Meet Clara Andrews: A totally vacuous girl with a hangover... (2 page)

I awake on Friday morning feeling completely rested and weirdly gleeful, which is rather strange given that I am admittedly the world’s worst morning person. Mind you, it may have something to do with the incredible twelve hours of blissful sleep I had last night. What an amazing feeling it is to be hang-over free. Gone is the over powering nausea, the intense, throbbing headache and the mouth like a dusty sandal. I feel around under my pillow for my phone and have a quick scan through my emails. Mainly junk, the odd bank statement, a few Twitter notifications and one flagged urgent from Marc.

I tap on the email and wait a second for it to pop open. My eyes skim over the lengthy message, taking in the gist as I go and tap out a quick fire response. Basically, I have an impromptu meeting at 9.30 with the new designer in the board room and under no circumstances am I to be late. I am actually quite excited to meet the designer as we are going to be working closely on the new winter line, so I really want it go well. This is my first big task since getting my promotion so I desperately want it to be a success. Thank God it wasn’t scheduled for yesterday, I chuckle to myself.

I allow myself one last glorious stretch before hopping out of bed and making for the bathroom. After brushing my teeth for the required two minutes and almost having my head blown off by the power of Listerine, I wander back into the bedroom and open my wardrobe. Flicking through the rails of black in search of my most professional outfit, I chew my lip thoughtfully. I want something that shouts confident, elegant and creative, or at least one of the three.

I must try on everything in my wardrobe at least twice over before deciding on some high waist, wide leg trousers, teamed with a sleeveless navy shirt and my killer black, patent courts. I attach my rose gold Michael Kors watch to my wrist and quickly run a brush through my hair. Rifling through my cosmetic case, I set to work on my face. Half an hour later I am blushed, concealed and highlighted to perfection. I gather my belongings and take a look at my watch, it’s only 8.15. I am actually going to be early. What a difference a good night’s sleep can make. As I walk out to the car, I decide the world would be a better place if only people slept more. After putting on my mirrored aviators and fastening my belt, I crank up the radio and pull out onto the road, telling myself that today is going to be a good day.

By the time 9.30 comes around, I am sitting in the board room, complete with a large Americano and dossier of my many ideas for the winter range, piled neatly  on one side. I quickly pull out my compact mirror to ensure my makeup has stayed put in the warm summer sun. I am still touching up my eyeliner when I hear the lift doors ping open. Shoving my concealer back into my handbag and kicking it under the table, I smooth down my hair and stand up. The heavy board room doors swing open and in floats Rebecca, Marc’s P.A.

‘Just to let you know, Marc is on his way up with Oliver Morgan,’ Rebecca gives me a shy smile and disappears in a cloud of Chanel No 5 and Elnett hairspray.

‘Thanks Rebecca.’ I smile back and take a deep breath.

Wait a minute. Oliver Morgan? I don’t know why, but I was convinced the new designer would be a woman. I suddenly feel a little cheated, like someone moved the goal post. I’ve always felt more comfortable around women, Marc is probably the only guy friend I have, but let’s face it he is the most feminine straight guy to ever have walked this planet.

It must be all of 30 seconds later that the lift doors ping again. This time there are two sets of footsteps, accompanied by two voices, men’s voices. Definitely not a woman then, I sigh with disappointment. The footsteps get louder and closer until the board room doors swing open once more and in strides Marc. I can tell by the strained smile plastered across his face that something is wrong. I shoot him a quizzical look, but he just responds with a quick shake of the head and rolls his eyes. As Marc holds open the door, I tuck my hair behind my ears and attempt to smooth down my trousers, succeeding only in knocking my building pass out of my blouse pocket. Bloody hell! I push my chair back and reach under the table in a desperate bid to locate the card.

‘Oliver Morgan, this is our junior designer, Clara Andrews, who will be working with you at each stage of the design process.’

I jump to my feet and set my mouth into a joker worthy smile. Only I am not smiling for long, as stood in the doorway, is Mr Checked Shirt.

OK. Don’t panic. Just take a deep breath and...

‘Clara? Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?’ Marc is looking at me bewildered.

‘Clara?’

I somehow manage to regain the use of my tongue and try to form something of a sentence.

‘Yes! Hi! Hello! I’m Clara. It’s very nice to meet you.’ I raise my hand and wave erratically, feeling my cheeks start to burn.

Why do I feel so embarrassed?

