.

‘Any sort of clothes in particular?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’  I hiccough.  ‘Can’t you just choose some for me?  I don’t know what I’m doing.’

I catch the hint of a smile on Tatiana’s mouth.  ‘Size twelve?’

‘Yes, but … how …’

‘Let’s call it experience.  Mr Foster has stipulated that you need a black dress for formal wear.’

I bridle.

‘Has he now?’

‘Yes.’  If she’s noticed my annoyance, she certainly doesn’t show it.  Instead, she simply carries on regardless.  Jeez, this woman knows no fear.  ‘And a range of other feminine attire.’

‘Really?’ I demand.  ‘He stipulated that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Foster can stick his stipulations right up his backside.’ I smile an agreeable sort of a smile, slightly suspicious now that I’m behaving like a spoilt cow.  I’d put an end to it if I could, but my mouth seems to have been hijacked by a lethal combination of panic and alcohol.

And now it’s Lucy’s turn to wade in.

‘Maya.’  She lays a hand on my lap.  ‘You’ve got enough combats and jeans and bloody T-shirts to last you a lifetime.  Just go with it.  You look lovely in dresses.’

‘But …’

‘No bloody complaints.’  She helps herself to another glass of champagne, refilling my glass while she’s at it.  ‘Tatiana, trust me on this one.  We need a two-pronged attack here.  Bring us more Bolly.  Lots of it.  I’ll get Maya pissed and you fetch all the feminine stuff you can find.’

‘Certainly, madam.’

The dark Russian eyes spend a few seconds assessing me, and I don’t really blame them.  After all, they must see me as an alien species: a woman who hates shopping for clothes; a woman who hates shopping, full stop; a woman with less fashion sense than your average tree.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a sneer spread across that perfect assassin’s face by now.  But instead, I note a glimmer of sympathy.  Leaving us to slump back on the sofa and down even more champagne, she makes an elegant exit from the room while another perfectly presented assistant enters, surveying us as if we’re a pair of unexploded bombs and setting two more bottles of bubbly onto the coffee table.  We’re half way through the second bottle when Tatiana reappears with a rack full of short dresses: flowery, plain, billowy, tight.  A rainbow of colours dances in front of my eyes.

‘So, this is a range of summer dresses.’  Without making eye contact, she waves a hand at the rail.  ‘Perhaps madam would like to choose from these … and then try them on.’

Try them on?  Why would I want to try them on?  No, no, no.  I couldn’t possibly do that because trying them on would involve getting up which, in all likelihood, would entail falling over.  And worse than that, there’d be decisions to be made.  Fashion decisions.  I look to Lucy for help, quickly realising that there’s none to be had: her head’s currently resting against the back of the sofa, the champagne flute tilting precariously to one side in her hand.  She’s nodded off.  I nudge her, get no response, and swallow hard.

‘Okay,’ I whisper like a frightened child.  ‘Show me what you’ve got.’

And she does.  One by one, the dresses are plucked from the rail and held up in front of me.  One by one, I dismiss them with a screwed up nose, a shake of the head and yet another giant gulp of champagne.

‘Have you got anything a little less summery?’ I slur.  ‘And a little less dressy?’

The Russian eyebrows launch themselves into a perfect gymnastic crab.  ‘I am not following you.’

‘They’re a bit too … feminine.’

‘But Mr Foster …’

‘Is a control freak.’

The crab tightens a little.

‘And he needs putting in his place,’ I add.

‘I am not sure …’

‘More booze!’  Suddenly roused and reinvigorated, Lucy thrusts out her glass and belches.  ‘Don’t take it personally, Tats.  It’s just that clothes shopping brings out the worst in my friend.  Why don’t you have a drinkie?’