Christmas at Claridge's (10 page)

‘Some kind of fashion flash mob?’ Clem groaned. She was exhausted, although no longer cold, and the crowd’s adoring attention had restored her spirits after Tom’s
rejection.

Stella plonked herself down on the spare bucket and looked across at her friend, as though seeing her for the first time.

‘What?’ Clem asked nervously, as Stella scrutinized her. ‘Don’t say I’ve got chocolate on my face now?’

‘No. I’m just trying to pinpoint exactly what it is about you that attracts people.’

‘Oh thanks.’ Clem laughed nervously.

‘I don’t mean it like that, you numpty. I’m your biggest fan, you know that. But what one thing is it, do you think? Is it your eyes? Your hair? The fact that you’ve got
legs as long as ladders?’

‘I think it’s girls just having some fun and getting carried away,’ Clem replied dismissively.

‘No, no, there’s something else, Clem. I made more money showing my designs on you today than I usually do in a month of markets.’

‘Drinks are on you, then.’

‘I’m serious. Other women admire and envy you. If you’ve got it, other women want it.’ Stella patted her knee. ‘You can be my own personal cash cow.’ She
grinned. ‘From now on, I’m not just going to pin my designs on you, I’m going to photograph them on you, too. Make a look book showing how everything should be worn and pin them
up here.’

‘If you like,’ Clem shrugged, finding a last, stray deerstalker underneath the trestle table. She spun it on her hand. ‘But your designs wouldn’t sell if they
weren’t any good, Stell, not even if Kate Moss wore them. You’re a brilliant designer. I mean, look at this hat. It’s a really flattering style. It looked good on everyone who
tried it.’

‘Mmm, shame about the fabric, though. I never did like that faux fur.’ She shrugged. ‘But what you gonna do? I can’t afford anything pricier.’

Clem stopped suddenly and looked at the hat more closely. ‘Could this be made in shearling?’

Stella frowned. ‘Of course. That—’ She saw that conspiratorial look she knew only too well shining in Clem’s eyes. ‘Wait! Stop right there, lady. When I approached
Tom about doing some small bits for the stall, he made no bones about the fact that he doesn’t want to do fashion.’

‘But it doesn’t have to be fashion. It could be
lifestyle.’

‘That’s just a play on words. A hat is a hat.’

‘But lifestyle is what Alderton Hide’s all about,’ Clem argued, her beautiful eyes beginning to shine. ‘I mean, if you’re going to commission the curly sheepskin
sofa, the shearling beanbag or the suede wardrobe, wouldn’t it make sense that you’d want to wear a bit of that luxury, too? Can’t you see it? Ski lodge, log fire, fur throw,
cashmere socks . . .’ She pulled the deerstalker on, tipped her head back and let her hands frame her face, her eyes faraway as she envisaged a glamorous life far removed from the grimy
streets of London. ‘Shearling deerstalker all fluffy around your hot-oil-conditioned glossy hair. I’m thinking chocolate brown and really shaggy – you know, Toscana shearling
– so that it’s extra-luxuriant around the face. Like Julie Christie in
Dr Zhivago.’
Clem looked back at her and planted her hands on her narrow hips. ‘I’d
wear it.’

‘And we’d all copy you, babes.’

Clem leaned in to her friend excitedly her mind beginning to race. ‘I really think I’m on to something, Stell! A capsule collection that gives women a taste of the Alderton Hide
lifestyle. So what if you can’t afford the leather walls? Buy the hat instead. Or . . . or the gilet. D’you remember that time I put a big belt over my Temperley one?’

‘Shit, yeah, I loved how that looked.’

‘Me, too! And we can’t be the only ones.’

‘After today, we
know
we aren’t! But Tom’ll still never let you do it.’

Clem shot Stella a look her friend knew only too well. ‘So we won’t tell him.’

Stella raised one over-plucked eyebrow. ‘And how do we hide from him the fact that we’re running a lifestyle collection in his name, based on his materials? It’s not just Tom
you’d have to get past; it’s Simon, too.’

Clem considered this for a minute, her mind racing. ‘Leave that to me. I know how to handle
him.
In the meantime, I want you to start doing some drawings, get some ideas together.
But they have to be things that don’t require big cuts, OK?’ Stella narrowed her eyes but Clem shook her head. ‘Just trust me. If you can come up with the designs, I’ll come
up with the rest.’

