Christmas at Claridge's Page 16

  ‘Tom, please,’ she pleaded. ‘There are other options. This isn’t the only way to save the company. There’s . . . there’s something else.’

  Tom blinked, taking a step back, as though she’d pushed him. ‘What do you mean? Is there another client? Have you had an approach?’

  Simon snorted furiously, turning away. Stella caught Clem’s eye, shaking her head furiously.

  Clem, looking anxiously between Tom and Stella, faltered. ‘I . . . I can’t tell you yet. I’m sorry. It’s . . . I promise it will work. Just trust me, please.’

  ‘Give me strength,’ Simon muttered, raising his hands and face to the ceiling. ‘Trust you? You want me to trust you? After everything you did, losing us the Perignard account, Bugatti, the new business from Berlin.’ He was counting the disasters on his fingers.

  ‘I get it, Tom! I know it’s all my fault. I know I’m a fuck-up! But I just need four days, I promise. And then we won’t need this account. Everything will be saved again.’

  ‘How? I’ve got an open budget on a make-or-break commission that can propel us to the next tier and you want me to believe your secret can save the company?’ He reached into the champagne box and pulled out some typed sheets that had been stapled together. ‘This is a hard-and-fast, signed contract. It’s a legal document, and an absolute guarantee of our future. There’s a dotted line in it that needs your signature and you are going to sign it, Clem.’

  ‘No!’ she shouted, trembling with anger now. ‘I won’t! I don’t need to. I’ll show you in four days.’

  Tom took a step towards her, the contract folding beneath the pressure from his fingers. ‘You will sign it.’

  ‘Or what?’ she demanded, and the air in the flat became electrically charged, tension crackling between the two siblings, who knew exactly how to wage war with each other.

  He straightened up, his body rigid. ‘Or I will never set eyes on you again.’

  The words punched through her, pushing into her muscles and bleeding out like bruises. He threw the contract on the table and strode towards the door.

  ‘You don’t mean that!’ she called to his back in a wobbly voice.

  But when Tom stopped at the door and turned back to face her, she saw that his eyes were reddening, their sorrow showing how true his words were. ‘Try me.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The clock chimed midnight and Mercy yawned in her chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘OK, try this,’ Stella said, holding up one of the rose-pink suede jumpsuits.

  Clem, who was only in a T-shirt and knickers anyway, was out of her clothes and wriggling into it in an instant, sighing as the inner velvety pile brushed against her skin. She pulled her hair out from under the stand-up collar and pulled on a pair of grey studded ankle-boots that sent her up to ceiling height.

  Everyone cooed at the sight of her: the silhouette was second-skin, with epaulettes on the shoulders, a stand-up collar, press-stud fastenings that could be opened as bare as you dared and lightly stitched knee-pads to guard against bagging. It was triumphant – sexy, cool and luxurious all at once.

  ‘It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever made!’ Clem gasped, holding her hands to her mouth as she caught her reflection in the window. They were all emotional – exhausted and strung out from three solid days of working round the clock trying to get everything finished in time for the flash sale. The tweets flagging up tomorrow’s date as D-day had already gone out and there was an army of women on standby for the follow-up tweet revealing the time and place.

  Clem nodded silently as her hand brushed the feather-soft hide over her thigh. They were going to do this thing! With hindsight, Tom locking her out of the office on Wednesday morning had been a blessing. Being so clearly and pointedly determined to avoid her, it had meant Stella could move into the flat without fear of him coming back, and they could work on the final hides full time. She realized now that they’d needed to – there was no way it would have been finished otherwise – and that was with Mercy’s help. They had made a great team: Mercy’s sewing skills were even better than she’d let on, and she did all the technical work with Stella, whilst Clem helped with the design ideas, but was mainly the official model and tea girl.

  Thank God the end was in sight. Clem felt close to collapse from both the physical and emotional strain of everything that had happened with Tom; she just couldn’t put it out of her mind, was constantly twitchy and nervy, her nails bitten to the quick, and sleep had become something that only happened to other people – like happy endings and job promotions. It was only her steadfast belief in the collection they’d created that was keeping her going.

