Christmas at Claridge's (21 page)

‘Yes, yes, you’re right, OK,’ Clem nodded, adding her own box to the tower and following Stella back up the stairs.

Mercy was hoovering in her bra again – Mrs Crouch had become as accustomed to that as she was to seeing Clem in the buff – whilst spraying some of Tom’s deodorant around her
head. ‘Best I could manage to get rid of the curry smells.’ She shrugged.

Clem quickly opened all the windows and turned the oven onto preheat, throwing a par-baked baguette in for good measure, before trotting back downstairs with the other boxes.

‘Oh God, Stella, how are we going to get rid of the hanging rails?’ Clem asked as they cleared the floorspace of boxes. ‘That’s not a quick job.’

‘It is for me.’ Stella winked. ‘I’ll dismantle them if you put the clothes in that big box there. We’ll have to steam everything later if needs be.’

‘Right,’ Clem nodded, grabbing great armfuls of jumpsuits and coats, jackets and trousers, and stuffing them into a box in the corner. ‘Where’s the masking tape?’
she demanded, panicking, as Mercy crawled around her feet, picking up the irregular snippets of coloured hides.

‘Mind my fingers!’ Mercy muttered, slapping Clem on the ankles.

A slam downstairs made them all freeze on the spot and the sound of Tom swearing as he walked into one of the boxes drifted under the door. He was early. They were out of time. They were about
to be caught red-handed! Clem hurriedly folded down the flaps of the box and hoisted it up in her arms protectively.

‘Hi,’ Tom said tersely ten seconds later, Clover hanging behind him like a shadow, her hand tightly gripping his.

Stella, who had dismantled the hanging rail but was still holding it, leaned against it casually, pulling her parka closed so that he wouldn’t notice she’d slept in his clothes.
‘Hey, Tom! How’s it going?’ she asked, as though it was such a surprise to see him there.

Tom didn’t reply. He was transfixed by the sight of Mercy vigorously polishing a side table in just her leopard-print bra. Again. ‘Does she ever get dressed?’

Stella shrugged.

Clem swallowed hard as she waited for Tom’s eyes to find her. She was all but hidden behind the enormous box in her arms and she felt as though her heart was going to leap out of her
chest. She was standing in front of him, carrying a box filled with clothes, made from the leather that should have lined the walls of an upscale jeweller off Bond Street. There was no getting out
of this. If he lifted the flap of the box, she was done for.

His eyes, when they met hers, were cold and unresponsive, and she flinched to see his anger still so ready. The contract remained unsigned.

‘You said you were going to get this place sorted for today,’ he snapped. ‘It stinks of curry and . . . cheap aftershave.’

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Had a party?’ he finished for her, walking further into the flat, his nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.’

Clover drifted in serenely, practically floating an inch off the floor. Her day had come. It was a wonder she wasn’t wearing a tiara. Without a word, she walked into Tom’s room and
retrieved the smelly scented sticks, arranging them artfully on the sitting room table before plumping up the cushions on the sofa and refolding the blanket draped across the back. Before
everyone’s eyes, the flat began to morph from workshop to home again.

‘What’s that smell?’ Tom asked, wrinkling his nose as the distinct aroma of something burning wafted through from the kitchen.

‘Oh shit!’ Clem cried, dropping the box and running to the oven. She pulled out the baguette, now so carbonized it could hatch a diamond, and pulled a face. ‘Dammit. I was
trying to make the flat smell of freshly baked bread.’

Tom rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘Quite frankly, the most useful thing you could do would be to get the hell out of here and let us deal with everything. I should have known it would
be beyond you to get this sorted. People will start arriving in twenty minutes,’ Tom said coldly.

‘I did tell you she’d try to jeopardize it for you,’ Clover said quietly, taking the duster and can of Pledge from Mercy’s hands and throwing her deep cleavage a look of
distaste. ‘Thank God we got here early.’ She began polishing the windowsill.

‘That is not what I was trying to do. I was trying to help!’ Clem snapped, the blackened, smouldering bread still in her hand.

‘Well, Tom’s just told you how you can be most helpful.’ Clover smiled, nodding over her shoulder towards the door.

Clem considered throwing the baguette at her; it was so hard it might cause concussion, fingers crossed.

