True Colours:The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2(25)

'Oh shit.' I pick up my glass and slug back the rest of my wine. It's absolutely necessary. 'I've got to go shopping.'

'You? Shopping?' Lucy snorts.

'He's making me go to Harrods. No limits. A personal shopper.' And I'm scared, I'd like to add. In fact, I'm terrified.         

     



 

'Is Dan going with you?'

I shake my head.

'Oh God.' Lucy's giving me a concerned special now, and I know exactly why. 'This is an emergency.'

'I've got to get an evening dress for Friday night. Are you and Clive coming to the Savoy?'

Lucy shakes her head. 'Clive's got some family do. I'm going with him.'

'Shit.'

'You're on your own, matey, but at least I can help with the shopping  crisis.' She turns to Big Steve. 'I need the afternoon off, boss. You  know what Maya's like. She can't do that sort of thing on her own.  Remember the jumper she bought last Christmas?'

While the Steves set about laughing, and Lucy joins in, I fold my arms and slide into a grump.

'Of course you must have the afternoon off,' Little Steve chuckles at last. 'She needs all the help she can get.'





Chapter Twelve


While Lucy studies a sign to the right of the doorway, oblivious to the  fact that it's simply a list of cafés and restaurants, I stand in a  stupor, gazing up at a green canopy, reminding myself over and over  again that this really doesn't have to be painful. Swivelling round in  search of Beefy, I'm relieved to find him standing right by my side,  oozing sympathy from every pore.

'Are you alright, miss?'

'No,' I manage to gulp. 'Stay with me.'

Suddenly realising the error of her ways, Lucy springs into action.  Grabbing me by the arm, she tugs me through the doorway, and into the  depths of Hell.

'This way,' she growls, guiding me straight ahead as if she knows exactly where we're going.

Besieged by perfume and handbags and meandering bodies, I stagger  forwards, my pulse in overdrive. I've already broken into a sweat.

'First floor,' I wail. 'He said it's on the first floor. We need an escalator.'

I'm yanked to the left. More handbags flash past and then they  disappear, only to be replaced by some sort of mad, multi-coloured  chocolate fantasy world.

'Chocolate,' I gurgle, my eyes dilating.

'Not now. You can treat yourself later if you're good. Up here.'

I'm hauled to the right and met by a winding Victorian staircase,  complete with ornate tiles and oak panelling. Following in Lucy's wake, I  grab hold of the handrails, and begin to climb. A few steps later, I'm  launched back into modernity. A wall of bright light hits me and my  stomach lurches, and then my heart beat does a manic dance. I'm  surrounded by women's clothing.

'We've made it,' Lucy exclaims, shooting a look right, then left. 'We'll find the personal shopping bit, no problem.'

With Lucy in the lead and Beefy bringing up the rear, we begin to wander  aimlessly through a labyrinth of cream walkways, past endless rails of  designer clothes. Here and there, I notice a name  –  Donna Karan,  Versace, Stella McCartney, Escada  –  and I wonder what on Earth I'm doing  here. I've never worn a designer label in my life.

'Evening wear,' Lucy squeals.

Without warning, she veers off to the right, into a separate section  that's guarded by a ball gown in a glass case. And I follow, my mouth  lolling open at the rails of long dresses: some tight and sleek, some  huge and billowy. I daren't even breathe on them, let alone touch one of  these things. I'm half way round the room when I catch sight of a  simple black gown displayed on a stand. Slowly, I circle it, taking in  the fact that it's silk, that there's a lace-up bodice and yes, a split  down the side. With nervous fingers, I reach up and inspect the price  tag, and my lungs seem to shrink. Eight thousand, eight hundred pounds.  This just won't do. No way am I letting Dan blow that kind of money on a  frock. I let go of the tag and resolve to leave.

'You're not getting out of this,' Lucy snarls, grabbing hold of my forearm. 'Come on.'

At top speed, she drags me back out of the evening wear section.

'But have you seen the prices?' I come to a halt right next to a fluffy  orange jacket. 'Look at this.' Grabbing the tag, I glance at it and  nearly pass out. 'Two grand.'

'Shush,' Lucy hisses into my face. 'You'll give yourself away.' She  fingers the price tag of a thin white jacket. 'Shit!' she exclaims.  'Nine hundred and five pounds! Where did the five come from?'

'We need to go.'

'No.' Pausing to feel the quality of a pashmina, she shrugs. 'No limit,'  she reminds me. 'He wants to treat you. So just get on with it.'         

