Was Annie finally going to embrace the tunic? Wouldn’t a funky red tunic with the perfect sleeve
be
exactly the right thing to wear for this meeting and then on to the school concert this afternoon?
Dressing for school events was always fraught with difficulty. Too mumsy was bad, too fashion was bad, too designer was bad, too inconspicuous and mousy was all wrong as well.
How not to embarrass your children (and in Annie’s case, husband) while not being upstaged by every other yummy mummy in the audience was a very tricky look to pull off. In short, a minefield.
Stopping to buy the red tunic would involve getting all her luggage and shopping bags out of the cab, hauling it all into the shop and then having to flag another cab down later.
Not stopping would involve a protracted outfit crisis in front of her wardrobe as the time ticked down to concert hour.
The lights changed to green and the cab driver put his car in gear.
‘Hang on a second,’ Annie instructed him. ‘I think I want to get out here instead.’
The cabbie pulled over and helped her to unload her bags while she settled the fare. Then, laden down with shopping and luggage, Annie made a beeline for the shop with the tunic in the window.
Pushing open the door, she found herself in a boutique she hadn’t visited for several years, but she still remembered it well.
‘Hello.’
She gave the sales assistant a big smile. ‘I love the dress in your window so much I made the taxi driver let me out.’
‘Isn’t it fantastic? Very new,’ the assistant replied. ‘I only put it in the window this morning. But we’ve got three in. What’s your size?’
Annie was directed to the changing room to wait. When the assistant reappeared, she had the tunic in red and in bright blue and she also carried a pair of shiny black leggings and spike-heeled black sandals.
‘I think you need to try it on with these, to see the whole look in action.’
‘Good idea,’ Annie agreed, recognizing a fellow saleswoman.
She stripped off, pulled on the tight, shiny black leggings, not really loving what they did to her legs. Sausages about to burst from their skins was the image that sprang to mind.
But she put the sandals on, which at least gave the sausages a little length, then she slipped the red tunic from its hanger and pulled it on over her head.
It was good. In fact, it was very good. She felt the material between her fingers: just right, just thick enough, just thin enough, a touch of stretch, but beautifully matte so that it really carried the red.
She loved the sleeves and the stud detailing – an
edgy
stroke of genius. The studs were punched all around the wide neckline and ran in a line over the shoulders and the top of the sleeves, transforming the dress from chic to punkish.
The flattering cut meant she didn’t need a belt or anything complicated. Wearing this, Annie wondered what her resistance to the tunic had been about for all this time.
It was a great look. It was a long top, or a short dress – loose around the pesky bum and tum areas, putting the focus on neck, cleavage and arms.
It made her look very fashion, very current without a hint of the dreaded dressing ‘too young’. Oh, who knew what that meant anyway? Some 50-plus women looked downright fabulous in vest tops and skinny jeans … some 70-year-olds wore bikini bottoms on the beach with long grey plaits and nipple rings. You could look far too staid and old if you didn’t dress a little too young.
‘How is it going?’ the assistant asked from the other side of the curtain.
‘It’s great … I love it.’
Carefully, she looked herself over from all angles. It was a yes. It was absolutely definitely a yes. Isabella, her café fashion guru, would say yes, wouldn’t she?
‘Two questions: how much is it?’
The assistant told her.
‘Pretty reasonable,’ was Annie’s verdict: ‘and who made it?’
She’d pulled the tunic on so quickly, she’d had no chance to glance at the label.
‘A little company, quite new, this is one of their diffusion pieces: NY Perfect Dress.’
For a moment, Annie just stared, mouth a little open.
‘NY Perfect Dress?’ she repeated, her voice sounding weak.
‘Yeah, have you heard of them?’
‘You could say that.’
Chapter Forty-Two
London
Boss Tamsin:
Crisp white shirt (Thomas Pink)
Pink and grey print skirt (Marni)
Grey suede heels (LK Bennett)
Chunky pearl necklace (Topshop)
Total est. cost: £420
WEARING THE NEW
NY Perfect Dress tunic, the shiny black leggings and the foxy black sandals – because they fitted so well, it would have been criminal not to take then too – Annie gathered up her bags and hailed another cab.
