The Personal Shopper (20 page)

Mrs B-P wasn’t just shopping for herself either, she wanted birthday presents for her two stepdaughters.

‘What’s happening in your life anyway?’ she asked Annie as they made their way down to the accessories department. ‘Any news from the love life front, or is it still a no-man’s-land?’ she teased.

‘Now funny you should ask about that,’ Annie confided. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve met someone quite interesting.’ She then proceeded to give an intrigued Mrs B-P the rundown on Gray.

‘We talked and talked for the rest of the evening. He’s promised to call and take me out to dinner . . . he is charming, good looking . . . I’ve got high hopes for this one,’ Annie enthused, ‘because I’m definitely ready to meet someone else . . . move on . . . have someone there for me again.’

‘Of course you are.’ Mrs B-P smiled at her. ‘I can’t think of anything better that could happen to you.’

They were standing in front of a display of the most
 
exquisite velvet devoré scarves. Each one hand painted, hand embroidered, with patterns painstakingly burned into the velvet and monumental price tags to match.

‘These are beautiful . . .’ Mrs B-P ran her fingers slowly over the pile. ‘This is just what I want for Georgina and Ellie. Pinks and pale blues for my blonde Ellie’ – she slithered the wide work of art scarf around her own neck – ‘greens and gold for Georgie. Yes! This is just right, Annie, perfect. Then I’m going to Cartier to buy them something . . . solid.’

Annie took the two scarves and folded them carefully: ‘Are you all right?’ she asked finally, putting a hand on Mrs B-P’s arm, intuitively worried that something was not right at all.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine. I just have to spend some time in the damn hospital.’ Mrs B-P turned to look her directly in the face with her sharp, blue eyes. ‘Oh, it’s so boring, Annie, totally dull . . . I need a mastectomy, chemotherapy and all that
dreary
stuff. I’m going to need a lot of interesting hats and scarves, I can tell you.’

She brushed away Annie’s shocked look of concern with: ‘It’s very, very early stages. And I’m going to recover, my dear. Totally. Fully. One hundred per cent. Not a single question about that. I’m not even entertaining the possibility of not recovering. You think I’m exiting now? Just when it’s got this good?!’

‘I know,’ she acknowledged Annie’s slightly tearful eyes. ‘Bummer. Now come on.’ She took up Annie’s arm
 
again: ‘There’s a time for weeping and wailing and complaining about how unfair it all is. But now is not that time. “Chins up and straight backs,” as my mother would say. Now is the time to buy a wonderful new handbag. You’re to choose. I’m leaving it entirely up to you. When I’m shuffling from home to hospital and back, I want to have Archie on one arm, and something just as fabulous on the other.’

Chapter Twelve

Tor in recovery:

White blouse (M&S)

Deep red cardigan (M&S)

Jeans (no recollection)

Black boots (back of wardrobe)

Black fake fur (ditto)

Total est. cost: £360

‘. . . to new men and new scarves.’

Tor, the St Vincent’s mother Annie w
as making over for free,
met Annie at the door of the family home she was abo
ut to be kicked out of and ushered
her into the kitchen for tea.

‘No, I think we better make
it red wine, babes,’ Annie
insisted, taking a bottle from her bag.

‘I’ve made a rule never to
drink by myself though,’ Tor
told her, taking two water glasses out of the cupboard, already stripped of almost all its contents.

‘Good thing I came round then,’ was Annie’s response, before she assured Tor, ‘I think a little drinking on your own might be OK right now – for a few weeks anyway – until you’ve got the move behind you. You better not have packed up any of your wardrobe yet, otherwise how am I going to do my job?’

Annie put her lovely jangling golden bag down on a chair, then slipped off her soft conker brown leather coat and long scarf to reveal a pink, orange and brown patterned dress elegantly set off with high brown boots.

‘No,’ Tor repli
ed, taking in the many details of Annie’s outfit: the tights in the same shade of orange as the dress for instance, the necklace of golden leaves fanning out from her collarbone. She looked so together, so carefully considered.

‘It’s still three weeks away,’ Tor continued. ‘I’ve just put away kitchen stuff . . . books . . . Things that are definitely mine.’

After a bit of talk about Tor’s new flat and her daughter Angela and how the divorce was affecting them (badly to say the least), Tor suddenly put her glass down on the table, ran a hand through her hair in an agitated way and blurted out: ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Annie! I don’t know why I’ve agreed to this. I just don’t think I can. I don’t want to think about clothes. I don’t care! I’ve got no money . . . showing me some clever things to do with scarves is just not going to help! Not one bit!’

‘Tor, calm down,’ Annie soothed, reaching out to pat
 
Tor’s arm, ‘I am so sorry about what you’re going through. I am so, so sorry. I really do understand how you feel, honestly. I have been here.’

Tor looked up and met Annie’s eyes.

‘Yes, of course you have,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m trying not to think about myself and all my problems all the time . . . but it’s hard.’

‘I’m not a therapist,’ Annie continued gently, ‘I’m not a shrink – and it could be that you should see someone like that, to get you through the worst of it. God knows, I probably should have . . . But there is something I can do, I promise. I’m here to cheer you up, to make you feel just a tiny bit better about yourself, and what’s so wrong with that? C’mon, drink up,’ she instructed, ‘then we’re treating ourselves to a refill and heading to your wardrobe.’

In the bedroom, Annie took two bin bags out of her makeover kitbag and began to unroll then shake them open.

Tor looked at the black bags anxiously: ‘I wasn’t planning on throwing much away,’ she said.

