Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (6 page)

Crap. Crap, crap,
crap
. The situation is not good.

‘Are you sure they can’t move any quicker?’ I ask, crossing my fingers. ‘It’s just that–’

Steve interrupts me. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Lockley. To be honest, you’re not really a priority right now. These things take time.’

Part of me wants to splutter my outrage down the phone at him, insist that I am a priority, but he has a point. The situation at Camden is pretty grim, and some traders had everything go up in smoke – literally – with no insurance in place to cover their losses. From what Steve has told me, the landlord’s insurance will cover the fire damage of the unit itself, and I can get my deposit back once their claim is settled.

‘The firemen are still getting the site under control, and then there will have to be an investigation,’ Steve continues. ‘You’re probably talking six months, best case scenario.’

Six months?
I stand up from the sofa and walk over to the window as Steve, once again, offers his apologies and deepest sympathies.

It looks to be another mild day out there. I spot shoppers heading to the King’s Road, no doubt wearing only one or two layers. I’m thankful it isn’t snowing as I’ll need to go for a long run after this to release some adrenaline. I was up at dawn, up before Piers, poised to hit call as soon as the estate agents opened.

‘You’ll have to find another deposit, I’m afraid, if you wish to lease another space, though you’ll still have to pay the rent on Camden until you reach your break clause. We do have a great little space that’s just gone on the market in Hampstead. It’s really near the High Street and I can email across the particulars to you, if you’re interested?’

I wonder what happens to Steve’s commission, whether he has to give it back. I suppose he must, and then his words hit home.
Fuck
.

‘What, do you mean I still have to pay the rent on Camden?’

‘You signed a contract with them.’

‘But I’m unable to use the shop,’ I point out. I’m getting a headache. ‘And it could be months, right?’

‘You’ll get the money back, but–’ There’s a shuffle of paperwork. ‘Ah, actually that was an oversight.’

I suspect I’m not going to like this oversight.

‘You don’t have a break-clause, do you?’

Steve doesn’t need me to answer as he knows I don’t. He knows I was the utter idiot who signed the paperwork dumped down in front of me without getting it checked out by a solicitor as I didn’t want someone else to put a deposit down first and steal my shop. Except, there is no shop, but I still have to pay for the damn thing. I need a gin, and it’s only ten past nine in the morning.

‘I mean, if you did have one then you could have given notice after six months and you’d be getting your rent and deposit back come September, but you–’

I
hate
Steve.

‘– let’s see, are signed up for the next two years... Ah, so I was wrong. You’ll get your deposit back when you decide to leave but, in good news, you’ll get your rent back for the months you’ve been unable to use the shop, once the investigation is over, minus your service fees.’

Would there be any point in telling Steve through my gritted teeth that it seems a little outlandish to charge me service fees when I can’t use my shop and won’t actually be getting any level of “service” from them?

‘I think I’ll have to call you back.’ I prod my throbbing head and grimace. ‘You’ve been most helpful,’ I lie. ‘Bye bye.’

Cue breakdown as I throw down the phone.
Fuck
.

I flop on the sofa, pick up one of our Missoni Oketo cushions, and squeeze it whilst I squeeze my eyes shut. The cushion will plump back out but the pummelling to my eyes will do nothing to reduce my crow’s feet.

This is a
disaster
. This is
hideous
. This is plainly all
my fault
and proves I’m in over my head.

I throw the cushion at the wall, narrowly missing one of Piers’ awful oil paintings. It’s not one he has painted – ha, that’s one skill he does not have – but it’s one of his favourites. I think it’s plain depressing. Paintings should be fun, light and bright.

This one shows workers walking towards offices and factories, a Lowry reproduction... Wait, this is
Piers
. Maybe it’s an
actual
Lowry? I’d better ask him that tonight – my day would have gone from bad to worse if I knocked a genuine Lowry off the wall. Saying that though, if it is a genuine Lowry, maybe I can stage a break in and fence it to be able to afford to put down a deposit on another shop.

I’m picturing myself as a more clued up Audrey Hepburn in
How to Steal A Million
. I have a nice little black Givenchy number that I could wear, and Valentino did a gorgeous version of her lace face mask last season which would be perfect for... Well, maybe it wouldn’t be perfect for selling a stolen painting, but it would cheer Piers up when he discovered the painting was gone. Team the face mask with some sexy calf-high boots, and...

