Playing Her Cards Right

Jimmy, the unshaven, Ryan Gosling-alike, dropped everything and made a beeline for Riley the second she walked into his coffee shop. I’d witnessed him about to put plastic caps onto scalding cups of coffee and totally forgetting to when Riley appeared behind me one morning. His customers left with hot coffee slopping onto their hands while Jimmy swooped across to serve Riley – ignoring the fact that I’d been next in line.

Jimmy and Riley had flirted outrageously for ages and neither had made a move.

I could have intervened and helped the courting process along but since having finally convinced Mother and Father that they should remarry I had begun to plan their second wedding. One matchmaking job at a time was all I could handle. Besides which I was always playing catch-up on my own work: a trip to Paris to organize, a desk piled high with the detritus of my business accounts, not to mention the constant worry that planning to expand the company might be the worst decision I ever made.

‘That’s great, Riley,’ I said reaching across my more messy than usual desk to grab for the caffeine. I flipped off the lid from the Styrofoam cup and took a big gulp. As I thought, it was only just warm. Not only was the coffee bar a good walk away from our Mayfair office, Riley had probably hung around for some necessary flirting with Jimmy and forgotten the time.

The diminutive Riley sat opposite me, messy auburn ponytail flopping to her shoulder as she crossed her legs, wrapping them in that rubbery way of hers, at least twice round. I’d often worry she’d forget to uncross them when she stood up and fall flat on her face. So far it hadn’t happened. She put her coffee on my desk and whipped out a notebook from thin air.

‘Now,’ I said, impressed by Riley’s efficiency before noticing that all she had was the notebook but no pen. ‘I’ve finalized the meetings in Paris. These are times, dates, and addresses. I’ll need you to hire a driver. I think my appointments are fairly dotted around but not too far from the hotel.’ I shoved a piece of paper I’d scribbled onto across to Riley and slumped back in my big purple chair to finish off the macchiato.

‘You told me you were fluent in French?’ I said to Riley.

She nodded.

‘Then booking a driver will be a doddle for you won’t it?’

‘Oh, absolument,’ she said with a flourish of her hands. ‘And will I need to confirm the flights and hotel?’ she asked.

‘Yes please. I just really need next week to run as smoothly as it can. I’ve got so much to get done. Don’t forget I’m in New York with Mother and my sisters tomorrow.’ I looked at the coral lipstick smudge I’d made on the foam cup and then at Riley. ‘Don’t you think you should be writing this down?’

‘It’s all in here,’ she said tapping the side of her head and nodding. She blinked her enormous blue eyes at me, looking more like a character from a Japanese anime than ever, and smiled. I was worried that by tapping her head on one side she was bound to empty it of all the information she’d just acquired via the ear on the other side.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked and bit my lip in concern. Riley hadn’t glazed over and vanished into one of her dream sequences so maybe she had taken it all in. She looked down at the To Do list I’d scribbled for her. I watched her lips move as she read the list to herself. I noticed her frown and I began to panic.

With a silent sigh I reached across to grab the list back. I then rewrote it in a meticulous step-by-step format.

‘Don’t let me down, Riley,’ I said handing her back the revised instructions. ‘I’m leaving next Wednesday. You’ve got a week. Just make sure I’ve got the plane tickets in my hand before I set off for Heathrow. It’s essential you have a word with my driver in Paris. Tell them I’m on a short and precise schedule. I can’t afford to be late. At all.’

‘I won’t let you down.’ Riley sprang up and set to work. She left my office with a determined gait and returned two seconds later to retrieve the list and her coffee cup. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said in a casual sing-song way.

When she closed the door for a second time, I couldn’t help but think that those were the famous last words of someone else – the captain of the Titanic, perhaps?

Chapter 4

The Dress

Wedding dress shopping with Mother had been fraught to say the least. We’d left every appointment I’d made with every reputable wedding dress couturier empty-handed. Mother knew exactly what she wanted one minute and didn’t have a clue the next. She was also terribly fussy. She had wanted all four of her daughters to be bridesmaids. That meant I had five dresses to think about. Well two designs – one for the bride and one for the bridesmaids – but my sisters and I had been squabbling about the style of our bridesmaid dress.

Then I’d had a brainwave. I was convinced I could settle the whole matter by flying out to one of the Vera Wang bridal shops in New York. If Vera (well the assistant in the shop) couldn’t settle this, then no one could. Mother and I had hit Browns Bride in Mayfair where there was a small selection by Vera Wang, and though we came close, Mother still wasn’t satisfied. I figured a larger selection might inspire her and if we went halfway around the world, Mother might feel compelled to say yes to something.

