The Retail Therapist Page 4

CHAPTER 7

  Ritchie was like a tiger in a cage, walking up and down in the apartment without resting a moment; I could barely work. Another day passed with no phone calls, and Ritchie needed to get out of that house. He was driving me crazy. At first he started sending CVs and answering job ads as anybody else would; then the fear kicked in, knocking his confidence completely. He started adding his picture to the CV, so they could see what he looked like – “a more personal approach”, he said; then he removed it when he still didn’t get any response, only to add it again later. Then he tried different paper, using an expensive one; then a coloured one so that his CV could stand out in the pile. It was no use; every job received hundreds of replies and Ritchie, on paper, was just one of the many. The frustration mounted and he became bitchy, so something needed to be done.

  “Hey, will you stop that? I can’t concentrate,” I said in a very irritated voice.

  “Well, at least you’re busy doing something. What are you doing?” he snapped back.

  “Sorting out this Russian lady, who keeps dressing expensively but despite all her efforts still ends up looking like a Matryoshka doll.”

  “Can I have a look?” he asked, walking tentatively behind the computer screen I was staring at. “Oh my gosh – is that for real?” he said, looking at the picture of my newly acquired client, Ivana.

  “Indeed; she’s unbelievable, huh?”

  “She’s not bad if you remove the flowers, that heavy make-up and the stilts. Was she working in a Russian circus?” he added. “And look at that hair; she looks like Samantha Stephens from Bewitched.”

  “Now you’re really being nasty,” I said, but I already had that picture in my mind and started giggling.

  “She could do with a sprinkle of Maria Grachvogel; she has the figure to carry the clothes and she wouldn’t suffer by having some patterns to them. Just that alone would be a great improvement, without having a radical change. Well, it would be, but you know what I mean. Maybe with some Kamper jewellery, bold and square, and some Abcense shoes she wouldn’t look that bad.”

  I was stunned. Where the frock was all that coming from? But the more I thought about it the more it made sense; what he was suggesting was right, although he had taken a completely different approach from mine. It would probably have fitted with her personality and Ritchie pulled off what I considered to be a miracle, considering he had never even spoken to the client. If he could do that from a picture, maybe he could do even better once he had some more details. An idea started forming in my mind.

  “Ritchie, I was wondering … while you’re searching for the perfect job, why don’t you work with me on these assignments?”

  “I don’t know, GiGi; I have CVs to send out, as well as trawling the job sites and so on. And then I wouldn’t know where to start,” he added tentatively. As usual when nervous he started to bite his nails.

  “It’s just an idea,” I continued, but my mind was spinning. “You could organise your day and spend a couple of hours searching for your job in the morning, instead of sitting at the computer all day long.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “And then you could help me out with some clients. I mean, I spend the day talking to them, driving, going to shops. I could use some help in keeping me sane and, mostly, in doing some research. I barely know some of the designers you mentioned, and if I wasn’t paying attention to the fashion week I would’ve completely missed the point. I mean, I hardly have time to keep up with what’s new.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “And you’d get paid. It’s a real job: think about it,” I pressed. I wasn’t just trying to cheer him up; I honestly thought I could use his help, and my gut feeling was that he’d be great. It was a risk, but what had he to lose?, he already been handed his marching orders after all. While waiting for that elusive job he could earn something, and do me a favour at the same time. Win–win.

  Dinner was in Camberley, not too far from a couple of friends we shared, and that evening I forced him to get dressed, shave and come out of his room.

  “And no, you can’t bring your laptop; job agencies don’t do night shifts!”

  That made him laugh, for once, but since he’d lost his job he became obsessed about checking emails every ten minutes. He feared going to the loo, just in case someone might call for a position and he missed the call. “They move straight to the next one in line if you don’t answer” – or at least that was his justification for not even going to pee. People need a break, once in a while, and I promised to myself I was going to give him one.

