The Personal Shopper (39 page)

‘
Owen! Could you have made any more mess? Where’s Lana?’ was Annie’s reaction on surveying the state of the front room, strewn with crisp packets, DVD boxes, socks, sheet music and whatever else.
How much longer was half-term going to go on for?
she couldn’t help asking herself.

‘In her room, crying,’ came Owen’s reply.

‘What now?’

‘Nothing, just the same as usual.
Seth, Seth . . . I’ll never love anyone as much as you . . . waaaah
,’ he mocked.

‘Stop it. That’s mean. Can you please start clearing up
 
in here? Gray’s parents are coming for dinner, remember? I better go and talk to her.’

It took thirty vital minutes to talk Lana from blotchy-faced misery into some sort of useful state:

‘
There, there, babes . . . You will start to feel better really soon, I promise. I know everyone says it, but there really are plenty more fish in the sea . . . Young hearts do mend quickly, I promise you . . . In a couple of weeks you’re going to be over him
.’

And in exasperation when that didn’t work: ‘
He was far too old for you . . . boys that age are just totally unreliable . . . and anyway, he was covered in acne . . . even on his back
.’

And finally losing all patience: ‘
I’m sorry, I don’t care any more! You’ll just have to blow your nose, bring your tissues and come and help me downstairs
.’

At last, Annie had Lana employed in the house along with Owen, hoovering, plumping cushions, cunningly disguising packing boxes with tablecloths and throws.

With a great deal of concentration, Annie managed to separate one dozen eggs: whites into one bowl for the meringues, yolks into another for the hollandaise.

Then her mobile rang and she was very surprised to hear Svetlana on the line.

In a few breathless sentences the former Miss Ukraine spelled out the crisis going on in her life. Potato-faced Igor, who had doubtless cheated on her in the past, had
 
now inevitably met someone much younger, much more beautiful and willing, so he had filed for
divorce
!

But the billionaire gas baron, with an eye towards safeguarding every penny of his fortune, had filed in Russia, leaving Svetlana convinced she was going to get nothing.

‘I am phoning all my Russian friends, they are putting me into a panic,’ Svetlana was blurting into Annie’s ear. ‘I think: I must phone an English friend and I think of you.’

Annie couldn’t help but be flattered by this elevation in
 
status from stylist to friend. Although it didn’t say much
 
about the multiculturalism of Svetlana’s inner circle.

‘Darlin’, you’ve got to calm down, right now,’ Annie said as soothingly as she could. ‘You live in London. Your children were both born here, right?’

‘Yes, at the Portland, yes.’

‘Darlin’, the boys are English. I’m certain, absolutely certain he can’t mess you about. He can’t divorce you in Russia, I’m sure you can make sure it goes through the English courts.’

‘But his fortune, his estate is Russian, all in Russia,’ Svetlana went on, her voice rising. ‘He can hide things, hide everything from the English courts. He’s told me this before. Annie, if I don’t agree, I’m going to lose everything. He will threaten to take the boys away . . .’

‘Svetlana, calm down,
calm down, darlin’.’ Svetlana
had Annie’s full attention now: the bowls of separated eggs had been completely forgotten. ‘You’ve been talking to your Russian pals, haven’t you? But this is not a Dostoevsky novel . . .’ Somewhere up there, her late Francis Holland English teacher was smiling. ‘Babes, you live in a sixteen-bedroomed mansion in Mayfair, Igor would have a job hiding that, and that alone would probably see you comfortably all the way through retirement.’

There was a pause while Annie thought hard about what Svetlana needed to do next. Suddenly, it was obvious.

‘You know what?’ she began. ‘I know someone who has been through a very nasty divorce with big money at stake. I’m sure I can ask her which lawyer you need, so keep your phone close and I’ll come back to you just as soon as I can.’

It hadn’t occurred to Annie before just how powerful the women who formed her client base at The Store could be . . . and she had all of their mobiles on speed-dial, in order to inform them at the press of a button when something new and perfect for them had come in.

Aha . . . and here was the number of the very glamorous forty-something whose monumental divorce settlement had made headlines. Now, she would just explain Svetlana’s situation, get the name of the QC who had done the business and call the soon to be ex-billionaire’s wife straight back.

‘Hi! Megan? How are you? Yes, it’s Annie Valentine. Not of The Store any more . . .’

When Annie got back on the line to Svetlana, she was in for a surprise.

‘Got a pen and paper, babes?’ she asked. ‘His name is Harry Roscoff, of Roscoff, Barry and Mosse . . . How will you pay for him?!’ It had never occurred to Annie that
Svetlana would have no money – that Potato-face would already have cut off her allowance precisely so she couldn’t cruise the streets of London in her chauffeured Bentley, chequebook in hand, in search of expert legal advice.

‘You’ve no money?!’ Annie asked incredulously.

‘Not one penny.’

Once this had taken its moment or two to sink in, Annie issued the following instructions: ‘OK, darlin’, here’s what you have to do. You fill up a big suitcase with some of the things in your wardrobe you don’t want any more, the more bags, boots, shoes and labels the better. Then you tell me where I come to collect it from you and
 
I will turn it into cash. I’ll sell everything for the best possible rates. And absolutely not one penny of commission, babes. I’m doing this one for you.’

