Christmas at Claridge's (22 page)

Clem stood behind the kitchen door and squeezed her eyes shut as she heard the buzz grow with Stella’s commentary. She had changed into the skinny shagreen biker trousers, pairing them
with gunmetal-grey ankle boots and a distressed T-shirt, and she rubbed her hands together nervously. What if everyone hated the clothes? What if she and Stella had got it all wrong, become carried
away because of one lucky day on the stall? What if she got out there and everyone just . . . laughed? Walked away? Didn’t bid?

‘. . . it up for Clem!’ Stella cried.

Clem stepped out, trying to hide her nerves as she took in the sea of intrigued women staring back at her and clapping excitedly Mercy who was manning the iPad, winked at her as Stella held out
her hand and pulled Clem up onto the table, so that everyone could see her.

Clem took a deep breath and did a small twirl, feeling faint with nerves and completely ridiculous as 230 pairs of eyes settled upon her like bees to honey What had they been thinking?
They’d been mad to think this would work.

‘Thanks, babes,’ Stella said, squeezing her shoulder encouragingly as she came to a stop. She, at least, was enjoying herself – her delivery was upbeat and intimate, her energy
infectious. Everyone was straining to get a good look at Clem’s clothes. ‘So, as you can see, girls, these skinny trousers are cut in the shagreen leather, which has a gorgeous
iridescent effect –
so
much cooler than python print. They’ve got front slash pockets to keep a really lean line and we positioned the pockets on the back pointing in
slightly’ – she turned Clem around by the shoulders – ‘’cos it just makes the bum look smaller, you know? Not that Clem has to worry about that, the skinny
bitch!’ Stella grinned, swatting her playfully on the behind. Everyone laughed. ‘They’re fully lined in aqua silk to retain their shape, and the stitch detailing on the knees also
helps with that; they’re dry clean only,
obvs,
and we’ve got six pairs – two in small, two in medium, two in large. They come up small, but buy true to size as
they’re supposed to be tight. And if you like them, there’s also a blazer in the same hide coming up later. So . . . that’s the boring stuff out of the way. Let’s start
shopping! We’ll begin with the small size first, who’ll start me at £225? That’s cost price, girls. Cost.’

A quiver of hands shot into the air and Clem swallowed, wondering whether to do another twirl. Everyone was talking to each other, their eyes on her. She usually didn’t mind attention
– she was pretty used to it – but this was a different league altogether.

Stella rose the bids in £25 increments and Clem dutifully stood in various poses, sometimes standing with her back to the room so they could examine the rear of the trousers. She quite
liked it, even though it meant everyone was scrutinizing her backside, as it gave her a break from all the stares and she could look out the window to the street below. A crowd had begun to gather
and people were standing in the market looking up at her standing clearly in the window. She saw Katy, filming her on her phone, and she waved down to her. The crowd cheered in response as if she
was a rock star. Word was spreading. A taxi couldn’t get through and some cyclists had to dismount to wheel their bikes through the crowd.

The trousers – all six pairs – went for a combined total of £3,140, and Clem climbed off the table to quickly dash back to the ‘changing room’ and put on the belted
blonde gilet with her plum-coloured Mother jeans and a matching thin polo neck

This time, when she stepped out, there was an audible gasp. Appetites had been whetted and everyone’s desire was up. They literally wanted the clothes off Clem’s back. She smiled as
she did her turns again, beginning to pop her hip a bit and enjoy herself. Bidding was getting faster and more intense, the buzz of chitchat fading away as the women became more focused and
competitive. The sale was on!

The five gilets brought in £4,620, the eleven deerstalkers £320 each, the ivory pouch bags practically inciting a riot as they went for £540 each. By the time Clem was zipping
up the rose-pink jumpsuit, the finale piece of the collection, they had raised £16,780. There were five jumpsuits, which would surely go for almost a grand a piece, and there was still the
Birkin to go . . . Tom needed £100,000 to keep the business going for the next four months. The starting bid for the bag was £50,000, but they’d need to get over £75,000 for
it to clear the numbers they needed. She closed her eyes and prayed, psyching herself up for the finale. This had to be big . . .