Right, stop this. Don’t go into fantasy land when Piers is at work for at least the next ten hours and you have shit to do. I need to call someone and hope they can magically fix this mess without me having to resort to stealing my fiancé’s painting.

That thought instantly cools my racy thoughts down.

I do know one thing though, that we can’t afford to pay rent on Camden and take on another shop, even if we’ll get that money back later down the line. This mess needs to be fixed
now
. I can’t exactly throw myself on the mercy of my new landlord when he or she is in a worse situation than I am, and I do appreciate it could be much worse. None of these thoughts do anything to subdue my aching head.

Call Piers, Dad or Flick? Piers? Dad? Felicity?

Felicity
is
my business partner but it’s Monday morning which means she’ll be at the doctors for her weekly check-up, plus I don’t want to unnecessarily stress her out. I promised her I had a handle on things. Dad gets back from Paris tomorrow, and Piers is probably manically busy as it’s his first day back in the London office...

The doorbell rings, interrupting my thoughts. Irgh. Who could this be? It rings again, so I swing my legs off the sofa and head to the front door. Is it those jeans I ordered from Net-a-Porter? That will brighten today up a little if it is. OK, so my old shopping habits might not have
completely
disappeared.

I open the door, expecting to see a courier.

‘There you are! Honestly, darling, I’ve been ringing your phone for ages but you were engaged, so I had to haul myself out of the car to get you.’

Tabitha
. Dressed in a knee-length skirt that’s two-tone bright orange and cream with black lace intricately weaved over the top of it, she’s wearing it with a simple soft cream tee and a bright orange crop fitted jacket that she’s left open. I suspect buttons are a bit of a problem for her – there’s a reason the press nicknamed her “Tabitha Tits” – but she looks hot to trot. The orange enhances her red hair, which has been beautifully blow-dried.

I run a hand through my loose, knotty blonde hair, painfully aware that I look like shit. I’m embarrassed she’s seen me in Piers’ purple and grey check Calvin Klein PJ bottoms and a Cookie Monster tee from TruffleShuffle.

‘What are you doing looking like that, lovely?’ she continues, oblivious to my discomfort. ‘Chop, chop, we’re late as it is!’

I groan. I promised her I’d go to Fashion Week, didn’t I?

‘I–’

‘None of that please, Arielle.’ She fixes me with a cool glare. ‘Get a move on. I’m not being papped with you looking like that. I thought you were supposed to be into fashion.’

Meow, though oddly familiar. Tabitha has spent quite a lot of her time telling me that I don’t quite make the grade fashion-wise, though this is acceptable as I haven’t actually got dressed for the day.

‘Arielle,’ Tabitha says sharply.

Why am I going with her again? Ah yes, because I was hoping Arielle’s could get some publicity... which it might, and that would be awesome, if the shop had any chance of launching anytime soon. Sadly this is going to be a wasted opportunity after this weekend’s fire, and now I’m stuck hanging out with Tabitha.

I sigh heavily, treating Tabitha to my stinky morning breath. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ I mutter.

Ten minutes turns into thirty minutes, which means we miss the Amanda Wakeley and Jasper Conran shows, but at least I look good... I hope.

The proof will be in the
Daily Mail
sidebar of shame in about twenty minutes since the press go absolutely mad for Tabitha and this, in turn, applies to who she is with.

They’d probably prefer it if I was a man, although it wouldn’t be
too
much of a surprise if they depict me as her “secret girlfriend”. I’ve read stranger stories.

It must be so weird to have your life splashed across the tabloids, the perceived “life” a journalist decides to share with millions of people, whether it’s true or not.

I’d liked to have walked from my house to South Kensington to clear my head after the ordeal with the estate agents, but Tabitha insisted we take her car. It would only have taken us fifteen minutes to walk, even in Tabitha’s crazy six-inch Jimmy Choos. She towers above me in them, but the extra height makes her look smaller. Her sizeable boobs often make her seem bigger than she actually is, so I get why she lengthens herself. It’s all about perspective.