‘I really don’t know, Clem. I don’t want to drop Tom in it any further. Things are bad enough for him as it is.’

‘Stell, we could print money if today was anything to go by. This could give the company a lifeline.’ She clutched Stella’s arm beseechingly. ‘We’ve just got to
scale up a bit and think big. What Tom doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I
am
doing this to save his hide.’

Stella paused at the pun. ‘Tell me you didn’t just say that.’

Clem gave a wicked laugh that resonated throughout her body. ‘Work on the sketches tonight, yeah? I’ll swing by yours tomorrow lunchtime.’ She grinned, turning to go.

‘Where are you going now? I thought we could get a drink at the Duke.’

‘I need to buy us some time and that means I’ve got some bridges to mend, babes. If Clover thought I was a nightmare before, just wait till she sees my angelic side. She’s not
getting rid of me that easily.’

‘Huh?’

‘I’ll explain later. Can’t stop.’ She winked, pulling the hat down on her head. ‘Things to see, people to do.’

Tom was stirring a freshly made pot of chicken soup when Clem got back to the flat, and a single charged beat pulsed between them as Clem’s eyes and ears strained to
detect Clover’s whereabouts.

‘She’s gone home,’ Tom said, putting down the wooden spoon and leaning against the counter. ‘I told her I wanted to spend the evening with you. I haven’t seen you
properly for days.’

‘Well, you’ve been working so hard.’

‘And you’ve been partying so hard,’ he replied softly. ‘Which always worries me.’

‘I’m a big girl, Tom, I can look after myself,’ she said brightly, pulling off her trainers and hanging her jacket on the hook behind the door, prompting a pleasingly surprised
look from Tom. ‘It’s you who needs looking after at the moment,’ she said, walking over and grabbing the bottle of red that was sitting on the counter. She poured them both a
glass and clinked his with a heartiness more suited to plastic than crystal.

Tom took a deep breath. ‘I’m not selling because I want to leave you, you know. And I’m not moving in with her because I
don’t
want to live with you. It’s
just how events have unravelled, Clem. Suddenly it seems to be the solution to all our problems.’

Clem looked up at him, seeing all the sadness and worry in his eyes. Poor Tom. He really was in the thick of it, stuck between her and Clover. ‘I get it, Tom. Really I do.’ She
nodded, resting a hand on his chest, as though that alone could steady his heartbeat. ‘Just promise me one thing, OK?’

‘Anything, you know that.’

‘Just don’t rush into anything immediately. You never know what the next few weeks could bring.’

‘Clem it’s highly unlikely—’

‘That the dream commission will come in, in time? I know. But just hold out a little hope, yeah? Don’t sign anything just yet. Only for a few weeks. For me?’

A sudden laugh broke through him. ‘You know I can never say no to you when you give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look.’

‘So is that a yes?’

‘I promise not to rush things along,’ he replied dutifully, kissing the top of her head before ruffling her hair like their father did and making it stand up with static.

‘Good. So then, in turn,
I
promise to make more effort with Clover. It’s not fair us being at each other’s throats all the time and you being piggy in the
middle.’

‘Seriously?’ Tom looked choked.

‘I know I’ve never really given her a chance.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Guess I was maybe a bit jealous. Thought she was going to take you away from me.’

Tom swallowed more nervously. ‘That’ll never happen, Clem. Even if . . . well,
when,
I suppose, we get married. Nothing will change between you and me.’

Clem nodded. She wanted to tell him that if he really wanted to marry Clover, he would have asked her by now – regardless of how chaotic his little sister’s life was – but he
had enough things to worry about, without scrutinizing the fears in his subconscious too.

She gave a wicked grin instead. ‘Well, you never know. I may even get married before you, and then you’ll have no excuses not to ask her. I can’t be your fall guy for ever, you
know,’ she said, earning herself a punch on the arm from him. ‘What? There’s nothing to say you’ll beat me to it just because you’re in a happy, stable and committed
relationship.’

‘No, nothing at all,’ Tom replied, bursting out laughing. ‘Things are that serious between you and Josh then, are they?’

‘Not even close! But I could still surprise you. My Mr Right could be just round the corner. I might meet him tomorrow.’ An image of the Swimmer drifted in front of her eyes.
‘I could even have met him already.’

‘True,’ Tom nodded, thoroughly amused as he returned to stirring the soup. ‘Hungry? I made your favourite.’

‘Starved. I’ve eaten nothing but junk today.’