  Knowing we were going out for dinner, my brother Dexter (or Dex for short) tagged along, hoping I would pay for dinner for him as well. He gave a brand-new meaning to the phrase “being between jobs”, although I have to admit that on the rare occasions when he was in one he did work his socks off. He would grow up, eventually.

  The venue was a fantastic Thai restaurant I’d found by chance in Camberley, not far from where we lived, and the atmosphere was exquisite. The interior resembled an old Tudor house, although the building itself was fairly new, and they had mixed British and Thai furniture in a very balanced way. Ritchie and I arrived last, as usual; they say women take ages to get ready. Ah!

  Blake and Lillian were already waiting for us and so was Dex, accompanied by his girl of the moment.

  “So what are you up to, Dex?” I asked, after I’d kissed him on both cheeks and he’d introduced me to his new girlfriend, a certain Jolie who, strangely enough, was far away in her looks from the bimbo style that had seemed to be his preference lately.

  “More of the same; I’m between jobs” – that was no surprise – “but I keep myself busy now, as a football coach.”

  “Hopefully not for Chelsea?” asked Blake, who was passionate about his football. “Although granted,, you couldn’t do any worse than the one in charge now.”

  “No, it’s the local football team – the girls,” explained Dex.

  “What’s that?” interjected Ritchie. “You weren’t good enough to coach the boys?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny. It has its responsibility, you know? Bonding the team, making them actually play together. They’re teens, and there are days when I’m just grateful they simply show up for training.”

  “It’s true,” added Blake. “I was working with the Scouts in my spare time, and as soon as they reach their teenage years, somehow they disappear. We’ve all been there.”

  “We have the first match next Saturday,” added Dex. “Do you want to tag along and show a bit of support?”

  Football was not my cup of tea, but Dex needed some encouragement, so I agreed wholeheartedly to be there. And so did Blake and Lillian. “Ritchie, are you with us?” I asked my companion and best friend, who seemed to be miles away from what we were discussing.

  “Aahhhh … yeah, sure! Count me in. Anybody want another round of beers?” he asked, standing up.

  “Sure,” answered Blake, “Let’s see if the waitress is around …”

  “Don’t worry: I can order them directly at the bar; it’s quicker,” and without even waiting for an answer off he went. We continued talking about Dex’s new endeavour when, by chance, I noticed Ritchie talking to a tall, muscular guy who had reached him from an adjoining table. They seemed friendly. Ritchie seemed completely engrossed, and was that a twinkle I saw in his eye? He was positively beaming when he returned to the table. One look was all it had taken. I could see very clearly that Ritchie, if only in his own head at that point, was in love. How could that be? He’d only talked to Mr Muscles for a few minutes, but I’d seen him tuck a piece of paper into his wallet, which could mean only one thing. His mood altered dramatically from that point on and, without meaning to, I saw all the surreptitious looks that were passing between the two of them. Dexter, on the other hand, was engrossed in talking about his teen football team. They seemed to have found at least something that kept them both occupied. Lillian burst out laughing and all heads turned in her direction.
She, it seemed, had also spotted the looks passing between Ritchie and this new potential love interest of his.

  “Ritchie has found a boyfriend: na na nan na na …” she started chanting, as if she were a six-year-old kid. She was giving the evil eye to Ritchie and just wouldn’t stop laughing and chanting; she was trying to speak, but each time she started it came out sounding as if she was being strangled and the laughter just continued. Ritchie looked none too pleased, by the way. “What in hell are you laughing at, Lillian?” he said, quite upset and guilty, like a boy caught with the fingers in the Nutella jar. The boys interrupted their football talking and suddenly turned towards the two, as if they’d just missed a goal. Which they had, in a way.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Blake, looking at his companion and then at Ritchie, missing the point.

  “Nothing, dear,” I interjected. “We’re just having a bit of fun. Go back to your football.”

