Kept (20 page)

‘But I’ve styled my boyfriend for years,’ I plead. ‘Give
me a chance.’ I sound weak, even to my ears.

‘No,’ the shop owner replies. ‘I’m sorry, but no,’ she adds
more sternly. Before I can begin to plead again, she shuts her door in my face
and flips the sign to CLOSED.

I sink onto the pavement feeling somewhat dejected at my
twelfth rejection, but I can’t blame them for it. Who would want to hire a
twenty-five-year-old with no experience and no references?

Many of them wrongly assumed I’m looking for an opportunity
to sneak in and buy them out, assumed I’m another bored girlfriend whose
boyfriend wants her to have a play shop to keep her entertained. I understand
their assumptions but, look at me, I’m no threat. I’m twenty-five years old and
I can’t get a job – what threat do
I
pose?

I never expected it to be easy, but I expected more than
slammed door after slammed door when they realised I wasn’t a customer. They
have given me an idea though – an idea that isn’t likely to materialise because
of the constraint of money but it’s a false hope I can cling to, which I need
after today. Maybe I could open one up, my own boutique. I can create clothes
in my spare time, or maybe just be a stylist once I’ve built up a loyal
customer following… Yes, I am delving well and truly into fantasy land.
Admittedly it’s a better place than the real world, although it’s probably more
suited to the comforts of my bedroom than sitting on a pavement in rainy
Bournemouth. Even though I’m a good fifteen minute walk away from the sea, I
can hear the faint cry of gulls and almost taste the salty chips.

‘Are you OK, dear?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts for a
string of stores up and down the country, then my triumphant return to this
street where I’ll buy everyone out and show them they were idiots for slamming
their doors on me.

‘Oh, what? Oh, I mean, yes,’ I say, looking up in surprise.

I’m met by the sight of a woman in her fifties, maybe older.
She has jet-black hair that’s starting to turn white and she’s not corrected
the ageing process. Her hair looks funky for it, if you can ignore the Cruella
de Vil connotations, which I can because she’s not wearing a fur stole and
doesn’t look manically insane. She looks nice; not in a homely or motherly
manner, but in a reassuring way. There’s something very calming about her. The
smell of salty chips disappears and now I smell Yardley’s English Lavender, the
smell of my grandmother.

‘You don’t seem fine, dear,’ she answers, squinting down at
me before reaching for her glasses that are perched precariously on her funky
hair. Satisfied at what she sees through them, she repeats herself. ‘You don’t
seem fine. Would you like a cup of tea? I have a shop just over there.’ She
nods her head at the opposite side of the boutique-lined road.

‘Oh,’ I mutter. ‘I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.’

‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ she replies in her lilting voice.
‘Come along.’

Without waiting for an answer, she turns around and heads
back to her shop. I’d noticed her place on my research trips but I hadn’t
really
noticed it so never ventured in.
I don’t follow her though. Instead I sit and watch her graceful walk. She looks
like she was a dancer in her younger days, maybe a model judging by her
graceful strut.

Upon reaching her door, she turns back to me. ‘Dear?’ She
doesn’t even have to raise her voice: it carries across effortlessly to me.
Maybe she’d been in the theatrical world?

Intrigued, I stand up and head her way. It’s a better option
than sitting on the chewing-gum decorated pavement. I can’t face going home and
having to relive my miserable, soul-destroying day during my parental debrief –
Dad is taking his management consulting a little too seriously, methinks.

Satisfied I’m following, she enters. I look up.
Flick’s
. The sign is written in thick
pink, swirly letters. There’s a purity to it and the display window is gorgeous
and complementary. There is nothing, but also
everything
about it that is child-like. It looks like you’re about
to step into a fantasy land, and I can’t believe I’ve never been in before. It
looks like my sort of place, but I’d never realised that until now. Strange.