Now she didn’t envy Svetlana her army of staff, her gilded lifestyle and her utte
r dependency on a total tyrant
quite so much.

When she’d hung up, a glance at the clock caused Annie to swear and ram the slightly runny meringue mix into the oven, set the timer and begin to hunt round the still unfamiliar kitchen for a pot to cook the fish in.

‘Dinah!
Why haven’t I been able to get you on the phone for twenty minutes? Heeeeelp!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Dinah exclaimed, totally panicked by an emergency call from her sister.

‘I need you here. I can’t cope. I can’t do this on my own. I’ve only got two hours left.’

‘Annie, what are you talking about?’

‘I have to make dinner for Gray’s parents and it’s a total cock-up, everything’s going wrong.’

‘OK.’ Dinah breathed something of a sigh of relief. ‘Talk me through it.’

The bloody, blinking hollandaise had curdled . . . Annie was going to have to go out again in the car in
 
search of more eggs . . . oh and the cream she’d forgotten. There was no pot in the entire house big enough for the fish . . . but Dinah was assuring her that salmon could be cooked in the dishwasher.

‘The dishwasher!?’ Annie did not sound convinced.

‘Yes – provided you’ve got enough tinfoil. But you always do.’

‘Oh yeah, I have no more eggs and no more cream, but I have enough bloody tinfoil to build the Tin bloody Man and his entire tin family.’

‘That’s my girl. You just put it on the hottest wash for
 
thirty-five minutes and you must,
must
make sure there’s no powder in the dispenser, obviously.’

It sounded simple enough.

‘Will you talk me through the sauce on the phone when I get back with the eggs? Where are you? I can hear music.’

‘I’m in the Rialto, hiding from the builders, I’ve got half an hour before I get Billie from ballet.’

Because the strangest things had happened to Dinah and Bryan just as soon as Annie had left London: Dinah
 
had been offered the part-time job (doing admin at an art college) she’d always said she never wanted and Bryan had gone out and landed himself a major contract. Now, believe it or not, Dinah was having a new kitchen installed.

‘Oh . . . how’s the Rialto?’ Suddenly Annie felt a swoop of longing for the bustling Italian café she and Dinah liked best for coffee.

‘Oh, you know, same old, same old, the bacon got left in the grill so it’s pretty smoky today. What do you do in Upper Ploxley for coffee?’

‘DIY,’ was Annie’s gloomy reply. ‘Café c
ulture has not made it this far east, sadly.
Damn . . .
drat and double damn.
’

‘Charming.’

‘I’ve just realized
that bleeping’s the oven. Oh hell
! The meringues! Call you later.’

‘Eton mess, remember, Annie!’ were Dinah’s parting words. ‘If your meringues are crap, scrunch them up with strawbs and cream and call it Eton mess.’

It wasn’t the colour of the meringues which was so bad – well, more roasted than lightly toasted – it was the shape. They’d merged, they’d moulded . . . they’d become as one. She had a baking tray entirely covered in one great big sandy brown, slightly crispy meringue.

‘Never mind . . . Eton mess,’ she told herself as she scratched and scraped large chunks into a bowl. Mix with cream, loads of strawberries and . . . Bob’s your uncle.

She loaded up the dishwasher, put in the powder and turned it on, so she could empty it out later, all ready for the wrapped fish, then she rushed out to get eggs and cream.

Back into the Jeep, back down the road, through the eight junctions and three sets of traffic lights, into the mega-supermarket, right down the aisles, locate eggs and cream, also buy more wine, party nibbles and other things to make the basket leaden heavy. As she bowled the Jeep back through the roads, eight junctions and three sets of traffic lights, she considered the convenience of life in Highgate: there, she’d have sent Owen out for eggs and cream and he’d have been back in under five minutes.

It was already approaching 5.30 as she stepped back into Gray’s house to the sound of Connor calling out a hello from the kitchen.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ were her first words as she emerged from the bear hug he treated her to.

‘Just passing – well, filming – not a million miles away,’ he managed through a full mouth. He swallowed then turned to pick up the glass of wine on the table behind him and swilled it down: ‘Mmm . . . gorgeous,’ he said.

‘You’ve made yourself at home,’ Annie said. ‘That’s not anything too fancy, is it?’ She turned the wine bottle and saw a new-looking Spanish label. No, fortunately Connor hadn’t broken into Gray’s vintage French burgundies . . . or whatever they were, all neatly stacked from floor to ceiling in the pantry.

‘Yup, Owen’s an excellent host.’ Connor gave her son, who was seated at the table with an empty bowl in front of him, a hearty pat on the back. ‘So, what’s for dinner? You’re quite the little suburban Nigella these days, then?’ he teased and she was tempted to punch him.

‘You can’t stay for dinner,’ Annie told him. ‘Gray’s parents are coming. I’m meeting them for the first time and I’m totally stressed.’

Connor’s reaction was to sit down, put his long legs up on the kitchen table, fold his arms behind his head and utter the challenge: ‘Just try and make me leave, babes, just try and make me.’

Owen giggled as Annie told Connor, ‘You can stay for a bit but by seven p.m., you are out of here.’

‘C’mon . . . I’ll help break the ice.’

‘Shut up, will you! I have to get on . . . Owen, you do the salad, Connor, scrub the potatoes and I’ll think about it . . . I have to phone Dinah about the sauce again.’