Our day in New York was booked. I’d scheduled an appointment in the Madison Avenue shop. As my older sisters Amber and Indigo both worked for my Mother’s lingerie company as head of marketing and company lawyer, respectively, time off was easily arranged. I’d managed to coax my younger sister, Ebony, away from her buyer position at Harrods with some difficulty. Ebony worked hard and played hard but she very rarely found time to play since her promotion to a senior buyer position. It took a lot of fast talking and lashings of white wine to first, detach her from her mobile phone earpiece and, second, to get Ebony to relax once we’d checked in to our New York hotel.

After two hours into our visit to Vera Wang in Madison Avenue, my sisters and I had tried on several Vera Wang bridal gowns, not one single bridesmaid dress I might add, while Mother sat watching from a corner.

‘Mother, please,’ I said to her in a dress very similar to the one Kate Hudson wore in Bride Wars. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

‘And you are?’ She glared at me in the full and fluffy skirt that swept the carpet. ‘Look, Magenta, these dresses are far too youthful for me. Why don’t you girls stop trying on wedding dresses and see if there’s an actual bridesmaid dress you can all agree on? Maybe we can go somewhere else for me. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.’

‘Mother, you’re impossible,’ I said staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I looked gorgeous. ‘We’ll run out of time at this rate.’

The shopping expedition wasn’t a complete disaster. The four of us settled on a dress we would be happy with as bridesmaids. The slight snag was that they were four different designs.

‘Honestly, girls,’ I said to my sisters, ‘we might as well get them in different colours, too. How about the colour of our names?’ It was intended as sarcasm but Mother adored the idea.

‘Yes.’ She leapt up and looked enthusiastic for the first time since our quest for dresses began. ‘What a great idea.’

‘It’s tacky,’ I said.

‘But delightfully so,’ Mother replied. ‘Please? For me?’

We gave in to Mother’s whim but at least that was one less thing for me to worry about. We ordered our dresses and a big tick was added to my mental Wedding To Do list.

Exhausted by the flight and the morning of trying on dresses, we needed some refreshments.

We found an authentic English teashop and ordered cream scones and strongly brewed tea.

Mother sat in her graceful way, red hair piled into a low bun and her little finger elegantly cocked as she sipped her tea.

‘We’ll have to go back to the idea of a specially designed dress for you, Mother,’ I said, my energy levels well and truly sunk.

‘Yes that’s all well and good,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got so many ideas in my head. I’m not sure I could be much help to a designer. We’ve tried and I’ve only confused them.’

I laid a napkin on the table and pulled out a pen.

‘Tell me,’ I said, licking a rogue spot of cream off my top lip. ‘How do you see yourself? It’s a romantic Caribbean wedding, by the sea, on the sand. How do you imagine yourself that day?’

Mother looked off towards the window. The painted menu on the glass obstructed the view of yellow cabs and passers-by but she seemed to be picturing herself on the beach, eyes half closed.

‘Something flowing. Not white, obviously, but something in a very pale colour to complement my complexion.’

I began to draw on the napkin. I drew a slinky figurine. Mother was slight and well toned for a woman of sixty-two. I began the sketching of swoops and lines as Mother voiced how she’d pictured herself on her wedding day. The first sketch wasn’t right. I reached for another napkin and tried again as Mother went on.

‘It shouldn’t be too young-looking but a dress rather than an ensemble,’ she said. ‘Those add years to the older woman and I don’t want to look ancient. As long as it’s comfortable but shows off the body I’ve been working on for most of my adult life. No upper arms showing. No matter how much I exercise, age isn’t kind to upper arms.’ She picked up her teacup.

‘Something like this?’ I pushed the napkin towards Mother. She took out her glasses and inspected my scribbles.

‘And what would it be made of?’ she asked, her light brown eyes being magnified by her glasses.

‘Georgette or crêpe de Chine. Something silky and flowing. It’s going to be hot on the beach.’

‘Not see-through.’

‘Of course not,’ I agreed.

‘Colour?’

‘For you, I was thinking light peach.’

Mother pulled off her spectacles. ‘Magenta, this is it. You’ve just designed my wedding dress!’

‘Have I?’ I took the napkin and stared at my drawing. ‘I have. I could take this to a designer and have them put it together.’

Mother placed her hand on mine.

‘Why don’t you do it, Magenta? You had some fabulous ideas when you were on your fashion course. I remember that smashing dress you made for an assignment.’

‘Oh, Mother, that was a hundred years ago. I dropped out of my degree course. I was crap.’

‘Don’t use that word. And you were far from crap.’ She took the napkin. ‘This is my dress, Magenta, and I want you to make it.’

My sisters were in total agreement, each one grabbing the napkin and nodding in approval.