The clothes in the window are presented around large
blow-ups of fairytale images of yesteryear and ransom-style snippets of text
cut out of newspapers. Fragments such as “Once upon a time”, “Prince Charming”
and “Happily ever after” catch my eye immediately – all appealing sentiments to
me – with “Happily ever after” hanging across the most beautiful dress I’ve
ever seen and, trust me, I’ve seen plenty of beautiful dresses. The words hang
over the dress, forming a sash, but it does more than just hang: it brings the
dress to life. I feel I could achieve its proclamation wearing that dress.

I sternly remind myself I have no money and reluctantly pull
myself away from the captivating display. I can’t understand how I’ve missed
this place, or why it isn’t bustling with customers.

‘You seem enthralled, dear,’ her voice rings out.

‘I’ve never seen such a clever display,’ I enthuse. ‘You’d
be loved in London.’

‘Sadly a fact that signifies the end of Flick’s.’ She
grimaces. It’s the most pleasant grimace I’ve seen; it looks charming.

‘You’re closing down?’ I’m
shocked. ‘Why?’

‘It’s not profitable here I’m afraid.’

‘No!’ I exclaim in horror, despite not having been aware of
Flick’s until five minutes ago. ‘It’s perfect, it’s an odyssey!’ I declare.
‘You can’t!’ No, I’m not sure what I mean either, but it seems an appropriate
word to use and she dips her head in acknowledgement.

‘Well, what will be, will be, but I believe I asked you in
here because you seem to be the one with the troubles.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I mumble feeling embarrassed.

‘I’m a good listener–?’ She looks at me expectantly with a
raised eyebrow.

‘Arielle,’ I supply.

‘How lovely, dear.’ She really has one of those voices, but
instead of it being annoying like it easily could be, it’s quite soothing. If
she has grandchildren she would get them to sleep in minutes with a bedtime
story.

‘Well, it’s nice to meet you Arielle,’ she says, sticking
out her hand. ‘I’m Felicity.’

She has the longest and slenderest fingers I’ve seen and the
fact that her French manicure is slightly wonky makes me like her even more.
Maybe she was a pianist?

‘Flick?’ I guess.

‘For my sins, in my earlier days,’ she chuckles softly. From
first impressions alone Felicity is far from the usual, run-of-the-mill shop owner
I’ve spent all day being rejected by.

‘Now, dear, have a seat and tell me your problems. For a
start, what’s that piece of sad paper in your hand?’ She nods at my pathetic CV
that has failed to bring me any joy.

‘Sad?’

‘Oh yes, I can sense vibes from it. It’s feeling very sad at
the moment. Now, why’s that?’ she asks in all seriousness.

Somehow she doesn’t look like she’ll take my polite
mutterings for an answer, so I tell her. I spill everything out, from Noah to
Piers, childhood job dreams to hopes for the future.
 

‘Well, this is perfect,’ she declares, thoughtfully studying
me over her rose pink china teacup.

‘It is?’

How is it perfect that no one wants nor trusts me? That no
one will employ me? Whatever Felicity is on, it’s interesting stuff. I’d be
curious to try some out, but it’s probably interesting,
expensive
stuff and therefore off limits to the likes of me in my
current impoverished state. I suspect it’s expensive because she is wearing a
dark, box tweed jacket – Chanel, I suspect – and a deep purple, floor-length,
silk Valentino skirt. There’s nothing cheap about Felicity.
   

‘Yes, perfect,’ she declares again, ignoring my bewildered
tone. ‘I could use a talented stylist like you here.’

‘But you told me you were closing down!’ Once again I get
the faint musty smell mixed in with the note of lavender, signifying that life
ended in Flick’s a fair few months ago.

‘Nonsense. No, I think there’s a reason you and I met,
Arielle. We’re obviously meant to turn each other’s fortunes around, and then,
who knows?’

She mysteriously chuckles like she’s privy to the workings
of the future. Felicity is evidently bonkers. Well, I suppose eccentric is a
more polite way of putting it, but she seems to be enlightened to details I’ve
not yet fathomed out. Despite this, there’s certainly something about her… Not
that I will be going along with her and her insanity.

‘But, I have no references, no experience!’ I protest. ‘No
one else wants me.’