The little voice in my head reminds me that it may have something to do with the fact that he has seen me with vomit in my hair and Pepto Bismol down my dress. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

As Marc pulls out chairs and excuses himself to grab some coffees, I tell myself to get a grip. I mean, what is the big deal really? Just be a professional, Clara. I mean, what evidence is there that he even remembers you and even if he does, who is to say that you remember him? Yes, ignorance is bliss.

I look up from the floor and give him a tight smile. He doesn’t look like a designer. The majority of designers we work with at Suave are greying, with enough botox to smooth out a Shar-Pei. He definitely isn’t greying. He can’t be out of his twenties, incredibly young for a designer. He drops his comic book print messenger bag on the table and leans back lazily in his seat, smirking. Great. He definitely remembers me. I can see it written all over his face. I stare back, taking in his chiselled jawbone and 5’o clock shadow. God, he is good looking. I feel my heart pound and tell myself to stop being such a girl and pull myself together.

I rearrange my stack of papers on the table and fight the urge to run away. Why is he getting to me so much? He hasn’t so much as said a word to me, so why am so hot and bothered? I can feel his eyes burning into me and rack my brains for something to say to fill the awkward silence. I find myself cursing Marc, how long can it take to make three coffees?

Thankfully, I am saved by Rebecca, who is teetering around the massive board room table with a tray of hot, frothy coffees. I accept mine and place it down in front of me, watching dubiously as Oliver takes a black coffee and adds an unhealthy amount of brown sugar to the mix.

‘Clara, could I just borrow you for two seconds?’ She smiles apologetically at Oliver as I follow her out into the lobby.

‘Marc has just had to run over to HR. There is a signature needed to complete Mr. Morgan’s working visa, but he won’t be too long. He said if you could go ahead and show Oliver last year’s autumn/winter lines for an idea of what we are going for, that would great.’ She hands me huge, purple folder and scurries back towards the glass lift.

Wait a minute. Working visa? Where is he from? Maybe he doesn’t speak English! Oh please don’t let him speak English. I walk slowly back into the board room trying to work him out. German maybe? French? Dutch even? Are clogs back and I haven’t heard? I take my place at the table and take a deep breath.

‘Is there a problem, ma’am?’

Oh God, he’s American. My decade long Matthew McConaughey obsession has given me the ability to recognise a southern drawl when I hear one. I seem to lose all strength in my legs and I’m suddenly grateful to be already sitting down. 

‘No, no. No problem. Just a little HR issue that Marc needs to deal with, but he shouldn’t be too long.’ I flip open the folder and position it between us.

‘He has asked that we go over the designs from last year’s line to get a feel for the vibe here at Suave,’ I flip through the plastic wallets until I come to a selection of beautiful, studded ankle boots and peep toe knee highs.

He takes the folder and studies it for a second before nodding and slamming it shut.

‘Ok, I got it. Now what?’

’I’m sorry?’ I stammer, taking the folder back.

‘I said, I got it,’ he repeats with a smile.

‘Ok,’ I respond slowly. ‘Erm, do you have any questions at all? Anything I can help you with?’

‘Actually I do. Where is a decent place to grab some brunch around here?’

I stare back at him incredulously, really not knowing what to say. How can he be so laid back and blasé about this? Who is he anyway? Suave may be relatively new to the fashion world, but it still carries a fair amount of prestige and is not a brand to be sniffed at. Now I know why Marc seemed so stressed earlier, this guy is not going to be easy to work with.

‘If you would just excuse me a minute,’ I grab my mobile and head to the lobby.

‘Again? You know if you are going to talk about me, you could at least do it to my face.’

Flustered, I jab at the screen to bring up Marc’s number and tap impatiently on the window ledge as it rings.

‘Marc? It’s me,’ I babble as soon as he picks up. ‘This guy is a nightmare! He took one look at last year’s designs and said he wanted to go for brunch! How long are you going to be?’ I pause for breath, twisting my hair around my fingers as I always do when I’m nervous.

‘Look Clara, I’m sorry about this, but someone has royally messed up over here and I need to sort it out. Forget the portfolio and just take him for brunch. Use your company credit card and we will sort it out with accounts later.’

‘What? Where am going to take him? What are we going to talk about? Can’t someone else take him?’

‘For Christ’s sake Clara! I have far too much to deal with today. Take him out for brunch. Tell him how fabulous it is we have him working here at Suave and just keep him sweet. Just. Do. It. Please.’ The line goes dead and I stare at the phone in disbelief.

OK, I can do this. I mean how hard can having brunch with a devastatingly handsome American designer be?