  Still, once these jumpsuits were done, everything would be ready to go: the ivory suede pouch bags, Toscana shearling deerstalkers and belted gilets, two-toned nappa plaited scarves, silk-lined shagreen skinny trousers – again with biker stitching details – mannish blazers cut from the cream skins, and knee-length cardi-coats made from blonde shearling on the body, with jumbo-knit wool arms that Stella had ingeniously knitted on two broom handles. Even the colour palette of chocolate, ivory, caramel, frosted sage green and old rose looked considered, rather than opportunistic, and no one would ever have guessed that most of it had been harvested from factory-floor cuttings.

  It had cost nothing but time, and the result was a tight, directional collection that spoke to a refined woman with demanding, high-end tastes. There was nothing here that undermined the Alderton Hide brand, in fact it enhanced it, bringing the company’s niche aesthetic down to a personal level. Tom didn’t know it yet, but Clem, Stella and Mercy had done him proud. Alderton Hide would be able to continue without compromise – to anyone.

  Clem slipped the jumpsuit off and handed it to Stella to snip the remaining threads, while Mercy was finishing the stitching on the oval knee-pads.

  ‘Tea anyone?’ Clem asked, pulling her T-shirt over her head and trying to suppress a yawn. She was so tired she felt sure she could sleep on a spike.

  Stella looked across at her. Clem was pale and had lost a bit of weight – the back-to-back curries hadn’t been enough to assuage her anxieties about Tom’s threat. ‘Go to bed. We’re nearly finished here. There’s nothing more you can do. We’re going to have to get busy again in the morning getting this place straight.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we won’t try too hard on that score. It’s not like we want it to sell,’ Clem said, looking around at the mess – stray cuts of leather and suede, and miles of coloured thread littered the floor, and there were takeaway boxes piled up on the worktop. The flat looked like hell and it was going to take another team effort to get everything straight and cleared out before the open day started the next morning. Tom had texted to say he’d be over at 10.30 a.m. – his meaning being: be gone by then! – and the most important thing was that the collection was ready to ship out: she had already boxed everything that was loose, like the hats, wrist-warmers and phone covers, and had hung the jackets, gilets and trousers in polythene covers on Stella’s collapsible market rails.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t need me?’ Clem asked, feeling guilty, but already walking towards the bedroom.

  ‘Be gone,’ Mercy murmured. Her own duvet and pillow were stretched over the sofa in readiness. Once Stella had filled her in on the siblings’ tearful showdown, she’d stayed over for the rest of the week, getting her sister to look after her youngest son while they made the final push towards completing the collection.

  Clem fell into her bed, barely able to muster the strength to pull the duvet around her. Her hand automatically slid under the pillow, feeling as it always did for the small silk envelope that was the closest thing she had to a security blanket. She reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, her eyes falling on the dust-bagged Birkin sitting on the chair by the door, ready for its guest-of-honour appearance at tomorrow’s festivities. The room fell into darkness and sleep began to creep up her body from the toes first, but in those few moments before oblivion won, a
nother emotion started to pool in her stomach – something she was too drowsy to articulate clearly, but which felt akin to fear.

  It was Shambles who woke them, screeching to be let out of his cage and almost inducing a heart attack in Stella, who’d been sharing Tom’s room with her.

  ‘Jeezus,’ she muttered, leaning against the doorframe, one hand over her heart, as Clem moaned in the next room and Mercy snored from the sofa. ‘I nearly died . . .’ Stella mumbled, rubbing her eyes and pushing her crazy hair back from her face. She was wearing one of Tom’s shirts which, in spite of it being a strapping 17½ -inch collar, still strained at the chest.

  ‘What time is it?’ Clem moaned indistinguishably, her head under the pillow. ‘It’s too early.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Stella faltered.

  Silence descended upon the flat once again and, deep in her feather-filled vacuum, Clem wondered whether her friend had fallen asleep standing up. Reluctantly lifting her head, she pushed the pillow off and looked up to find Stella – mouth agape – pointing at the clock on the far wall.

