Christmas at Claridge's (11 page)

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, smiling serenely and really getting off on her new-found sobriety. It felt great to see someone else looking shocking for once.

He gaped at her in amazement and Clem had a feeling that of the many times he had rehearsed this moment – finding her on his doorstep – in his head, it had never gone quite like
this. ‘What,
now?’

‘It can’t wait. And I can’t discuss it in the office anyway.’

Simon blinked at her. ‘Why not?’

Clem leaned in and waited for him to lean in to her, too. Which, after a hesitation, he did. ‘It’s a secret,’ she whispered. ‘Let me in.’

Simon looked behind him, back into the flat. ‘It’s uh . . . not really a good time,’ he protested weakly.

‘Oh, Si, don’t be such a chump,’ Clem sighed, losing patience and pushing past him anyway. ‘As if
I
care about how messy your flat is.’

It was just as well she didn’t. Last night’s pizza boxes, a case of beers and a bong still sat on the sitting-room table; the huge plasma TV was flickering snow and the Xbox was
humming loudly with thick black wires hanging out of it.

‘Shall I play Mother while you get dressed?’ Clem asked brightly – it was more of an order than a question – locating a kettle in the far corner and opening a window.

‘Uh, uh . . .’ Words defeated him and Simon ducked into the bedroom, falling over furniture from the sounds of things, as he tried to catch up with the dream sequence that was
happening in the next room.

He emerged a few minutes later in his jeans and a red-checked shirt, looking quite the lumberjack with his ginger stubble and wild hair. He ran a hand through it casually, and Clem had to stifle
a giggle as he found it standing on end and quickly licked his palm to pat it down again.

‘So.’ She smiled, letting him clear a space for her on the armchair – actually it was a gaming chair, ergonomic and rocking, and so low she may as well have lain on the floor.
She could see straight under the sofa opposite. ‘Good night last night?’

‘Uh yeah, yeah. Quiet, nothing special.’

‘Did you watch the game?’ The words tripped off her tongue easily, although she had no idea whether there’d even been a match last night, much less his team’s.

‘No, I . . . No.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘Good, are you?’ Clem nodded towards the Xbox.

‘I can hold my own,’ Simon replied, sitting down facing her, his bare feet inches from her. Clem tried not to look. His toenails looked pre-fungal and there was an alarming sprout of
hair from his big toe. ‘Actually, I’m in an international tournament if you really want to know. It’s pretty major league.’

‘Are you playing for money?’

‘I wish! No, prestige. It’s a pretty tight community, even though it’s international.’

‘Have you never met these people then?’

‘Not face to face,’ he said, with a tone that suggested personal contact was highly over-rated. ‘But in some ways these guys know me better than my mates. We know all each
other’s strengths and weaknesses.’

Clem nodded. ‘Cool,’ she murmured, with her distinct way of saying the word that made it sound like she was conferring the honour rather than acknowledging the fact. She sat back in
the chair, letting it rock slightly. ‘I like it here,’ she nodded, looking up at a framed poster of a Banksy mural. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place. Been here
long?’

‘Six years.’

‘I didn’t realize you were so nearby. I walked here in ten minutes.’

‘Yeah?’ Simon asked brightly, clearly hoping this might become a familiar and well-trodden path. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘I’ve been stalking you for months, Si,’ she deadpanned.

‘Yeah?’
he asked, even more brightly, before realizing her joke. ‘Oh. Tom.’

There it was – her cue. ‘No, and actually it’s massively important that he doesn’t know I was here,’ she said, crossing her ankle over her knee.

‘Why not?’ Simon asked, his eyes helplessly following her movements.

‘Well, he thinks he might have to sell the flat to find the money to keep the company going, which obviously is a disaster. He loves living in Portobello.’ She leaned forwards and
put her hand on his knee. ‘We have to stop him, Si.’

‘We? How? It’s his company. You know he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it going.’

‘Well, I’ve had an idea. Me and Stella hit pay dirt yesterday. Everything I put on at her stall, she sold.’

‘That’s hardly a surprise. I’ve been telling Tom for ages that you could be an ambassador for the brand. You’re the girl everyone wants to be – or be
with.’

‘So then you agree that it’d be logical for me to set up a lifestyle collection for Alderton Hide?’

