The personal shopper, p.1
The Personal Shopper, page 1
The Personal Shopper
Carmen Reid
For Diana and my mum.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
More from Carmen Reid
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1
The first of Svetlana’s new outfits for spring:
Dress in vibrant purple, green and white (Erdem)
Purple boots with rapier heels (Valentino)
White cashmere coat (Altuzarra)
Green handbag (Chloé)
Total est. cost: £2,800
‘Sexy, but ladylike’
Annie Valentine, senior personal shopper at the five floors of London retail heaven called ‘The Store’ (because less is oh-so-much-much-more), watched Svetlana Wisneski emerge from behind the fuchsia, velvet curtain of the changing room. The silk jersey dress clung to the honed curves of the billionaire’s wife and, in three-inch heels, she towered like a blonde superhuman.
The effect was breathtaking, but Annie, who always exceeded her monthly commission targets and almost always scooped the 10 per cent bonus for highest overall sales figures, immediately read the slightly dissatisfied look on her VIP client’s high-cheekboned, high-maintenance face.
‘Not working for you, my love?’ Annie asked, unruffled. ‘Not channeling spring, lambs frolicking, or April in Paris?’
Svetlana shook her head gravely.
‘Never mind… we will just keep looking,’ Annie replied, flicking at speed through a rail packed with sensational dresses – Chloé, Missoni, Temperley, Gucci, Versace – many so new in, they had not yet shed their plastic wrappers. She pulled out another stunning day dress and offered: ‘Oooh, how about Erdem? This could be delicious.’
‘We trrrry,’ came Svetlana’s deep-voiced reply.
No one left Annie’s two hours of personal attention in anything less than the perfect outfit – more usually perfect outfits – often blowing three, four, even five times as much as they’d planned to spend because her advice, delivered in a down-to-earth, no-nonsense, London-born-and-bred accent, was so persuasively excellent.
Annie shopped for her customers, for her friends and for herself with the ruthless zeal of a Wall Street stockbroker on her last day of probation.
Nothing was too much trouble for this gold standard professional: she scoured every glossy, down-lit corner of The Store for the perfect item and she knew every department’s designer collections right down to its ‘diffusion’ thongs.
‘Just for you, mind!’ this bustling, tireless, working wonder could track down a coat direct from the atelier and charm grumpy, Italian bootmakers into parting with the last size 41 available in that style. She could even, in a wardrobe emergency, cut a deal with the tiny out-of-town boutique that had the only other one of those dresses in your size.
This afternoon’s client, statuesque Svetlana, was a cherished customer. Married to one of the richest Russians in London, Svetlana was one of a select handful of shoppers entitled to a free limousine ride home with her car full of purchases.
Today, early in February, the everlasting winter sales were almost over and the bright new spring collections were finally breaking through in shades of palest lemon, baby pink, green, green and more green, ultraviolet and sky blue. Svetlana was here to shop for the new season because she liked to be first and to have the pick of the new.
For close to an hour, Annie had walked this elite customer and her personal assistant, Olga, round every one of The Store’s glittering floors. They’d begun in the dazzling cosmetics hall where assistants had brought out compacts and samples, trilling the delights of spring’s ‘fresh new palette’.
While Svetlana had been lavishly made up and manicured, Olga had scathingly pronounced the shimmery nude polish ‘almost invisible’ and ‘far too expensive’.
‘She works for him,’ Svetlana had whispered to Annie when Olga was out of earshot.
‘Who?’ Annie had asked, suspecting the answer.
‘She works for Potato-face,’ Svetlana confided. Annie knew Svetlana’s husband was called Igor, but Svetlana almost always used the highly unflattering nickname. ‘He thinks I spend too much money and she is spying on me.’
‘No!’ Annie assured her, although she could only guess at the trials and tribulations of life as a trophy wife. ‘Potato-face’ was Svetlana’s third and most wealthy husband, as she’d traded up spouses the way other women trade up houses. Annie had occasionally reflected that if she wanted advice on upper-income-bracket dating, Svetlana would undoubtedly be the woman to ask.
Up the glass escalators they’d sailed, into white-marble-floored designer heaven where clothes were hung and lit as preciously as works of art… and cost as much too.
Should a customer be so foolish as to display any shock at the astronomical price tags, the best sales staff would gush: ‘But it’s such a unique piece. Fabulous quality. You’ll wear it for years.’ The condescending ones would raise an eyebrow and ask: ‘Oh? Too expensive for Madam?’ in a way that made Annie want to shriek: As if you could afford it!
But then the girls here did buy the clothes. They used their staff discount, maxed their plastic and shared cramped, studio flats in order to wear Westwood with Laboutins on their nights out. It made no sense but was unmistakably glamorous.
Once Svetlana had toured the new collections of her favourite designers – Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy for dressing up, Ralph Lauren for casual – Annie had tried to entice her into some different, more colourful, directions: Missoni, Valentino, Matthew Williamson.