We take the endless stairs down to the ground floor and use the revolving doors to escape out on to the street. We walk in silence for a few minutes, weaving between the thousands of lunch goers until we arrive at the March Hare. I’ve always had a soft spot for the March Hare, with its mock Tudor facade and low ceilings. It’s a popular choice for those wanting to escape the hustle and bustle of the busy streets.

I head towards the back of the restaurant and take a seat at a beautiful antiqued table. I stifle a giggle as I watch Oliver ducking and diving his way over to me. I’m guessing they don’t have low ceilings across the pond. He flashes me that Hollywood smile and I feel my stomach flutter. Once he sits himself down, I push a menu card towards him and shake off my cardigan.

Whilst Oliver is studying his menu, I take the opportunity to give him a good once over. His eyes are darker than I remember, but he is every inch as handsome. He has more stubble than the other day and his hair seems unruly and unkempt. He is still wearing chinos, albeit black ones and in place of his blue and white checked shirt, is a plain navy jumper with a lumberjack collar. Which is still technically checked. I hate check.

He looks up from his menu and seems quite pleased with himself to catch me staring at him. I immediately look away and signal for the waitress. The petite, raven haired waitress bounds over and happily takes my order for a sparkling water and cheese ploughman’s. She turns her attention to Oliver and scribbles down his request for a coke, along with a bacon topped cheeseburger and sweet potato fries. You can take a boy out of America, but you can’t take America of a boy.

As we both watch the waitress rush off to another table, I decide we have been sat in silence for far too long.

‘So, Oliver, how long have you been in the UK,’ I ask innocently, thumbing the edge of the drinks menu, silently wishing for a champagne cocktail.

‘I flew in Monday evening, so only five days,’ he replies easily.

‘Wow. Is this your first time here?’

‘Actually, no. I spent a year travelling in my early twenties. Made some good friends here, well when I say here, I mean Cornwall but it’s all England right?’ His eye’s crinkle into a smile and I can’t help but return it.

The waitress returns with our drinks and leaves some mouth-watering bread rolls on the table. Oliver immediately takes one and expertly pours the vinegar and oil into a delicious, pretty swirl onto his side plate. He pushes it towards me and I hesitate for a moment before ripping a crusty roll in two and dunking into the dressing. Yesterday I must have consumed minus calories, so technically I have an extra two thousand to play with.

‘Have you always worked in fashion?’ I ask, with a mouth full of yummy bread.

‘I have, sort of. Back in the States I worked as a photographer for Flash magazine. We had a blast. I loved being on the road, but when I hit thirty I decided I wanted something more settled. I applied for a junior designer job on a whim and it turned out I was pretty fucking good at it. Four years later here I am, head-hunted from six thousand miles away. Pretty sweet if you ask me.’

Wait a minute. He turned thirty four years ago? My eyes flit down to his comic book print man bag. That can’t be right! He doesn’t look a day over twenty six. He either has kryptonite genes or is using some bloody good beauty products. I watch him mop up the remainder of the oil and wipe his fingers on his napkin.

Flash magazine, I think to myself. Wow, that’s pretty cool by anyone’s standards. I try not to show how impressed I am and offer a little nod and a smile instead. For a split second, I wonder if I should mention yesterday’s Bistro gate, but then think better of it.

‘Are you a local girl, Clara?’

I feel stomach drop at the mention of my name.

‘Well, kind of. I was born and raised in Knutsford, but my parents moved us down south when I was just seven, so I do class myself as a southerner. When I left home at eighteen, I moved closer to the city and have never left.’

Oliver looks at me expressionless for a moment before leaning back and chuckling to himself. Before I have chance to ask him what was so funny, our waitress returns and presents us with our meals. I eye up his plate enviously. Why does somebody else’s food always look so much more appetising than your own? I prod my sandwich miserably and try not to stare at Oliver’s mountain of a burger and pile of crispy fries.

‘So, have you found a place to live yet?’

‘Not as yet. I am currently staying at the Wilshire. You know it?’

‘Very nice,’ I nod in appreciation. ‘You know, there’s a house on my avenue that has just come up for rent.’

‘Really? Is Monday through Friday not enough for you, you want to see me at weekends too. Is that it?’

My cheeks burn like hot lava. That is not what I meant! It’s not what I meant! God, he really is an arrogant asshole. I bite the inside of my cheek furiously, willing the skin on my face to return to its usual porcelain white. Nibbling on my sandwich, I rack my brains for something to say to change the subject, anything at all. Just something to talk about that can’t possibly be taken the wrong way. The weather, perhaps? Strength of the Euro? Madonna’s greatest hits? No, Like a Virgin makes it way too risky.

‘So, tell me Clara, do you have a boyfriend?’

Oh God.