The Retail Therapist Read online

  The Retail Therapist

  (Mission Impeccable)

  COLETTE KEBELL

  THE RETAIL THERAPIST (Mission Impeccable)

  A SKITTISH ENDEAVOURS BOOK:

  Originally published in Great Britain by Skittish Endeavours 2015 and this edition 2017

  Copyright © Colette Kebell 2015-2017, All Rights Reserved

  Second/Revised Edition

  The right of Colette Kebell to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Conditions of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  For more information on Colette Kebell see her website at

  www.colettekebell.com

  or

  follow her on Twitter @ColetteKebell

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 1

  Would I lie to you?

  Surely not, I’m a professional. But of course there are things that are better left untold, like in the case of Mrs. De Mario.

  There was nothing wrong with Mrs De Mario, or Carmela, as she insisted on being called, even by perfect strangers. Apart maybe that chignon that made her looked like she was teleported back from the fifties. And her clothes.

  That was our second appointment and still she was going around dressed like the Statue of Liberty, an enormous tunic, with a flower pattern, and a glass diadem on the head. We were in 2003 and good Carmela dressed as if she had just come out of the 1886 inauguration of that historical monument. Mesdames et messieurs, La Liberté éclairant le monde. Triumphal march to follow.

  And she was slightly overweight, but that would not be a problem. If only she would listen to one – and I say just one! - piece of my advice.

  “Carmela there is nothing wrong with you. May I be perfectly honest?”

  “Of course you can,” she said, fiddling with her golden ring like she was a naughty schoolgirl caught in the act and waiting for the reprimand. She was wearing so much costume jewellery she was almost bent double; every time she moved you could hear a chink, so as to warn people around her to steer well clear.

  “Fashion is not about what we like, but what could enhance our own personality.”

  There I was, I just threw a bombshell hoping that the woman would think about it for a second or two, and then smile when the ultimate truth finally sank in; instead the bombshell wasn’t even a firecracker, a complete flop. She kept staring at me waiting for something else. “What I mean is that sometimes we have to compromise. Not only wear what we like, but also wear what make us look good, no matter if we like it or not. It happens then, in an effort to find our own style, we lose our goal.”

  “Which is?” the comment was accompanied by a light sound of metal against metal. It reminded me of those bells in an old fashion hotel or restaurant, to grab the attention of the concierge.

  “You tell me. Do you remember the pictures I took last week? I did a little survey here in town. People of your age. I showed them your picture and asked them what they thought. Here: this is the result.” I said showing her a piece of paper with the main comments.

  “Oh my God” she said after reading them, “A punk? And this one… one of those tramps who ask for money at the train station? Some of those are really nasty, I can’t believe that.”

  “Believe it. I removed many, but they deliver the same message. Let’s go back to the original question: what is the objective you had in mind when you chose to dress like this?”

  “I believe… to be different, to stand out from the crowd and show I have a untameable side in me,” she said eventually.

  “And maybe you are standing out for the wrong reasons. Remind me, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a nurse,” said Carmela.

  “Exactly. Talking about being a nurse I would not dare suggest to you…” What in hell nurses do nowadays? I thought. Last time I was in the hospital I was twelve and they removed my tonsils. The nurse was bringing ice cream, checking papers at the bottom of my bed and smiled. Surely there was more to that profession.

  “How to assist doctors in surgery, or monitoring a patient’s condition?” she came to my help.

  “Precisely. And this is My line of business. I trust you read that article from the Times I gave you last week?”

  “Sure.”

  I started searching among the documents I had on my table, “In your opinion, which one of these attires looks attractive and at the same time untameable?” I was never able to find something I was really looking for in the fashion magazines, and therefore I spent the previous day cutting dresses I liked and putting together a collage. Amongst the various compositions I also put a picture of Carmela dressed as the Statue of Liberty. My client looked at the various pictures, she stopped for a second on her own picture, she grimaced and then she moved on.

  “I like these,” she said eventually, showing me three different looks.

  “They are all dresses that we could call Rocker Chic; as you can see they are elegant, they capture the attention and they are not ordinary. With those you could even have one or two piercings, though that is not preferable, and you would not lose anything in terms of rebellion or elegance. And I mean one or two, not twenty.”

  Maybe I was getting somewhere. The first rule was to admit to having a problem and Carmela passed that barrier by attending the second appointment. Now came the most difficult part, though: finding a new style for her and ensure she didn’t fall back in the old habit.

  “So here is what we are going to do. A trial. We do a single day shopping, we line up some of your friends and collect their feedback on your ‘new look’. How about that?”