The billionaire’s wife had looked mournfully through the rails: ‘No, no… well… maybe… I don’t know if Igor will like it,’ she’d declared. ‘He likes sexy but ladylike, always ladylike.’ As if, over the two years they’d shopped together, Annie hadn’t realised ‘Sexy but ladylike’ was Svetlana’s mantra.
Annie was not usually a fan of the indulgent and spoiled wealthy wives she regularly dressed, but she was beginning to understand that Svetlana was an exception. Svetlana’s marriage was her career.
Svetlana hosted bi-weekly dinners and monthly cocktail parties, she attended endless business receptions, made charming small talk for hours, always looked impeccably elegant, all for the benefit of Igor and his empire. Svetlana had staff to organise: cooks, housekeepers, cleaners and maids. She had five houses in three countries to furnish, refurbish and decorate. Clearly, it was a demanding, full-time job being Mrs Igor Wisneski. But as she’d confided to Annie – when Olga was again out of earshot – she was approaching thirty-nine, and in need of all the help she could get to maintain her position. Although Svetlana was tall, naturally ice-blonde and breathtaking, not to mention the mother of the gas baron’s two sons and heirs, despite an extremely skillful mid-section facelift and a perky breast enhancement straight after her second baby, her place as drop-dead gorgeous status wife was never taken for granted.
Annie knew the former Miss Ukraine was working tirelessly to maintain the interest of Potato-face, enduring a gruelling daily workout with a martial arts expert, fortnightly detoxes and all manner of other invasive beauty injections and treatments.
She’d once pointed out the faint creases on her cheeks as ‘blowjob lines’ with a telling roll of the eyes.
Now, the curtain swished open again and Svetlana stood before Annie, with a far more satisfied expression because she knew she was a knockout in the tight, belted Erdem.
Hand on slinky hip, Svetlana considered herself studiously in the three-way mirrors before finally announcing: ‘I like it,’ which in her serious, thoughtful manner was the highest accolade she gave. ‘I don’t know why I’m ever unsure about your ideas, Ahnnah’ – she’d never got the hang of ‘Annie’ – ‘You are always correct.’
‘You need a pale coat for that dress,’ Annie assured her. ‘I have a white cashmere, knee-length, beautiful cut. I’ll have it brought up along with a new Chloé – just in this morning – to hang off your arm.’ She winked at Svetlana who, just like Annie, could never resist a soft, dreamy leather bag. Fortunately, unlike Annie, Svetlana never baulked at a four-figure price tag.
‘Erm… sorry to interrupt.’ Paula, the other personal shopper on duty today, put her head round the curtain that separated Annie’s section from hers.
Annie shook her head and raised her eyebrows: ‘Urgent?’ she asked.
‘Your bid’s been exceeded on the vintage Burberry…’ Paula began.
Although she had primed Paula to keep an eye on the items she was bidding for on the internet today, this news wasn’t important enough to justify abandoning Svetlana just as her mind was turning to new handbags.
‘Thanks, but don t worry about it,’ Annie instructed, and with a swish of eighteen inches of hair extensions, painstakingly braided into tiny plaits with beads on the ends, Paula was gone.
Svetlana had firmly decided on three evening gowns, five day dresses, two trouser suits, a coat, four pairs of shoes and two handbags. She was debating the Valentino boots, a ball dress and ‘something to cheer Olga up’ when Paula appeared at the curtain again.
‘Help!’ she mouthed at Annie, who gave a little sigh. Paula wasn’t exactly bad at her job, she was just young (twenty-four), inexperienced, and so obsessed with fashion that she couldn’t translate what was hot into what would really suit and work for someone.
She would quite happily stuff a chunky fifty-four-year-old barrister into a jersey playsuit and studded gold mules because ‘Wow, that is so now! So happening!’
Usually, Annie tried to make sure Paula’s clients were of the rake-thin, fashion police variety who wanted to be talked through combining a baby doll with a tulip skirt, gaucho belt and cork wedges by an expert, but this afternoon, Annie had Svetlana, so Paula was having to look after a more ordinary new client who’d come in.
‘Can you excuse me for a moment?’ Annie asked Svetlana, who was turning from side to side in front of the mirror trying to decide whether the handbag in her left hand was a better match with the coat than the handbag in her right hand.
‘Of courrrrse.’
‘Definitely the green,’ Annie pronounced and turned to follow Paula into the cream-carpeted reception area.
There she saw Martha, very tall, slouchy, late thirties, who had turned up for her consultation in the universal uniform of a very busy stay-at-home mum/freelancer: washed-out jeans, washed-out T-shirt, washed-out face, long hair with four inches of root, green gym shoes and Martha’s own personal touch, a truly diabolical grey parka. No wonder Paula had panicked.
For a moment, it struck Annie that such a lack of care about your appearance, fashion and what people might think of you was almost enviable. Then she tried to imagine how she would look without her heels, her red lipstick, her artfully applied base, and a full head of highlights… and the moment passed.
