Celebrity Shopper (3 page)

‘How do you feel looking like this?’ Annie asked her.

‘Good,’ came the reply, followed by a shy smile.

‘Professional but memorable and really personalized,’ Annie told both Rachel and the camera. She put her hand on Rachel’s arm and faced her gently towards the lens. ‘The problem with anonymous suits is that every other person up for the job will be wearing an anonymous suit, so even if you say all sorts of amazing things, it’s hard to stand out. But this’ – she gestured to Rachel’s lovely new outfit – ‘is unique and different and feminine.

‘OK, my top tips for the career girls out there.’ Annie smiled, full beam, at the camera. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to leave your personality at home, it’s fine to be a little more
you
at work. I’m not mad about super-smart trouser suits with messy hair. I would rather you dressed down a little but made sure your hair was groomed. That’s more chic and professional. Sober colours are fine, but they can still be in a dress or a skirt, no one says you have to wear suits all the time. Michelle Obama wore a cardigan to meet the Queen. It was white cashmere with sparkles, yes, but still a cardigan.

‘The more skin you show, the less power you have. So sandals, cleavage, even sleeveless tops are a no-no if you’re aiming for the penthouse office upstairs,’ Annie went on. ‘Obviously if you work in fashion or the creative arts, you can wear whatever is so hot it’s cool, and if you have a uniform – hey even pole dancers have a uniform – the accessory is your best friend.’

She paused to let this message sink in, before telling her viewers: ‘Next week, we’re going to have Katy Flinn, head of recruitment agency Flinn–Power, here to talk to us about what to wear to work. Because it’s interesting! The rules are changing all the time. Work is changing all the time. Shake yourselves up, girls!

‘OK, Rachel, you do a twirl for us. Oh, isn’t she pretty damn smart-looking? Right …’ The camera zoomed in close on Annie’s face. ‘It’s nearly time to say goodbye, but I’m just going to squeeze in a little email feedback.’ She turned to a laptop perched on a desk just to her right as an assistant led Rachel silently out. ‘Petra from Derby.’ Annie shook her head at the screen. ‘Petra, Petra,’ she tutted. ‘Petra thinks I am too cheeky about anoraks and sensible shoes.’ Annie raised her eyebrows at the camera, gave a little wink, then she read out: ‘ “I live in a part of the country where it is chilly and rainy. Anoraks are a necessity! They may not look very exciting but we need them. I wear comfortable, sensible, waterproof shoes that I could even hillwalk in if I had to. There’s nothing wrong with this. Please stop telling women to swan about in flimsy dresses with their feet stuffed into torture devices. It’s total rubbish.” ’

‘Petra …’ Annie looked up at the camera and shook her head again. ‘It is not all about dressing for the worst-case scenario. I promise you. Where is the fun in that? Is there a Mr Petra? Does he like anoraks and sensible shoes? Anyway, in case you’re wondering, I could hill-climb in three-inch heels and a dress, carrying a very nice handbag, looking like a lady who lunches at The Store. Easily. Training …’ Annie added and with that she stepped out from behind the desk, showed her high wooden wedges to the camera and proceeded to give a little skip and hop.

‘Believe me,’ she assured the screen, ‘without my heels, I
don’t feel dressed. I feel like a little fat frump. I’m convinced nothing exciting will ever happen to me if I’m not wearing interesting shoes. So there!’ She stuck her tongue out cheekily.

‘OK, time to rewind and review,’ Tamsin began. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Annie. The show producer and her presenter held a regular brief meeting when filming was on to catch up with problems, bounce new ratings-boosting ideas about and to bond with each other.

Annie genuinely liked Tamsin and was learning so much from her; Tamsin really liked Annie and was learning plenty right back.

‘Too much focus on work going on, maybe?’ Annie dived straight in with her thoughts. ‘We did Rachel’s interview outfit this week; we’ve got Katy Flinn in next week. Are we getting a little too heavy?’

‘No, I don’t think so …’ Tamsin assured her. ‘Next week’s other items are sexy lingerie for all shapes and sizes and the best of the discount fashion websites, so I think that’s fluffy enough. But will you phone Svetlana up and see when we can use her again? She’s very popular. And by the way,’ Tamsin added, ‘you look exhausted. There’s only so much concealer Ginger can put on your face without using a trowel.’

