The Retail Therapist Read online

  “Excuse me – a friend of mine suggested this shop to me, but clearly there was a mistake.”

  The guy looked me up and down from head to toe and then muttered “Ahhh, a special guest,” which sounded very odd. Then he added, “Who sent you?”

  What was that? Next he was going to ask me for a secret password, which I didn’t know “Tilly Stephens.”

  Another look of distrust and then he said, “OK, follow me.” He opened a door behind the till and I could see stairs going down. The man invited us to proceed.

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Nala.

  I wasn’t, but what options did I realistically have? Tilly had promised me the holy grail of fashion, and sometimes you have to take a chance. “Sure, no problem,” I lied.

  After a couple of flights of stairs, the vision before our eyes was incredible. At that very moment I realised how Ali Baba felt when he first entered the forty thieves’ den, when Indiana Jones discovered the Ark of the Covenant in the first of his movies, and when Harry finally met Sally. In front of us there was this huge hall, probably an old Victorian warehouse, full of the most enormous array of clothes I had ever come across.

  I looked at Nala in order to check whether she was experiencing nirvana as well, but she just shrugged. Novice!

  I could see Jimmy Choos, Armani, Valentino, Roberto Cavalli, Hervé Leger – and those were only the items I could see from the stairs. I thought about it for a second; I have a photographic memory for clothes – even if I see something in a magazine I’ll remember it – but some of those clothes were new to me, although I recognised the style.

  “Where has all this stuff come from?” I asked the ogre who accompanied us.

  “Young lady, the rules are that you look around, you try what you want, and if you want to take something home, you pay at the till. No questions asked.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “And no, there are no stolen items in here.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “And no, we’re not selling cheap Chinese copies, or any other type of copy for that matter. Everything you see is original, branded and legitimate.” Then he waved his hand in the general direction of the clothes racks and added, “Have fun, ladies.” Well, I guessed conversation time was over and hunting time had just begun.

  “Oh my gosh! This is a Hervé Leger, and the rack says “samples”. Do you know what that means?” I asked Nala. She did not; she was looking at me, baffled, as if I was speaking an alien language. “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, grabbing a couple of outfits, “just follow my lead.”

  We were ready for battle. At least I was; my companion would have to tag along.

  I tried on a navy ruched Ted Baker blouse that was just adorable, with a black pinstripe running through it. The fabric was like a seersucker, but not quite, as it felt more like silk. I coupled that with a pair of black Gant jeans which fit just like a glove. Nala was more interested in browsing and taking in the names of the designers and, of course, checking out the prices.

  “Come on, trying doesn’t cost anything; worst case is you go back to the Goths. You might actually find something in here as well,” I said, looking around the treasure den. “What about this? – just amuse me for once.” Nala shook her head and carried on browsing.

  She knew she had little or no money, and she might still be at school, with her parents coming from a working-class background, but I could see that she was enthralled. It was as though she were in a trance, especially once she saw the prices and having decided that, maybe, just maybe, I was going to treat her to one of those glorious outfits. Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks and just stood there staring, her eyes just about as wide as they could be. She was in front of a rail of dresses, of a style that was more suited to her age. There was a red-and-white checked mini-dress, which had frills and flowers, and. I was surprised that she was gawping at it, almost with her tongue hanging out like a thirsty dog. Nala had not struck me as the type of person that would like frills etc., especially with her usual Gothic-style attire. I edged forward slowly, so as not to make her jump out of her skin; she was so intent on staring at that dress. I gently leaned past her, removed the dress from the rail, checked the size and price and handed it to her. She just stood there, transfixed.

  Nala grabbed the article, went into a changing room after a bit of huffing and puffing; when she returned wearing the dress, despite having all her Gothic make-up still on, all I could do was whistle and clap my hands. “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It looks good. I like it,” she said, “but I can hardly afford it.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that; you don’t have to buy it. I just wanted to show you there are other ways to stand out from the crowd, other than being a Goth.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Nala did a little twirl and went to have a look in the full-length mirror by the side of the dressing room. I had the suspicion that I might have just succeeded in converting her away from Goth, and possibly the black make-up as well. She looked stunning in that dress.

  “Next stop, we’ll go to TK Maxx and another couple of places, and you’ll see that, with the right combination, you can wear something interesting without breaking the bank,” I said. Funnily enough, I rarely managed to do that myself.

  CHAPTER 14

  The once-growing customer list had dropped to zero and we needed to do something about it or we’d soon have been in trouble. I also took a step towards my independence and rented a small apartment in the centre of Camberley. It was right in the centre, next to the new cinema, so handy for work, due to the parking area, shopping and recreation. The good news was that I now had a walk-in wardrobe; the bad news was that the walk-in wardrobe filled the whole apartment. Actually, I had placed every possible hanger and cloth rail in any available space and now it looked as though I was living in my own personal shop. There was a bed, of course, but in order to reach it I had to move all the clothes and boxes of shoes I’d temporarily parked on it.