She stepped round the corner and the crowd screamed – actually screamed – when they caught sight of the lean, rose jumpsuit. Stella and Mercy burst out laughing, giving each other
high-fives and doing small rain dances – or money dances – on the spot.

‘Now, girls,’ Stella crooned once she’d calmed herself down. ‘You might not be able to see from where you’re standing, but there’s a
huge
crowd on
the street outside, trying to get into this sale, and we’re going to need to wind this up soon if we don’t want the police to break us up for causing a public disturbance.’ A
medley of boos peppered the room. ‘I know! Right? We’re only shopping . . .’ Stella laughed. ‘So, you don’t need me to break this down too much for you. It speaks for
itself: rose-pink jumpsuit made from a suede that’s more supple than Madonna – and I reckon the animal it came from had a better skincare regime, too. It’s
so
soft.
We’ve got five of these babies, three small, one medium, one large.’ She put her hands up. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger. That was how the patterns broke down off the hides. So,
cost price is £580, but we’re gonna start at £700, because owning this beauty is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you may well never get the chance to wear Alderton Hide on
your backs again. Who’s in?’

The entire room seemed to move as one. Clem’s eyes rode them like waves, giddy with delight. She had been right. She had been right after all and Tom had been wrong. There was an entire
market out there, untapped. She knew what women wanted, and she’d given it to them in the most difficult of scenarios. If she could create this kind of clamour with a flash sale and off-cuts,
imagine what she could do with a boutique and a budget! When she gave Tom the cheque this afternoon and showed him the film of the sale and the posters that branded the Alderton Hide woman, could
he continue to deny the logic? This was where the company’s future lay – at least in part.

Her mind wandered as the all-but-last bids of the day hailed in, and she wondered how the open day was going. The thought of legions of people trooping through her flat as Clover literally
keened with anticipation made her stomach turn, but it was a necessary evil. It had kept Tom out of the way and facilitated this sale happening.

The final jumpsuit was being bid for now, and Clem tuned back in as shouts accompanied the head nods and hand waves. Everything was reaching fever pitch and numbers ceased to have any monetary
meaning as they climbed higher and higher. This was the only thing left, and the bidding seemed to be between two women. Clem tried to track them with her eyes, but it was hard in such a dense,
agitated crowd with the bids moving so quickly.

‘Sold!’ Stella hollered, pointing at a girl towards the back – the girl held her hand up so that one of the Electric House staff could reach her with a sales ticket.

Clem clapped weakly – she hadn’t even heard the final sales price, but she knew it was staggering – as the Birkin bag was quickly slipped out of its dust bag and passed to Clem
to hold up for everyone to admire.

Stella indicated for calm with her hands. The room fell into an awed silence and suddenly they could hear a commotion outside. Clem wondered whether the police had indeed arrived, or whether
that had just been a sales ploy by Stella to unleash riotous spending.

‘And now, the final moment of today’s event: you can see as clearly as I can that this isn’t an Alderton Hide product. But it is the
very item
that inspired Tom
Alderton to found his company in the first place. It comes from another prestigious house that shares the same values of quality and integrity, and which inspired Alderton Hide to design, in turn,
their own such legacy. Girls, this is no ordinary Birkin . . .’

A murmur of lust rippled over the room and Clem stared at the bag, inviolate now on a velvet cushion, high above the madding crowd. Her mother’s cherished gift, given by her father as a
token of love . . .

No – she blinked hard – it was just a bag. Passed on to her for the worst of all reasons. The room shifted and she realized she hadn’t eaten yet: Shambles’ brutal alarm
call had led straight on to frenzied activity, and two Mojitos had passed as brunch. She needed some sugar.