‘I know.’ Annie sounded brisk. ‘No-one ever does, but don’t worry, you will. There’s a lot of dead wood in a divorce wardrobe, believe me. For starters, we’re going to get rid of all the unsuitable presents
he
gave you. You know, the expensive things that didn’t fit, weren’t your colour, but you didn’t have the heart to exchange. You know what I’m talking about. Open your underwear drawer,’ Annie instructed, ‘c’mon, pass it on out. I wish I could think of a good home for all the expensive underwear I have to get rid of . . . charity shops don’t want it, no-one will buy it on eBay . . . maybe
I should be donating it to schools for their arts and craft boxes . . .’ Annie gave a little laugh. ‘You know, that is a good idea.’

Tor was almost threatening to smile at this; she was also opening a drawer, stuffed full of all the usual suspects: red and pink bras and suspenders, a tiny corset, dainty peach-coloured feathery things, quarter-cup bras for breasts the size of raisins, not Tor’s ample cleavage.

‘What was he thinking?’ Tor said, picking up the wincy bra and gazing at it in bewilderment. ‘Not of me, anyway . . .’ She tossed it into Annie’s bin bag.

The emptied drawer seemed to have just the galvanizing effect on Tor that Annie had hoped for. Soon she was opening her cupboard doors wide and ferreting about in there for anything suspect dumped on her by her soon-to-be-ex.

A revolting primrose yellow cashmere cardigan: ‘Yup, put it in the sale bag, Annie instructed. I’ll put it on my web site for you and you’ll get eighty-five per cent of the price paid. Sound fair?’

‘Sounds bloody marvellous,’ Tor told her.

Paisley scarves, dodgy brooches, a tweedy jacket and a scary loud pink cocktail dress with matching bolero followed on quickly.

Tor rooted deeper into forgotten corners of the cupboard: ‘Oh God!’ She picked up a cardboard box, opened it and took out a beaded, pastel-coloured wrap of sorts.

‘EBay, eBay . . .’ Annie instructed. ‘We don’t want anything hanging about that is going to make you think of Richard and weep. Obviously, I’ll make an exception for very expensive jewellery and handbags.’

‘Hah!’ Tor snorted and took another gulp of wine. ‘My engagement ring was the one and only decent bit of jewellery I got from him.’

‘Ah well,’ Annie said, ‘I never even got an engagement ring. We were young and couldn’t afford it.’

‘Do you think I should still wear it?’ Tor wondered, holding out her hand and the triple-stone ring for inspection. ‘On my other hand, maybe?’

‘If you love it, why not? It’s your badge of honour. Reminder of the better times before . . . or then again you could have the stones reset . . . or sell it off and buy something just for you.’

‘Hmmm.’ Tor turned back to her wardrobe and knelt in front of the shelves. ‘Everything in here is utter crap,’
 
she announced, the wine now loosening up any inhibitions about this task. ‘I don’t know if I can even bear to show you these things. I sort of rummage around in here every day and bring something out and just plonk it on.’

Now this was just so heart-breakingly sad, it made Annie want to cry.

Today, Tor was wearing washed-out jeans, a T-shirt with a sagging neck and a bobbly grey fleece cardigan.

‘Babes, if I gave that cardigan to Gisele Bundchen, she’d struggle to make it look good,’ Annie told Tor gently. ‘You’ve got to stop with the lucky dip going on in here every morning and find some things that are a little easier to work with.’

‘I’m not going shopping,’ Tor said firmly. ‘I can’t face it and I can’t afford it.’

‘I know, I know. But c’mon, let’s get it all out and see what’s hiding in there . . . and by the way, what is this nice little collection hanging up here on the rail?’ She made a
quick rifle through the smart black skirts and jackets, sparkly tops and silky summer dresses.

‘Oh, you know, work clothes. Then dress-up things, I never wear any of those, I never go out any more.’

Annie tutted and shook her head. She brought down
 
a lovely knee-length dress and held it up against Tor.

‘Bet you’ve lost weight . . . all the stress?’ she asked.

Tor nodded.

‘So, think how fabulous you’d look in this now. You know, once a week, babes, you’ve got to dress up: hair, make-up, shoes, the full monty, and get out there.’

When Tor scoffed at this, Annie insisted: ‘Not on the pull. Not yet anyway. Just nicely turned out for a special occasion. And then you make the occasion happen. You
 
take your daughter out for coffee at a nice hotel .
. . you go to the cinema
. . . you ask your friends out for a drink. Once a week, girl, you have to dress up, treat yourself and remember how great you can look
 
when you want to. You have to remind yourself that life is still out there, fun is still to be had. Otherwise, all these beautiful things, they’re just hanging here with
 
nowhere to go. Look.’ She took down a turquoise silk blouse: ‘Wear it with jeans to do the supermarket run. Wear it to work, just don’t leave it up there all alone!’

Tor’s shoulders seemed to droop at the thought of having to make this effort.

‘OK, work with me,’ Annie encouraged her, ‘let’s get rid of the unwearables and see what’s left, shall we?’

They spent the next ten minutes or so sifting through Tor’s daily lucky dip outfits. Everything worn, saggy, ratty and baggy hit the bin bag, including the tragic knickers and mismatched ankle socks.

‘You do not need me to tell you that you need new underwear, Tor. You can afford new pants, OK? Everyone can afford new pants,’ Annie told her. ‘Buy them on the internet or at the supermarket if you don’t want to go into a lingerie shop.’