  But it was mine and that was what mattered. In addition, Ritchie and the Hulk were going great guns and I honestly felt they deserved a bit more privacy. Ritchie never said a word and to be honest I thought he was glad I was around, but I also knew he wouldn’t have said anything. And then, it was time to move on. We agreed to use his apartment as our place of work, for which I was extremely grateful, as renting an office would have been too risky considering how erratic our revenue was. There were the rich customers coming along with hefty pay, and then possibly a month of emptiness, without a single client or enquiry. That was the difficult part, knowing we would soon need the money but not knowing if another customer would show up. Every day was a battle to keep our dream alive and not go back to our previous employment. But that was what they always said in Dragon’s Den: you have to have vision and be enthusiastic about your venture. Or something like that.

  Despite that, Camberley it was, although I would definitely have preferred Windsor. That afternoon was as empty as a hermit's address book, so I decided I needed to get out for some fresh air. The destination was the Oracle Centre in Reading – nothing really glamorous, but that day they had a small market taking place and I could waste a few hours trying to think of a new strategy to grow my business.

  That event happened exactly two hours and twenty minutes later when I entered a Rascal & Brody shop, one of my favourite destinations, at least as far as shoes were concerned. As soon as I entered, all the shop assistants ran away: one became suddenly busy taking away boxes of shoes, another one picked up a phone which wasn’t ringing, near the cash register, and pretended to be speaking with another customer. The third one just panicked and ran away as if she were being chased by the devil himself.

  I looked at my clothes and they were OK; I couldn’t understand. Then I sniffed my armpits: no bad odour there either. I was wearing a hat, so it couldn’t have been my hair.

  “It’s not you, it’s me,” I heard a voice echoing behind me. I turned around and
saw a tall, handsome man in his thirties, with short, dark hair. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and seemed in good shape, albeit a bit on the slim side.

  “They don’t like you?”

  “I think not. I buy women’s shoes and every time it’s the same story: they just disappear. I’m lucky if I can find the right size, otherwise I have to beg for attention.”

  Inevitably, I looked at his feet, but he was wearing a pair of black loafers, and maybe the only thing wrong was that they were a bit boring. “For yourself or for someone else?”

  “Oh, they’ll be for me.”

  I picked up a bit of embarrassment in his voice, so I promptly extended my hand and said, “I’m GiGi, by the way.”

  “My pleasure, GiGi; I’m Julian.”

  “Nice to meet you. Let’s see what we can do about that pair of shoes. What’s your style?”

  “Sexy. Definitely sexy.”

  “OK, Julian – what size do you wear?”

  “I’m a perfect eight, darling,” he said, with a broad smile on his face.

  “I bet you are.” I caught the attention of one of the shop assistants and barked a few orders to her, which she gladly complied with. After a few seconds they came out with their best offerings. Julian tried a few pairs, walking up and down the shop and attracting some weird looks. I was one of them; I mean, a tall bloke in purple pumps had to attract attention.

  I looked around for something suitable for myself, but nothing really caught my eye so I went back to Julian. “How’s it going?”

  “I look fabulous; what do you think?”

  “You certainly do.”

  “Would you mind sticking around for a few more minutes, at least until I’ve paid?” he added sheepishly “I could reward you with a cup of coffee. Not the cheap stuff, I mean a real coffee like the ones they have down in Avangard.”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  Julian gave a last look at his marvellous shoes, put his loafers back on and said, “OK, let’s get out of here and put an end to the show.”

  I followed him to the cashier, waited until he had paid and then we set off walking towards the coffee shop. I had never been there previously and to my surprise it was a very classy shop – I mean, with real napkins and proper cutlery; it almost resembled a restaurant. “Is the place to your liking?”

  “It certainly is,” I answered. We sat at a corner table by the window and I asked, “What kind of business are you in, Julian?”

  “Oh, I work for the local council here in Reading. I’m a bin man, although today they use the more politically correct term of waste collector.”

  “Yeah, let’s not go to the politically correct; I lose the plot nowadays. So where do the shoes fit in?” I asked.

  The waiter came and Julian ordered coffee for two, adding some pastries for good measure.

  “They don’t, actually. The pay isn’t great, so I round my salary up doing some gigs in London. My drag act is quite popular and I make more money over the weekend than in my day job.”

  “A drag act in London? I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

  “Yeah, there are a couple of venues; one is the Pegasus, Friday nights, in the West End. It’s quite popular among people who like to wear dresses; they even have a changing room. If you go in there unnoticed a couple of hours before the show, you can change and sort out your make-up and there you go: you can be a queen for the night.”

  “So they’re all in drag?” I asked, feeling my curiosity mounting.

  “No, there are the drags and there are the admirers. The latter dress normally, although I have to admit with far less taste. And then there’s the Oriental, on Thursdays and Saturdays. That’s a real wild place.”

  “What’s your act?”

  “It’s me and three other ‘girls’; we mostly sing and dance. We lip-sync to the most famous songs, we dance, and we tease the public a bit. It’s getting more popular, and it’s a safe place where someone can express their real self without being judged or risking a beating in the street.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And what do you do, GiGi, for a living?”