It was time to get to Soho and thank Tamsin for the strange holiday, which had nevertheless shaken
Annie
out of her rut. But meanwhile, in the back of the cab, there was another urgent phone call she had to make.
It was 11.12 a.m. Early to call New York, but given the circumstances … finally, she heard Lana’s bleary voice at the other end of the line.
‘It’s me, Lana. I have to talk to you. I’m in London, where NY Perfect Dress is hanging in shop windows!’
‘In shop windows?’ Lana repeated, waking up rapidly.
‘Yes. I’m driving past this shop and I see an outfit in the window which is so good that I have to stop my cab and get out there and take a look.’
‘So
good
?’ Lana said, just to be sure.
‘Yes, it’s so good I do in fact buy it: red, covered in studs, amazing. But—’
‘But it
is
really good, isn’t it?’ Lana chipped in. ‘So, the punky red, is that the one you went for?’
The enthusiasm in Lana’s voice was infectious.
‘Yes, it really is incredibly clever, Lana, and I look one whole lot less middle aged – but it doesn’t make me any less angry.’
‘Yes it does, Mum. You already sound a lot less angry.’
‘Well, I’m not!’ Annie insisted, but really, she was much more hopeful. The dress she was wearing was really good. It might be a lot easier to get
Svetlana
on side now that she knew these new dresses were brilliant.
‘Did you see a blue one with a yellow print?’ Lana asked.
‘The one you sent a picture of? Asking if I recognized the print? Sorry, I only picked that message up this morning.’
‘Right. Did you see it?’
‘No, there wasn’t one in the shop. I can’t say hand on heart I’ve seen the print before, but there is something familiar about it.’
‘I know,’ Lana agreed.
‘Babes, if you’re uneasy, if you’ve got any doubts, you’ve got to grill the designer and maybe you should just recall all the dresses with that print. You know how much trouble a copied print could cause.’
‘I know!’ Lana almost squeaked her reply.
‘What does Elena think?’
‘I haven’t mentioned it to Elena. She’s so stressed, she’s so worried about the whole thing …’
‘Well, wise up, girl. You have to talk to Elena. You’ve got yourselves into this, now you have to be big and decide what to do.’
The cab pulled up in the Soho street where the TV production company had its sleek headquarters. Annie buzzed the door and was soon being ushered
in
to her boss’s all-white office, where Tamsin was at work behind her desk.
‘Annie, hi!’ Tamsin greeted her cheerfully, ‘you’re looking great.’
‘Yeah, feeling great too,’ Annie added and vigorously shook the hand offered. ‘A break was a great idea. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. Full of enthusiasm,
bursting
with enthusiasm, sweetheart.’
‘A long weekend in an Italian spa – I am totally jealous,’ Tamsin added.
‘The spa was beautiful and I was more pampered than the wife of an African dictator, but there was
no food
! Not a shred,’ she confided, sitting down in a dainty Perspex chair and reaching over for one of the vast muffins waiting in a basket for attention: ‘it was barley broth once a day and vile green vegetable juice. Courgette, I ask you? Like drinking pond water. There are limits to what a girl will do to shrink her derrière. And quite frankly, buying a nice new pair of Spanx is about as far as I’m prepared to go.’
Annie bit into the muffin. It was blueberry, utterly delicious and she was starving.
‘So … any thoughts about the show?’ Tamsin asked.
Annie swallowed her mouthful and decided to go for it: ‘I’m so sorry about the live event. I panicked.
I
thought I didn’t understand fashion any more so I sort of went label crazy. I made that terrible mistake of thinking a blizzard of designer labels would do the fashion thinking for me. It was madness … that poor woman. I think we need to contact her and re-shoot.’
‘Yes, I’ve sweet-talked her into coming back next week. We won’t have an audience, but we can improvise.’
‘Perfect. I’ve been having nightmares about making her cry on stage.’
‘I’m sorry we’ve worked you so hard. Next season we’ll rethink the filming schedule and make sure you get more time off.’
Annie grinned at her: ‘Next season, Tamsin. Now, those words are music to my ears.’
‘What do you think we should be doing next season?’ Tamsin asked.
