in the company of other women—particularly Italian women, who take a pride in their appearance. You will feel uncomfortable if you are not comparably clothed.’
No, she wouldn’t, Charley wanted to say, because she knew how unsuited she was to the kind of Italian elegance to which Raphael was referring.
‘You have already agreed to work under my direction and to abide by my conditions,’ Raphael reminded her.
‘As project manager, not in telling me what to wear,’ Charley retorted. ‘Work clothes for me mean a sturdy pair of boots and a properly fitting hard hat.’ Was that really pity she could see in Raphael’s gaze?
‘You shall have those, of course, but I hardly think that even you would want to dress in such things for dinner.’
His words were a statement and not a question, Charley recognised, and, much as she would have liked to argue the point, Raphael was turning away from her, nodding to the uniformed doorman to open the door to the store, signalling that any attempt at rebellion on her part simply would not be tolerated.
Now Raphael’s hand under her elbow felt like a form of imprisonment, but despite everything she believed about herself, humiliatingly, Charley was forced to admit that, when the sultry-looking sales assistant who had glided forward cast an assessing glance over her, she was glad she was wearing goodquality clothes—even though at the same time she felt acutely conscious of how badly her looks and lack ofself-confidence at being in this most feminine of female places compared to that of the sales assistant. Not that the sales assistant spent much time in looking at her—she was far too busy looking at Raphael for that, Charley thought acidly. But then an older woman came forward, dismissing the other girl, smiling warmly but professionally at Raphael.
‘My assistant is in need of a new wardrobe,’ Raphael told the saleswoman. ‘She will need everyday clothes, at least two business suits, and cocktail and evening dresses.’
No, Charley wanted to protest, not dresses. She never wore dresses. Her mother had always said that she was too much of a tomboy to wear them, and had laughed at her on the rare occasions when Charley had insisted that she wanted to be dressed like her sisters, telling her, ‘Oh, poppet, you can’t wear that.’ Dresses—indeed all feminine clothes—were Charley’s enemy. Just looking at them in shop windows brought her out in a cold sweat of remembered childhood humiliation.
The sales assistant’s dark gaze, sent once in Charley’s direction, didn’t return to her as she nodded her head.
‘Please come this way,’ she invited them.
Within two minutes they were inside a private tryingon suite, complete with newspapers, magazines and a television, coffee having been ordered for them both.
Charley was then whisked into a luxuriously equipped large changing room, where she was measured by the saleswoman and then allowed to return to the main room of the suite, where Raphael was drinking his coffee whilst studying his BlackBerry.
Two young assistants were summoned and given a volley of instructions in Italian so rapid that Charley couldn’t keep up with it, though she strained to catch the dreaded word ‘dress’ so that she could counteract it.
Swiftly, under the saleswoman’s silent eagle-eyed inspection, the clothes rail which had been brought into the room was filled with clothes—beautiful, elegant clothes, in wonderful fabrics and sophisticated colours. Two trouser suits, both black; smartly tailored shorts in black, tan and white; tee shirts and knits; blouses…Charley’s panic and dread were increasing with each new item added to the rail.
It was, of course, the evening dress that did it in the end: a swathe of cream silk satin, studded here and there with tiny crystals, the fabric so delicate that it fluttered sensually in the movement from the air-conditioning. Even without having seen it properly Charley knew instinctively
No, she wouldn’t, Charley wanted to say, because she knew how unsuited she was to the kind of Italian elegance to which Raphael was referring.
‘You have already agreed to work under my direction and to abide by my conditions,’ Raphael reminded her.
‘As project manager, not in telling me what to wear,’ Charley retorted. ‘Work clothes for me mean a sturdy pair of boots and a properly fitting hard hat.’ Was that really pity she could see in Raphael’s gaze?
‘You shall have those, of course, but I hardly think that even you would want to dress in such things for dinner.’
His words were a statement and not a question, Charley recognised, and, much as she would have liked to argue the point, Raphael was turning away from her, nodding to the uniformed doorman to open the door to the store, signalling that any attempt at rebellion on her part simply would not be tolerated.
Now Raphael’s hand under her elbow felt like a form of imprisonment, but despite everything she believed about herself, humiliatingly, Charley was forced to admit that, when the sultry-looking sales assistant who had glided forward cast an assessing glance over her, she was glad she was wearing goodquality clothes—even though at the same time she felt acutely conscious of how badly her looks and lack ofself-confidence at being in this most feminine of female places compared to that of the sales assistant. Not that the sales assistant spent much time in looking at her—she was far too busy looking at Raphael for that, Charley thought acidly. But then an older woman came forward, dismissing the other girl, smiling warmly but professionally at Raphael.
‘My assistant is in need of a new wardrobe,’ Raphael told the saleswoman. ‘She will need everyday clothes, at least two business suits, and cocktail and evening dresses.’
No, Charley wanted to protest, not dresses. She never wore dresses. Her mother had always said that she was too much of a tomboy to wear them, and had laughed at her on the rare occasions when Charley had insisted that she wanted to be dressed like her sisters, telling her, ‘Oh, poppet, you can’t wear that.’ Dresses—indeed all feminine clothes—were Charley’s enemy. Just looking at them in shop windows brought her out in a cold sweat of remembered childhood humiliation.
The sales assistant’s dark gaze, sent once in Charley’s direction, didn’t return to her as she nodded her head.
‘Please come this way,’ she invited them.
Within two minutes they were inside a private tryingon suite, complete with newspapers, magazines and a television, coffee having been ordered for them both.
Charley was then whisked into a luxuriously equipped large changing room, where she was measured by the saleswoman and then allowed to return to the main room of the suite, where Raphael was drinking his coffee whilst studying his BlackBerry.
Two young assistants were summoned and given a volley of instructions in Italian so rapid that Charley couldn’t keep up with it, though she strained to catch the dreaded word ‘dress’ so that she could counteract it.
Swiftly, under the saleswoman’s silent eagle-eyed inspection, the clothes rail which had been brought into the room was filled with clothes—beautiful, elegant clothes, in wonderful fabrics and sophisticated colours. Two trouser suits, both black; smartly tailored shorts in black, tan and white; tee shirts and knits; blouses…Charley’s panic and dread were increasing with each new item added to the rail.
It was, of course, the evening dress that did it in the end: a swathe of cream silk satin, studded here and there with tiny crystals, the fabric so delicate that it fluttered sensually in the movement from the air-conditioning. Even without having seen it properly Charley knew instinctively
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