Christmas at Claridge's (17 page)

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed, sitting up so suddenly that the wine in her glass sloshed alarmingly high, threatening to splash the pink suede, and bringing Mercy, who’d started
cleaning in the bathroom, running back through, Marigolds now added to her ‘look’.

‘What’s the matter?’ she cried.

‘I’ve got it,’ Clem whispered.

‘What?’ Mercy and Stella asked in unison.

Clem dashed into the bedroom and came out several moments later holding the bright orange dust bag. ‘This!’ She smiled, pulling out the Hermès bag. ‘This is our golden
ticket.’

Stella paled. ‘Your mum’s Birkin? What are you gonna do with that?’

‘Auction it.’

‘No way!’ Stella screeched, almost dropping the glass on the precious hide herself.

‘Yes, way.’

‘But it’s priceless. You told me yourself it’s one of those rare, money-can’t-buy ones.’

‘A shooting star, exactly – which’ll be why it goes for such a premium. These babies sell for five grand,
entry level.
But this one’s got provenance, a contrast
lining that’s, like, super rare,
and
it’s croc. I’ll ask for fifty as a reserve bid.’

‘Fifty thousand?’ Stella spluttered. ‘You’re mad. No one would spend that. No one
could
spend that, apart from Victoria Beckham or the Ecclestone
sisters.’

‘Oh yes they could. It’s just a matter of getting the word out. There are international collectors who’d come from all over for this – do you have any idea of what the
Asian or Middle Eastern markets would pay to get hold of this? There are plenty of people on the Alderton Hide client list alone who’d qualify.’

Stella put her glass on the ground and clasped her friend by the shoulders. ‘Clem, listen to me. I’m deadly serious about this: She – will – kill – you,’
Stella said slowly, no mirth in her expression.

Clem’s eyes met hers. She knew Stella was right. Her mother would never forgive her for doing this. It was the most precious item her mother could have given her, everyone knew that, but
they didn’t know it was tainted as if it had been revealed as a fake, that it had been given as a bribe. Consequently, she couldn’t look at it and hadn’t even opened it;
she’d just hidden it at the back of her wardrobe, trying to push it – and everything it now represented – out of her mind.

Clem shrugged. ‘She’ll thank me one day. It’s the only way to bring in enough money to save her darling boy’s company.’

‘Clem—’

Stella was silenced by a muted slam, followed by a tinkle of laughter floating up the stairs – all three women stared at the door in horror.

‘Oh, you have got to be kidding!
Today?’
Clem hissed as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. She looked down at the heap of hides on the floor. There was no way she could
explain why they were there. ‘Quick, we’ve got to hide these. Help me get them into my room.’

All three women lifted a corner each of the 9-foot hides, managing only five at a time.

‘Damn, they’re so heavy,’ Stella panted as they dragged the first batch through to the bedroom and threw them over the far side of the bed. They ran back into the room and
picked up another batch, but the sound of keys in the door made them freeze in the middle of the room.

‘Mercy, quick!’ Clem whispered. ‘Put the chain on and lean against the door. Don’t let them in.’

Mercy gathered her bosom in her arm and ran across the room, just as the door started to open. For a fraction of a second, Clem’s eyes met Clover’s as she and Stella shuffled with
the second batch of hides across the floor, but Mercy got her shoulder to it and, putting her considerable weight behind it, slammed the door shut again.

‘Hey! What’s going on?’ Tom shouted, using his fist on the door. ‘Clem, open up!’

‘Oh, sweet Jesus! This would happen . . .’ Clem giggled as they dumped the hides in her room. There was one batch left to move. ‘Just . . . just a minute,’ Clem shouted
back. ‘Just wait a sec.’

‘What’s happening, Clem? Who’s in there?’ Tom demanded, pounding the door so hard that Mercy, leaning with her back against the door, bounced to the movement. She crossed
her arms and rolled her eyes as Stella and Clem formed a pincer movement towards her bedroom for the third time.

‘It’s not like this in my other job,’ Mercy muttered.

‘There,’ Clem said, throwing her duvet over the hides and emptying the contents of her wardrobe onto the bed and floor to complete the look – instantly undoing all
Mercy’s hard work. ‘OK, Mercy, let them in,’ she whispered.

Mercy undid the chain and opened the door, Tom almost falling in as he prepared to rain down another set of blows. ‘What the . . .?’ he exploded, before falling mute in the doorway
at the sight of Clem and Stella lying on the sofas, drinking wine, Mercy dusting – all three of them in their underwear.

‘What?’ Clem blinked calmly.