The traffic and the one-way streets mean I get to fill in Tabitha on my Camden woes, not that she seems particularly interested, plus we shave two minutes off the time it would have taken us to walk to the Natural History Museum where this year’s shows are taking place.

‘Where are Lottie and Sebastian?’ One of the paparazzo yells at us as we walk towards the museum.

I’ve only ever been here once, years ago, as it’s the V&A that gets my attention when I’m on Cromwell Road. I’ve also, embarrassingly, never been to the Science Museum, which is a stone’s throw away, though I can tell you about a fabulous boutique close by that always has the best sales.

‘Is it true there’s trouble in paradise?’ another yells.

Lottie is Tabitha’s younger cousin, a few years younger than me, and incredibly glamorous. She works in the music industry and is engaged to an Oscar-winning actor, Sebastian Sotherton. I am completely envious of her, and also very intimidated.

Tabitha ignores that one, whilst I stand to the side feeling awkward, giving them a clear shot.

‘Over here, Tabs. Flash us some skin.’

It’s February and, OK, it’s quite mild for this time of year, but
it’s February
. What do they expect her to do? Whip out her boobs and shimmy off her skirt to give them the lingerie shot they are clearly coveting? I’m surprised she keeps her cool – this much attention is seriously rattling me as a bystander.

Tabitha obligingly turns to face the other bank of photographers and the sea of flashes starts all over again. I really should have brought my sunglasses – those flashes are quite blinding – but I suspect I’d look like an idiotic diva showing up in them.

‘Who’s your friend?’ another one yells in our direction, as I try not to chip my nail polish off just to give me something to do. I should have met her inside.

‘This, you pack of vultures,’ she answers, ‘is someone you need to keep a close eye on.’

She beckons me over with a quick jerk of her head and I reluctantly go and stand next to her. I’m not sure calling them a pack of vultures will endear them to me, but a few chuckle good-naturedly. I suppose she is giving them the shot they need to sell to the glossies and rags. She could have swept by with her bag covering her face, which is what I would have done. Some of the men here will have cashed in on some awful photos, and stories, of Tabitha over the years.

I’m wearing a simple black Peter Pilotto dress with a ruched waist, cobalt blue heels and a tiny cobalt blue Todd Lynn clutch bag. Fashion-wise I can stand my ground, but I feel like a big pretender. The paparazzi only care who I am because I’m with Tabitha. If I was with Piers or Ob, none of them would have lifted up their cameras.

Saying that though, if Ob was with me he probably would rock up in his vet gear and they’d snap us thinking he’s modelling some exciting new trend, especially with the inevitable cow dung that would be smeared across his cheeks. Make-up for men, perhaps? I’m going to have words with his mum to make sure he dresses himself properly for the wedding. And has a good scrub.

I stand and pose with Tabitha. Black spots swim in front of my eyes and I wince. Damn, those flashes are bright. Hopefully one photo will turn out OK though and I won’t look like I have a weird face.

I shouldn’t have worn black though – there’s every chance that I’ll look washed out and dull, especially next to Tabitha who I now realise has included bright orange in her outfit for a reason. No doubt she’ll “pop” just right in the prints; when I see myself, I’ll probably want to book a holiday quick smart to get my pale body bronzed.

Tabitha holds her hand up, and they respectfully stop taking photos. ‘This is Arielle, and I’m thrilled to tell you that she will be launching an exclusive pop-up at Tabi’s very soon.’

I’m launching a what?

Whatever it is, this causes them to get even more snap happy. ‘Arielle, Arielle,’ I hear. ‘Can you tell us more?’

‘Is that Peter Pilotto you’re wearing?’

(I’m seriously impressed.)

‘How exactly do you spell Arielle? Is it like the mermaid?’

Someone starts singing
Under the Sea
– like I’ve never had that happen before – which gets the slimeball in question a cheap laugh. It makes me cringe and Tabitha, sensing my discomfort, raises her perfectly manicured hand in the air again. She’s rocking some serious bling on her hand – on loan from one of the jewellery brands, I guess – from this angle, and with the spots swimming in front of me, I can’t tell which one. Slavishly following the fashion world has lost its appeal. I’m still interested – I need to be for the sake of the shop – but the last year has taught me there is more to life than clothes.