  “At the moment I struggle; however, I’m a personal shopper.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I go around and buy clothes on behalf of someone else. I’ve also started recently as a fashion consultant, so I can give advice to people on what to wear and how to avoid the most common mistakes.”

  That made Julian ponder, and once the waiter brought our coffees and had moved far enough away, he spoke again.

  “I have this problem in buying outfits for my show; I mean, I find it embarrassing sometimes, not only with the shoes but also with the clothes, wigs and so on. You know, having to try them on; some of the looks I get you cannot imagine. I’m a fury when on stage and I’m unstoppable, but when I have to go into a shop, like today, I freeze.”

  “Well, Julian, you’d better get used to it, gather all the courage you’re capable of and just embrace your inner self. Things might change in the future, but there’s still discrimination if you’re homosexual. The only way is to ignore all that and live your life as you wish, without fear of judgement. The longer you delay, the unhappier you’re going to be.”

  “I think you misunderstood me: I’m not gay, I’m straight. The drag job is only to pay the bills and I’m good at that. I mean, I’m a regular guy with no particular talent, but when I dress up and act, I feel I have something to give, even if it is a Saturday-night show. It’s difficult to explain.”

  “I think I get it …” I said.

  And then Julian had an idea. “Would you help me? I mean, if you’re a personal shopper, that would make things easier.. You could buy on my behalf.”

  I wasn’t expecting that, although it made perfect sense. How many people out there were facing the same struggle as Julian?

  “So you want me to buy clothes on your behalf?”

  “I think so: why not?”

  “I guess I might have to see one of your shows, to have an idea of what might fit the profile.”

  “I have a few on YouTube. Wanna take a peek?”

  He took out his phone and showed me a few clips of his performances. I could understand why he preferred that to the bin-man job; he and his team were definitely talented. Dancing, singing, the occasional joke that made people laugh. He was up to something, but most of all I was interested in their outfits. They had to be sexy, tempting and seductive. I guess my imagination could have gone a tad wild and, for once, I wouldn’t be bound to the classic style. I had the chance to be outrageous.

  “I think I could do something about that.” I passed him one of my business cards. “I’d like you to send me some of those clips for reference. What sort of budget did you have in mind?”

  He gave me a number and, after a quick calculation, I said, “I can work with that.”

  “I mean monthly – I need a lot of outfits. I can’t go on stage with the same stuff over and over again.”

  Bloody blimey, I was in the wrong business. I thought about asking why he still stuck to his day job, but I stopped myself. I said out loud, “OK, so maybe to keep down costs we need some sort of ‘rental’ agreement. Instead of buying all the clothes, I can try to figure out if we could sell the old ones; in that way you’d have more choices for the same price.”

  “That would be fabulous!” He gave me his phone number.

  “I’ll be in touch shortly, then.”

  Dear old GiGi, you’re back in business, I thought.

  CHAPTER 15

  The news came as a surprise.

  “Afghanistan? When, how, why?” I was completely shocked. It was a bright morning, the world was my oyster and business seemed to be back on track and, although not flying high, there was enough to pay rent and bills. I went to the office – well, actually Ritchie’s apartment – full of renewed energy, only to find him sitting in the kitchen and staring at his empty cup of tea. I soon learned what was wrong.

&nbs
p; “He told me the news yesterday; in a week he’ll be gone for a six-month tour. He’d been hoping it was either going to be postponed or put off altogether.”

  My dearest friend was really upset and, as usual, he started biting his nails; if I couldn’t cheer him up, he’d bite them until they were bleeding. But where to start? I could hardly try to comfort him, other than giving him a hug. I was speechless. What could I say?

  Reading the papers and following politics were not my forte; the furthest I went on news was around fashion, but there was an entire world out there that needed sorting out and I could barely comprehend why our country was sending our beloved soldiers so far away. Don’t get me wrong: I knew the war in Afghanistan was to try to dismantle al-Qaeda and remove the Taliban from power down there. I could understand all the reasons why our country was doing that, but somehow it was just something I was hearing in the news, as far and distant from my little world of clothes and fashion as it could possibly be.

  War.

  It had been in the news for quite a while, but I never really thought about it and in some respects I carried on doing my thing and just being occasionally upset when I was watching the evening news on telly. That is, until someone I really knew had to go there.

  That was a real wake-up call; suddenly our military presence in a foreign country, very far away from our shores, was a personal business – something that touched me, and most of all my very close, treasured friend.

  What can you really say when something like that happens? You try to recollect what you’ve heard, why it was so important that our military went there, the fight against terrorism; but the fear for someone you knew personally who was going to be out there, in constant danger, was overwhelming.

  Then comes the need for protection - all the silly questions like Can he avoid that? Is there a way for him not to go? And suddenly you also know you already have the answer to the questions. That something is unavoidable, that Johnny wouldn’t let us interfere in it any way, even if we had a chance. That was his choice; he had decided to serve our country, even if that meant risking his own life. Suddenly, our little problems about paying the rent, finding the next customer, doing a good job, became even more insignificant in comparison to that.