‘I am absolutely blooming shagged,’ was Annie’s response to this. ‘If those babies don’t learn to sleep soon, I am going to die. Is it possible to die of tiredness?’ she wondered.

‘Well, yeah,’ Tamsin warned her, ‘you’ll drive your horrible green mini-van into a brick wall and that will be the end of the Annie Valentine show and all its potentially lucrative spin-offs.’

‘Don’t talk about the mini-van,’ Annie groaned. This was the single worst thing about having four children. Her trusty black Jeep, which had served her so well for so many years, had been sold off to make way for the hulking great super-sensible VW Sharan. A seven-seater! She felt like a bus driver whenever she got behind the wheel of that thing.

‘But talking of the lucrative spin-offs,’ Tamsin went on, ‘I know you’ve got a talent agent now, putting you up for personal appearances, but what is this chitter-chatter I hear about an Annie Valentine fashion line?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Annie was quick to answer. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to humiliate Channel Four with some tacky tie-in that upsets all their advertisers.’

‘So what is the source of this intriguing gossip?’ Tamsin asked, pushing her long hair behind her shoulder and fixing Annie with a serious look.

‘Ermmm …’ Annie felt a little nervous now. It was one thing plotting away at meetings with agents and sub-agents and marketing division heads, but sitting here in Tamsin’s all-white, girlie but professional office, having to spell out the ways in which she planned to sell her soul, was just a little nerve-racking. ‘Well … so long as it’s OK with you, I’m going to collaborate with a handbag company,’ Annie admitted. ‘I’ve looked over some designs and I’m going to put my name to an “Annie V” handbag.’

‘A handbag? That sounds fine.’ Tamsin looked pacified. ‘Just make sure you really like it, otherwise you might feel a bit silly.’

‘Of course!’ Annie agreed, relieved because plans for the handbag were further on than she’d made out.

‘Don’t we pay you enough?’ Tamsin wondered.

The question pricked Annie’s conscience. Hadn’t Ed asked her this just the other day? He too had wanted to
know why she needed a talent agent and a handbag collaboration. Wasn’t what she earned with the TV show enough?

‘Why be satisfied with enough when there is plenty more to make?’ she’d asked him.

He’d shaken his head and asked if she’d considered how much time it would all take up.

Annie felt Tamsin’s eyes on her. It felt hard to explain that she didn’t think she would ever have enough. She would always want more. And anyway, where was the fun in life if you weren’t chasing more?

‘I’m happy with the pay … for now,’ Annie answered, shooting Tamsin a wink, ‘but I don’t want to have all my eggs in one basket. I’ve been sacked twice before and I think it’s good to have a back-up.’

‘Maybe you should save some money as a back-up, Annie, instead of tearing your lovely house apart.’ Now it was Tamsin’s turn to shoot Annie a wink.

‘Ouch!’ Annie replied.

‘OK … the hillwalking rant? Are we really going to leave that in?’ Tamsin asked.

Annie looked at her blankly.

‘You know, Petra from Derby?’ Tamsin jogged her memory. ‘Anoraks and sensible shoes and you going on about how you could hillwalk with three-inch heels and a handbag.’

‘I could!’ Annie insisted.

‘Well, I’m just warning you now, there might be a campaign to get you up a mountain in a pair of Manolos.’

‘Bring in on!’ Annie smiled. ‘Might be a ratings winner.’

‘Hmmm …’ Tamsin glanced down at the tiny silver laptop on her desk and frowned. ‘I’ve had some worrying news. Viewing figures for last week are good, still close to the two million mark. Channel Four sound like they want
to sign us up for a third series,’ she said carefully, ‘but …’

Annie anxiously met Tamsin’s eyes. ‘
But?
’ she asked, feeling her heart leap into her mouth. Maybe it was silly and irresponsible of her, but she hadn’t considered for a moment that there wouldn’t be a third series. She thought she was on an endless upward trajectory; she thought she was a big success.