‘Well now, hang on a second, I didn’t quite—’

‘I know retail’s not something he’s been prepared to look at before,’ Clem interrupted, too distracted by her own sales pitch. ‘But you know what? Times change, and
we need to adapt to survive. It’s all very well being a niche, high-end bespoke business, but hello? The economy’s in the shit and what we really need right now is a fast cash
injection. I’m convinced a capsule collection’s the way to get it.’

Simon sighed. ‘Even if Tom gave it the OK – and I can tell you now, he won’t – but even if he did, that kind of branch-off would take investment, and ready money’s
precisely what we don’t have at the moment.’

‘But that’s the beauty of it, Si. We wouldn’t need to buy in any new materials. It wouldn’t cost anything at all. We’d make the collection using all the spare
off-cuts that normally get thrown. Stella’s doing some drawings for me of hats and gilets, wrist-warmers, snoods and that kind of thing, and none of them requires big cuts.
And
she’ll do all the technical stuff for free.’

Simon looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t understand why you’re here. What do you need me for? You know I don’t have the authority to OK this,’ he asked
warily.

‘I just need you to tell the factory to keep all the off-cuts – they won’t listen to me. They’ll only take your word or Tom’s, and he mustn’t find out. Not
yet.’

Simon blew out through his cheeks unhappily. ‘There is no way you can keep this a secret from him. It’s
his
company, Clem,’ he said. ‘And my job will be on the line if
Tom found out I’d helped you.’

‘But your job’s already on the line. All our jobs are! We’re going to sink if we don’t do this. What have we got to lose?’

‘I know where you’re coming from with this, Clem, really I do. You don’t want him to sell the flat, but it really is the best solution to the problem.’

‘I disagree.’

‘Why? Because it means you have to find a new place to live? Because it means he’ll finally move in with Clover?’

‘No! Because it’s the wrong thing for
him.’

‘You know he can’t keep looking after you for ever, Clem. At some point you’re going to have to let him go.’

‘This is not about me,’ she insisted. ‘I’m thinking as much about the future of Alderton Hide as I am the present. He’s been too narrow-minded, refusing to branch
into retail. I’ve always said it, you know I have.’

‘I do. But I don’t think you realize exactly what it would entail.’

Clem straightened up. ‘Like what?’

‘Well, even if we do as you suggest and stockpile the materials and Stella does the designing and patterns, there’s still the matter of promotion and marketing, not to mention sales
presence. I mean, how are people going to know about it without Tom knowing? And where are you intending to sell this stuff?’ He held up a hand, his eyes closed piously. ‘And please
don’t say on Stella’s stall. I know you’re not
that
reckless.’

She sighed irritably. ‘You’ve heard of the “flash fashion” hashtag, yeah?’

‘On Twitter? Yes. So?’

‘I’m going to set up a pop-up shop for one day only. Just make it a real party, a guerrilla brand attack – we’re there one day, gone the next – and we’ll make
a small fortune in the meantime. Honestly, we would. Stella quadrupled her take-home yesterday and Tom wouldn’t need to find out until afterwards, when we hand him the great big fat
cheque.’ Clem looked across at him hopefully, squeezing her hands together in excitement.

But Simon wouldn’t play ball. ‘It wouldn’t be enough, Clem. The Bugatti account was megabucks.’

‘The projected
profit
from it was, yes. But in terms of liquidity, you said yourself yesterday that we only need £100k to keep the wheels turning for another four months,
which is plenty of time for us to land another commission.’

Simon sighed. ‘Look, Clem, I want to make this work as much as you do. Believe me. I love what Tom’s created with Alderton Hide and I really believe in his vision, but this just
isn’t going to work. There’s simply no way you’ll get this past Tom. There’d be talk, rumours. There’s no way you could keep it quiet. He’s like hawk-eye. He
knows every last thing that goes on in that company.’

Clem felt the frustration burst out into sudden anger. ‘Does he, though?’ she asked archly, throwing herself back in the chair so that it rocked, her eyes glittering dangerously.

Simon took a step back, aware of the change of energy in the room. ‘What do you mean?’

Clem reached down and picked up the fuchsia-coloured patent Marc Jacobs ballerina shoe with ‘mouse ear’ bow that was peeping out from under the sofa. His expression curdled at the
sight of it.

‘You know what a stickler Tom is for keeping all relationships strictly professional in the office,’ she said mildly, admiring the tiny size-4 shoe in her hand, knowing full well Tom
had been directing the ‘professional conduct’ rule at her and her alone. He knew his sister well enough to know she’d eat Simon for breakfast and he couldn’t risk losing his
Second in Command.