‘Exactly! You’re perfect.’ She beams at me like I’ve just
made the winning points of a debate instead of admitting to my failings. ‘Why
would I want someone whose
normalness
is recognised? No, I want someone unique for Flick’s, someone with vision and
aspirations.’

‘I have those?’ I ask in a daze as my frantic mind tries to
make sense of this. Am I thinking one thing, but saying another out loud? It’s
the only answer.

‘You have.’ She nods quite seriously. ‘And,’ she continues
more normally this time. ‘Look how you’re dressed, Arielle. I knew the moment I
saw you dear that you had years of fashion experience to be able to put
together an outfit like that. Your outfit spoke to me more than your sad,
dejected piece of paper would have, if I had bothered to read it. Here,’ she
says, taking my CV out of my hand, ripping it up and letting the pieces float
into the bin. ‘Best place for that.’

So, that’s how I end up agreeing to work at Flick’s because
I can’t think what to say to any of this, other than to mutter my grateful
thanks at the insane chance she’s willing to take me on. Apparently it’s all
because of my acid wash Balmain jeans and deep purple silk
Herv
é
L
é
ger pussycat
bow blouse. Strange, I know, but who am I to question the reason behind
Felicity hiring me? I’m on my way it seems.

We agreed I would start the following morning so when I
show up the next day at Flick’s
,
nervous but excited, I’m surprised to discover the shop has gone. Well, not
exactly gone, but the window display is empty and that is drawing more
attention to the shop than the wonderful display ever did.

Apprehensively, I knock on the front door, doubting myself.
Did I imagine yesterday? Had I never left the pavement and been in fantasy land
all along; if so, what does that say about my mental state right now?

The sign on the door reads CLOSED, even though it’s just
after nine and we agreed I would start at 9.15… that is, if Felicity wasn’t a
product of my imagination.

‘Felicity?’ I call out uncertainly when there’s no response
to my knocking and I decide to brave my possibly pretend new boss.

The shop looks nothing like it did yesterday. Boxes and
boxes are piled up, filling every possible nook and cranny. It resembles more
of a warehouse right now, and it’s very confusing.

‘Through here, Arielle,’ Felicity finally calls from what I
can only assume is the supposed stockroom, supposed because all the stock
appears to be in boxes.

What could possibly be out back with Felicity then? I
realise it could be anything but, on the positive side, at least I hadn’t
imagined yesterday! As I clamber over the many boxes to get to the sound of her
voice, I’m not sure what scenario I prefer – whether I’m more relieved to learn
that Felicity isn’t a figment of my imagination, or whether I would have
preferred yesterday to have been in my head.

When I finally manoeuvre my way through Box Mountain –
hindered by my outfit, naturally – I’m huffing and puffing. If I had known what
awaited me here, I wouldn’t have left the house in my favourite Rodarte dress –
a turquoise, peplum-fit maxi dress with an Impressionist narrative to the
pattern – which I’m gutted to note I’ve snagged on something. Great, just
great.

‘Excellent, you’re here!’ she says non-plussed, as if this
is all perfectly normal. Felicity is dressed for this craziness – I have no
idea what she’s wearing under the pair of navy dungarees and plain black
jumper, but whatever it is it won’t get ruined.

‘Enjoy!’ With that she makes to leave out of the back door,
much to my great shock.

‘Excuse me?’ I quickly put in.

 
Confused doesn’t even
come close. I thought I had been offered a job in a shop, but I seem to be
lacking a shop for Felicity to leave me in, never mind my lack of training. I
appreciate the concept of throwing people in at the deep end, but this is
tantamount to dumping me in the high seas in a dinghy, not telling me where I
am, yet expecting me to reach land safely… without a paddle… in the middle of
the night…
in a storm
. I really wish
I
had
dreamt up Felicity now.
 

‘First task, reinvention!’

I yelp again in protest as she makes to leave. Again. ‘What
do you want me to do?’

‘Oh no. No, no, no, Arielle dear,’ she clucks. ‘I hadn’t
expected this from you. A
normal
person, yes, but you? No, no.
No
. Not
you. I thought you were different.’

