and I just wanted to make it clear that I don’t usually do that sort of thing. Not in public, anyway.”
What sort of thing?
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to figure out what Julie’s talking about. What could she and Jason have been doing in the loo? Unless . . . She couldn’t mean . . .
“Julie, do you mean to tell me you and Jason were . . .”
“Shagging. Yes. And now the bouncer knows, which means Jason is getting wolf whistles every time he goes to work. I’d love to get my hands on the person that told him. But look, you’re not shocked or anything are you?”
I start to laugh. So that’s what Lucy and Alistair were laughing about. Alistair didn’t tell anyone about me talking to myself, after all. And when Lucy was outside my door on Tuesday, she was talking about the fun we’d have teasing Julie . . . God, I can’t believe she was shagging Jason in the loo!
“I think it’s fantastic,” I say with a grin. “Honestly, I really like him.”
“Me too,” says Julie. “But don’t you dare tell him that.”
There’s a woman eyeing up a pair of Gucci sling-backs. I completely understand the look on her face—I mean, they’re gorgeous. I don’t think I’d wear them; they’re really high and pointy and just a bit too much for any of the clothes in my wardrobe, but still. You’ve got to appreciate beauty when you see it, and these shoes are beauty incarnate.
“They’re nice, aren’t they?” I say, walking over. “Do you want to try them on?”
She nods gratefully.
“I also need something to wear with them,” she says, smiling broadly. “Something for a party. Something sexy.”
I can see Julie eyeing her up and down from behind the cash desk, where she’s putting through a couple of scarves for one of our regulars. Julie divides all our customers, sorry, clients, into five distinct types. There’s the “can’t but what the hells” who really shouldn’t be shopping here at all; I mean, they don’t have gold cards or thousands of pounds stashed away in the bank, but they do have credit cards. They tend to shop pretty quickly—running around to try on loads of stuff before their conscience (or bank manager) gets the better of them, and they’re the sort to grab a matching bag to go with their new shoes just before reaching the cash desk. Laura can smell one at five paces and always goes in for the kill, waving beautiful scarves and sweaters in front of them as they walk into the changing rooms.
Next are the “investment buyers” who come in about four times a year and buy loads of stuff for work or weekends or whatever, and basically they want you to tell them what to buy and they pretty much trust you. They’re the clients you want because if they like your advice, they come back, and when they do, they spend a fortune. Julie’s got a whole book full of investment buyers’ names and numbers and she calls them four times a year to tell them what great stuff we’ve just gotten in that they will “just love.” Always works.
Then there are the “fashionistas” who come in about once a month (more sometimes) to get the latest thing, whether it’s a Marc Jacobs dress, Prada bag, or Missoni swimming costume. They want it if it’s new, they like to get it before it’s hit the shop floor, and they are generally magazine editors or stylists. They never use the full name for anything; they talk about Choos and Dolce like they are their best friends. Which is probably because they are their best friends, you know, in a weird kind of way. And they always expect you to know who they are. Like celebrities or something. Usually they’re not that easy, either—like, if you suggest something, they look at you as if you’re completely mad, and if they ask you for some piece of clothing that hasn’t even been designed yet, they get really sniffy when you say there aren’t any in stock. Still, they’re very good about bitching about models and stuff.
Next are the
What sort of thing?
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to figure out what Julie’s talking about. What could she and Jason have been doing in the loo? Unless . . . She couldn’t mean . . .
“Julie, do you mean to tell me you and Jason were . . .”
“Shagging. Yes. And now the bouncer knows, which means Jason is getting wolf whistles every time he goes to work. I’d love to get my hands on the person that told him. But look, you’re not shocked or anything are you?”
I start to laugh. So that’s what Lucy and Alistair were laughing about. Alistair didn’t tell anyone about me talking to myself, after all. And when Lucy was outside my door on Tuesday, she was talking about the fun we’d have teasing Julie . . . God, I can’t believe she was shagging Jason in the loo!
“I think it’s fantastic,” I say with a grin. “Honestly, I really like him.”
“Me too,” says Julie. “But don’t you dare tell him that.”
There’s a woman eyeing up a pair of Gucci sling-backs. I completely understand the look on her face—I mean, they’re gorgeous. I don’t think I’d wear them; they’re really high and pointy and just a bit too much for any of the clothes in my wardrobe, but still. You’ve got to appreciate beauty when you see it, and these shoes are beauty incarnate.
“They’re nice, aren’t they?” I say, walking over. “Do you want to try them on?”
She nods gratefully.
“I also need something to wear with them,” she says, smiling broadly. “Something for a party. Something sexy.”
I can see Julie eyeing her up and down from behind the cash desk, where she’s putting through a couple of scarves for one of our regulars. Julie divides all our customers, sorry, clients, into five distinct types. There’s the “can’t but what the hells” who really shouldn’t be shopping here at all; I mean, they don’t have gold cards or thousands of pounds stashed away in the bank, but they do have credit cards. They tend to shop pretty quickly—running around to try on loads of stuff before their conscience (or bank manager) gets the better of them, and they’re the sort to grab a matching bag to go with their new shoes just before reaching the cash desk. Laura can smell one at five paces and always goes in for the kill, waving beautiful scarves and sweaters in front of them as they walk into the changing rooms.
Next are the “investment buyers” who come in about four times a year and buy loads of stuff for work or weekends or whatever, and basically they want you to tell them what to buy and they pretty much trust you. They’re the clients you want because if they like your advice, they come back, and when they do, they spend a fortune. Julie’s got a whole book full of investment buyers’ names and numbers and she calls them four times a year to tell them what great stuff we’ve just gotten in that they will “just love.” Always works.
Then there are the “fashionistas” who come in about once a month (more sometimes) to get the latest thing, whether it’s a Marc Jacobs dress, Prada bag, or Missoni swimming costume. They want it if it’s new, they like to get it before it’s hit the shop floor, and they are generally magazine editors or stylists. They never use the full name for anything; they talk about Choos and Dolce like they are their best friends. Which is probably because they are their best friends, you know, in a weird kind of way. And they always expect you to know who they are. Like celebrities or something. Usually they’re not that easy, either—like, if you suggest something, they look at you as if you’re completely mad, and if they ask you for some piece of clothing that hasn’t even been designed yet, they get really sniffy when you say there aren’t any in stock. Still, they’re very good about bitching about models and stuff.
Next are the
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