‘Hi, Martha, I’m Annie Valentine, lovely to meet you.’ Annie treated Martha to her most reassuring smile. ‘Have you been looking around?’
‘Ummm… yes… and now I’m even more worried,’ came Martha’s reply.
Annie was used to dressing all kinds of customers: rich wives, wealthy daughters, business highflyers, fashion mavens and, of course, women who’d lost, or never found, their fashion mojo and wanted advice. But she hadn’t seen such a challenge for a while. Poor Martha had probably wandered the floors, clocked the price tags, made no sense at all of the more complicated garments and now, here she was, faced with the incredibly glamorous Paula, as lithe and elegant as a young Naomi Campbell, complete with nutcracker buns and ultraviolet talons. Although Annie looked much more approachable, she was still extremely groomed and elegant: a shimmering blonde with perfect brows, coral-coloured manicure and light tan, tastefully dressed, high-heeled and utterly convincing in her role of persuading her customers to part with extraordinary amounts of money in order to look more stylish and attractive. Martha was probably convinced she did not belong here.
‘You are going to have such fun with us today,’ Annie told her with a genuinely kind smile, then linked arms with her so she couldn’t bolt.
Annie actually loved clients like Martha. You had to start slowly with the most sober clothes The Store had to offer, but these clients were always the most grateful and the most enduringly loyal because Annie helped them to work out all the things a woman needed to know about her look – ideally by twenty-five, but definitely by thirty.
By then, every woman should have put in the hours in the fitting room to work out the colours, the shapes and the cuts that flattered. Round neck or V? Knee-length or longer? High waistband or low? Shades of red and orange, or blues and purples? Keeping one eye on fashion was good, but by thirty, every woman should have put the fundamentals of her very own personal style in place. Great dressers also understood the importance of one standout accessory and the classic items: jeans, blazer, boots, white blouse, versatile dress – all in the style that suited them best.
These were the secrets, the dressing lessons, which Annie could reveal.
‘I love your height,’ Annie told Martha straight away.
‘Pros and cons…’ was Martha’s reply. ‘Sleeves…’ She made a chopping motion close to her elbow. ‘Dress waistbands come in under my boobs,’ she gestured.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll work with you. Now, follow me into my boudoir.’ Still arm in arm with Martha, she led her to one of the cosy rooms at the heart of the Personal Shopping area. Annie and Martha sat down together on the fuchsia velvet sofa for a preliminary chat, while Paula hovered close by.
‘So, I’m guessing you have children,’ Annie began.
‘Yes, aged six, five and just turned two.’
‘Oh, my goodness, you must be busy,’ Annie sympathised, remembering just how hard it was to wear clean clothes at that stage, let alone co-ordinated, well put together ones.
‘I must be insane!’ was Martha’s response.
‘And are you going back to work?’ was Annie’s next question, as this was usually the reason harassed toddler mothers appeared in her suite in a panic.
‘Yes… it’s my first in-the-office job for seven years. Three days a week in Personnel… and nothing from “Life Before Children” fits… and I’ve no idea what people wear in offices any more. It seems to be dresses, sparkly skirts, cropped satin trousers, perfect nails and high heels.’
‘Help!’ she added.
‘OK. Well…’ Annie was feeling inspired because this was going to be easy, not to mention a joy, to put right. Martha was tall, still a size 12-ish and with the right clothes, plus some care and attention, she would be transformed.
‘Paula is your guide today, so…’ Annie gave Paula a ‘pay attention’ look, ‘she is going to help you buy not a trouser suit, no, too courtroom-y, but trousers and a pencil skirt, which fit and flatter you. Then you’re going to add a short, bang-up-to-date, swingy jacket with a single button.
‘Now, Martha, if possible, I’d like to steer you away from black or brown. You can have light grey, camel, navy, or go a little bold – pumpkin, sage, lilac. Choose colours that you really love and we’ll help you put it all together. Then you need to find shoes, or groovy trainers, that fit well and that you love.
‘So, once you have the shoes,’ Annie went on explaining her formula, ‘you’re to find three awesome tops that all go with the trousers, jacket and the skirt. Three is the minimum. No slacking, we make you work here! Then, your final mission for today, should you choose to accept, is to find a day-to-evening dress or a raincoat that you adore.’
Martha and Paula nodded obediently.
‘This way, I promise you’ll be beautifully dressed for the office every single day. Obviously, if you want to look at umbrellas, boots, cardigans, sunglasses… or make-up,’ there was a noticeable stress on this final item, ‘Paula can advise, but get the basics in place first. You can always come back to us. In fact, we’d love you to come back. We’re a bit like the dentist, we like you in for regular check-ups.
Now… just one last thing, my love, then I really have to shoot back to my other client, how are you planning to style your hair for work?’ Annie had considered the question carefully and had decided this was the most tactful way to frame: you really need a cut and colour.
‘Style my hair? Style…’ Martha repeated the word slowly as if it was foreign to her, ‘my hair?’
Annie nodded encouragingly but wasn’t expecting the confession that followed.