  They were late, that much was instantly apparent. Clem jumped out of bed and ran to the door. Ten past ten.

  ‘No!’ Clem gasped, looking around at the flat, which looked more like a landfill site at that particular moment. ‘Mercy wake up!’ she cried. ‘Tom’s going to be here in twenty minutes.’

  Within seconds, all three women were standing in a frozen panic in the centre of the room.

  ‘There’s no way we’ll get this cleared in time,’ Clem wailed, her fingers tightly bunching the hair by her temples. How could they have overslept, today of all days?

  Stella took charge. ‘Mercy you clean up. Hoover first, it’ll look a whole lot better when the floor’s clear. And stuff all the cuts into a bin bag with the curry boxes. Clem, you and I need to get these clothes outta here.’

  ‘Right,’ Clem nodded, grateful for the orders and dashing back into the bedroom to pull on some ribbed leggings and a sloppy joe.

  Stella didn’t even bother. She just pulled on a pair of Tom’s hooped rugby socks under her Uggs and a parka, and started carrying the boxes down the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing? We can’t leave them there,’ Clem cried as Stella started piling them up in a perilous tower behind the front door. ‘Tom’ll see them.’

  ‘Yes, but why would he think they’re anything to do with us?’ Stella replied calmly. ‘They could belong to any of the other flats. He’ll just walk straight past them. So long as they’re not in your flat, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, OK,’ Clem nodded, adding her own box to the tower and following Stella back up the stairs.

  Mercy was hoovering in her bra again – Mrs Crouch had become as accustomed to that as she was to seeing Clem in the buff – whilst spraying some of Tom’s deodorant around her head. ‘Best I could manage to get rid of the curry smells.’ She shrugged.

  Clem quickly opened all the windows and turned the oven onto preheat, throwing a par-baked baguette in for good measure, before trotting back downstairs with the other boxes.

  ‘Oh God, Stella, how are we going to get rid of the hanging rails?’ Clem asked as they cleared the floorspace of boxes. ‘That’s not a quick job.’

  ‘It is for me.’ Stella winked. ‘I’ll dismantle them if you put the clothes in that big box there. We’ll have to steam everything later if needs be.’

  ‘Right,’ Clem nodded, grabbing great armfuls of jumpsuits and coats, jackets and trousers, and stuffing them into a box in the corner. ‘Where’s the masking tape?’ she demanded, panicking, as Mercy crawled around her feet, picking up the irregular snippets of coloured hides.

  ‘Mind my fingers!’ Mercy muttered, slapping Clem on the ankles.

  A slam downstairs made them all freeze on the spot and the sound of Tom swearing as he walked into one of the boxes drifted under the door. He was early. They were out of time. They were about to be caught red-handed! Clem hurriedly folded down the flaps of the box and hoisted it up in her arms protectively.

  ‘Hi,’ Tom said tersely ten seconds later, Clover hanging behind him like a shadow, her hand tightly gripping his.

  Stella, who had dismantled the hanging rail but was still holding it, leaned against it casually, pulling her parka closed so that he wouldn’t notice she’d slept in his clothes. ‘Hey, Tom! How’s it going?’ she asked, as though it was such a surprise to see him there.

  Tom didn’t reply. He was transfixed by the sight of Mercy vigorously polishing a side table in just her leopard-print bra. Again. ‘Does she ever get dressed?’

  Stella shrugged.

  Clem swallowed hard as she waited for Tom’s eyes to find her. She was all but hidden behind the enormous box in her arms and she felt as though her heart was going to leap out of her chest. She was standing in front of him, carrying a box filled with clothes, made from the leather that should have lined the walls of an upscale jeweller off Bond Street. There was no getting out of this. If he lifted the flap of the box, she was done for.

  His eyes, when they met hers, were cold and unresponsive, and she flinched to see his anger still so ready. The contract remained unsigned.

  ‘You said you were going to get this place sorted for today,’ he snapped. ‘It stinks of curry and . . . cheap aftershave.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Had a party?’ he finished for her, walking further into the flat, his nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.’