‘There are rumblings, Annie … rumblings about bringing back the show but putting a much bigger celebrity in your place to really grow the audience. Myleene Klass is apparently “interested”. I doubt they can afford her and I’m going to do everything I can …’

But Annie could barely make out the words of reassurance that followed. The thought of
How Not To Shop
just carrying on without her … it hadn’t even occurred to her! The thought of being ‘replaced’ just as she’d thought she was arriving … It was terrible. Devastating. And what the bloody hell would she do instead?

‘For the two last episodes of this series,’ Tamsin was telling her now, ‘we’ve got to think of something amazing, barnstorming! We have to end the season with all our viewers clamouring to have you back. That’s our mission, girl.’

‘Right,’ Annie said, barely managing to whisper the word. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

Svetlana in her office:

Very tight cobalt blue dress (Issa)
Very high green and blue stilettos (Prada)
2.4-carat diamond ring (last ex-husband)
22-carat gold rope necklace (same)
3.5-carat diamond earrings (first husband, deceased)
Silk underwear (La Perla)
Total est. cost: £78,400

‘He say “no”!’

‘Ya. Is great idea. No? I put big heap of money in, Harry put money in but we still need more, so I think of you. You big, clever, rich man …’ Svetlana Wisneski was on the phone, using her most charmingly persuasive voice.

She was always on the phone these days because her daughter, Elena, was working her very hard.

Svetlana Wisneski had in fact become Svetlana Roscoff over a year ago. But she still liked to use the name of her most recent ex-husband because she was mildly famous through him and she liked it that way. Igor Wisneski was
one of the richest Russians in the world: a gas baron. Svetlana was still the mother of his two and, as yet, only sons and heirs and although she’d suffered a very public divorce, the silver lining to the cloud was the multi-million-pound divorce settlement she and her barrister-turned-fourth husband, Harry Roscoff, had wrung out of Igor.

Well, that was then and this was now. Post credit crunch, post stock market crash, it turned out Igor’s fortune had been downsized from billions into millions, so Svetlana’s settlement and monthly maintenance had shrunk accordingly. For nearly a year, Svetlana had raged and tried by every means possible to squeeze more money out of her ex.

It wasn’t as if she was penniless. Very far from it. She still had her beautiful four-storey house in Mayfair: no. 7 Divorce Settlement Row, and Harry was undoubtedly wealthy. But Svetlana had been
super-rich
. She’d been the wife of a billionaire. She had been used to limitless oceans of cash, all the luxuries life could offer and never once having to consider the cost of anything.

When she’d realized she could not wrestle any more money from her ex-husband, she and her devastatingly clever daughter Elena had begun to develop another idea.

The phone still at her ear, Svetlana turned her feline grey eyes to Elena. Her daughter was at the computer tapping furiously with her elegant hands. Just as Svetlana loved to phone, Elena loved to email. She emailed and emailed and surfed the internet all day long, looking for clues, tracking down information, building up her data. Inside that beautiful blond head, uncannily similar to her mother’s, was a big brain, hungry for knowledge and success.

Elena had spent the past year at business school. Yes, up until now she had studied engineering, but she felt that a business qualification would stand her in good stead.

Svetlana and Elena’s relationship had not begun in a very promising way. Svetlana had given birth to this unplanned and inconvenient daughter twenty-three years ago in Ukraine and she had paid distant relatives to bring Elena up. Then, at the age of twenty-two, Elena had arrived unannounced on her mother’s doorstep and demanded to be taken in.

At first Svetlana had been horrified, but now the mother–daughter relationship was growing much closer than either of them could ever have expected.

They really liked each other. They got on. They enjoyed the same things and shared the same goals. Svetlana felt as if she had learned so much from her fearsomely independent daughter. Before meeting Elena, Svetlana had thought the best way to have plenty of money and security for herself and her children was to marry a rich man (she had done this four times now). Now, she was quietly impressed with Elena’s many enterprising money-making ideas. But this latest one, this was the biggest and definitely the best.

This time Svetlana was jumping in with both expensively shod feet and as much cash as she could lay her beautifully manicured hands on.