She sounds disappointed. I have no idea why, but I don’t
like it. There’s been too much disappointment in my life of late; I thought
today was a fresh start, a fresh start to shine, be a success and to no longer
disappoint.

‘Well I am, I think,’ I answer uncertainly.

‘Excellent! Well, here’s the keys, and I’ll see you next
week.’ She goes to leave. Again.

‘Felicity, I’m... I’m a little confused,’ I stammer. I can’t
let her leave here without explaining this. This is beyond me.

She turns back around, and sighs deeply. ‘It’s like this,
Arielle,’ she says. ‘There are no customers and you’re my saviour.’

Like that explains everything.

‘Me?’ I squeak.

How can I be
that
with no customers? I’m not a miracle-worker. Hadn’t I told Felicity the gist of
my life yesterday? Doesn’t she realise
I’m
the one who needs a saviour?

‘Yes,
you
,’ she
confirms. ‘I knew the minute I saw you on the pavement that you’d work wonders
for Flick’s so I’m leaving you here to make your magic happen. Now, I know some
people would tell me I’m crazy for leaving a virtual stranger in my shop, but I
know I can trust you, and I do trust you,’ she says as I stare bug-eyed at her.
‘I’m leaving you to do with Flick’s whatever you wish. The only rule is that
you can’t spend any money other than what’s in the till, and you have to work
with whatever is in the shop.’
  

‘Oh,’ is all I can manage in response to that bizarre
announcement.

‘Yes,’ Felicity smiles like I’ve instead agreed to this
craziness. ‘So, I’ll be back on Monday to see the finished result. I can’t
wait!’

‘But!’ is all I can manage this time. I’m lost for words
trying to process this.

‘No, no, dear. No defeatist attitude, if you please. This is
Flick’s, land of make-believe, happily ever after, and what not. I know you can
do it.’

With that apparently sorted, she sweeps out of the back door
without another thought, leaving me standing, shell-shocked, at what’s expected
of me... I’m not exactly sure what she’s expecting of me. I’d expected... Well
I hadn’t expected
this
on my first
day. Some stocktaking perhaps; maybe learning to use the till if some customers
came in, but this? How could I have expected this?

I’m interrupted from my dazed thoughts by someone calling
from the front of the shop. Is this part of Felicity’s plan, whatever that is?

‘Yes?’ I finally manage to shout back after pinching myself
to assert this isn’t a night-before-the-first-day-mare.

‘Are you open?’

She’s joking, right? The shop front looks like an explosion
at a box factory. Locking the back door quickly, I begin my obstacle course
battle back through the boxes. It’s still bad.

‘One minute,’ I yell, trying to rush through the box maze as
fast as I can and subsequently nearly toppling boxes on my head in my rush.

Breathless, I finally reach the woman standing in the
doorway, embarrassingly aware I no longer look at the height of fashion with my
dishevelled attire. She of course looks perfectly polished, though she’s
dressed in boring blue skinny jeans –
 
not even electric blue, just regular dark denim –
 
and a safe burgundy wool coat. ‘Yes?’ I pant.

‘You
are
open?’
She raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

‘What? I mean, no, we’re not.’ Is she crazy? Has she not
seen the boxes? Can she see any clothes to purchase? I mean, I can’t, but she’s
looking at me like
I’m
the strange
one. ‘How can I help you?’ is what I politely ask instead.

‘You could start by telling me what’s going on.’

‘Sorry, you are?’ I ask. I’m becoming more and more confused
by the second. It’s another one of those days when I wish I had just stayed in
bed.

‘Eliza Hope.’ She sticks out her hand and produces a
business card all in one motion. ‘Local press.’

‘Nice to meet you, Eliza.’ I shake her hand and take her
card, although not as sophisticatedly as Eliza presented it to me. ‘I’m
Arielle, the…’

What can I say? Shop girl? No, too derogatory. Manager? Not
glamorous enough. Stylist? Too unoriginal. But then a word pops into my head,
along with an idea.

‘Yes?’ Eliza sounds rather bored.

