Summer Daydreams (21 page)
My daughter has gone all silly too and I supply, ‘This is Petal,’ while she gapes at him open-mouthed and goggle-eyed. Looks as if Mr Simoneaux has the same effect on four-year-olds as he does on women of a certain age who should know better.
‘Come in, please,’ I say and hobble further into the showroom with Petal attached to my leg.
‘This is a very beautiful space,’ he says and looks round giving admiring nods.
‘We’ve only just moved in,’ I explain. ‘So it’s all a bit raw yet. My company is very new.’
‘This I know,’ he says. ‘It is why I think that I can help you.’
‘That would be fantastic.’ But, because I’m all of a fluster, I’m forgetting my manners. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I should have gone out and got biscuits, posh ones, or something.
‘In a moment,’ he says, holding up a hand. ‘First I would love for you to show me more of your designs.’
‘Now, Petal.’ I manage to dislodge my child and grip her by the shoulders as I speak, so I hope she knows that I mean business. ‘Will you play nicely while I talk to Mr Simoneaux?’
‘Yes,’ Petal says with look as if to say she never does anything but play nicely all alone.
Obediently – thank God! – she trots off into the office.
‘She is a very beautiful child,’ Yves says. ‘Like her mother.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’ I laugh girlishly and flush and simper and generally don’t behave like a rufty-tufty business woman who will stand no messing.
Yves smiles again. He is clearly well aware of the effect he has on women and has probably been milking it for years. There’s no doubt he has this flirtation thing down to a fine art. This must be the legendary Gallic charm – or
garlic
charm, as Olly calls it.
‘Now, to work,’ he says and steers me towards the rows of carefully arranged handbags as he outlines the work of his company. He goes on to tell me about where he’d plan to place the products and how much commission they take from sales. I try to concentrate and not notice the coolness of his hand on the small of my back.
What has happened in recent weeks? I’ve never attracted this level of male attention before. Is it because I’m no longer seen as just a housewife and mother with a little (pat me on the head) part-time job? Or have I suddenly become a man-magnet because they think I’m someone who’s going places? I haven’t changed my perfume, so it’s certainly not that.
Yves takes the handbags and runs his hands over them as if he’s seducing a voluptuous woman. ‘
Beau
.
Très beau
.’
When he finally tires of making love to my handbags, I lead him through to the office.
‘I’m just sketching out some new designs,’ I say and pull the relevant papers to the top of my pile.
‘They are wonderful,’ he says, but his eyebrows pull together in a frown.
Maybe he doesn’t like them at all. ‘I’ve literally just been doodling this morning,’ I rush in. ‘Hot off the press. You’re the first person that I’ve had the chance to show them to.’
One design is for a bag covered in candy-stripe fabric with hearts and stars sprinkled liberally across it. On one side it reads BAG, on the other LADY. Yves strokes his hand across the drawing. Another is covered in psychedelic hearts and flowers and says MAKE LOVE on one side and NOT WAR on the other. The last one has four pouting lips in Andy Warhol style on it and the back reads MY FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME.
Still no response.
‘Perhaps they need more work.’
A shrug. ‘Perhaps.’ He takes off his man-bag and then rifles through the sketches again, but makes no further comment.
Before I can ask him any more, Petal appears. I hadn’t actually even registered that she wasn’t in the office. How observant am I as a mother? She’s bearing a pink tray, and two mugs and a teapot are balanced precariously on it. Her tongue is out and the concentration on her face is a sight to behold. For reasons best known to my daughter, she has also found her pink cycling helmet and is wearing it.
‘I have maked tea,’ she announces.
‘Oh, lord.’ I immediately swoop down and rescue the tray from Petal’s shaky grip as the teapot starts a death slide. ‘Sweet pea, you know you’re not allowed near the kettle.’
‘I didn’t
go
near the kettle,’ she informs me with a scowl.
‘You didn’t?’
‘I’ll pour,’ she insists.