‘This bag is what we call a Shooting Star bag, identifiable by the said emblem stamped below the logo. What
is
a shooting star bag?’ Stella grinned, cupping her ear.
‘I’m glad you asked! It’s a tradition at Hermès that every year, one top craftsman is allowed to make a bag for his own personal use. In this instance, Tom Alderton’s
father, who was on honeymoon at the time, happened to meet one such craftsman and negotiated to buy it for his new wife. You cannot buy these on the open market, ladies, that’s what makes
these such covetable and collectable bags. But be warned, Hermès does not like these bags passing out of the care of the person that made them, and don’t even
think
about
taking it into an Hermès boutique to be refreshed. They won’t do it, so look after it well. Now, I’m sure you all know that to buy a Birkin today, any old, basic entry-level
Birkin, would involve a two-year wait and £5,000.
This
flawless specimen, however, this piece of fashion history, is going to sell today, here and now. It’s in the 40cm size,
and is made in black saltwater crocodile leather, one of the most prized Hermès leathers. It
should
have a matching black goatskin interior – all Birkins match inside and out
– but . . . oh! Oh! What’s this?’ Stella grinned, nodding for Clem to hold the bag open so that everybody could see inside. ‘It’s got the Hermès orange
interior, an individual touch that’s the preserve of the Shooting Star bags and alone is worth fifteen grand! It’s just another rare nugget that helps to explain why the starting bid,
and this isn’t the reserve amount but the
starting
bid, is fifty – thousand – pounds.’

A reverential hush fell again. Precious few people in the country, much less this room, could afford to spend those numbers on a bag, even one as rare as this, but Clem couldn’t hear
anything but the sound of her own blood rushing in torrents through her head. They would understand. When she handed the cheque over, they would all understand. It was for Tom. It was just a
bag.

‘Thank you. Fifty-five?’

Just patches of crocodile leather sewn together, by hand. Just a bag.

‘Sixty?’

Most people were more excited by the orange carrier anyway. That bag.

‘Seventy?’

Her palms felt sweaty and she went to wipe them on her thighs, before remembering – just in time – that she was still wearing a suede jumpsuit that now belonged to
someone
else.

The commotion downstairs had moved up – so quickly? It had to be the police – and was now in the corridor outside. Clem looked over at Stella, urging her to hurry up. If the police
walked in before she’d sold the Birkin, everyone would be disbanded and they’d be without the major portion of today’s funds. It wouldn’t be enough without the bag.

Stella was unruffled. ‘Final bid, going for ninety-five thousand . . .’ Stella looked calmly round the room, even as the doors began to rattle.

Clem held her breath.

‘Sold!’ Stella cried, pointing to the winning bidder just as the door at the far end burst open and the seal on their rarefied vacuum was punctured.

‘I told you!’ Clover cried, pointing at Clem standing on the table at the far end of the room. ‘I knew she was up to something. Thank God Peony’s friends tweeted
me.’

The room fell silent and a pathway naturally opened up as the sea of women took in Stella, Clem and Mercy’s stares tethered to the small invading party.

‘Look, Tom, didn’t I tell you I saw something pink in that box?’ Clover continued, pointing at Clem as she led the march up the room.

Tom? Tom Alderton? He was good-looking enough to be known by a fair few of the women in the room through lavish editorial features and local reputation. There was a murmur of unease and
discomfit as they took in his evident displeasure.

Tom didn’t move. He was as rooted to the spot as a fifty-year-old oak, his eyes darting between the images of his sister on the walls and the vision of her before him, wearing skins he
recognized only too well. Furrowed brows began to knit, as everyone stared with growing comprehension at Clem’s illicit pink jumpsuit and Tom’s sickened expression.

Stealthily the women began to hug the tissue-wrapped goodies closer to their bodies, slipping silkily from the room one by one.

Clover realized what was happening first. ‘Stop! Don’t anyone leave until we’ve ascertained exactly what’s been happening here,’ she ordered imperiously.
‘This is copyright infringement.’

But her words had the opposite effect to what she’d intended and the women suddenly rushed for the doors, the room emptying like an upturned milk bottle, expelling shoppers in pulsing,
chugging beats. No one was returning anything.

Tom didn’t move. He didn’t try to stop them. He wouldn’t make a scene. Enough damage had been done.

Without taking her eyes off him, Clem jumped off the table, landing lightly two metres from him.

‘
This
was the secret. And it was a success, Tom,’ she said quietly, hands held up in appeasement. She gestured lightly towards the posters. ‘We didn’t damage the
brand, we preserved your vision, your quality.’

Silence.

‘They
loved
it, Tom. This is a new avenue for the company. If you could just have seen it. We could have sold ten times the amount . . .’