Blue and Green Should Never be Seen! (Or so Mother says) Read online

  “Really? Are you saying that is a unique piece?” The bait was cast and the big fish was going to swallow it, hook, line and sinker.

  “Sure: there are plenty of places, if you know where to look, and with your figure I guess it wouldn’t be difficult to find something for you. Of course, only if you’re interested …” I could see her thoughts spinning around in her head. On the one side, there was the opportunity of having a less out-of-date wardrobe and, for once, not looking in your thirties as if you had the same fashion designer as our beloved Queen. On the other side, she was a rich woman; she couldn’t afford to be seen in one of the bargain shops and outlets I used to hunt in. Appearance is everything, they say. I threw a lifeline for her. “You don’t have to buy anything, and if someone sees you, you can always say you were accompanying me …”

  She mulled it over for a moment, the doubts eating her flesh from the inside while she was pondering the risks-to-benefits ratio. Then, eventually: “What about this Saturday?”

  “Saturday, it is. You’ll love it!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “What do you mean by ‘He’s back!’?” I asked Ritchie, who was waiting by my office sheepishly.

  “Jasper, Norwegian-jumper guy, is back. He wrote another email.”

  “Ritchie, come on, you know I don’t have time for this. Give him a generic answer and tell him, nicely, to go to hell.”

  “I tried, actually. We’ve already exchanged a dozen emails. He wants you.” He put his index finger on his lips, as he always does when he’s thinking if it’s a case of telling me the whole truth, or not.

  “OK, spit it out! What’s going on?” I asked eventually.

  “He’s cute,” he said with that guilty face and puppy-dog eyes, knowing very well he’d touched a forbidden topic.

  I have known Ritchie for donkeys’ years, way back from high school, and we’ve been best friends ever since. We share a passion for clothes and everything that’s fashionable. That gave him some trouble back then: the way he dressed was a bully magnet. At that age you have to be grey and conform to the uniform like the others; any deviation caused you to be a target. The fact that he was quite camp and openly gay didn’t help his case. At that time I was a bit of a tomboy, and I couldn’t stand all those intimidators around him; I had to fight. I even went to the extent of bashing one around the head with an umbrella. The fact that I was a girl, and my brother was the toughest kid in the area, avoided further retaliations. Ritchie and I have been friends ever since, and he was my first and only choice when I decided to open this business. Sometimes he brings me back to reality; he’s the one who also helps me to manage our poor finances, and keeps me in line when I’m overspending. And no, even if I am the boss, I’m not – if you know what I mean.

  “Are you still trying to find me a boyfriend, by any chance?” I teased him, trying to wear my grumpy face.

  “You should listen to me. The last ones you had were mostly failures,” he countered.

  “Yeah, thanks. How come you always say that after we split up, and never give a warning in time?” That was typical of him.

  “You have to learn from your mistakes, darling. What kind of friend would I be if I have to bitch about all your love affairs? No, dear: now you’re on your own. You will die alone and grumpy,” he laughed back.

  “Yeah, sure. What about Norwegian-jumper guy; what does he want?” I questioned him.

  “He needs the help of your fashion expertise – what else?”

  Something wasn’t right. “How do you know he’s cute?”

  “The message is in your inbox, darling, and there’s a full picture. And if you don’t want him, I’ll take him.” Be my guest, I thought: take him. Have a nice marriage in jumperland, and don’t come back to me begging for mercy and pleading to take you back. I’ll have them put you in retail rehab for at least six weeks.

  Dear Griselda

  I am the first to admit when I make a mistake and I realised I have done so (you see? I am open-minded after all). I understood what you wanted to tell me from the beginning. Now I know and I completely gave up the search for a Norwegian jumper. I still like them, don’t get me wrong, but it’s clear they wouldn’t suit my personality. That’s how great you are. You were able to make me look inside; discover my real nature and, most of all, dare!

  I am a new person, thanks to you. I finally understood the underlying message you were trying to convey. I have been inspired by your example and I wanted to share with you a photo of the new me. Thanks to you, I feel we now can speak as peers. Two enlightened individuals sharing the same battles.

  Thank you again.

  Jasper, your co-equal.

  WHAT-THE-FROCK? I could not believe my eyes! The guy was fitted out with a brown squared tweed jacket, go-cycling trousers and woollen socks. Red. The black shoes seemed the only reasonable thing in what otherwise would have appeared as the perfect picture of Tinker’s grandson, straight out of Lovejoy. He even had the damn bow tie.

  “Ritchieeee! Are you winding me up with this guy?” I shouted from my office. “Be honest, is this a friend of yours?”

  Ritchie got up from his chair and walked, very slowly, towards my office. His back was straight, his head slightly inclined back, in his best “disgusted” attitude. If I didn’t know he was doing the upset game, I could have sworn he was saddened by my insinuation.

  “What makes you think I’ve had anything to do with all this?”

  “Well, the list is long. First, we have a history of you trying to get me dates. Remember a few months ago, that department store manager you wanted me to meet?”

  “Guilty as charged!” continued Ritchie, shamefaced. “But he was cute.”

