Chapter 3
“Lila, my dear, I take it that this lovely lady is the Charlotte I’ve been hearing so much about?”
I had a feeling my mouth was hanging open and I was resembling a slack-jawed imbecile. I shut it swiftly, fearful I would catch flies. I gave my older colleague, aka The Corner Office Crypt keeper, a winning smile.
“Indeed it is, Mr Fluck. Let me introduce you to my very dear friend and co-owner of Zaftig Raven, Ms Charlotte Potts.”
“Delighted, my dear.”
Fluck took Lottie’s hand is his own bony fingers and furnished it with a kiss.
“So pleased to make your acquaintance finally.”
For someone like Lottie who lapped up all the romantic old films, she should have found this gesture utterly charming: rather like a scene from one of her favourite black and white pictures. However, her face looked anything but charmed. In fact, the expression of shock and revulsion would have been more suited to a video nasty. Lottie, though, forever the consummate professional, managed to quell her initial displease and let a warm smile light up her pretty face as she firmly pulled her hand away from the old man’s puckered lips.
“It’s very nice to meet you too, Mr Fluck. Lila has told me so much about you.”
This was met with a few seconds of excruciating silence while I waited for the tumbleweed to go rolling by. Needless to say, anything I had told Lila about Mr Fluck had been none too complimentary.
I coughed slightly to cover my embarrassment.
“Is your wife with you today…erm…?”
I trailed off, racking my brain desperately to remember his wife’s name. Doreen? Deidre? I had met her dozens of times and could picture her so clearly in my head - a quiet, pleasant, mousy type who always looked as if she would rather be anywhere but beside her spouse. I couldn’t say I blamed her. But what the hell was her name? It eluded me entirely.
Fluck’s beady eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Ah yes, my wife. As a matter of fact, she is here today but Dinah saw the sign for the Ladies and decided to go and powder her nose; bladder the size of a thimble, that one.”
I felt my heart lurch in my chest. Dinah, her name was Dinah. But had I imagined it, or had the old man used my blunder as a pun? Was he, in his own subtle way, letting me know that he had heard every word I had said to Lottie?
I glanced at my friend, hoping for reassurance, but she looked like she’d been smacked in the face with a wet welly. Quite clearly, she had picked up on it too.
Bloody hell! It was one thing to call your boss names behind his back, but quite another to be caught doing it. This was not good. I had some serious sucking up to do. My friend, however, beat me to it.
“Thank you so much for sponsoring us today, Mr Fluck.”
Bless her, she was trying to divert him away from the excruciatingly awkward situation.
“I really hope you enjoy the show. But please excuse me, I must go and get things started.”
With that, Lottie sensibly made her escape. I wished I could do the same.
“Let me get you a drink, Mr Fluck, whilst you get yourself and Dinah a seat.”
I was already unzipping my purse; it was the least I could do.
Fluck’s eyes darted around the noisy room.
“Yes, all right then, I’ll have a large Scotch, single malt on the rocks, none of the cheap rubbish; and a small sherry for Dinah.” He sighed impatiently, his beady eyes scanning the room again. “Why is Young not here yet? As for the press, I see no sign of them either. I was promised a reporter from Leeds Leads would be here to get a picture of our sign and write a few words about our firm being so benevolent to local businesses.”
The expression on his weathered old face looked far from benevolent.
“I’d better not have wasted my time; I could just as well be on the golf course this afternoon, you know?”
I felt my throat tighten, and it wasn’t just the realisation that I was maybe going to have to sell an organ to afford the round of drinks he had just ordered. Where was Seb? Please tell me he hadn’t swerved the event, found something more fun to do on his precious Saturday afternoon off. Root canal perhaps? I knew that fashion was seriously out of his comfort zone, at the top of an exceedingly long list of things to avoid. That said, I could really do with a bit of support from my colleague.
Normally Seb was so reliable; almost too reliable, like the devoted family pet that was forever at the door to greet you when you returned home, getting under your feet in their eagerness to please. But thank goodness I spotted him striding towards us, a worried look on his not unattractive face; a face which was rather more pink than usual. I could see he was clearly out of breath: even from a fair distance there was evidently a slight film of sweat gathering on his upper lip.