Suddenly Lana’s words, even Randall’s words, were ringing in Annie’s ears: ‘We need to get creative, arty – maybe even messy!’
Tamsin’s eyebrows rose, but she was still smiling.
‘What we’re doing now you can see on every single makeover programme: we get someone in, we tell her what to wear, we marvel at the result. I don’t think it’s ringing my bell.’
‘So how do we get more creative?’ Tamsin asked.
‘Why don’t we get the guests to show us their
favourite
thing at home … their favourite painting, or fruit bowl, or something that makes their heart lift – and then we base their new outfit around this inspiration. So we make it much more about finding their real style rather than shoving them into what’s on offer on the high street.’
‘Right …’
‘And what about tracking down much smaller designers? You know, people who are making hand-knitted jumpers or printed scarves. Show how much care and thought and art goes into making clothes? Can’t we tap into the creative side of it?’
Annie was on a roll now, and thinking of Inge and the trip round the Italian ribbon shop, she added: ‘I’d really like a “make do and mend” strand. Someone brings in a tired outfit and we spruce it up for them with ribbons, or a braid trim, give it new buttons – dye it a different colour, sew on flowers. I think that would chime with the times.’
Tamsin gave her a quizzical look and Annie felt a little chill of fear. Had she gone too far? Had the Randall hippie-trip gone to her head? She wasn’t really an artist … she was a TV presenter. It wasn’t her job to be creative, it was her job to pull in viewers, make sure Tamsin’s show got re-commissioned and Annie’s contract got renewed – wasn’t it?
But really, she did have a feeling that her viewers
would
want a more interesting show, one with real passion and heart. Everyone could buy women new clothes from the high street and do their hair nicely, but what did that say? What did that inspire?
Wasn’t it better to try and help everyone to relight their creative fires? As Isabella had said, wasn’t fashion all about keeping interested in the new and staying in love with yourself?
‘I want to help everyone to get creative,’ Annie added. How had Isabella put it? ‘Fashion should be all about staying young at heart, keeping an interest in the new and being in love with yourself.’
‘Well …’ Tamsin began in her usual unruffled way.
Annie held her breath. Had she gone too far?
‘Sounds very exciting. Now go away and write up some fresh proposals.’
Chapter Forty-Three
London
The St Vincent’s Yummy Mummy:
Fitted beige shift dress (Gerard Darel)
Sensible beige pumps (Hobbs)
Tasteful gold studs (Ernest Jones)
Black and pink demi-cup bra (Agent Provocateur)
Black and pink knickers (same)
Total est. cost: £650
ANNIE BRUSHED HER
hair carefully and applied bright red lipstick in the back of the cab. There was no longer any time to go home. She’d have to head straight to the concert at Ed and Owen’s school or miss seeing both of her boys in action.
Unfortunately, this meant she would have to tow
all
her shopping and her luggage with her, but she had a vague hope that St Vincent’s was the kind of school which might just be able to provide luggage storage for jet-set parents.
It was a very smart school: fee-paying, old-fashioned and self-important. The kind of school where, in amongst the fairly ordinary, hard-working parents, were a handful who rocked up to events in Ferrari convertibles and looked put out to find there was no valet parking.
Annie paid her cab, charmed the receptionist into stashing her luggage and headed for the main hall, greeting parents that she knew en route.
‘Annie, hello, you’re looking well! I love the red.’
She turned towards the familiar voice and was caught up in a hug and a kiss with yummy mummy, newly divorced, Tessa, who was sporting her latest winning outfit: a figure-skimming beige dress with just a hint of blush pink bra.
It wasn’t what Annie would have picked for a concert at her children’s school, but there was no denying that Tessa looked good in it and maybe school concerts were a gold mine of single dads.
To confirm this, Tessa added in a low voice: ‘I have my eye on Miles White, Charlie’s dad. I think he’s keen. Over there … have you ever noticed his shoulders before? A former Cambridge Blue. Magnificent.’
Annie smiled encouragingly, although really this felt perfectly teenage. She didn’t want to be talking about Miles White’s undeniable fit dad status, she wanted to crow about the fact that Tamsin loved her new ideas and the new series was going to be amazing.