Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (17 page)

By Friday, thank goodness, road diversions and what not have been sorted out. I’m no longer worried that people won’t bother coming to the pop-up tomorrow because they can’t get to it easily, my main concern over the last few days. I’m also relieved that everyone who was injured has now left the hospital. For a while, I’ll no doubt walk a little faster past roadworks.

After Piers’ elopement chatter the other day, he’s not mentioned it since, though I’ve put all our wedding appointments on hold. We need to discuss this further, but not until the pop-up is over.

We open at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, and run through until six in the evening. We’ll have a shorter day on Sunday so I can spend the morning restocking. Monday will be spent tidying up; by Tuesday, Ramone will have his studio space back. It will be like I was never there, which I know is the point, but I’ve put a lot of hard work into our first London home and I will be sad when this weekend is over.

I am so nervous, which is silly as I’ve had so many people tweet and leave sweet comments on my blog since the article ran in the paper. Eliza came through and filed some gushing copy, plus Greg must have snapped some shots whilst I was out cold – not of me on the floor, thank goodness.

I’ve also noticed a real up-turn in visitors to my blog since I started sharing snaps of my daily outfit and daily life. Who would have thought that people would find my ramblings so interesting? I don’t quite get this Internet thing – sure it’s useful for emailing people and research stuff – but this whole social sharing and reviewing places... Call me old-fashioned, but isn’t that what newspapers and magazines are for?

As much as I’m enjoying it, who would pay me to blog? It sounds absurd, not to mention a crazy waste of time for people like Eliza with their journalism qualifications. 

But, I guess I need to change my views, especially since I’m waiting for sixteen bloggers to arrive to attend a pop-up preview before the main event kicks off tomorrow. I wish Tabitha was here to share this with me as she was the one who introduced me to the world of blogging and Twitter, but she’s still AWOL according to the press. (I happen to know she’s hiding out in Cornwall.) Ob is working this weekend; whilst he would be supportive if he was here, he’d only be doing it because I’m his friend, not because he gets what I’m doing.

The one person who would love all of this is Lydia, but I’ve still not had an apology from her since she stormed out on my birthday. I’m not the one who should be picking up the phone.

That leaves Mum, Dad and Felicity. (Piers will, it goes without saying, be along to support me.) They’ll be along tomorrow – Mum and Dad are driving Felicity here – and I can’t wait for Felicity to (hopefully) see crowds of people enjoying the pop-up and buying lots. I also have two of Tabitha’s staff helping me out, but tonight I’m on my own and I’m ridiculously anxious about handling the bloggers.

I look in the mirror again and nervously check my outfit one more time. I’m wearing an emerald green ruched chiffon dress from Burberry Prorsum, teamed with the black opera coat Tabitha found in the boxes, and a Burberry Prorsum military medallion belt over the coat. Snaps to Christopher Bailey! I’m rocking this with a pair of metallic green pointed court shoes, and my blonde hair is loose: a long bob with a side parting. I hope I look the part of a pop-up owner. My outfit is perfect, and I’ve not smudged my make-up. Now, what should I be doing to look busy and important when they arrive?

Maybe I should get my laptop out and be blogging, or would that look too obvious? The door opens before I can decide and I spin around with a confident smile on my face... until I clock who it is. I try not to grimace.

‘Hi Etta. What a nice surprise.’

Hideous surprise
. She knows how to pick her moments.

‘What the fuck are you wearing?’

‘Sorry?’

Wow, I’m not exactly in raptures about her outfit choice either, which is a pair of black ripped jeans and a black embroidered kurta. Has she not heard of colour? Just what is this girl’s problem?

‘That coat. Take it off. Take it off, right now!’ she screeches at me.

Etta is visibly shaking; her silver bangles are lightly jingling against one another, and she looks like she might swing those bangles towards my face. In these heels, I have no chance of running away.

‘Look,’ I say agitated, shooting a look at the door, worried we’ll have company soon. ‘Before you start, I did not steal this from Felicity, or anything like that. We found it in the boxes, and my mum spoke to Felicity about it. She was happy for me to sell it, so I bought it, OK?’

All true. I needed to set up a float so I paid £100 in various notes and coins for the opera coat to make that happen. Felicity said sell it for a tenner, but that would have been selling it short, I suspect. Anyway, I now have a receipt from the ledger to prove it is mine, and we have some cash without touching the money in the business bank account.