I touch the teapot and realise it is, in fact, stone-cold. Oh, dear.
‘We can’t have tea now, Petal. Mummy’s busy.’
‘You’re never too busy for tea,’ my child says imperiously.
‘That’s what you say.’
I do. Frequently. Even though I’m invariably wrong.
When, reluctantly, I put the tray down on the coffee table, my daughter manoeuvres herself between me and the teapot and sets about pouring.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth to Yves.
‘It is fine,’ he assures me.
The pot wobbles and we get a fair amount of Petal’s tea sloshing about on the tray rather than in the cup. That gives me the chance to see that her ‘tea’ seems to involve half a dozen tea bags floating in cold water with the milk already added. She stands and, with every ounce of her being focused on delivering the results of her endeavour, hands the first cup to Yves.
‘This is wonderful,’ he says. ‘This is exactly how we French like to take our tea.’
Petal beams, easily fallen under his Parisian spell.
Yves winks at me and, above and beyond the call of duty, sips his tea. ‘
Délicieux
.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as I take my cup too. ‘You’re a very clever girl.’
Somehow we manage to down Petal’s cold tea and then Yves says, ‘I am sorry to be rude, but I must rush away.’
‘Of course. You must have lots more to do.’
His smile says that he has. ‘We have a deal? Yes?’
I try not to look surprised. Or to leap into Yves’ arms in excitement. I’d fully expected finding an agent to be a lot more complicated than this. Never in a million years did I think that one would just bowl up on my doorstep and take me on straight away. Wait until I tell Olly about this. He’ll be pleased for me. Surely?
‘We do,’ I confirm gratefully. Yves and I shake hands again.
‘
Merveilleux
.’
‘Again, I’m really sorry we’ve kept you here so long.’
He takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing it softly. ‘The pleasure has been all mine.’
Once more, I go into a girly flat spin.
‘Here is my card.’
I gaze at the business card he hands me, slightly goggleeyed.
‘We will speak,’ Yves says as he slings his man-bag back across his body. ‘Very soon.’
‘That would be lovely.’ I sound more breathless than I would have hoped.
‘May I?’ My daughter is waiting shyly behind me. He takes Petal’s hand and kisses it. ‘
Au revoir, mademoiselle
. Thank you for my excellent cup of English tea.’
Petal is as bewitched as I am.
With us both safely under his spell, Yves leaves us and I watch as his rangy frame turns heads as he lopes away down the street. I don’t think Hitchin has ever seen anyone as gorgeous.
‘Now,’ I say, still all of a flutter, ‘better get back to work before the day slips away from me.’
‘He was nice,’ Petal observes.
‘Yes,’ I say, somewhat wistfully.
I go back into the office, settle Petal with her crayons once more and sit myself back at my desk. With a deep and rather shaky breath, I prepare myself to carry on with my new designs. But despite searching the desk high and low, I can’t find them anywhere.
The next few months go by in a blur of trade events – or fashion shows as I would have previously called them. Spring comes and goes and I hardly notice it. The daffodils bloom, carpeting the town with yellow. Petal adores them. I barely lift my head to acknowledge the changes. Then summer is upon us. A hot one, for once. Everyone melts in May but me. The blistering heat of ‘flaming June’ doesn’t trouble me either as I spend most of my time indoors in deep-freeze air conditioning and darkness, listening to pounding music while staring at catwalks, being jostled by the crowds with nothing but a stale, mass-catered sandwich and some machine tea for sustenance.
Are the trade events useful? I think so. It gives me a chance to see what else is out there and who my competitors are. Besides, Tod tells me that I must attend them. So attend them, I do. I and, more importantly, my handbags grace the aisles of the Clothes Collective in Birmingham, Fashion Fusion in Manchester, Gladrags in Leeds and Sustainable Chic in Scotland. I’m networking my little backside off in the hope that it will all pay off one day.