  “I suppose…”

  I thumbed through some paperwork on my desk, “And if you are satisfied, then we can work out the rest. I see here you have a three thousand pound budget.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Plenty, plenty,” actually it was not. But I considered Carmela a sort of pro bono, something we do to help the people in need once in a while. “So, come to my office, let’s say, tomorrow at three and we shall take it from there.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, GiGi, I know you are busy” she said sheepishly.

  “Don’t mention it, it’s my pleasure. My secretary will mark the appointment in the calendar and send you a reminder.”

  We excha
nged kisses in Corleone’s style and off she went.

  Yeah, I’m a personal shopper, and that was an example on how I was earning my living. I was working as a personal shopper, buying clothes for other people, but it wasn’t just that. I also started doing consultancy jobs so that my clients could find their own style. It wasn’t an easy job, on occasion it could be extremely stressful, but I wasn’t ready to give up my dream, not yet. I was good with people and therefore I decided to start my own endeavour. I knew that would require working silly hours, but by holding the reins of my own destiny, I knew nobody would have told me what to do. Being a personal shopper was one of the most sought after jobs, soon followed by being a food critic, so I told myself, why not?

  I was lucky with a couple of clients and, despite not having my own office space, the business started picking up. I was aware Carmela would have been an investment, a client that would help open new doors, talk amongst her friends about her change of wardrobe. She was also without hope, the same exact feeling I felt when I had a “regular” job. If we didn’t help each other in this world, what future would we have?

  CHAPTER 2

  Window shopping! Don’t you just hate that term? That was what I had to do, at least until the end of the month, which was three weeks away!

  At that point I had just left my job as a legal secretary, started a career as a personal shopper and was spending my wages faster than I could earn them. The fact of the matter was that I had expensive tastes, and insufficient funds to fulfil my desire for fashion; so here I was with my little notebook, looking at a Ted Baker shop from the outside and taking notes. I’ve done that for ages; when I see something I like, I write it down and revisit it the following month, when my meagre salary comes in. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a big fan of high-end designers; I think someone can dress properly even on a low budget, and that’s what I do unless I decide to splash out all my salary in one go, as had happened this month. Not that I needed a notebook: I have a “fashion memory”. Let me explain. In full accordance with Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, by some freak accident of my DNA I can remember perfectly every shop, every item I saw in that shop, what exact colour each item was, and I also have the capability of matching it with my existing (huge) wardrobe. I can even match items that I saw months ago; if I were working in a hardware store selling paint, I would be employee of the month, every month! For the rest, it’s a lot of bargain hunting; my regular trips to TK Maxx, for example, gave me a beautiful pair of Nicole Farhi leather trousers, a Fenn Wright and Mason dress, an Edina Ronay raincoat and loads more besides. Even places like Primark can spring a nice surprise on you if you choose carefully and you have that gift of matching clothes that I probably inherited from my Italian mother.

  Oh, sod it! I’m gonna put that Ted Baker on a credit card; I’ll pay the balance off next month.

  The phone rang just one millisecond before I entered the shop, I looked at the display and it was Ritchie. I pondered for a couple of seconds whether I could ignore the call, and then I relented.

  “Hello, Ritchie!” I said.

  “Where are you, GiGi? We’re all waiting for you.” Bummer – I’d forgotten. It was Lillian’s birthday and we’d decided to meet in a restaurant near Covent Garden to celebrate. It was a Mexican, and apparently they had the best tequila and vodka Martinis in the neighbourhood.

  “I’m just three minutes away, literally around the corner; I’ll be there in a jiffy,” I lied. Well, I didn’t lie completely: Floral Street was just around the corner, but I avoided mentioning my little detour in Ted Baker.

  “GiGi, I know that tone in your voice! Tell me the truth – where are you?”

  “I am telling the truth … I’m in Floral Street… I …”

  “Are you by any chance near the Ted Baker shop?” How in hell had he known that? Had he installed in my bag one of those tracking devices you see in Hollywood movies? Had he planted a bug on my phone? Was he telepathic?

  “Don’t lie to me,” he continued; “I walked that very road half an hour ago.”

  “Well, ahhh … yes, but I was just window shopping, I swear,” I lied again.

  “If I see you enter the restaurant with a single bag in your hand, it will be confiscated, I promise. Possibly even given to a charity shop.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said, feeling guilty and almost sobbing. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Ritchie is an old friend of mine and has been since my school days, and I’m currently living at his place. He’s also my sponsor. I’m on the path to recovery from spending too much on clothes. He made me admit that I had a problem (the first step) and he’s keeping a strict eye on my spending habits. In some respects, Ritchie put me in “retail rehab”; I’m allowed to spend only a third of my earnings on clothes. Of the remaining two-thirds, one goes into a separate account, which is in my name but he keeps the online password hidden, and the other goes to cover the bills, expenses, etc.