‘And that’s another thing,’ Etta snarls. ‘She’s been very agitated this week, talking about the Blitz and bombs. What the fuck have you been saying to her?’

‘I–’

‘Whatever it is,’ Etta interrupts, ‘keep your mouth shut. She’s in a fragile state as it is, and you scaring her isn’t going to help matters.’

‘What do you mean a fragile state?’

I resent her accusing me of
scaring
Felicity. I called her back to apologise about confusing her over the gas explosion, but she had no clue what I was talking about.

She’s the one who is seriously scaring
me
. She’s always been scatty and forgetful, but she really is deteriorating now. This has to be more than her alleged hormonal imbalance.

‘Oh, you haven’t even noticed, have you? You’re all take, take, take when it comes to her money but you don’t give a shit about Felicity’s health.’

Etta’s dazzling cold blue eyes are glaring at me.

‘Hey!’ I interject. ‘That’s not fair, nor is it true. I love Felicity and think of her as family. We all do. I’ve been really worried about her, but what can I do? She won’t let me take her to the doctors and she insists everything is OK. She’s a grown woman, one who is far too stubborn for her own good.’

‘She’s a grown woman who is losing her mind,’ Etta snaps at me. ‘Look, do this, keep my Mum’s opera coat, but then leave Felicity the fuck alone. You don’t need her help, a rich bitch like you. Let her be, and stop confusing her.’

Her mum’s opera coat? Crikey, no wonder Etta looked like she’d seen a ghost. If someone rocked up wearing something unique to my mum, which I suspect this is, it would freak me out, too.

That’s not the point though, and it’s none of Etta’s business whether I can afford to run a business on my own or whether I need to partner with Felicity. I resent that rich bitch remark. Also, not the point. The point is, is Felicity really losing her mind?

I’ve learnt to take what Etta says with a pinch of salt, but I can’t ignore this. I need to speak to Felicity tomorrow, and I need to straighten a few things out. If she’s seriously ill then Etta is right, she shouldn’t be starting new ventures with me. She should be resting and getting better, if that’s even possible, not stressing herself out.

‘I’ll speak to Felicity tomorrow,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm as two bloggers have just walked in. I throw them a quick smile and signal that I’ll just be a moment. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me deal with my business partner myself, and let me get on with running that business.’

‘Whatever, bitch.’ With that she flounces out of the room, hopefully for good. 

I smile at the bloggers as I make my way over to them, hoping they didn’t hear any of that and that they don’t notice the slight shake in my hand. Etta scares me. She might be tiny, but I bet she’s lethal in a fight.

‘Oh my goodness,’ I hear one of the bloggers whisper as I approach. ‘That was Etta Millhouse. She is so cool!’

‘I love her hair!’ the other one says. ‘That was a seriously fierce mermaid plait.’

Of course Etta would have a bloody mermaid plait. It figures considering how much I hate all things nautical. Let’s hope they take that “bitch” remark as a term of affection if they heard it, and let’s hope they write lovely things about this place.

‘Hi,’ I say as brightly as I can muster. ‘Welcome to my pop-up. Thanks so much for stopping by. I’m Arielle.’

‘Do you have this in a size ten?’

‘All stock is out, sorry!’ I squeak.

‘Can I get this in red?’ someone else calls out to me.

I shake my hand frantically as I try and push my way back through the crowd so I can get to the till. My float didn’t last very long and I had to dash downstairs to get some more change from the bar.

The next time I do something like this, I am thinking more carefully about my pricing and having everything ending in a zero or a five with no pence involved. Having items end in ninety-nine pence and then having to dish out one pence coins is simply not worth the hassle for an operation this small. Thank goodness the bar was obliging today, but I’ll have to empty my piggy bank tomorrow.

I truly did not expect this madness when Tabitha first suggested a pop-up to me. Even when Arielle’s first launched in Bournemouth and we had a local celebrity endorse us live on telly, the shop was never as crazy as this. The celebrity, Luella, had hit a career-stopping middle-age blip; after I kitted her out with a new wardrobe, she ended up scooping a
Woman of the Year
award and signing a new lucrative contract with the BBC.