  Oh dear, Ritchie seems to be still taking this too personally, I thought. Lillian, having decided she was behaving in poor taste, was seriously trying to control herself, but with little effect. She eventually got up from the table and went to the ladies’ room, presumably to regain some kind of composure.

  “So, who’s the Hulk?” I asked, trying not to giggle myself.

  “It’s just an old friend.”

  “No, he’s not!” I pressed him.

  “OK, he’s not. We go to the same church.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” I was glad he was starting to cheer up. “Sure. But you’re too busy for a date. I mean, you have all those CVs you’ve got to send out, as well as keep minding the phone. You know …”

  “I thought you’d just hired me as a fashion consultant researcher.” He smirked at me.

  “Indeed I have. I can give you a discount if you need my help in choosing your outfit.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’m the best.”

  “I know you are, but no thanks.”

  “You forgot the beers, mate,” interjected Dex, between a “Spurs” and an “Arsenal”, leading me to think he wasn’t really paying attention to what had just happened.

  Ritchie got up again and went back to the bar. I could see he gave a quick glance at the Hulk’s table.

  CHAPTER 8

  That was the way to work: Ritchie doing the research and phone calls, while I was hitting the road. The deadline for Allyson Traynor was close and the journalist would be there in just a few days. The clock was ticking.

  I came home with bags of clothes and then we started sorting the best in Ritchie’s bedroom; if we didn’t consider something to be a perfect fit, we would have returned it to the shops.

  “What do you make of this?” I asked, showing him a pair of pin-striped trousers and a jacket.

  “Put that aside; that’s perfect. Oh my gosh – I can’t believe I’m doing this for Allyson Traynor,” he said, full of emotion, “In that slave factory where I used to work we didn’t have any celebrities.”

  “Well, now we have, and if we play our cards right, there might be more.” It wasn’t a false promise, word of mouth works wonders in my line of business and already I had landed work with some high-up people.

  Eventually we finished the sorting and both of us felt we’d done an outstanding job. Ritchie went to the kitchen and opened a couple of beers that we drank there, sitting on the floor in his bedroom, admiring the result of our hard work.

  “Do you want to tag along this time?” I asked him, while I was mentally rethinking about what went with what.

  “I’ll pass on this one. What happens if she doesn’t like it? I’m going to take the blame.”

  “Don’t be silly; she’ll love it.” I tried to encourage him, but I could see that being without a “proper” job had knocked his confidence.

  “Hmmm …”

  “OK, don’t worry. Let’s pack the things up and make a move.”

  We worked like a team, each knowing exactly what the other would think, like or dislike and I was happy Ritchie was part of this endeavour. If only it lasted; my job is a solitary one, even if I do happen to work with a lot of people. Having someone to share ideas regularly with made me realise that, if I wanted to go somewhere and fully enjoy what I was doing, I had to be with someone else – Ritchie, for example.

  I took the car and drove to Ascot the same day; the boot was full to the brim with clothes, shoes and accessories and I had to make a person happy. The thousand pounds Allyson gave me were long gone and I invested my own to buy the necessary, but so be it, I thought. It’s like being Father Christmas sometimes, and I thrive on joy when I realise I’ve made someone happy, even just for a moment. When people speak about job satisfaction, I get it; I know exactly what they mean.

  Allyson Traynor was waiting impatiently by the window, while I parked my reindeer in her driveway. Max, the retriever, was jumping around my car as if an old friend, long lost, had finally arrived home, and Allyson helped me to bring the goods inside.

  “No peeking!” I warned her.

  The most difficult thing, other than not getting the job done, is presenting the results. A woman is used to her own style, even if it is a horrible one, and accepting changes is the hardest thing we have to endure – I call it “the path to recovery”. Allyson was no different, and when she saw what I’d bought for her, she was worried. I could read the shock in her face, at the idea of having to wear something she’d never worn before. People can panic in such situations; they can reject the whole job altogether. Just the idea that a stranger might know what suits you better is repellent. “How can this woman know my likes and dislikes? Should I trust her?”