It was hardly surprising he was feeling a touch warm: although it was early January with a dusting of snow on the rooftops, the temperature in the hotel conference room was verging on the tropical. Probably forward thinking by management, as some of the models would be wearing skimpy numbers and a stiff nipple through stretch satin could prove a little distracting to some. But Seb was dressed like an Arctic explorer: woollen hat pulled firmly down on his head, brown padded coat resembling a sleeping bag zipped right up to his collar, all topped off with a large striped scarf that might have been fashioned from Joseph’s technicolour dream coat, possibly knitted by his mother from the confines of her nursing home.
Seb waved enthusiastically upon spotting me and rushed over to give me a swift breathy kiss.
“Sorry I’m late, Lila. I had a nightmare parking, and then I ended up at the wrong hotel, would you believe?”
I believed him. For someone as intelligent as Seb, he could be so scatty at times. Most probably he’d turned up at one of the other bland hotel chains, burst into another conference room that smelt faintly of boiled cabbage and furniture polish, and wondered why he’d ended up in the middle of a slimming club or a gender reveal party for a pregnant stranger, rather than a fashion show.
“I’m just glad you’re finally here.”
I gestured over to where Mr Fluck and his spouse were now seated, on the front row, facing the stage as honoured guests. There were also seats reserved beside them for me and Seb.
“You go sit down; I’m just getting drinks from the bar. I’m trying to butter Fluck up as I’ve already managed to insult him.”
Seb laughed pleasantly.
“Trust you, Lila; can’t leave you alone for a moment.”
“Yeah well, that may be the case, but I don’t think calling your boss a dinosaur is a great move career-wise. Anyway, what do you want to drink, seeing as I’m in the chair?”
Seb seemed to be considering his options for a moment, his brow furrowing.
“Just half a soft drink for me, please; lemonade or something.”
I rolled my eyes at him to demonstrate how dull I felt his choice of beverage was.
“I’ll see if I can get you a straw too, shall I?”
“No thank you, no straw needed as I’ve already pulled the short one having to give up my Saturday afternoon in the name of fashion.”
He gave me a little wink, so I knew he wasn’t being serious.
“I could have been playing rugby or engaged in some other manly pursuit if it wasn’t for this.”
That was his attempt at humour. And to be fair, he could be funny at times; not as funny as me obviously, but mildly amusing. There was about as much chance of Sebastian Young playing rugby in his time off as there was of me knitting him a pair of matching mittens to accompany his scarf. He was most certainly not the sporty type.
I knew that if he had not been here today, he would probably have been sinking a pint in his local with his bearded lodger Adam. Seb owned a large property in Headingley and Adam had lodged with him for a few years, ever since his divorce.
They had been friends since uni, and a shared interest in pub quizzes, sci-fi and home-made shepherd’s pie meant that they rubbed along quite nicely.
Seb had never been married. I found that fact strange in itself. He was a nice-looking man after all, fashion sense aside: tall and lean with thick black hair just peppered with a little grey, and sparkling cobalt blue eyes; a little older than me, in his early fifties, but looking quite youthful on it. Must be all the shepherd’s pie keeping him so fresh-faced. I might have to give it a try sometime, but I was cutting out carbs now, so would need to rub it into my face at night rather than consume it. It would be a good sight cheaper than my current skincare regime, that was for sure.
Yes, all around he was a good catch. Not for me, of course, but I felt sure there must be plenty of women who would find his woolly wardrobe and love of anything sci-fi positively knicker-dropping.
“Hurry up with those drinks; you don’t want to keep the prehistoric Parasaurolophus waiting. I think the show’s about to start.”
With that he was heading off to the vacant seats. Trust Seb to know his dinosaurs too.
I could see that Mr Fluck was still craning his neck around every few minutes, the sinews bulging, to check if the press had arrived. No such luck; it would appear that the reporter from Leeds Leads had somewhere much more pressing to be. I felt bad for Lottie, but for myself too. Fluck was not going to let the matter drop.
Five minutes later and my purse much, much lighter, I made my way over to my seat, carefully carrying the tray of drinks. I was just in time as the music was starting up: some easy listening Muzak to warm up the crowd before the show proper kicked off.
I swiftly took my seat and distributed the drinks. Mr Fluck eyed his glass tumbler suspiciously, wary that I might have shortchanged him with a single measure of whisky.
I could see Jacob, Lottie’s son, sitting at a small table positioned just off from the stage looking intently at his phone and tapping on it every few seconds. Like teenagers the world over, my son Thomas included, Jacob was obsessed with his technology. However, on this occasion he had a good reason to be studying his smartphone so intently: he was in charge of the playlist for the event – the different pieces of music that the various models would walk to.