‘I . . . That’s not what you think.’

‘Oh. Is it not a shoe then?’ she asked. ‘Morning, Pixie!’ she called through to the bedroom.

‘Jesus! I . . . shit!’ Simon muttered, raking his hands through his hair and making it stand up on end again.

‘Chill, Si,’ Clem said loquaciously, throwing the shoe down and picking up her bag. ‘It’s no biggy;
I
don’t care. I’m not here to hurt anyone. On the
contrary, I’m just trying to help. But the way I see it is this, if you can find a way of keeping my secret, I can find a way of keeping yours. Yeah?’

Simon looked at the floor, angry but boxed in, as Pixie stumbled to the bedroom door wrapped in a Spiderman duvet. ‘Clem!’ she cried excitedly, greeting her like a best friend.
‘What are
you
doing here? Can you stay for breakfast?’

Clem flashed her a dazzling smile. ‘Sadly no. I’m meeting someone. I was passing and just popped in to say hello.’ She crossed the room and opened the door, smiling back at the
happy couple. ‘See you in the morning, though, yeah?’

‘Look forward to it!’ Pixie trilled like a demented canary. ‘Can’t wait.’

‘All right then,’ Clem chuckled, shaking her head as she pulled the door to, behind her. She gave a silent punch in the air that the first obstacle had been tackled, before texting
Stella to wake her up. It was time to get down to business.

Clem blinked her eyes open and stared at the small bare patch of floor that wasn’t strewn with clothes. Something had pulled her from an especially nice dream about
Bradley Cooper, but she didn’t know what.

The knock at the door came again and she pushed herself up onto her elbows, peering blearily at the clock on her phone. Eight thirty-six.

She frowned. The postman?

Pulling on her fleecy onesie, she got up and answered the door. ‘Yeah?’

‘Hey!’ A woman – all of 5 foot 4 inches and with as much going on behind her as in front – stepped forward, black eyes shining. ‘I’m Mercy.’ She spoke
in a dramatically lilting Jamaican accent that would be just about decipherable so long as she didn’t get excited or break rhythm.

Dammit. The cleaner. She’d forgotten all about the text she’d hurriedly sent her on Saturday night.

‘Hi! Hi! I’m Clem, hi,’ Clem replied, straightening up and trying to look impressively awake. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

Mercy quite literally shuffled in – she was wearing white towelling hotel-style slippers over black socks. Mercy caught her staring and said, ‘My cleaning shoes. Some customers, they
get funny ’bout the floors.’

‘Oh sure, I can imagine.’ Clem put a sincere hand to her chest.
‘We’re
not like that. We’re very relaxed.’

‘I can see that,’ Mercy replied, taking in the messy flat.

Clem looked around, taking in the disaster zone that passed as her home with fresh eyes. ‘Well, I never get it when people tidy up before their cleaner gets there. I mean, what’s
that about?’ she chirruped, walking over to the kitchen, taking the hairband that was perpetually around her wrist and tying her hair up in a messy topknot. ‘My mother’s guilty of
it. She actually scrubs the bathrooms before the housekeeper arrives. Coffee?’

‘Sure.’ Mercy walked slowly around the flat, her eyes scrunched up in scrutiny, as if she was assessing it for damp or settlement cracks, rather than cobwebs and grime. She peeked her
head into Tom’s bedroom, retracting it instantly as though a sulphur bomb had gone off in it – his socks – and slapped a hand across her gargantuan bosom, which wobbled like jelly in
reply. ‘There’s a bird in there.’

Clem looked back. ‘Oh, that’s Shambles, our parrot, she’s very tame and sweet. She’s great company. She talks to you, but try not to swear. She picks up on everything and
really drops me in it with my mother. D’you like birds?’ Clem said, calling slightly as she filled the kettle.

Mercy shook her head.

‘Oh.’ Bother. ‘Well we can make sure she’s locked in the cage when you come over.’

‘That would be . . . preferable.’

Clem held up the Nespresso tray of multi-coloured foil capsules. ‘Which coffee d’you like?’

Mercy hitched up an eyebrow, sucking on her lower lip and waving an index finger around in circles as she decided which colour – rather than blend – she liked best.
‘Purple.’