‘The dream-maker,’ I answer more confidently than I feel.
‘From London,’ I add, like that explains everything.

‘And it’s Arielle…?’ she fishes.

‘Oh no.’ I smile patronisingly. ‘Just Arielle.’

‘I see.’ Eliza curtly nods. ‘Well, what does a dream-maker
do?’

Good question.

‘Re-making Flick’s at the moment,’ I improvise – well, it’s
not really an improvisation, I am supposed to be doing this according to
Felicity. ‘But then I’ll be staying on to offer my creative insight and
expertise to the customers.’

So far no lies. Well, not really. Who knows what Felicity
has in store for me after… no,
if
I
successfully pull off this re-vamp. She’ll probably destroy my efforts and make
me do it again for her sheer amusement. But, if I get paid, what does it
matter? It’s certainly all good experience – strange experience, granted, but
experience nevertheless.

‘So, you’re what? A personal shopper?’ she scoffs.

‘Oh no,’ I retort in my haughtiest voice, allowable as those
jeans look like they are from Top Shop and on closer inspection she looks a bit
student-like. Her accent suggests she’s not local. ‘I am a dream-maker. I am a
visionary. I am the answer to women’s dreams. Do you know how many women could
achieve a sense of empowerment if they only knew
how
to dress in a way that empowers them?’

I’m envisioning an area in the shop where I can begin the
consultation process, the end result being the happily ever after every women
craves. Magnificently all this will be achieved through the healing powers of
fashion. ‘I revolutionise women’s lives,’ I continue. ‘And you can quote me on
that!’

Dutifully she pulls out a very
Paperchase
-looking
notebook and begins to jot down my ramblings as I declare my freshly-made-up
wild theories of fashion. By the time I finish these ramblings, I almost
believe my hype.

‘So, when does Flick’s re-launch?’

‘Monday,’ I declare confidently.

‘That only leaves you four days. I am impressed!’ she says,
taking a disbelieving glance around the shop at the various boxes piled high.

‘Well, I am a dream-maker,’ I respond before I realise I now
have to deliver all this preposterous waffling. It would be one thing for this
to be for Felicity’s eyes only but it’s quite another to have to deliver this
“dream-maker” nonsense to a wider,
publicised
audience. Lunacy springs to mind. Situation normal, I guess.

‘I had better let you get on with it then.’ She smiles
looking around at the explosion of boxes in wonderment. ‘But thanks for
chatting to me. I couldn’t believe the crowds when I walked past here on my way
to work – people just stood staring at boxes!’ I take a swift look outside and
she’s right. Don’t people have anything better to do?
 

‘You’re certainly generating some interest already,’ she
continues. ‘I thought it was modern art at first.’ She laughs.

What is it with me being mistaken for modern art? But I
strangely feel this error must be a good sign, even if last time my modern art
pretences landed me a broken ankle – that’s a plausible outcome looking at the
box maze. I guess I did gain Piers though, back on another morning when I
wished I hadn’t bothered to get out of bed. Perhaps this
will
work.

‘Phase one,’ I smoothly answer. I just about manage to
refrain from tapping the side of my nose and nodding my head conspiratorially.

‘Well, let’s see if I can generate some more interest for
you. I’ll have a word with my editor, but I reckon we might be able to squeeze
this story in so it’s in the weekend edition.’

‘Fantastic,’ I beam.

‘Let me just check I’ve got this correct. You launch on
Monday?’

‘Monday,’ I confirm. ‘At noon.’

Confidently I make sure Eliza has all the details, including
who I am, but it’s not until she’s gone that it dawns on me, I’ve just set my
public execution for Monday at noon. There’s no way I can achieve this by
Monday, especially with no money or help, but then I scold myself. This is no
time to have a defeatist attitude. I have to try for Flick’s and Felicity’s
sake, as well as my own. I can’t give up at the first hurdle.

Not only that, I have to try for Piers. If I phoned and told
him this, he would back me immediately – he’d believe in me. It’s just a shame
he’ll never know anything about Flick’s if I keep my silly vow of
non-communication until I’ve made it.