‘Come on, Clem,’ Stella said quickly, reading her thoughts and gathering the dismantled hanging rails, quickly binding them together with the masking tape so that she could carry
them in one load. ‘We need to get on anyway.’ Pinning Clem with a stern look, she gestured with her eyes to the discarded box which was still untaped and had one of the flaps hanging
open where Clem had dropped it, a pink suede sleeve clearly visible through the gap.

‘Yeah . . . you’re right. We’re just getting under your feet here,’ Clem acquiesced too readily, causing Clover to narrow her eyes suspiciously. Clem picked up the box
and hurriedly closed it. ‘See you later then,’ Clem mumbled, moving towards the door.

‘And thanks for tidying your room. Appreciate it,’ Tom said sarcastically, seeing her bed unmade, the curtains still drawn, clothes heaped like bonfire piles.

‘Oh! God, I almost forgot,’ she said, doubling back on herself and squeezing past Tom to grab the Birkin, which was still sitting quietly in its bright orange Hermès dust
bag.

‘Why are you taking that?’ Tom queried as she laid it across the box. He took an interested step towards her, reaching for the bag.

Clem jumped away in alarm. If he so chose, he’d be able to see straight into the box. ‘Why wouldn’t I take it, Tom? It is my fucking bag! It’s supposed to be used.’
Attack seemed to be the best form of defence, and it worked – Tom flinched at her words and hung back – but Clover, who’d been leaning against the windowsill, watching them,
straightened up suddenly. ‘What’s in that box?’ she asked, as though detecting a plot amidst the burnt offerings and synthetic pheromones. ‘And why’ve you got those
rails, Stella?’

Clem and Stella looked at each other in panic. For once, both women were out of ideas and words.

‘She was showing Clem the new collection. Is that OK, your highness?’ Mercy interjected, coming to their rescue.

‘Your high—?’ Clover gasped. ‘Tom! Are you going to let her talk to me like that?’

‘I am not,’ Tom replied with impressive indignation. ‘Apologize this instant.’

‘No.’ Mercy folded her arms – just – over her chest and waited.

Tom looked unsure of what to do next. Usually someone of her girth would get rugby tackled, but being a woman . . .

‘Well, it doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ Clover said after a minute, as Tom stammered himself into silence. ‘Good manners are the last thing I’d expect from a
woman who can’t even be bothered to be
clothed.
The mind boggles at what her previous job entailed if she strips off this easily.’

‘You just be jealous,’ Mercy retorted, but her cheeks had reddened and her bosom was trembling impressively with suppressed rage.

‘Hardly,’ Clover quipped witheringly.

An explosive silence boomed through the room, emotions crashing against the walls and rebounding in again. Everyone was red-cheeked and edgy, anger and irritation beginning to bubble in a
caustic mix.

Clem saw a new expression bloom on Clover’s face suddenly as she stared down at Mercy. ‘You know, Tom,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that
things have only started going missing since she started working here? I mean, you never did find that Hermès tie or those bone cufflinks, did you?’

Clem’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Now hang on a minute!’ she roared. ‘You can’t go round making accusations like that! Tom’s always bloody losing
things.’

But Tom blinked, looking across at Mercy, and Clem could see the seed had been planted.

‘You checked her references, didn’t you? You told me you did.’

Clem swallowed. She had meant to, but time had just slipped past and . . . She could see Mercy staring at them all in horror.

‘You
didn’t
?’ he asked; he knew her far too well. ‘Jesus, Clem! She could be anyone!’

‘But she isn’t! I know Mercy, she’s a mate now. There’s no way she would ever steal from us. Never.’

‘You can’t be sure of that!’ Tom shouted. ‘You’ve opened up our home to a stranger off the street.’

‘Well, there’s one way to solve this. I’m sure Mercy won’t mind showing us the contents of her bag,’ Clover said snidely grabbing for the bag in Mercy’s
hands.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Clem screamed, dropping the box on the sofa and lunging for the bag herself.

‘If she’s got nothing to hide—’ Clover sneered.

‘There’s a tie knotted round the headboard in your room – I left it there as I assumed it was some kinky game you played and I didn’t want to
embarrass
you by
removing it. I don’t know if that’s the one you talking ‘bout.’ Mercy’s voice was quiet and dignified, causing Clem and Clover to fall still. ‘As for them
cufflinks, there’s a pair at the bottom of the birdcage, but I’m not opening it to get them out. No, I’m not. I don’t do birds. I said that from the off.’ She folded
her hands across her chest.

