Celebrity Shopper (24 page)

Taking a left, she found herself in a small street walking towards an underwear shop with a mannequin in the window.

The mannequin was unusually curvaceous, dressed in a black satin basque with fishnet stockings, an eye mask and cat ears.

It held her attention.

Annie knew perfectly well that she had no sexy underwear left. Well, nothing that she fitted into anyway. She had an underwear drawer full of TV-friendly control pants and saggy bras left over from breastfeeding.

If she were her own wardrobe adviser, she’d poke around in that drawer with horror and exclaim: ‘What’s going on in here? Have we forgotten how to look good
from the inside out? If you want to feel sexy, maybe you have to dress sexy … just as if you want to feel powerful, you have to put on a jacket with sharp shoulders.’

A black, strapless corset? Would that make her feel more sexy? Would that make her feel more in touch with herself than she did at the moment? Or was that too obvious? Too easy an answer?

A black strapless corset would definitely make Ed feel less exhausted. That was a fact.

Annie was standing there looking at the mannequin in the window, uncertain about whether to go forwards or not, when a woman’s face appeared at the shop door, smiled at her and beckoned her in.

Ha! She smiled back, always appreciative of the talents of another good shop assistant.

‘
Je ne parle pas beaucoup de français
,’ were her hesitant opening words as she walked through the glass door, setting off the
ting ting
of the bell above it.

‘
Vous êtes anglaise, madame?
’ the woman asked with a smile.

‘
Oui, madame
,’ Annie confirmed.

‘We parlons franglais,’ the woman replied with a smile.

She was a very French forty-something, beautifully turned out in a stylish navy skirt suit with red lips that exactly matched her red nails.

That was so coming back, Annie couldn’t help mentally noting, the matching nails and lips, even the matching shoes and bag.

‘
Oui!
’ Annie agreed.

The shop was a wonderful old-fashioned store with little glass-fronted wooden drawers and several pink satin dressmaker’s dummies in normal-looking sizes decked out in delicious satin and chiffon creations.

It wasn’t at all slutty, but neither was it stuffy. The
atmosphere was just right for a purveyor of quality sexy smalls. No young girl in a mini-dress trying to sell you crotchless pants in size 8 and stifling her giggles when you couldn’t even get your ankle through a leg hole.

‘I have two babies,’ Annie began.

Annie thought Madame might understand the situation perfectly if Annie began with the babies.

‘
Ah! Les bébés!
’ Madame smiled. ‘
Quel âge?
’

‘
Huit mois
,’ Annie said, not sure if she’d got the right number.

‘
Les deux? Jumeaux?
’

‘Twins,’ Annie said, wondering if Madame had understood.

‘
Adorables
,’ Madame assured her.

‘I feel so …
grande
…’ Annie ventured and ran her hands over an exaggerated big belly. ‘
Pas
sexy,’ she added.

‘
Pas du tout, pas du tout
.’ The woman shook her head sadly and smiled. Annie wasn’t quite sure whether this meant ‘not at all’ or ‘not at all sexy’.

Madame gestured towards the changing room with its luxurious red satin curtain and instructed: ‘The clothes off.’

Once Annie had taken everything off, save a supposedly ‘sculpting’ thong, she stared in the mirror with distress. This was a look she’d seen her clients give themselves so many times over the years; she always rushed in to nip it in the bud, because no good came of it.

No good came of looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing only the wobbly bits, the saggy bits, the still purplish stretch marks. No good came of it at all. But here, stripped to her pants in a Parisian changing room, she felt as if she might cry. This was horrible. Now that she had released herself from the beige spandex which kept her middle permanently under control, she looked from armpit to hips like a burst blancmange.

She would have turned around to take a look at her wobbly bum too, but the curtain was pulled briskly back and the shop assistant entered armed with … oh,
quelle horreur
! A tape measure!

Madame met her eyes and instinctively understood the distress. Then, just as Annie would have done if she was the shop assistant here, Madame smiled encouragingly.

‘
Ce n’est pas mal
,’ Madame insisted, ‘
ce n’est pas un désastre
.’

‘
Oui
,’ came Annie’s reply, ‘
c’est un catastrophe!
’

She was measured, just as efficiently and professionally as she had measured all her clients who’d been in a state of confusion about their sizes.

As the woman told her the numbers in French, Annie tried to make sense of them, her mind reeling in further horror … Her waist was a hundred and something? Then she realized this was centimetres. Not inches. Her only comfort came from the fact that she didn’t know how to divide centimetres into inches, so she couldn’t work out how bad it had got down there.

‘
Attendez
,’ Madame instructed and swished the curtain closed.

Annie was left alone with the mirror and her critical thoughts once more. For so many years now, she’d been in a happy place about how she looked. She’d never expected this. This deep-seated distress, especially when she was such an expert disguiser, camouflager, dresser of good points.

But having twins … it was fine when you were pregnant, looking like a ship in full sail, billowing with a purpose, but now, when everyone – including her – expected her body to have returned to at least something close to what it was before, she couldn’t help feeling overwhelmingly disappointed.

She hadn’t shifted one ounce of the baby weight. She put
her fingers round the blubber of her stomach and wobbled it with disgust. Maybe she never would. She hated exercise, despite the offers of help from Dinah, and as for all that low-carb, high-GI, de-toxing stuff … she could not be bothered. She was too busy and she was too tired. She ate Ed’s meals in the evening and whatever she could get her hands on during the day.

The curtain swished open once again and Madame returned, her arms draped with a confection of satin, lace, chiffon, red and black.