Long gone was the need for a sound system or, heaven forbid, a record player. No necessity any more to be recording the top 40 off the radio on a Sunday night, armed only with a double-desk cassette player and cat-like reflexes. That was how I had spent my youth: desperately trying to hit the stop button in the dying moments of the latest A-ha hit, so as to avoid any unwanted dialogue from the DJ.
I would shout down the stairs to my mother to please get me a packet of prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps and a can of Vimto from the kitchen, as I couldn’t risk leaving my bedroom for a single moment and missing my favourite song. No, everything was instantly available now, an app for virtually anything.
Jacob had worked hard though, carefully choreographing the music for each part of the show: strong female anthems of empowerment that would suit the different fashions being showcased. Lottie was pleased that it had given him something to focus on.
He was back from his first term at university and was brooding at home a little, getting under her feet. The new term didn’t start back for a week or so and he was pining for his new girlfriend, keen to get back to halls and enjoy everything that student life had to offer. So the fashion show had proved to be a good distraction. And he certainly seemed to be concentrating hard enough on his mobile.
He was, however, looking a little dishevelled, even more so than his usual scruffy teenager style. In truth he appeared somewhat green around the gills. I already knew from Lottie that he had been into Leeds the previous night with some old schoolfriends to listen to an up-and-coming band.
It was clear to see from his pallor and the bags under his eyes that it was not just the music he had enjoyed; he had clearly indulged in a fair few alcoholic beverages too. It just went to show you could still get rough hangovers in your youth; not as physically debilitating as in your forties, but dreadful all the same.
Jacob was a good lad though, and I knew how proud Lottie was of him. She was keen for him to return to university and get properly stuck into his course; find his feet and get out from under hers. But she also missed him terribly when he was gone. Her apartment, although much smaller than her previous home, felt large and empty; she was rattling around it on her lonesome. It was great to have your own space, but it could be lonely too.
Suddenly the room was filled with the powerful voice of Chaka Khan as ‘I’m every woman’ surged out of the many speakers. The audience perked up; in an instant there was a feeling of anticipation fizzing around the room.
The first model was out, striding purposefully down the runway. She was super tall and statuesque, clad in a tightly tailored cropped satin jacket in the most fabulous plum shade, dark and decadent, with matching wide-legged palazzo pants in an identical hue. The outfit was finished off with a pair of bejewelled training shoes that sparkled like Dorothy’s slippers from TheWizard of Oz.
I could hear appreciative sounds coming from the ladies in the audience. As soon as the model had completed her walk, including a great hip strut and spin at the end of the runway, the next model was hot on her heels. She was obviously in one of Morgan’s designs: an achingly hip leather column dress that was bizarrely teamed with a purple feather boa and pillbox hat. It should have been a disaster, but somehow it worked incredibly well. Not my style of course, but that was not to say I couldn’t appreciate it; on the right woman it would have been sartorial perfection.
This model also stopped at the end of the runway, doing a few turns and hair flips to allow the audience to see the outfit from every angle. She sashayed slowly away to the sounds of ‘Run the World’ by Beyoncé.
Out came the next model, then another, then another. The audience were clearly buoyed up and suitably impressed with the show. Well, most of the audience anyway. I could feel the palpable boredom wafting off Seb. I couldn’t say that surprised me: a man like Seb, not averse to an elasticated waistband on his work trousers, was not really the market Lottie was catering to.
I could also feel Mr Fluck’s eyes burning into me like laser beams. He had drained the contents of his tumbler and was clearly trying to alert me to scamper off to the bar and refresh his whisky. I studied the hemline of the model closest to me, as if enthralled by the stitching, anything to avoid his eyes.
There was a collective gasp from the audience at the gorgeous confection that was now shimmying down the runway. The model who had previously shown off the leather dress now floated along in the most fabulous dusty pink evening gown with the largest tulle skirt I had ever seen. It was both decadent and delicious, a huge shimmering candy floss.
She swished the skirt back and forth theatrically, showcasing her amazing six-inch-heel, jewel-encrusted cowboy boots. The dress may have been good, but those boots were something else. Great for the cowboy ranch, the cocktail bar or indeed the boudoir. Who didn’t love a bit of multi-purpose fashion? I made a mental note to persuade Lottie to put those bad boys aside for me.