Thankfully last night, after I got over my nerves and the shock of Etta, my blogger event went amazingly. The girls all loved the stock and how the space is up here, and about half of them even bought a few things. I wasn’t expecting that. They also loved the little goody bags I made up, inspired by the swag I got from London Fashion Week.

I filled canvas bags with quirky butterfly print scarves – seconds because they have a tiny flaw by the label – as well as a selection of nail polishes, some over-sized sunglasses, and a leather pocket notebook from luxury stationer Balzer. Once again I have Tabitha to thank as she knows their PR person. I’m going to write some really lovely things about them on my blog this weekend; judging by the coos from the girls last night, they will too.

Most of the bloggers were super amazing and have shared their thoughts online already. They’ve sent a lot of footfall my way going on the people who have remarked to me that they read about the pop-up on a blog. A few of them also linked through to my blog and Twitter profile, and my followers have shot up. I suspect the bloggers have sent more traffic my way than Eliza’s piece in the
Metro
, funnily enough.

As soon as I get a spare moment, I’m going to snap some photos so I can blog about today. Some of the girls here are
über
glamorous, and I’m in love with their style. If I get a chance, I’d love to interview some of them.

There’s a girl wearing a fierce red pair of wide-leg trousers with a tailored black suit jacket and nothing underneath it. She’s only my height, a pint-sized five foot two without heels, but she looks like an absolute model. I wonder if she’s just come from some club because it’s hardly a daytime look... Or maybe I just need to up my game! 

I’ve not even had a chance to pee since we opened our doors at ten. (There was a queue from nine. I can’t tell you how loudly I was screaming with glee in my head at that sight!) I cannot wait for lunchtime when I can catch my breath and take all of this in properly. To say I’m overwhelmed by the response is an understatement.

I should also share a few updates on Twitter, not that I want to encourage any more people to head here. There’s a queue of twenty-six people outside Tabi’s at my last count, and we’re now operating a strict one-in, one-out policy. I don’t want to get Tabi’s into trouble with the council because of their strict licensing regulations. OK, we’re not selling booze up here, but I can just imagine the headlines and stink a certain British tabloid could easily make if we inadvertently managed to flout some law we’re unaware of, all because we’re based in Tabitha’s premises.

‘Who’s next, please?’ I smile brightly.

‘Me, please!’ a gorgeous brunette chirps at me, passing me a pile of clothes. That’s what I like to see!

‘Wow, looks like you’ve found a few things you like,’ I say warmly, feeling a bit of an idiot as the words leave my mouth. I’m helplessly out of practice after being out of the retail industry for the past few months. I mean, there are so many other gambits I could have gone with rather than stating the obvious. OK, I’m having a bit of a crisis of confidence here, despite the insane amount of people we’ve had. I keep expecting someone to reveal that all the customers we’ve had were phonies, and that they’d like their money back.

‘And I love your sweater,’ I add quickly.

‘Thanks, I love your dress!’

Ah, isn’t this lovely. But, I do love her sweater, and I’ve had more than a dozen compliments on my dress, so I don’t think she’s just saying it to be polite. Who says the fashion world is all bitchy and snarky? I’ve seen a lovely side to it, especially all the bloggers I’ve met. They put to shame most of the fashion journalists and editors I’ve met at private charity events over the years with Piers. They are a lot more real, for a start.

Her sweater, by the way, is a ridiculously twee red and white Breton stripe sweater with brass metal hearts on the cuffs. I
adore
it. As for me, I’m wearing a casual khaki-coloured mid-length dress by Donna Karan with capped sleeves, and I’ve accessorised with lots of wooden bangles. I had started out the day in a pair of sky-high heels but quickly switched to a pair of brogues when I started dashing up and down the stairs. My feet couldn’t take it.

‘OK, that will be £215.97, please. And just to remind you, none of this can be returned. It’s all sold as seen, OK?’

‘That’s cool.’ She hands me her MasterCard.
Ah
.

‘Did you not see the signs downstairs?’ I ask apologetically. ‘We’re cash only.’

The look she gives me makes me hate her sweater. She’s looking at me like I’ve just announced I enjoy eating children. She’s not the only person though we’ve had to turn away because of a lack of cash.

As soon as the first girl tried to use her credit card, I ran downstairs to see if the bar could help out, and also stuck signs up on the front door and the door leading up to the studio. Ryan is the main doorman on duty today, and he’s also telling people before they enter the building that they need cash.