Tom rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a wonder you don’t have scurvy. Can you get the bowls down?’

Clem reached behind her into the cupboard and passed him two bowls.

‘Dad rang, by the way. The weather’s lovely there – obviously,’ Tom said as he ladled the soup in and she quickly buttered the rolls he’d left out on the
breadboard. ‘He was asking after you and whether you were using the bag.’

‘Oh yeah?’ She thought about the bag, untouched in her bedroom, hidden away at the back of the wardrobe.

‘Said they’re having a good time. They went sailing on the Bridgestocks’ boat today.’

Clem gave a small snort. ‘Another ambition fulfilled then.’ She caught sight of Tom’s enquiring glance. ‘Oh come on! Mum’s been angling for that invitation for
years. It’s the only reason she hosts that ghastly charity fair at the house each Easter. Octavia Bridgestock is one of the chairs of the committee.’

‘Oh.’ Tom frowned, unhappy and bewildered to hear Clem talk about their mother in that way. Clem knew that he saw her as an effortlessly gracious and elegant being – little did
he know how much discreet posturing and positioning went on below-radar to maintain that illusion.

They carried their supper over to the table and sat down, Clem taking chunks off her roll and dipping it in her soup.

‘So, d’you fancy a film tonight?’ Tom asked as they ate noisily together.

‘I so do.’ She groaned at the welcome prospect of a night stretched out on the sofa. ‘But I need a bath first. I haven’t changed since my run this morning.’

‘Grim,’ Tom said, pulling a face at her. ‘It really is a constant source of wonder to me that anyone finds you attractive.’ He was teasing her again, which was a good
sign.

Clem giggled and swatted his arm with the tube of kitchen roll there for mopping their chins. ‘By the way, I’ve hired a cleaner,’ she said. That wasn’t strictly true. She
hadn’t rung her yet, but she wanted to keep the good news coming and undo some of Clover’s earlier manipulations.

‘Really?’ If she’d told him she’d entered herself for a bodybuilding competition, he couldn’t have looked more surprised.

‘Yeah. Her name’s Mercy something and she’s forty quid for the morning.’

‘Great. I’m fed up with this place looking such a dump all the time. Mum’s always on my back about it. When’s she starting?’

‘Uh . . . Tuesday. Nine a.m.’

‘How did you find her?’

‘Ad in Ajeep’s,’ she replied, lifting the bowl and draining the last drops of soup like a toddler.

‘And you’ve checked her references and everything?’ Tom asked, watching her with a look akin to disbelief.

‘Course,’ Clem lied.

Tom pulled an expression that showed he was impressed. Clem grinned and stood up, feeling the momentum going with her. Clover who? ‘And for my next trick, I’m going to clear the
dishes.’ She carried the bowls and plates across the room, tongue sticking out between her teeth in concentration, as if she was spinning them on poles.

‘Little sis,’ he chuckled at the vision of clumsy domesticity. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but there may be hope for you yet.’

It was early when Clem knocked on the shabby front door the next morning – earlier than she usually saw anyway. A night spent on the sofa with nothing more indulgent than
Tom squeezing her feet as they watched
Goodfellas
(his favourite film) meant she had slept soundly and woken up easily. Her grand plan had taken root in the night and, unencumbered by her
usual hangover, her mind had started firing off ideas left, right and centre, leaving her utterly incapable of lying around in bed.

Clem knocked on the door again, wondering what on earth the occupant could be doing other than sleeping at 8.23 a.m. on a Sunday morning, unable to resist fiddling with the flaky maroon paint
that was peeling away. She pulled one bit, which was sticking out like a hangnail, and it ripped slowly up the grain of the door, exposing the bare wood beneath like a vivid scar.

She gasped, appalled by her thoughtless act of . . . well, hooliganism. The two-foot-long timber strip hung limply from her hands just as a groan rumbled from somewhere deep inside the flat.

The rattle of a chain on the other side of the door made her throw the offending paint strip down the stairwell, so that she was standing to attention with her hands behind her back when the
denuded door opened and Simon’s pale, bleary face appeared around it.

‘What is it?’ he muttered grouchily, before focusing and seeing Clem standing before him like one of his visions. ‘Shit, Clem! What are you doing here?’ His hands were off
the door and crossed in front of his genitals in an instant, before he realized he was wearing a pair of cream boxers with brown stripes on and that a modicum of modesty, if not of style, was
preserved.