What a Girl Wants (34 page)

The journey wasn’t long, only to the third floor, but it was long enough for me to get to my feet and almost compose myself, although I did sort of need the toilet now. I really should have gone while I had the chance. The doors of the lift cracked open to show a red room I hadn’t seen before but given the artwork on the walls, I would have known it belonged to Warren even if he hadn’t stepped into the lift and bumped right into me.

‘Bess,’ he blustered, his hands held out to steady himself and accidentally on purpose grabbing right for my boobs. ‘Do we have a meeting?’

‘No.’

He was not removing his hands nearly quickly enough.

‘Then apologies, but I am on my way to the airport,’ he said, hands still holding up my rack. ‘I have a car waiting.’

I glanced down at the weekend bag in the crook of his arm and the passport tucked into the top pocket of his leopard-print blazer.

‘You’re leaving? I stepped out of the lift, pushing him forward with my ample sweater puppies. It was amazing how well a man could be manipulated with boobs. Mine were entirely covered by my crew-neck T-shirt and still, I could have made him walk into traffic. ‘But it’s the party tonight.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, looking over my shoulder as the lift doors closed. ‘Perhaps you haven’t had a chance to catch up with Mr Bennett. I’m no long working on the project.’

‘I heard, actually,’ I said, channelling every hard-arsed woman I had ever seen on telly. I was Lady Mary and Peggy Mitchell and every character Helen Mirren had ever played, all rolled into one. ‘But I didn’t really understand why.’

‘Creative differences,’ he dismissed. ‘These things happen.’

‘Nothing to do with Artie, then?’

I was trying very hard to hold my nerve but it had suddenly occurred to me what a very silly thing I was doing. No one knew where I was, no one knew what I was doing and I didn’t really know anything about Edward Warren or Artie Bennett. What if he decided to kill me, skin me and wear me around the house like a snuggie?

‘Nothing at all,’ he replied, far too quickly.

I was a tall woman but Edward Warren was an even taller man. My righteous indignation and hugely inflated self-esteem had given me a few extra inches when the lift doors had first opened but now I was starting to waver.

‘Al’s really upset.’ I decided to take a different tack and appeal to his heart. Failing all else, I could always pull up my shirt and then throw his passport out of the window. ‘He doesn’t understand why you can’t work with him any more.’

‘And I can only tell you what I told him,’ he said, sidestepping me and pushing the call button for the lift. The power of my boobs had definitely worn off. ‘I don’t have the time and the designs aren’t up to standard. Having thought about it, AJB isn’t a project I feel I can contribute to.’

He looked away, at the ceiling, at the floor, out of the windows. He was looking at anything but me, boobs included. He was lying.

‘That’s really sad,’ I said. ‘I bet Jane would be really disappointed.’

He shrugged inside his black silk bomber jacket, unmoved. I was about four seconds away from switching to the boob offensive when another idea struck me. Warren’s walls might be covered in pictures of naked women but there was one even stronger influence in his decorating, one thing he loved even more than tits. Himself.

‘And such a shame for, well, everyone. Those samples I saw were so beautiful. They might have been the most amazing dresses I’d ever seen,’ I said, with a sigh, pulling my shoulders back, just in case. ‘And I know Al has tons of journos coming. He was so excited to be working with one of his best friends on this, actually said there was no way it could happen without you. Really, I think everyone knew that you were the most important part of all of this. I mean, you’re the one who really makes it happen, aren’t you?’

‘The pattern cutter is always forgotten,’ he sniffed, flicking his luxuriant black hair away from his face. ‘Artie is right; Albert Bennett is always the story. Al always will be the story.’

Bingo.

‘Artie?’ I crossed my arms across my chest. No more boobs for you, Edward Warren. ‘He said that?’

‘It’s never a good idea to interfere with family, Bess,’ Warren said, brushing an eyebrow into place. Not the first time I’d heard that piece of advice today. Not the first time he’d called me Bess, either. ‘If there is one man on this earth more determined than Albert Bennett, it’s Artie Bennett. How that man came from such wonderful people I will never know but I’m not going to sabotage my own career for the sake of a man I haven’t seen in years.’

‘Surely working on Al’s collection is good for your career?’ I argued, desperate to get to the bottom of this. ‘It’s going to be huge.’