Tom’s mouth fell open and he had the decency to blush. Clem snatched the bag out of Clover’s hands once and for all, glaring at her. ‘Bitch!’ she hissed with deadly
fury.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Stella said authoritatively, grabbing Mercy’s blouse and herding her towards the door. Clem followed after, the cardboard box and Birkin back in
her arms again. She staggered down the stairs, unable to see her feet, and dropped the box on the floor by the street door just as Mercy burst into tears.

‘So damn
pushy
. . .’

‘I know, I know, pushy as fuck, she is,’ Clem said, giving her a hug and feeling just as exhausted as she had the night before. She looked down at the beautiful clothes they’d
made, the stunning collection that was going to save Tom’s dreams in the next few hours. But in the wake of all these accusations and slanders, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was
worth the effort any more.

‘Top right, up a bit,’ Stella ordered as Clem reached higher. ‘Perfect.’

Clem pushed the blu-tack further into the wall and stood back. The huge black and white image of her wearing the Toscana shearling gilet, her belted waist looking tiny as she playfully swung
from the branch of a birch tree, dominated the end wall, the one positioned beneath the roof lantern, which everyone would see as they entered the room. She was pretty pleased with it, with all of
the posters actually. Six other images were pinned around the long room, showing her in the different collection pieces – even the shagreen phone covers looked covetable when held in her
hands, the wind blowing her hair across her cheeks, her eyes making contact with the lens, reportage-style.

They weren’t the best quality obviously. They’d had to squeeze the shoot in with everything else that needed doing – Stella taking the pictures of Clem in Hyde Park quickly
yesterday morning, then taking the file into the one-hour-photo place, which could turn around poster-prints in twenty-four hours – but if the images lacked sharpness, they more than
succeeded in encapsulating a sensual, luxe mood and a vision of a modern, urban woman. The Alderton Hide woman. Even Clem, who was pretty lackadaisical about her reflection, thought they were
cool.

Clem planted her hands on her hips and scanned the room for the next thing to do – the past week had been spent at ‘frantic’ level, but it seemed, incredibly, that they were
good to go. Music was pumping from the speakers and the staff at Electric House were busy whisking up cocktails behind the long bar. The venue was perfect: discreet and in-the-know only. The idea
of using the private members’ club had come to Clem in the middle of the night, after weeks of fretting about occupying empty commercial premises. The last thing she needed was to get
arrested and for Alderton Hide’s name to appear in the press for all the wrong reasons! The fact that she had known the manager since nursery school days meant one phone call had seen her
request bumped to the top of the pile, and the second-floor playroom had been cleared for her for three hours over lunch as a ‘discretionary favour to a local business’.

‘Do you want to do the honours?’ Stella asked, holding out her phone, the cursor on the Twitter page blinking at her.

Clem bit her lip and typed:
‘Playroom @ Electric House, Portobello Road. Now. #Aldertonhideflashsale #shootingstarbirkinauction.’
She pressed ‘send’ and blinked
up at Stella. ‘That easy, huh?’

‘That easy.’ Stella grinned back.

They came in droves. Within twenty-five minutes, the room was packed and the staff were forced to close the doors, citing fire regulations, leaving a growing swell of women
trapped outside.

The music was turned down and Stella took to the mic, standing on a table so that everyone could see her.

‘Hey, ladies!’ she called out with all the confidence of someone who spent her days giving patter on a market stall, and the din of excited chatter mellowed to hear her.
‘Congratulations! You only beat half of London to be here right now!’ A delighted cheer rang out. They were a club within a club. The cachet couldn’t have been greater! ‘Today
quite possibly for the only time
evah
, we are auctioning a unique capsule collection, crafted from the very finest leathers and suedes that Alderton Hide is renowned for. I’m sure
lots of you already have a little Alderton Hide in your life – a wardrobe maybe, or a desk? And even if you don’t, you will already know and love the quality, colours, finishes and
design, or you wouldn’t be here now! But today is all about pieces for
you. A
one-off, one-time only, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t opportunity.’ A collective intake of
breath betrayed the women’s nerves. They weren’t just in shopping mode; they were in sale shopping mode – the most dangerous of all shopping forms – it was just as well
there wasn’t a man in sight. ‘And to show you how the collection should be worn, here is none other than the Alderton Hide brand ambassador herself, Clem Alderton.’ Another wall
of sound rose up, and the talking intensified as some of the women pointed to the images of Clem looking like a Julie Christie redux on the walls. ‘Yep, that’s her! Isn’t she
gorgeous?’