     



 

I've never heard such a ridiculous statement. How the hell am I supposed  to just get on with it? For a start, I've no idea what's in fashion.  And worse than that, I've absolutely no idea what suits me. I'm a  ticking time bomb of clueless anxiety. This is bound to end in disaster.  I've pretty much made up my mind that we're leaving when we stumble  into a collection of bikinis.

'Personal shopping,' Lucy whispers, pointing into a corner. 'This is where it's at.'

I follow the direction of her finger and spot a set of frosted black  doors emblazoned with a simple sign: 'By Appointment. Harrods.' I  swallow hard. So, this is it. We've made it. No turning back. A bolt of  something shoots straight through me, and I'm pretty sure it's terror.

'Let's just go down the pub,' I mutter, tugging at Lucy's jacket.

'No,' Lucy mutters back.

'But it's too posh.'

'And it's too late. Quick. Look like you're rich.'

Keeping hold of me, she opens the doors and drags me into a reception  area. I come to a halt, staring aimlessly at a perfectly-primped woman  behind a perfectly-polished desk. It's Lucy who makes the first move.

'This is Maya Scotton,' she announces, in an unusual sort-of upper class  accent. 'She has an appointment with a personal shopper.'

'Good morning,' the receptionist replies. 'We're all ready for you.'

She motions towards a luxurious seating area from where an impossibly  slim, supremely elegant creature is currently eyeing us up as if we're  her prey. She doesn't look like a personal shopper at all. In fact, with  her jet black bob and her tight grey dress, she looks more like a  ruthless assassin straight out of a James Bond film. Glancing down at  her stilettos and silently wondering if they come complete with  retractable daggers, I shuffle uneasily from one foot to the other.

'I don't like it, Maya,' Lucy hisses. 'That woman's looking at me funny.'

'I'm not surprised.'

The assassin glides forwards, effortlessly. Her lips rise into an  I-could-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands type of smile and suddenly, I'm half  expecting her to wrestle me to the floor and crack my skull between her  thighs. Gathering every last atom of self-control, I do my absolute  best to seem sober.

'My name is Tatiana,' she announces. Jesus, such precise consonants,  such curly vowels, all wrapped up in something that sounds vaguely  Russian. 'I'll be accompanying you this morning, Miss Scotton. I'm sure  that we'll manage to find everything you're looking for. Where would you  like to begin?'

I stare at Tatiana and she stares right back at me, all dark-eyed and intimidating.

'Can't we just sit down?' I ask, detecting a wobble in my voice. 'It's  just that I'm a bit tired and ... Can't you just show me things?'

Tatiana's eyebrows straighten out, like cheese wire.

'Of course, madam. Follow me.'

I do exactly as I'm told. Accompanied by Lucy and trailed by a  nervous-looking bodyguard, I'm led into a private room. Once inside, I  head straight for the sofa, collapsing onto it and bouncing into the air  when Lucy lands next to me. While Beefy stations himself in a corner, I  survey my surroundings: a coffee table in front of us, a door to the  left which probably leads to a fitting room, a huge mirror, an imposing  pot plant or two, a bank of windows giving out over Knightsbridge.

'Can we offer you some refreshments?' Tatiana purrs, almost menacingly.

I'm about to suggest a cup of tea when I hear Lucy's voice sidling its way into the conversation. 'What have you got?'

'We can get you anything you like, madam.'

'Champagne?'

I check out my idiot friend. Jesus, after the session in Slaters, we're  already half-cut. A couple of glasses of bubbly and I won't be able to  tell a skirt from a hat. But then again, it can only make this entire,  hideous experience a fraction less hideous.

'Bollinger La Grande Année?' Tatiana folds her arms in front of her taut stomach.

'That will do nicely, thank you,' Lucy replies.

While Tatiana disappears in search of alcohol, I remain silent. Angst is bubbling up, threatening to spill right over the brim.

'This is awful,' I complain.

'No it's not.' Lucy scowls at me. 'How often do you get to do this?' She  wafts a hand about at nothing in particular. 'Any normal woman would  give her right arm for this. But you?' She squints at me. 'You're not  normal.'         

     



 

Returning with a tray laden with two champagne flutes, a bucket and a  bottle of something fizzy, Tatiana sets down the offerings in front of  us and pours out two glasses.

'Thank God for that.' Lucy's eyeballs swivel a couple of times before  locking onto the glasses. In one fell swoop, she leans forwards, grabs a  glass and knocks back her drink. 'Now, that's better. Have you got any  more of this stuff, Tatiana?'