‘It’s never going to happen.’ Warren finally caved, dropping his bag on the floor and ignoring the lift as it chimed its arrival and opened its doors.

I stayed where I was as he strode back towards his desk, my hand hovering over the lift call button in case he was going to grab a weapon and I needed a quick getaway. I really didn’t want to be a skin suit, even if the stitching was certain to be beautiful.

‘And why’s that?’ I asked.

‘Artie isn’t going to let it happen,’ he replied. ‘He’s blackballed Al with more or less every factory I’ve spoken with and he’s done the same with every leasing agent in Milan, probably London, Paris and New York, I shouldn’t wonder. And all Al knows is that his son has his knickers in a twist about stocking his line in Bennett’s. It’s depressing.’

‘He knows you’ve bailed on him,’ I added. ‘I’m really sorry if I’m being stupid but what’s in it for you? You don’t sound that happy about shitting on your friend. Thankfully.’

Warren picked up a long, silver letter opener on his desk.

Oh fuuuck.

‘I’ve been a pattern cutter for a long time,’ he said, fingering the dull blade. Everything was starting to look a little bit Bond villain – and not in a good way. ‘And I have wanted to produce my own line for even longer but no one was interested. Once you’re in your box, you stay in your box. Unless you have Al’s money and name and prestige, of course.’

‘You could start again,’ I said, finger on the button. ‘People can do that.’

‘And people can fail,’ he replied. ‘I am the best pattern cutter in Italy, maybe in the world. You don’t walk away from that. The fashion industry isn’t the friendliest place, they don’t look kindly on failure. If I had brought out my line and it didn’t work, no one would have taken pity on me. Don’t you remember Slimane’s first collection for Saint Laurent?’

I pretended to think hard for a moment.

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘Carnage,’ he replied. ‘Absolute critical carnage. Thank God it sold, or he would have been designing tea towels for M&S by the end of the year.’

‘Everyone seems to be supporting Al,’ I said, really wishing he would put that letter opener down. Didn’t he have something less lethal he could play with? Basket full of puppies maybe? ‘What’s the difference between him and you?’

‘A dead wife and an endearing beard go a long way with a lot of people,’ Warren said, banging the letter opener down. ‘Sorry, that was uncalled for.’

‘Bit harsh,’ I agreed, wondering how true it was. I did like that beard and even though I’d never met her, I did have a huge, wailing girl crush on Jane.

‘Artie offered to help me and stock a capsule collection in Bennett’s.’ Warren sat down and smoothed his hair over his bald patch. ‘So I made a business decision. It was nothing to do with Al.’

I was starting to wonder whether Nick was right about more than I cared to believe. I had thought that advertising was a cut-throat industry but I’d spent seven years cocooned inside one company, getting on with my job and just trying to do the best that I could, while the rest of the world was out there, shitting on each other from as great a height as possible. It was a bit depressing when you thought about it.

‘He’s going to be really hurt when he finds out,’ I said, not sure where else to go. I’d appealed to his heart, I’d appealed to his ego and my ego knew that I’d never be able to appeal to his peen. If the receptionist hadn’t made it clear enough, the photos on the walls did. Nothing over a size two got this man going. He wasn’t even looking at my boobs any more. ‘Didn’t you ever think about asking Al to help you get your designs out?’

‘Have you not been working in fashion photography for very long, dear?’ Warren stood up and rounded his desk, picking up his weekend bag with a new resolve on his face. ‘There are no favours in the fashion world. No one asks anyone for help.’

‘Al asked you,’ I said. ‘And you were really quick to help him out. You don’t think he would do the same?’

He paused and looked like he was considering my question.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?’

‘I wish it did,’ I said, stepping aside as he pushed the button for the lift. ‘You won’t change your mind? Talk to Al? See what he can do?’

‘He can’t do anything,’ Warren replied as the lift doors opened. ‘For me or himself. I suggest you take your photos and go home, Bess. Al’s days are done.’

I hoisted my handbag onto my shoulder and watched as the doors closed behind him, relieved I was still alive but devastated that I hadn’t really helped at all.

