Late Night Shopping: (21 page)

'Sera?' Dinah looked at Annie,

Annie flashed a glance at her wristwatch and saw with astonishment that it was 6.30 p.m. already.

'No wonder Billie's flagging,' Dinah said.

'I'll be quick, honestly. I'll shop like the wind,' Annie assured her.

Then, turning her attention to the couple behind the counter, Annie smiled brightly and told them: 'Buona sera, I'm Annie Valentine, from London.' Then: '
This is
the most beautiful shop I've been into today, with the loveliest
things,'
was what Annie hoped she told them.

In fact, what came out was closer to 'This is a beautiful négligé, with good principles.'

The couple at the counter looked momentarily confused, but recovered and the man asked her, as if to confirm the important points, 'You from London? Shopping here? Today? We are speaking English.'

'Yes!' Annie assured him. 'Multo, multo shopping.'

'Signor Berlusponti-Milliau.' He smiled at her and offered his hand for her to shake. Annie took the hand and gathered herself together enough to focus on him properly.

He had a handsome, tanned face. He was in his early forties maybe, with brown hair held back by the tortoiseshell sunglasses perched casually on top of his head. His open-necked shirt was of creamy linen, beautifully pressed, and revealed a smooth brown chest. He exuded the subtle but delicious, Italian smell of sun oil and beach air, orange peel and basil.

For a split second, Annie was stopped in her tracks and had a strange
déjà vu
kind of feeling. She knew exactly what it was. She'd been married for six years, been partnered up since the age of 20. She knew that this was the flash of something in between disappointment and panic that you had when you met someone attractive and fascinating, who you could possibly have started something very interesting with, if only you weren't already . . .

She let go of his hand a little too abruptly and told him, 'I'm never going to remember your name, I'll call you Mr Bellissimo.'

Mr Bellissimo gave a hearty laugh at this, as did the woman by his side, an equally attractive, immaculately groomed and beautifully dressed Italian, Annie assumed must be his wife.

Mr Bellissimo introduced himself to Dinah and Billie and shook their hands as well. The couple then made the obligatory fuss over Billie, which all Italians seemed programmed to do at the sight of small children.

'You live in London?' he turned his attention to Annie again. 'You work in London?'

Peeking beyond the front counter to the bags arrayed behind him, Annie could barely concentrate enough to answer him.

'Yes, I work at The Store, it's a beautiful shop, full of clothes, shoes, bags. You must have heard of it, if you sell such lovely bags.
Such simultaneous sacking,'
she added in Italian.

'No, no, I not exporter yet.' There was a little gleam of humour to his eye as he said this. 'I have things here from three wonderful factories who make and I very interested in selling in London.'

He stepped out from behind the counter and Annie was surprised to see he was over six feet tall; she'd assumed he was on a slight platform.

'Here,' he began, walking towards the nearest set of shelves and waving his arm at the bags, 'here you find things the factory make for me . . . and some handbag made for famous designer, but not perfetto, you understand.'

Yes, she understood perfectly: the designer seconds. The bargain hunter's zeal broke out in Annie: 'Show me those things first!' she instructed him.

'You go and look,' Mr Bellissimo challenged her with a smile, 'see if you find them.'

He walked back to the counter and from underneath, brought out a cool green bottle and set out one, two then three delicate glasses. 'Pro-secco' he declared, 'because I come from Venice.'

'You're from Venice?' Dinah had to ask, because it seemed slightly unreal that someone should actually come from Venice.

'Si, the home of all beautiful. Tutto belli,' he added, the way Italians did, because they didn't trust English to sound lovely enough. And they were right, it didn't.

'Patrizia, una pasticcino por la bambina,' he instructed the woman, who disappeared through a side door.

A moment or two later she re-emerged holding a plate with the most incredible fruit tart on top. Peaches, little blueberries and redcurrants all shimmered under a glaze of the palest pink.

Mr B took the plate and leaned down, smiling indulgently at Billie. 'You like?' he asked.

'Am I
apposed
to eat this?' Billie asked her mummy, because the tart did look almost too perfect to be edible. When Dinah gave her the nod of approval, Billie carefully took the plate, said 'grazie' politely and fell on the cake with an audible 'Ummm!'

'Forgive me, this is Patrizia.' Mr Bellissimo introduced the woman properly and Annie shook her hand, taking in the long, dark, curly hair, strong Italian nose and eyebrows, wide mouth defined with a sweep of pale brown lipstick and her stunning dress.

It was a chiffony creation, but in muted creams, browns and oranges, with ruffled sleeves which ended well above the wrist to show off slim arms and long olive brown hands.

Best of all Annie liked the woman's necklaces: ropes and ropes of chunky glass beads, which glowed orangey brown and gold, just like her eyes. Because Mr B had given her no clue, Annie quickly scanned Patrizia's hands for wedding or engagement rings. There was a stunning hunk of smoky topaz on one of her fourth fingers, but nothing else.

'I love your necklace,' Annie told her.