I became excited at the prospect of being the designer of my mother’s wedding dress. But could I really pull it off? I did a mental list of the things I’d already committed to do. I remembered I’d told Anthony I was going to repaint the kitchen when I got back from New York. Was I crazy to even consider this? But it was autumn and the wedding wasn’t until the following May; surely I’d have long enough.

‘Well the girls and I all have our dresses sorted,’ I said. ‘But I still have to shop for Father’s suit.’

‘Oh he’ll be happy with anything off the peg as long as it’s from his usual place,’ Mother insisted. ‘No one is expecting you to design clothes for the whole wedding party. Just my dress, darling, and I’m sure you could do it.’

I couldn’t resist the challenge.

‘I’ll do it.’ I had a wide grin plastered across my face as we left the teashop. I walked arm in arm with Mother along the wide street, my sisters flanking us. With a renewed energy, we all managed a little retail therapy before making our way back to the hotel.

I was excited about designing and making Mother’s dress. I’d need help – I knew that. I didn’t even possess a sewing machine. I’d either have to buy one or hire a seamstress. It was going to be a mammoth task, juggling wedding dress fabrics for Mother’s gown and colours for the kitchen walls. I could envisage a catalogue of disasters but not if I got organized.

At this point I didn’t see that being organized wasn’t going to be enough. I jumped in at the deep end – wedding planner, house decorator, and entrepreneur extraordinaire. Weeks later, at age thirty, I got my first grey hair, a sign that my stress levels were on the increase, but I still didn’t take a step back from it all. You see I was in my happy place, high on a year of Saturdays spent with Anthony.

Chapter 5

The Chauffeur

‘So I’ll be off to Paris tomorrow afternoon,’ I said to Anthony.

I was cooking a late supper and breezing in and out of the kitchen to the annexe at the back of the house, which Anthony used as his art studio. It was actually a conservatory, which the previous occupants used as a breakfast room, but it was perfect for light and a good temperature for Anthony’s materials.

Since moving in with Anthony, I noticed how incredibly moody he became when he started a new project. It wasn’t until his piece was well under way and he had a clear visualization of his subject that he became my Anthony again. If I spoke to him while he was working on a new idea he just grunted at me. But always, once he’d stepped out of the confines of his studio, Anthony was the relaxed, easy-going man I’d fallen in love with and who was openly affectionate and kind.

Anthony’s dark hair was touching his shoulders now but it looked unkempt and was definitely unwashed. It was scooped up in one of my scrunchies to keep it out of his eyes and from the doorway I could see the gorgeous dip at the back of his strong neck. I was dying to kiss it but as he was barely grunting over his shoulder at me I returned to the kitchen to finish dinner. I could always seduce him later.

The sauce was simmering away nicely so I thought I’d pop upstairs and start some packing for the trip. I took my suitcase down off the rickety wardrobe in the bedroom and opened it up on the bed. It was dark outside, a chilly November evening, and I was looking forward to snuggling up with Anthony on the sofa later when he was out of the studio.

Anthony had taken up an artist residency at Slater Gallery in Piccadilly. It was a one-year residency and he was part way through it. He should have been doing all his artwork at the gallery but he insisted on completing a series of paintings at home, which meant he was draining himself creatively and being a bit of a grouch with it.

As artist in residence at Slater’s, Anthony would have to have an exhibition ready at the end of the one-year period. It would consist of everything he’d completed while at the gallery. Anthony wanted to include some additional material he’d been working on in his home studio, causing himself extra pressure, I thought. He was also expected to collaborate with the local sixth form college, giving occasional workshops to A-level Art students. Anthony wasn’t too happy about the workshops. He was fundamentally shy and would probably stand in front of the students with sanguine cheeks while he lectured. I was pretty sure the girls would fall in love with him, though.

I opened the cabinet in the bathroom. What would I need to pack? I stared at the unopened box of tampons, which surely I should have started using since I bought them. I calculated the days in my head as I threw the packet into my toiletry bag. I got out my phone and looked at the calendar. It confirmed that time had flown by without me noticing not having had a period. It was probably due to the stress.

I’d spent several days up a ladder having painted three of the kitchen walls. I’d also bought a sketch pad and pencils and had been losing sleep over whether my wedding dress design was really any good. Not to mention the hours in bed spent on Amazon, trying to work out which sewing machine to buy. Knowing me I’d probably come on slap bang in the middle of one of the meetings in Paris.

I was looking forward to Paris but secretly wishing I could combine the trip with a romantic getaway for me and Anthony. It was too perfect that I was going to be in the city of love for two days and not take advantage of it. But when I put the idea to Anthony he’d said no. He had his painting.