‘Still,’ I said to myself, calling the lift back up to my floor and half looking forward to the look on the receptionist’s face when I walked out, ‘I didn’t end up as a skin suit so we can call this a win.’

I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I’d lost my pitch to Warren and returned home empty-handed. It was so much easier when you were pitching to a toilet paper company; there were fewer lives to ruin at the end of the day. Not that things didn’t get brutal in the world of bog roll, let me tell you.

One good thing about spending almost every weekend in the office, whether it was because I was hiding from my flatmate or working too hard, was the alone time. I was used to spending a lot of time with nothing but my own thoughts and those thoughts had invariably been about Charlie. For the last week, I’d struggled to get more than a few moments to myself. All I wanted, as I sloped back through the gates of the palazzo, was to lock myself in my office with a KFC meal and sulk about an unrequited crush. It had been a simpler time. Without an office to go to, I wandered through the grounds, kicking a few stones that happened to be in my way, and headed straight to my secret garden. Only today, there was nothing secret about it.

Three gardeners in matching green dungarees looked up at me as I pushed open the door. The one who had decided the dungarees made more of a fashion statement without a T-shirt underneath wiped the sweat away from his forehead and gave me a decidedly lascivious grin.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, backing out quickly. ‘You’re working.’

They all shouted after me but I didn’t understand what they were saying and I wasn’t interested in hanging around and playing charades to work it out. I was ignorant and I was tired. In just a few hours, Al was expecting me to trot into his party, all gussied up in a posh frock, no doubt, and take pictures of his fabulous bash with a smile on my face. I was going to need all the energy I could muster for that; I didn’t have any to waste on the pervy gardeners. There was only one other place I could think of in the whole palazzo where I could be alone, where I could think. Pulling my handbag up high on my good shoulder, I steeled myself and set off inside, looking for sanctuary.

Even though Al had given me express permission to shoot in Jane’s studio, I still felt like I was intruding as I turned the key in the lock and let myself inside. The room was huge but felt so much smaller than the bedrooms and salons that made up the rest of the house. The studio used to be the loft and had much lower ceilings than I was used to now. I stooped, even though I didn’t really need to, wondering how tall Jane had been. She looked so statuesque in all the photos I’d seen but she could have been wearing heels. Another person that felt so familiar when really, I knew nothing about her.

I watched a ruffle of dust flutter around in the light by the window, disturbed by the open door; and held my breath until it settled against the silence. It was clear that this room had been looked after; it was a little dusty but it was perfectly clean, and everything had been kept just so. I could easily imagine that no one had stepped foot in here since Jane had died.

The dresses Amy and I had shot were still on the dummies, all beautiful, heavy fabric and tiny, barely visible stitches. I could almost hear my grandmother’s voice telling me they didn’t make dresses like this any more. And now they never would, I thought sadly. How could Warren be such a coward? How could he live with himself?

Jane’s work table was right by the window, perfectly positioned to make the most of the light. Pulling out the chair, I sat down, feeling sad and defeated and not just on Al’s behalf, but also about everything. Amy wasn’t going to get her dream job, Al wasn’t going to get his fashion line and I wasn’t going to get my happily ever after. I wasn’t the girl for Charlie; I’d changed too much to go back to that. And Nick wasn’t the man for me. How many times had I gone home and laughed at my friends when they told me how the arsehole they were dating wasn’t really an arsehole, he was just misunderstood. And now I was one of them.

There were a lot of things I could live with – smelly feet, bad taste in movies – but I couldn’t pretend to be OK with a complete lack of moral compass. Sometimes, when you kissed a frog all you were doing was kissing a frog.

I aimlessly rolled a pencil back and forth along the desk, resting my temple in my hand and scanning Jane’s magazines, her notebooks. Everything about the palazzo was beautifully put together, all crisp white walls and elegant gilt edging, perfectly appointed furniture accented by the most exquisite antiques; it screamed good taste. But this room was different. I hadn’t noticed it when we were shooting – I was too busy shouting at Amy to lift up the reflector and trying to do a good job of the photographs – but this room, beautiful though it was, seemed to be a million miles away from the rest of the house. The walls were painted a warm creamy colour and the curtains at the window were light voile, designed to let the light through all day and night, whether it was from the sun or the moon, and the furniture looked worn and loved.