‘You can get cashback at the bar downstairs,’ I suggest.

‘I won’t bother,’ she retorts, shooting me a filthy look before she flounces off. ‘And I’ll be tweeting about this,’ she calls back at me as she heads down the stairs, throwing me another mucky look.

Uh-oh!

‘Ah, just ignore her, pet,’ a Geordie accent purrs at me, the next girl in line. ‘I’ll take that dress there, and I’ll be tweeting canny things about this place. Don’t worry,’ she whispers dramatically. ‘She’s only got fifty followers.’ She makes it sound like Twitter is a cult.

Pointing at one of my favourite pieces of stock we have out today, I put it with her other items. It’s a gorgeous shimmery silver tea dress that would look fantastic in the evening with a pair of neon heels, or some cute loafers for a daytime look. With her wavy dark brown hair and bright blue eyes, it will suit her perfectly.

‘The bitch grabbed it from my hands,’ she continues, ‘so I’m really glad you don’t take plastic. She’d have known anyway if she hadn’t been yabbing on her phone the whole time we were in the queue. Who cares if she was at some swanky new club last night? Trust me, none of us did. She was getting on everyone’s tits.’

She rolls her eyes, making me love this girl even more. I also love the sweater she is wearing – a fluffy red peplum-style sweater – though I am allowed to reserve judgement on it until she’s paid for her items. With cash. I’ve made that rookie error before.

‘I’ll have another couple of these dresses on sale tomorrow,’ I say as I ring up her items.

‘Oooh?’

‘Yep, a different style, but just as gorgeous, I promise.’

‘Can I have a squiz now, pet?’

I pull a face. ‘The stock is stored elsewhere, I’m afraid, but I can tweet you a photo of them later on?’

Look at me, getting all social media savvy: Tabitha would be proud. I’m sad that she’s not here today, but I get why she’s hiding out.

Today would not have been possible without her, and I feel wretched thinking back to how horrid and judgemental I was, especially when all she’s ever been is super awesome. Instructing her staff to say yes to whatever request I have this weekend was unnecessary, though very welcome, especially since she still won’t take any money from me to host the pop-up here. She reckoned the passing trade would boost her takings; judging by the bums on seats downstairs, she was right. I will be donating money to her favourite children’s charity though; I can’t let her generosity go unnoticed.

‘That will be £162.96, please.’

‘Grand, pet.’ She scribbles down her Twitter handle on a scrap of paper, and hands over her cash. I dig out her change, and hand over her new purchases. ‘I look forward to it. Cheerio!’

‘Goodbye,’ I call after her. ‘Right. Who’s next, please?’

By the time I spy Dad at the door I am exhausted and ready for a break. It’s only half past one but half the stock has gone already. I could bring some more from home, but I fear we won’t have enough to see us through tomorrow if I do.

Dad grins at me as he takes in the bustling crowd and the wad of notes in the till, though he looks tired and incredibly out of place amongst the throng of twenty- and thirty-something-year-old women who are rummaging through the rails and queuing for the changing room. They’ve arrived later than I had hoped they would – I bet the traffic was terrible – but I’m pleased they are here now to see this, and I’m especially pleased that they are seeing it is a success. 

‘Hi, Dad!’ I grin back at him. ‘Felicity is going to be stoked when she sees this! Who would have thought we’d have this many people here, and an actual queue outside! You got in all right though? Ryan let you skip the queue?’ I clock Dad’s face. ‘He didn’t? Oh man, how long were you waiting for?’

‘No, it’s not that. We’ve just had a bit of trouble with Felicity.’

I can just imagine Felicity’s reaction and her outrage at being denied immediate entry to her own pop-up. I suspect poor Ryan will have been subjected to theatrical overtures and then will have been firmly put in his place.

‘She’s on her way up, right? Or is she downstairs with Mum and Piers? She should really pop up.’

I laugh, suddenly feeling very nervous. I hope she wasn’t too harsh with Ryan because he has been a marvel at keeping the queue in check. I know he’s had fun with some of the more out-going fashionistas this morning, and I bet his pockets have a fair few phone numbers in them.

‘So, yeah, she should come up and see all this,’ I add, nervously tugging at my hair.

He slowly shakes his head. ‘I think you’d better come downstairs and talk to your mum. We’ve got some bad news, love.’