  There’s nothing wrong in that; it’s in our nature, but I’d picked up a few tricks on the way that allowed me to bypass that tense moment.

  “Why don’t you try something on?”

  Allyson obliged accordingly. She tried on outfit after outfit, though the first was one of my experiments. Her first outfit to try on was one that I’d picked up in one of the underground shops and it had been made by a minor designer, one that most people would never have heard of. She loved it to bits and this just encouraged her to continue trying on the pieces I had brought her. There were a few little gems amongst the clothes, however, that I’d gone over my usual spending limit to pick up. What Allyson didn’t know, though, was that the most gorgeous one, the one she’d adored from the moment she set eyes on it, was a House of Fraser Linea dress. It was a beautiful bright apple-green in linen, with a white flower-pattern design and cream/off-white beading detail around the neckline. There was also a Marks and Spencer black-and-white number which, despite having a flowing skirt, suited her down to the ground. With some expensive accessories I’d bought for her, it was perfect.

  It took time, but eventually she saw in herself what I saw in her. It wasn’t just looking good for the right occasion that mattered; you have to look the part no matter what, to ensure you can go into the most unexpected places and still find yourself stylish and comfortable.

  We spent the evening talking about what I saw in her, what triggered the style that I had proposed and how I saw it could evolve. For a woman who planned everything, that was gold. Some lateral thinking, coming from the outside, allows you to evaluate who you are from a different perspective.

  “GiGi, you have been extremely helpful, and I shall be forever grateful. Natalie was right: you did wonders.”

  It was time to go, so Allyson got up and fetched her cheque book. I opened my folder and lined up all the receipts for the clothes I’d bought, but she just waved her hands, saying, “Nonsense. Just tell me the full figure.”

  “Allyson, in that case I shall keep the receipts. If there’s anything you want to change, or if you have second thoughts, just let me know and I can return some of the items. It’s all part of the service …” She interrupted me by waving the pen she had in her right hand, a beautiful Montegrappa fountain pen in blue and silver, and then added “Just tell me the total.”


  “Well, that would be twenty-one thousand and three hundred pounds.”

  She was ready to write the cheque, when a sudden thought came into my mind: “Allyson, may I ask you a favour?”

  “Of course you can,” she said, looking directly into my eyes, as if at that point I could ask her anything I wanted; even the moon.

  I explained what I had in mind and she had no objection whatsoever. It was a relief. Sometimes life is made up of small details.

  We departed as two old friends, and in some respects we were. There isn’t much as intimate as working together and the bond that we’d created between us was way beyond anything else that might happen in a working relationship. But that was exactly what made my work so special, despite my mother saying it wasn’t a “real” job. I thought about it more as a way of making friends. I would have done it for nothing (only joking on that point – I’d never work for nothing).

  When I arrived home I was exhausted, and Ritchie was already in bed. I went into my room but I couldn’t sleep, so I tried to vegetate by watching telly, in the hope that sleepiness would arrive soon. It would soon be the weekend and I had a football match to attend.

  When I got up Ritchie was still asleep, so I decided to fix some breakfast. I shouldn’t have done so; he was the one usually taking care of food, and to be honest I wasn’t good at it. I could mess up beans on toast with my culinary skills, but sometimes it’s the gesture that counts, isn’t it?

  “Hello, sleepyhead,” I said when finally Ritchie popped out of his room. His hair was all messed up as if he was a scarecrow and he was walking like a zombie who had lost his way to the shopping centre. “Did you have a heavy night?”

  “Oh, nothing like that. Do you remember Johnny, the guy I met in the Thai restaurant?”

  “You mean the hunk? Sure I do; do I have to prepare breakfast for three?” I teased him.

  “Ha, ha, very funny. No, he’s not here. We went out for a drink yesterday, we chatted a bit and the last thing I remember were the second bottle of wine and the shots. Then everything else is blurred.”