‘W–w–why did you chain the door?’ he stammered, taking in the large amount of cleavage in the room.

‘Mercy was just cleaning behind it.’

‘I thought . . . I thought you were being attacked or something,’ Tom roared.

‘God, Tom, you’re so melodramatic. Take a chill pill! Come and have a glass.’

But Tom was too flabbergasted. He looked at Mercy, unsure of where to start.

‘Oh, have you met Mercy yet?’ Clem asked, seeing his confusion. ‘She’s our new cleaner. Been with us for almost a couple of months now.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Mercy said, nodding gravely in her enormous hot pink bra.

‘Does she . . . always do the cleaning half-dressed?’ Tom asked, his voice weak and looking bewildered.

Mercy and Clem looked at each other. ‘Not always.’ They shrugged. ‘But you’ve obviously set the heating to tropical temperatures for Shambles . . .’

‘What? And you hadn’t thought to turn it down?’

‘If only I knew how.’ Clem sighed, prompting a muffled squeak of indignation from Clover. ‘Anyway the flat looks good, doesn’t it?’ Clem said, prompting Tom to tear
his eyes away from the décolleté on show and notice the sparkling surfaces and dust-free floor.

‘Oh . . . yeah . . .’ he said, brightening up, before spotting the carnage in his sister’s bedroom. ‘Well, apart from your room. Another wardrobe crisis, was
it?’

‘Obvs!’ Clem gave a throaty chuckle as she shared a look with Stella.

Clover, who was looking furious at the clique of loquacious, undressed women – stepped forward. ‘You were carrying something,’ she said to Clem.

‘Me?’ Clem repeated, eyes wide.

‘Yes. When the door opened, I saw you . . .’

Clem shook her head. ‘Not me. I’ve been charged with emptying this bottle of wine and keeping the sofa warm, and I’m taking my responsibilities
very
seriously.’

Clover’s mouth tightened. They both knew perfectly well that Clem was lying, but she didn’t say anything further. She couldn’t. It was Clem’s word against hers.

‘Are you staying for supper? We thought we’d get a takeout.’ Clem smiled at Tom.

Tom snapped his attention back to her. ‘No, I . . . I’ve just come back to look for my Hermès tie. That meeting’s at eleven tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten, have
you?’

‘Tch, hardly! What d’you think the mess in there’s all about?’ she said as he wandered into his room and began rummaging through the wardrobe.

Stella winked at Clem as their eyes met again. Clem refilled Stella’s and Mercy’s glasses, but pointedly didn’t offer one to Clover, who was still awkwardly standing around
them.

‘Dammit, where is it?’ Tom groaned, coming back out, his hands gripping his hair. ‘It’s not there. I keep bloody losing everything at the moment.’

‘Well, if you are going to insist on living between two homes,’ Clem said lightly. ‘And before you ask, no, I haven’t worn it.’

‘Why don’t you wear the one I bought you for Maisie and Finn’s wedding? You know, the striped Ralph Lauren one?’ Clover suggested.

‘Because that’s too . . . clubby,’ Tom rebuffed. ‘It’s a morning suit tie; it’s not for a lounge suit. Besides, the Hermès one was Dad’s. I
always wear it to important meetings. It brings me luck.’

‘It really doesn’t.’ Clem sighed.

Clover, who was pinker and more animated than Clem had ever seen her, pinned her overly bright eyes on Clem, and Clem had a feeling that her agitation was less to do with Clem’s flippancy
than Tom’s flat rejection of her suggestion. ‘By the way Clem, did Tom mention that the estate agents are hosting an open day here next Saturday?’

Clem’s eyes remained fixed upon Clover’s, though she could see Tom stiffen in her peripheral vision. She tilted her head interestedly. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. There’s been so much interest in the flat, they felt that was the best way to go. So you might want to get your cleaner to work her . . .’ Clover’s eyes strayed to
the carnage in Clem’s bedroom ‘. . . magic here on Friday.’

Clem saw Mercy straighten up menacingly, but Clem just smiled. ‘Sure. If that works for you, Mercy?’

Mercy, surprised but taking her cue from Clem’s languid demeanour, shrugged. ‘No problem.’ She nodded.

‘All settled, then’ Clem smiled, trying her best to simper. She knew exactly what Clover was trying to do. The news that the flat was being marketed at all had been intended as a
body blow, never mind that there was significant interest. Bless Stella for giving her the heads-up first. To be forewarned really was to be forearmed. It gave her an idea. ‘But you guys will
have to do the tours. I’m busy,’ she added, as if as an afterthought, sipping her wine.