Suddenly the music stopped, ground to a halt. It was a rather jarring experience, like when you’re at a house party and don’t even notice there’s a soundtrack playing until it suddenly ends and then the lack of background music is just excruciating in its silence.
Thankfully the music only ceased for a few agonising seconds before it piped up again. However, a few notes in and I felt a lurch in the pit of my stomach akin to being on a rollercoaster ride. Surely this was not on the playlist that Jacob had so carefully organised? I was no connoisseur when it came to modern music, but I was pretty confident that what I was hearing was not a strong feminist anthem. I certainly hoped not.
‘Move, Bitch’ by Ludacris was blaring out from the speakers. And goodness me, he didn’t sound happy; he was effing and jeffing for England.
The shock on the models’ faces was mirrored by those of the audience. This was not a welcome change of pace. The model at the front looked around nervously, clearly at a loss as to what to do for the best. Maybe Kate or Naomi would have known instantly how to deal with this situation, would have styled it out flawlessly; but as for the amateur models, they went into full-on panic mode. As the front one stopped short and turned around, desperately seeking out Lottie or Morgan for advice and reassurance, the girl striding behind her took a tumble, falling unceremoniously off her platform shoes.
Then they all went down like dominoes. It was painful to watch: a paradigm pile-up, a heap of haute couture as they fell stumbling over each other. One twisted her ankle painfully; another, the woman in the fabulous pink evening gown, grabbed desperately at the curtain suspended above, pulling down on the banner displaying the name of my firm.
The embroidered letters, which had looked so dramatic before, now seemed perilously close to disintegrating in front of our eyes, desperate for another dab of superglue to keep them attached. The model hung on to the banner with all her might, determined to keep herself upright; one of her cowboy boots had fallen off in her struggle and was lying forlornly on the runway, like rodeo roadkill.
What on earth was happening? I looked over to Jacob to see what had gone wrong. His chair was empty, his phone lying abandoned on the table next to a can of energy drink and a half-eaten packet of crisps. Where the hell had he gone?
I thought about his pale pasty face, all the signs that he had been out drinking the night before. If I was a gambling woman, which I was on occasion, I would bet he had made a dash to the toilet to be sick. Somehow his show playlist had stopped and reverted to playing a tune from his own collection.
I knew Jacob had very diverse music tastes: everything ranging from heavy metal to a bit of country, even some Harry Styles on occasion for good measure. Somehow, though, we’d ended up with about the least appropriate tune imaginable for an elegant fashion show run by his mother.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted a startled-looking Lottie darting towards Jacob’s phone. Her fitted dress made her dash appear somewhat comical, desperate to get to the device and silence it, with Morgan hot on her heels.
There was a sudden ominous ripping sound that seemed to come from the heavens above. Everyone’s eyes flew upwards to the curtain that the model was gripping onto for dear life, watching as the banner slowly began to tear. As it did, some of the letters from the firm’s logo got dislodged, fluttering down to the runway like gentle butterfly wings, leaving just a few of them still remaining.
My hands flew to my eyes, yet I couldn’t help peering through my fingers; frightened to look, yet desperate to see. Of all the letters that could have been pulled off from the sign, why did it have to be those ones?
Now the sign no longer read ‘Fluck, Young Glover, Solicitors at Law; it read ‘Fuck You over, Solicitors at Law’.
My heart was in my mouth. I glanced towards my boss. The expression on his face would have been humorous had it not been for the danger behind it. He looked as if his gob had been well and truly smacked. But this lasted only a couple of seconds before his expression changed again, his eyes darting to the left. It might be snowing outside, but his face was thunderous.
I turned to see what he was looking at, steeling myself as to what it could be.
It was then I realised that the press had indeed made an appearance after all. However, rather than being pleased, Mr Fluck was now desperately holding his arm over his face, clearly not wanting to be seen. No, he was anything but pleased, and desperate not to be associated with the sign. The grin on the reporter’s face was as wide as that of the Cheshire cat as he happily snapped away, capturing everything for posterity: from the carnage on the runway to the battered sign hanging forlornly above.
I looked towards Seb in complete horror. He had a half-serene, half-amused expression on his face: like The Mona Lisa if she had had been male and living in present-day Yorkshire, dressed like Doctor Who. He gave me a little wink.
“Drink?”
I nodded at him.
“Yes please, a very large one. Let’s get out of here quick.”