At the first frilly pale pink bra and matching knickers held up, Annie just shook her head. She wasn’t even going to bother trying that on. It was hideous; whatever kind of underwear she bought, she knew it wasn’t going to be frilly.

The next suggestion from Madame was a red satin corset with black lace trim at the edges. Madame stood behind her and hook by hook, gathered Annie in.

The effect was … a bit too saloon girl, Annie thought, looking at herself critically. Plus, the problem with a corset was that she couldn’t put it on herself, so where was the surprise element for Ed?

Annie with many English and clumsy French words, not to mention actions, tried to explain this to Madame.

‘
Ah oui, ah oui …
’ Madame agreed with much sympathetic nodding.

She handed Annie a black satin corset with ribbons over the shoulder which cleverly became ties running down each side. Annie had to raise her arms and let it slither down over her torso. The material felt smooth and cool to the touch. She busied herself tightening the ribbons on one side while Madame did the other.

When it was pulled tight, she surveyed herself in the mirror with something just slightly closer to approval.

With the supportive boning and the sweetheart neckline,
the heavy post-breastfeeding boobs looked pale and luscious, rather than huge and shapeless. The boning held in the worst of the stomach bulge and the shiny black fabric suited her skin.

Madame suggested a little black satin thong underneath the corset and a pair of fishnet stockings. This had potential, Annie couldn’t help thinking. It was very
Chigaco
, the musical; maybe she’d get some tap shoes to go with it. This could be the very beginning of feeling sexy once again.

‘You mus’ feel good,’ Madame tried to explain in English. ‘You mus’ like or no good.’

A black satin corset, it was a classic: the LBD of sexy underwear.

Madame disappeared from the cubicle and when she returned, she was holding multiple packets and boxes of fishnets in her hands.

‘
Voilà
,’ Madame instructed, handing over the boxes. ‘
Essayez
… try dem …’ she added in shy English.

Then Annie was alone again, looking through the handful of offerings. The first pair of hold-ups … too long. A second was a much better fit. She went up on tiptoes in front of the mirror and strutted a little, imagining the outfit with high heels. This felt better. This felt possible.

One box, larger than the others, was different. It was a fishnet body stocking. She hadn’t tried on one of those before.

Unlacing the black corset, she decided to give the body stocking a go.
Pourquoi pas?

She laid the corset carefully down, catching sight of the price tag tied with ribbon on to the label. Expensive … but then it was half the price of the Chanel shoes, and Ed would probably appreciate it so much more.

Opening the packet with the body stocking, she
unravelled it and worked out that it pulled on much like a pair of tights, so she started with one foot, then the next and rolled her way slowly up, over the belly, over the boobs, then pushing both arms down into the sleeves.

The effect was startling. The mesh was fine and small, hugging tightly to her curves. The crotch was … open.
Bien sûr
.

Lying on the pile of things Madam had brought in was an eight-inch-wide patent and elastic belt with four buckles at the front. This must be to go with the body stocking; obviously it would act as a sort of stomach brace.

Annie buckled on the belt just as the phone in her bag began to ring.

As she answered she stood up in front of the mirror.

The belt was genius.

‘Hi,’ she said into the phone.

‘Annie, it’s Tamsin.’

‘Oh, hello.’ Annie felt instantly guilty, although she couldn’t think of anything she was supposed to be doing for work right now. Plus she’d already told Tamsin in detail about how amazing the show footage promised to be.

‘Where are you?’ Tamsin asked.

Annie looked at herself in the mirror. She liked, she actually
liked
the way her boobs looked encased in the fishnet, but she thought it was probably a detail her employer could be spared.

‘I am sneaking in just the tiniest bit of Parisian shopping,’ she confessed.

‘Is Rich with you?’

‘No, I left him at Svetlana’s hotel; he needed some more background shots.’

‘Oh … but I was just thinking, if he got some footage of you shopping in Paris, maybe that would make another
little featurette for us. Make your trip over there extra worthwhile.’

Annie did not want Rich filming her in her new underwear, that was for sure. Maybe at the Chanel shop? But then the thought of missing her flight out tonight, or, even worse, Tamsin commanding her to stay here another night … No, she really had to nip this little idea in the bud. No matter how much she wanted series three.

‘Tamsin, it’s’ – she looked at her watch – ‘nearly five thirty already, everything is about to shut here and I’m going to have to come home tonight.’

And not just in order to try on this outfit with high-heeled black boots, she thought as she looked herself over almost approvingly once again.

Elena woke abruptly from the brief sleep she’d fallen into in the warm luxury of the king-sized bed and the arms of Sye.

For a moment, she couldn’t recall where she was, but when she felt the arm around her, the strand of hair brush her shoulder, she remembered exactly. Everything. Every single little thing. She felt a rush of nervy excitement.

She looked down towards the floor and saw the tumble of clothes scattered about. There too was Sye’s camera; alone and unguarded, the brightly coloured strap rumpled into a heap. As quietly and as carefully as she could, Elena slid from her side of the bed.

Sye stirred slightly as the pressure of her body moved from his arm, but the exertion of the past two hours, not to mention all the late nights and very early mornings of the past fortnight, meant that his sleep was deep.

Elena picked the camera up from the floor; then, wrapping a hotel robe around her, she slipped through the doors and into the suite’s sitting room.

On the table she and her mother had set up as a workspace, Elena saw her phone flashing at her angrily. Although she suspected the messages would all be from her mother, she still picked it up and checked, in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere wanted to place a dress order.

But no, the four messages were all a variation on the same theme: ‘Come and see me as soon as you are finished in our room. I am in the hotel bar.’