  Clover drifted in serenely, practically floating an inch off the floor. Her day had come. It was a wonder she wasn’t wearing a tiara. Without a word, she walked into Tom’s room and retrieved the smelly scented sticks, arranging them artfully on the sitting room table before plumping up the cushions on the sofa and refolding the blanket draped across the back. Before everyone’s eyes, the flat began to morph from workshop to home again.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Tom asked, wrinkling his nose as the distinct aroma of something burning wafted through from the kitchen.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Clem cried, dropping the box and running to the oven. She pulled out the baguette, now so carbonized it could hatch a diamond, and pulled a face. ‘Dammit. I was trying to make the flat smell of freshly baked bread.’

  Tom rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘Quite frankly, the most useful thing you could do would be to get the hell out of here and let us deal with everything. I should have known it would be beyond you to get this sorted. People will start arriving in twenty minutes,’ Tom said coldly.

  ‘I did tell you she’d try to jeopardize it for you,’ Clover said quietly, taking the duster and can of Pledge from Mercy’s hands and throwing her deep cleavage a look of distaste. ‘Thank God we got here early.’ She began polishing the windowsill.

  ‘That is not what I was trying to do. I was trying to help!’ Clem snapped, the blackened, smouldering bread still in her hand.

  ‘Well, Tom’s just told you how you can be most helpful.’ Clover smiled, nodding over her shoulder towards the door.

  Clem considered throwing the baguette at her; it was so hard it might cause concussion, fingers crossed.

  ‘Come on, Clem,’ Stella said quickly, reading her thoughts and gathering the dismantled hanging rails, quickly binding them together with the masking tape so that she could carry them in one load. ‘We need to get on anyway.’ Pinning Clem with a stern look, she gestured with her eyes to the discarded box which was still untaped and had one of the flaps hanging open where Clem had dropped it, a pink suede sleeve clearly visible through the gap.

  ‘Yeah . . . you’re right. We’re just getting under your feet here,’ Clem acquiesced too readily, causing Clover to narrow her eyes suspiciously. Clem picked up the box and hurriedly closed it. ‘See you later then,’ Clem mumbled, moving towards the door.

  ‘And thanks for tidying your room. Appreciate it,’ Tom said sarcastically, seeing her bed unmade, the curtains still drawn, clothes heaped like bonfire pile
s.

  ‘Oh! God, I almost forgot,’ she said, doubling back on herself and squeezing past Tom to grab the Birkin, which was still sitting quietly in its bright orange Hermès dust bag.

  ‘Why are you taking that?’ Tom queried as she laid it across the box. He took an interested step towards her, reaching for the bag.

  Clem jumped away in alarm. If he so chose, he’d be able to see straight into the box. ‘Why wouldn’t I take it, Tom? It is my fucking bag! It’s supposed to be used.’ Attack seemed to be the best form of defence, and it worked – Tom flinched at her words and hung back – but Clover, who’d been leaning against the windowsill, watching them, straightened up suddenly. ‘What’s in that box?’ she asked, as though detecting a plot amidst the burnt offerings and synthetic pheromones. ‘And why’ve you got those rails, Stella?’

  Clem and Stella looked at each other in panic. For once, both women were out of ideas and words.

  ‘She was showing Clem the new collection. Is that OK, your highness?’ Mercy interjected, coming to their rescue.

  ‘Your high—?’ Clover gasped. ‘Tom! Are you going to let her talk to me like that?’

  ‘I am not,’ Tom replied with impressive indignation. ‘Apologize this instant.’

  ‘No.’ Mercy folded her arms – just – over her chest and waited.

  Tom looked unsure of what to do next. Usually someone of her girth would get rugby tackled, but being a woman . . .

  ‘Well, it doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ Clover said after a minute, as Tom stammered himself into silence. ‘Good manners are the last thing I’d expect from a woman who can’t even be bothered to be clothed. The mind boggles at what her previous job entailed if she strips off this easily.’