  I kept walking until I reached the restaurant, and there they were. I could see Lillian and her new boyfriend Blake, Helena and Adam, and of course Ritchie. No boyfriend this time, thank goodness. On that point we are similar and quite often we hang out with the wrong type of guy.

  “Hey! What are those bags you’re carrying?” asked Ritchie inquisitively, looking at the two bulging carrier bags I had in my hands.

  “Presents. Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating a birthday today?” I winked at Lillian, who in the meantime stood up and kissed me on both cheeks. Hopefully Ritchie would bury the hatchet for once and let me enjoy the evening. You know, he can be overprotective on occasion.

  “Oh GiGi, you shouldn’t have,” said Lillian, receiving the packages. Wait until you see what’s inside and you’ll take your words back, I thought. “May I open them now?”

  “Sure, go ahead; knock yourself out.”

  She opened the first one and the table fell silent. It was a Roberto Cavalli dress, in a brown-and-blue diamond design with a smattering of gold thrown in for good measure, and I was sure it would fit her perfectly. I had been on a secret mission to find something for myself, in one of the underground warehouses that deals with discounted fashion items and samples, when one of the employees, a friend, pulled me into a corner. That item had arrived the previous day; there were no choices of size or anything and he’d hidden it under the counter, waiting for me to come into the shop. He knew I’d appreciate it.

  In my personal-shopping business you have to have the right connections; the ability to find good clothes before everybody else does is paramount. And as soon as I saw the piece, the second person on my mind was Lillian; and at a hundred and fifty pounds it was a real bargain. Yeah, I got a special price, but I’d spent millions in that place – or at least that’s how it felt – and they could afford the discount.

  “Oh, my God! GiGi, is this a joke? Tell me it’s real!” Her eyes were going from the dress, to me, and back to the dress again. If she could, she would have tried it on the spot. The second present was a bag that I thought would work well with the dress. This was an anonymous one, but who really cared? It was excellently made and nobody would be looking at the label irrespective.

  “Yep. That’s the real deal,” I added, proud of my catch of the day.

  Ritchie was giving me killer looks, so I tried to ignore him. Not an easy task.

  “So what are you up to these days?” she asked, after I’d removed my coat and sat down next to her and Blake.

  “Oh, the usual: trying to change the world; not completely, I mean – just trying to make it look better.” They knew my story only too well; the work I’d done for my first (unofficial) client Marianne, and the second one, with “Lady Gaga”, an eccentric old lady who I’d transformed completely – from Cat-Woman into the Belle of the Ball, an achievement that earned me almost twenty grand. But I had lost that again; I’d put down the deposit on a house that I’d planned to buy with my boyfriend – but we split and now he was my ex. At that point I wa
s broke and virtually homeless; thank God Ritchie took me in as a lodger. The overspending on my credit cards was the natural result of that frustration. I needed to gratify myself in some way and, not knowing how to mourn my earlier relationship, I went on a shopping spree. More than once. Ritchie had nominated himself as my guardian angel.

  “So, Blake,” I asked suddenly, “have you found a job yet?”

  “Indeed I have; it’s with a small firm of architects in Maidenhead. I’m there as a trainee, but so far, so good. And you – have you found any more of those strange clients of yours?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact I have,” I said, and then I told them about my latest assignment, Vanessa, who had won the lottery.

  “You mean that lady in Oxfordshire who got over thirty-five million a few months back?” asked Ritchie, incredulous.

  “That very one; and it was thirty-five million plus pennies.”

  “How did you manage to get in touch with her?” enquired Blake. The table fell silent for a moment.

  “Actually, I didn’t. It was Marjorie who put me in touch with her,” I tried to explain, but the questions kept coming.

  “You mean Cat-Woman?” interjected Lillian.

  “Hey guys, let her explain,” said Ritchie, coming to my rescue. A shame; sometimes I love a bit of suspense.

  “The newly made millionaire Vanessa moved to Berkshire and bought a whopping five-million-pound mansion in Ascot, splashed another unspecified amount in having it redecorated and furnished, bought a spanking new flashy car – only to find herself alone, with more bedrooms than she needed. She was in her mid-forties, divorced, and wise enough to steer clear of any of the pretenders who suddenly popped up out of nowhere once they got the news about her new-found fortune. So what would you do if you were suddenly a millionaire? Surely you can’t just pop into the neighbouring mansion and ask if you can borrow a cup of sugar. Think about it; you have to dress up, jump in your Bentley and drive at least a mile to your neighbour, just to face a closed gate. Ringing the bell is no use; they don’t know you and most likely the butler would just point you in the direction of the nearest Waitrose.”