‘Sure,’ Tom said eagerly, visibly relieved that she’d taken the news so well. ‘What’ve you got on?’

‘Oh, you know, girl stuff,’ Clem replied, winking across at Stella. They had a collection, a cash cow and now a date where Tom was guaranteed to be out of the way. It was almost too
perfect. On the very day Clover expected to sell the flat, Clem would instead gazump her with a cash injection that would bring all her plans crashing around her feet. Everything she tried to do,
Clem would cancel out – they wouldn’t need to sell the flat, Tom wouldn’t need to move out, the business would be saved and everything would go back to how it had been. She sighed,
stretching out longer on the sofa and shooting Clover a winning smile, that of the victor. For the first time in a long time, things were beginning to come together.

The taxi pulled up outside Claridge’s, and Clem hopped out with the daintiness of a ballerina on pointe, even though she was in 5-inch heeled suede ankle boots. She
smoothed the wrinkles out of her leather trousers and fluffed her hair in the window’s reflection, pleased with the new Pucci jacket she’d bought off eBay: it was buttonless, with
clashing ikat and zebra prints, and needed no further accessories than a plain white linen tee and mirrored aviators.

Tom pulled the enormous leather-bound swatch books out of the back of the cab and rested them on the pavement to fiddle with his non-Hermès tie. In spite of yesterday’s swagger
about being Mr Charisma, he looked flustered and harried. Clem thought he looked nearer forty than thirty today.

‘You all right?’ she asked, sweeping the shoulders of his jacket, mainly to soothe rather than remove lint or dandruff.

‘‘Course,’ he replied gruffly, but as his brown eyes met hers momentarily, she saw everything in them that he didn’t want to show. She knew him far too well for
secrets.

‘Oh, Tom,’ she said quietly, squeezing his biceps. ‘This is going to be great. They’ll love you. Everybody does. They’ll take one look at your portfolio and be
begging to secure your services. Remember,
they
don’t know we’re on the ropes. Just play it cool, OK?’

‘Cool,’ he echoed, his eyes ever so slightly watery before he swallowed hard and blinked them dry. Then he jutted his chin in the air and picked up the portfolios.

The doorman held the glass door open for them, tipping his hat as they passed, and they walked through into the glossy black-and-white floored lobby.

‘Reservation in the name of Alderton, eleven o’clock.’

The receptionist smiled. ‘Your guests haven’t arrived yet, sir. Can I take your bags for you?’

‘No thanks,’ Tom replied, gripping the cases more tightly. ‘We’ll go straight through.’

‘Of course. Follow me, please.’

They walked through to a lounge which, even at mid-morning, had a darkly sensuous, opulent feel about it. Clem was aware of eyes swivelling in their direction as they passed. They made a
dazzling couple, and she knew that if her T-shirt was printed with the words, ‘Duh! He’s my brother!’ there’d be an audible sigh of relief throughout the room: women were as
attracted to Tom’s boyish good looks and demeanour as men were to Clem’s spirited defiance.

The receptionist seated them in a pocketed-leather alcove at the far end of the room. ‘Can I get you any drinks?’ she asked.

‘Just some water for now. A bottle of each please,’ Tom said authoritatively, before she could ask ‘still or sparkling’. ‘Clem, sit opposite me here,’ he
said, just as bossily to her, ordering her to sit with her back to the room. ‘That way I can see when they walk in.’

Clem slid reluctantly into the pillar-box-red leather club chair. ‘They’re wearing well,’ she murmured.

‘As they should do. Aniline lambskin,’ Tom replied, stroking the arms with a critical eye. It was no coincidence that they’d arranged to hold the meeting here: refurb’ing
this bar had been one of Alderton Hide’s first big commissions. ‘It took sixteen treatments to get the colour right. Christ, I thought Simon was going to resign on me.’

Clem looked down at the mention of Simon’s name – he’d managed to get through the entire day yesterday without once looking at, or talking to her, and she knew it
wouldn’t be long before Tom noticed and started asking questions.

Tom shifted position and cleared his throat, switching his phone to silent, and then shifted position again, his eyes flitting constantly towards the door. He was utterly oblivious to the women
staring at him around the room.

‘Feeling OK?’ she murmured, her crossed leg swinging slightly.

He nodded abruptly, jerking his chin in the air again, and she felt her heart lurch at the sight of his barely concealed vulnerability. They had to land this commission; she didn’t know
how he’d take it if they didn’t. He seemed dangerously on edge. She had to be at her best in this, for his sake.