'Oh thank you,' Patrizia replied, then in much more fluent English than Mr B's, she added, 'it is from a special shop I know. If you like, I tell you where to find it.'

'Thank you!'

'But first you must look here, see what you like—' Patrizia waved a slender arm around the shop.

Annie did not need to be asked twice. With a slim glass of fizz in her hand she began to tour slowly around.

Everything she set eyes on was wonderful. She picked up the handbags and examined them carefully: the leather was soft and supple, the workmanship was as good as any she'd seen and the designs and colours were just perfect.

'Many bags made with one thread.' Mr B was at her side again: 'just like Hermès. If the thread break,' he made a chopping motion with his hand, 'start again.'

He picked a random bag from the shelf and told her with emphasis, 'Made in Italy. Everything . . . Patrizia!' he called over and they shot out a volley of Italian.

'He want me to tell you,' Patrizia began, 'EU rule mean bag made in China, but handles sewn on in Italy can say "Made in Italy" on bag, you understand?'

Mr B pulled a face, raised his hands to the sky and shrugged to express his disgust at this state of affairs.

'Terrible!' he told Annie.

'I didn't realize,' she assured him, suitably horrified, then with her own unique grasp of Italian added, '
this is
a malignant truffle!'

Here on Mr B's shelves, there was nothing, not one bag, that was too fussy, or just slightly off like so many of the things she'd seen today. Here everything was simple, elegant and right on the money.

The big questions running through Annie's mind were: how much can I buy? And how can I get it back to London?

And then she saw it . . . she saw
her
bag. Up there, on a shelf all of its own, basking in the respect it deserved, was her violet blue YSL tote bag.

'Oh my God!' she exclaimed at the bag, 'how did you get here?'

'Aha!' Mr B followed her gaze, 'you know this bag?'

'Of course!' Annie told him. 'I owned this bag, I bought it, but the first time I took it out, someone stole it from me . . .' She pointed to her forehead which was still slightly bruised.

'Terrible!' Mr B sympathized, 'they do this to you for the bag?'

'Yes, with a brick,' Annie confirmed, 'but how do you have one of these in here?' she asked, astonished. 'They are very, very rare.'

'Patrizia, per favore . . .' Mr B asked again, because obviously it was complicated to explain.

According to Patrizia there was a top quality factory near Ancona which made some bags for YSL. Mr B and several other outlet stores were allowed to sell off the items rejected by quality control. These bags did not have the YSL logos or letters of authentication, but they were less than half the price of the authentic items.

'You are joking!' was Annie's response as she removed the bag from its shelf and began to inspect it. Apart from the missing logo, she could not see the slightest difference between this bag and the one she had so briefly owned. Mentally, she was tussling between buying this bag and keeping it for herself, or buying it and re-selling it on her eBay website to make some serious pocket money.

'Well, I'm having this!' she told Mr B.

'Annie!' Dinah warned. 'Can I just remind you what else you've bought today?'

'I was hoping you wouldn't,' Annie told her, 'but I'm selling
almost
all of it on.'

'You have a business?' Mr B asked with some surprise. 'Then we do trade discount,' he said and headed off to his counter where he brought out an official-looking invoice pad.

'Well . . . I'm not a proper business just yet,' Annie had to confess, 'not officially. I have a shop on eBay, I sell second-hand clothes, bags, shoes and discount things I've bought from the shop I work in.'

Mr B repeated 'eBay??' in a way that made it clear he didn't approve. 'Many, many bad bags on eBay,' he warned, shaking his head, 'fake! Not good quality,' and he leaned over to rub his finger and thumb against the strap of the caramel-coloured handbag closest to him to make his point.

'I know,' Annie agreed, 'but my eBay shop has a good reputation. 'Annie V's Trading Station'. My customers come back again and again because I sell good things. Maybe we can find my shop on your computer?' she offered, hoping that this would dispel any fears that Mr B might have that she was some kind of rogue trader.

Despite Dinah's eye-rolling and the fact that Billie had found a comfortable armchair and looked dangerously close to drifting off to sleep, Mr B directed Annie into the back office to search for British eBay on the internet.

It didn't take them long to locate 'Annie V's Trading Station' and once Mr B had scrolled down the range of things for sale, he at once understood that he was dealing with a saleswoman who understood fashion and quality.

'This is good, very good,' he told her, draping a very nice cashmere sweater over his shoulders against the slight evening chill.

Without taking his eyes from the screen, he rolled the end of one of the sleeves into the other, so they fell in a loose knot against his chest, as Annie watched in admiration. He'd probably been doing this since he was a teenager, so it was effortless, natural and so stylish.

'Nice sweater,' she complimented him and reached out to stroke the cashmere on his shoulder.

'You like?' he asked, shooting her a little sideways smile.

'
Oh . . . I like, I definitely like
,' Annie thought.

'Why you not in business for yourself?' Mr B asked. 'Your shop is wonderful, why you still work for The Store?'

'Good question,' she agreed. 'Why are you not selling your wonderful bags on the internet?'