  “And gay! We passed the evening talking about YOU!”

  “… Erm …”

  “Are you guys still seeing each other?” I asked. I was actually curious to know if at least it ended well.

  “No: I guess we had some discrepancies; we couldn’t work it out, eventually. But … his personality would have fitted with you and …”

  I interrupted him; I knew very well that he was trying to dodge a bullet. “And the one before that?” I added inquisitively.

  “Yes, but …”

  “No but! There are moments when you sound like my mother. You need a family, someone to share your life with, buying a house …” I continued.

  “Which you haven’t managed to do yet,” he said. “You might be the first woman who doesn’t have any bedrooms in her apartment – just walk-in wardrobes.”

  Now he was pissing me off: he always does when he’s right. I didn’t pay much attention to my love life; it always came last in my list of priorities – after my job, after my friends. For God’s sake, even after my wardrobe. The outcome was simple: my love life was a disaster. Paying too much attention to “the partner matter” always ended up in tears. Well, I assume that, for whatever reason, my fixation with clothes and shopping might have contributed, although I’m not entirely sure why. Having placed my love life on such a low level in my list of priorities, I ended up with wrong choices, partners too different from me, a boring one or a psychopath in search of attention. I also had a crush on Ritchie years ago, despite knowing he was gay. Now we’re good friends, but I think he knows and maybe that’s why he’s making an effort to help me find the man that (in his words) I deserve. I shrugged and went back to the question I had on my hands. This Jasper fellow.

  Dear Jasper, my co-equal

  I welcome you into the fantastic world of fashion and personal shopping assistance. I now see the potential in you, although I would have accessorised your outfit also with a Benelli shotgun and a golden retriever. But that’s just me.

  I hope for you all the best and good luck.

  Warmest regards,

  GiGi Griswald

  Ritchie was reading over my shoulder and was fuming and shaking his head, disapprovingly.

  “You really didn’t think that …” I started saying.

 
; PLING!

  Dear Griselda

  What about meeting for lunch tomorrow? Let’s say at 12.30 pm at Café Rouge; it’s very close to your office, so it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle.

  Just a coffee and a chat. I’m not asking for anything else.

  Jasper

  “He’s persistent, this little fellow.” I said, looking up at Richie, who was biting his nails to the bone. “He doesn’t even know if I’m married or what and …” Then I clicked.

  “RITCHIE! WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM ABOUT ME? NO, YOU COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW … DON’T YOU DARE …”

  He was gone. I will catch you later, I thought. You can run, but you can’t hide. Not with that loud Cavalli shirt, you can’t.

  Dear Jasper

  Fine.

  Warmest regards,

  GiGi Griswald

  CHAPTER 4

  And so I went shopping with Mommy Marianne. We had to skip altogether a couple of charity shops in Sunningdale, where I had previously found some decent bargains. Rich people in the area donate their little-used items to charity and often you can find a good selection of designer clothes. I’m not worried if they’re second-hand; quite often they’re unused altogether – bought on impulse and sitting in a wardrobe for ages, and then donated to make space for new ones. Some of them have the year of manufacture written all over them and are to be avoided. On the other hand, occasionally you can find a timeless piece, that unique shirt or garb (rarely skirts, though, for some unknown reason) that still appear fresh and novel today. They would look fashionable even in ten years’ time, in my opinion.

  But obviously the idea of being caught looking at clothes in a charity shop was too much for Marianne: a mistake I should have envisaged and prevented. No, the lady would only consider new items.

  And so we drove further, to Windsor. Marianne was a bit reluctant at the beginning; she knew those shops inside out and she could never find anything that could even interest her. And mostly they were chain shops; same stuff all over the country.

  I didn’t mind the objections; I knew what I was doing. We left the car in the big parking lot by the train station and walked towards Peascod Street. Marianne was unimpressed.

  Finally we turned left, just before the station, and there it was – a small shop with just two windows. On the outside there were Iron Maiden T-shirts, and others depicting red double-decker buses, or the British flag. In the main window, there were also mugs and other tourist items.

  “Did you just bring me to a tourist gift shop?” asked Marianne in disbelief, uncertain if she wanted to cross the threshold and enter.

  “Shhh, this is a gift shop, but of another kind. Follow me.” I winked at her. Eventually she entered and started looking around.

  “GiGi, how’re you doing?” I was greeted by one of the assistants as soon as he spotted me and he kissed me on the cheeks.

  “I’m doing very well, Tony. How’s the family?” I asked

  “Much of the same, apart from the little one, who keeps me awake. She has decided to join the Twilight Saga crew, staying awake at night and sleeping during the day. Definitely gets that from her mother, who keeps sucking the blood out of my finances.”

  “We need access to The Vault!” I whispered to him, pointing my head in Marianne’s direction.

  “Are you sure? I remember last time you went to the dungeon you didn’t emerge from it unscathed. Well, your finances didn’t, that is.”

  “I know, but this time I’ve brought reinforcements. Mind you, she might be your best client ever, with a bit of help,” I said, looking in the general direction of Marianne, who was now paying attention to an Iron Maiden T-shirt depicting a demon riding a horse.