‘A press release will be sent out in due course,’ Tabitha states, very business-like, and with that she takes me by the arm and leads me into the museum.

‘
Arry-el
,’ I mutter. ‘Like Sebastian pronounces it in
The Little Mermaid
. Not Ariel.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, ummm, I’m launching a what?’ I ask, as soon as we’re out of earshot of the press.

‘A pop-up,’ Tabitha explains with a grin on her face. ‘It’s the next big thing. Honestly, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it on Saturday when you were talking about your place in Camden. I could have saved you a lot of trouble.’

What does everyone have against Camden, I’d love to know. OK, I’m against it right now as it’s up in smoke, but it’s a cool location, no matter what anyone says. The term pop-up is ringing a bell though – who have I been talking to recently who mentioned pop-ups?

We’ve just walked into the central hall of the Natural History Museum and for some reason I had it in my head that the runway would weave around the giant Diplodocus skeleton that stands in the middle, but sadly there are just women in fierce high heels running around with clipboards and ear pieces, pointing people towards the back of the museum.

She continues, seeing the blank look on my face. ‘Honestly Arielle, everyone will be doing a pop-up soon enough. It’s for cool stuff: food, clothes, galleries, bars, you name it. It’s going to be the next big thing.’

Oh! I do remember hearing about this from Steve, the smarmy estate agent. I assumed it was bullshit though; let’s face it, Steve talked shit. That’s how he tricked me into making a rookie error in the first place.

‘Miss Cuthbert-Nightingale, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but can we ask that you and...’ there’s the tiniest glance at her clipboard, ‘... Miss Lockley follow me to take your seats please.’

Tabitha smiles graciously. Personally I’d find it freaky if someone recognised me, but I suppose she’s used to it since she grew up in the public eye.

‘It’s basically a temporary event where people have an experience in a cool venue,’ Tabitha continues as we head through the museum. I want to stop and look at things but the woman with the clipboard is striding purposefully and probably won’t appreciate my new-found tourist inclinations. ‘Sort of like this. You’d do it for a weekend, or a month maybe, and then you’d pop-up elsewhere.’

I think I’m getting where she’s coming from. Steve banged on about car parks and side streets, I recall, which is why I was dismissive. This sounds
much
better, and Tabi’s is on the King’s Road. It would make a pretty swish venue for Arielle’s, plus it would solve the issue of currently renting a shop that we can’t use. She might be on to something.

‘Look, I know I shouldn’t have announced it like that to the press but you were telling me about your issues in the car and it, well, popped into my head.’ She laughs throatily. ‘Take some time to think about it and we’ll chat it over at the end of the week. Say Friday, before lunch?’

‘That works for me,’ I reply, picking up my goody bag and then sitting down in the seats that are being pointed out to us. ‘And don’t think I don’t appreciate the offer, because I do, but I need to talk to my business partner and see what she thinks.’

Plus research exactly what a pop-up is because I don’t want to get burned again.

‘Of course.’ She smiles at me, and then leans in close towards me. ‘I do love front row seats,’ she whispers. ‘I can never get over how lucky I am to be invited to these things. I want to stand-up and squeal!’

I want to, too. Front row! FROW!

Is that Kate Moss with Anna Wintour on the other side? It is! Kate is rocking a khaki green jumpsuit with a black fur jacket, whilst Anna is wrapped up in a brown snakeskin trench coat, outfit hidden. Her iconic bob is as sleek as ever. This is
amazing
. And, oh my goodness, that looks like Jacquetta Cornwall, the rising star of the rave American sitcom everyone is talking about. I feel so giddy!

‘It’s the Eley Kishimoto show now,’ Tabitha whispers as the lights dim and the bass begins to hum, stopping me from spotting any other famous faces in the room or rummaging through my goody bag. It feels heavy.

‘I love their work!’

Eley Kishimoto, how frickin’ amazing! I love their collection, plus they are looking after Cacharel at the moment which is awesome. I can’t wait to see what they showcase in Paris.

‘Me, too!’

Maybe hanging out with Tabitha at London Fashion Week isn’t going to be as awkward as I thought it might be. There’s more to her than meets the eye, and that’s not merely because she’s given me a very interesting business proposition to consider.