The culmination of my chilled-to-the-bone travels is Designer Extravaganza in London, the most crucial show of the year where, with the help of a grant that finally materialised from The Prince’s Trust, I’ve been able to secure myself a stand. This is the first time that I’ll actually display my wares and the cost of doing so is truly staggering. We could buy a decent family car for the same price. The fact that it is the world’s smallest stand is neither here nor there. It’s a stand at a prestigious event and for the first time in my life, I’m going to be a presence in the big bad world of fashion. I’m so excited that I feel permanently sick.
I’ve had to draft in Jenny and Constance to help Olly look after Petal for the week I’m away. To say that my husband isn’t best pleased is something of an understatement. He’s sick of the amount of time that I’ve already spent away from home so far this year and finds every opportunity he can to tell me so. It’s been the subject of countless rows. But what can I do? This is our livelihood. This is what the business demands.
Now, I’m running round the workroom like a headless chicken, getting last-minute things together for the stand.
‘Dinner’s ready.’ Olly sticks his head round the door. His face falls as he sees the bags and boxes all over the floor. ‘Aren’t you done yet?’
I try not to bristle. He has no concept of how important this is for me, for all of us. Then I get a rush of guilt. He also has no idea quite how much this is costing us. I can only hope that it’s worth it. All the promotions that I’m doing have certainly brought the orders in, but not necessarily the cold, hard cash. The cost of fulfilling them all seems to be spiralling out of control and that scares me. One day the income has to become more than the outgoings, otherwise we’re in real trouble.
The preparation for this trade show has been staggering. I’ve had to think of everything from sending out press packs, getting business cards, ordering passes for me, Olly and the van, booking a hotel, writing blurb for the brochure, sending out invitations and designing everything from the lighting down to the electricity points on the stand. And let’s not forget the stressing about the handbags themselves.
My idea for the space we’ve rented is to make it look like a candy shop and I’ve roughed out designs for decorating the walls. I can access the space two days early to give me time to paint it. There’ll be display shelves round the walls and the handbags will be slotted in between jars of old-fashioned sweets. In the middle of the floor there’ll be a big claw-foot bath (bought from my prop store and general saviour, eBay) overflowing with things like sherbet fountains, black jacks, flying saucers, giant swirly lollipops and candy canes, with my handbags in among them. I’m hoping there’ll be a lot of sweettoothed buyers at the show who will find it irresistible.
‘Nearly,’ I tell Olly. ‘I’ll have to come down here for a couple of hours afterwards.’
‘Thought we might watch a movie tonight,’ Olly says. ‘Have some time together before you go away for the week.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ And it does. How long has it been since Olly and I just vegged out on the sofa together? ‘I’ll try,’ I promise.
But in my heart of hearts, I know that I’ll be burning the midnight oil so that I’m ready in time for tomorrow. This is my first show and it’s important that I get it right. Once I’m on the stand, that’s it. I can’t pop back home if I happen to forget something. At first light, we need to set off for the city and I’ve hired a van so that Olly can drive all the stuff down with me. I try not to be hurt that Olly hasn’t even asked me how things are going or whether he can help when Petal goes to bed.
‘I’d better get back.’ He flicks a thumb towards the kitchen.
‘It’ll be burning.’
‘Five minutes,’ I beg. ‘Just keep it warm for me.’
His expression tells me that I might as well have asked him to cut up Petal and put her under the patio.
‘Five,’ he says, ‘or your dinner will be in the dog.’ He stomps his way back upstairs.
I sigh to myself. The other worry is that I haven’t had any real news from Yves Simoneaux. I’ve called him several times but have only managed to speak to him once since his impromptu visit. Now that I’ve appointed him as my agent, he doesn’t seem quite as keen. I don’t know how long these things are supposed to take, but I’d hoped that after the initial rush of enthusiasm, he’d have secured us some contracts by now. But there’s been nothing. I would also have thought that he’d be at Designer Extravaganza as it’s such an important date on the fashion calendar but, despite emailing him, I haven’t yet had a reply to tell me whether he’ll be there or not.