  “Sure: you two follow me.” I made a sign to Marianne that the time had come, and she followed us to the back of the shop, with a perplexed look stamped on her face. He opened a metal door and led the way through a series of steps going down to the warehouse, a vast area probably built at the same time as the train station.

  We were entering the sancta sanctorum of undercover style, the dark net of the fashion industry, where samples and originals could be bought or exchanged in utmost secrecy.

  Not spitting out your sources was the secret of success, and probably Marianne was not fully aware of how much I was sharing with her. Down in The Vault, racks upon racks of clothes and accessories were lined up, occasionally thrown in large containers that someone would have to dive into to search for that elusive item.

  Marianne was flabbergasted; her eyes were lost in the multitude of colours, shirts and accessories surrounding us. A few women were scattered around the shop and they turned their heads to observe the newcomers, giving us angry looks, as if we were threatening their search – intent on discovering that precious item before they could. Down there, sizes were a luxury and often clothes came in a single size. Waiting too long was also not an option and one should make her mind up quickly. Things were snatched in a matter of seconds; that’s why, if you found something suitable, you clung onto it until you were a hundred per cent sure you wanted to buy it or else let it go. It was not unheard of for a person contemplating a skirt to leave it aside for a few minutes while looking for something else, only to find it had been grabbed by someone else. The place could be tense, at times.

  Marianne was lost: no granny clothes in here, so she had to use her imagination. She picked up a dress that had an almost full circular skirt to it, and she even tried it on. How to break the news gently? All those folds in the fabric … not good when you want to hide a rather large backside. It was indeed a good one, but not suitable for her. The advantage was that she was tall and mostly slim, but … erm … her bottom was a bit oversized and that dress was making it look even bigger.

  Something needed to be done, but how to make her understand she was making a mistake? I opted for the diplomatic solution, bringing her a pair of dark Fendi trousers, a shirt and a longer, larger one to wear over the top of it.

  “Trust my judgment; this is my domain, after all,” I said. She tried the outfit on and she liked it. At that point, I had to explain.

  “You see, by wearing this long shirt on top, you make your lines less visible and at the same time they make you look even taller: see for yourself.”

  “You’re right! I can hardly notice my bottom,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror, and then turning to one side. “I love it. You know, I’ve always been aware I was a bit large in the hips, but I never figured out what I could have done. It’s brilliant.”

  She made a move to try a large belt on top of that beautiful cream shirt and I had to stop her. “You see, if you add a belt, then you go back to square one, and make your lines visible again. That’s something you should avoid like …”

  “Oh, my God! I’ve just realised my wardrobe is all wrong …”

  She was now becoming self-conscious and understood the horrors that were waiting for her in her wardrobe, at home. I knew the feeling very well, but in my case the excuse was lack of money.

  “Don’t worry Marianne; it can be sorted out.”

  We (she) spent over two thousand pounds in the Vault that day and planned another trip for the following Saturday.

  A star was born.

  CHAPTER 5

  Café Rouge it was. I was sitting at an inside table and there was no sign of this Jasper fellow. The waitress was circling around me like a vulture, and she’s probably upset because ten minutes have passed and I’ve not ordered anything yet.

  Bummer: he was ten minutes late and I couldn’t stand it. It was my time he was playing with. Have you ever thought about how many things you can do in ten minutes, better than sitting in a stupid café waiting for someone who doesn’t care?

  I did. You could:

  – try at least 14 different belts and take a decision;

  – queue for a dressing room in Fenwicks and try on at least one shirt;

  – analyse one complete rack of clothes in T-K Maxx;

  – buy a
shotgun, load it, then kill the bastard that kept you waiting and …

  Hang on! A nice-looking chap just entered the café and he was looking around; he would be a nice distraction. He was wearing a pair of black shoes that I guess were G J Cleverley. Men’s clothes were not my strength, but I was learning fast and the style was unmistakable. For some strange reason the chap was wearing Brandel Blue laces, but they seemed to work just fine. The dark-grey suit fitted him impeccably, tailored for sure, and I was surprised he didn’t go for a pin-striped version, but the overall look worked just fine. Probably a Super Wool 150 from the look of it. And the gentleman also seemed to have a nice, juicy bum. If only I was not stuck here waiting …

  JASPER? The gentleman turned in my direction and I was shocked. I was expecting him to be wearing a traditional Swiss costume with bells, a nice red-checked farmer’s shirt and an alpine hat with flowers all over it – but this? Had he hired another consultant? Was he just trying to wind me up?

  Then: “Hi, I’m Jasper.” He spoke with a posh accent while he shook my hand firmly. Now that he was right in front of me, I noticed his old Etonian tie – perhaps the only mishap in an almost perfect attire. I would maybe have chosen a JP Gaultier tie in red, but let’s not digress – the overall look was impeccable.

  He sat and asked if I wanted to eat something. Of course I do, you moron; I’m starving and if it wasn’t for you keeping me waiting almost fifteen minutes I would’ve already murdered a burger.

  “Are you going to apologise for being late?” I asked him abruptly.