‘You’ll have meetings, anyway,’ he’d said. ‘But my residency finishes in spring. How about a week away then?’

‘That would be wonderful,’ I’d said dreamy-eyed.

I’d keep the trip all business and I’d have a lovely romantic trip to look forward to with Anthony.

‘I turned off the sauce.’ Anthony was in the doorway of our bedroom. ‘It was bubbling over.’

‘Shall I put on the pasta?’ I looked up at him as I closed the phone.

‘Not yet.’ Anthony pulled my case off the bed, laying it on the floor. He took the scrunchie from his hair, wavy locks curtaining the sides of his face. He gave me a cheeky grin before slipping his T-shirt off over his head and tossing it to one side, and then pulling me onto him on the bed.

‘Glad to see you’ve stopped growling at me for five minutes,’ I said.

‘Five minutes? I think I can do better than that.’

I was going to miss Anthony for the next few days but I’d told myself that a Paris with Anthony in it would be a fabulous thing to look forward to.

When I saw the rain pouring down as we landed at Orly airport, and how grey and miserable the sky was, I was happy the trip was solely for business. The flight had been slightly delayed and I’d sat next to someone who kept slapping his lips every time he sipped coffee, which seemed to be non-stop. Of course, my case was the last one off the conveyor when I was desperate to get to my hotel and relax for the evening.

Finally, coming out of customs, I shrugged, heaped my man bag up onto my shoulder, and searched the last few people waiting at arrivals for my driver.

I saw my name written on a small piece of card and looked up at the face of the person holding it. It was a woman in her thirties with shiny, chestnut-coloured hair and liquid liner ticks at the sides of her eyes.

‘I’m Magenta Bright,’ I said, smiling.

She didn’t smile back. ‘And so we go,’ she said and marched towards the exit.

Hopping along after her and trying to lug my suitcase higher to stop it banging on my knees, I exited the airport. I followed my driver’s military march to the short-stay car park.

‘Boot?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You are sorry? Sorry for what?’ she replied.

‘I mean, I’m sorry. What did you say?’

She patted the boot of the car. The expression on her face told me I was acting like an absolute imbecile.

‘Oh, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘Suitcase in the boot. Got you. Yes, please.’

She clicked the remote central locking on the key fob, grabbed my case from me, and dumped it into the boot of the car before stomping quickly round to the driver’s side. She bobbed her head at the rear door and I obediently jumped in.

I heard skidding, the beep of a car horn beside our car, and then my ears went blocked. My driver had zoomed off, going from zero to eighty miles per hour at warp speed, screeching to a halt at the exit barrier and then racing out of the car park onto a roundabout. I was pinned to the back seat. The landscape surrounding Orly airport went by in a flash. Parisian suburbia crashed past the window in a blur, my cheeks flapping with the sheer velocity, and I wished I had a religion. Only prayer could stop us crashing. We hurtled towards the southern Arrondissements of Paris. I began to pray to every god I knew to deliver me to heaven if I didn’t make it out of the car alive.

I couldn’t really be sure how quickly we got to the hotel. I’d closed my eyes and had tried to block everything out. All I knew was that my driver hit the brakes and I was flung forward into the back of the seat in front of me and thrown back again so that my neck whipped half off my neck with a crack. I nodded several times, involuntarily, before my head rocked back into place. I rubbed the back of my neck, picking my man bag up off the floor.

‘Boot,’ she declared and leapt out.

This time she opened the door for me to get out. I tried to catch her eye as I tentatively stepped onto the forecourt outside my hotel, hoping I could at least give her a dirty look. As I tried to straighten my coat and adjust my bag over my shoulder I noticed she was smiling as she got out my suitcase. Well her teeth were showing – she could have been in pain.

‘Enjoy your hotel,’ she said. She held up my suitcase. I took it and she dropped the weight of it into my hand so that I toppled forward.

‘Er,’ I stuttered. ‘You’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning?’ I had a breakfast meeting with my first designer.

‘For sure,’ she said.

In my heart of hearts I wished she’d said: There’s been a big mistake and I should have picked up the other Magenta Bright. Your proper driver will be here in the morning. But no, this Lewis Hamilton wannabe would be there the next day.

I limped to the reception and checked in. I called Riley, hoping she’d still be at the office. Maybe she could arrange a new driver in time.

‘Oh, hey, Riley,’ I said.

‘Magenta, hi, how’s your hotel?’

‘All good but I was wondering if you could sort a new driver for me.’

‘Is he no good?’

‘She. She seems like a lovely person but she must have broken every speed limit from the airport to the hotel. I’m seriously frightened for my life. Could you sort it out?’

‘Of course I will. Leave it to me.’

My fingers were crossed; in fact everything was crossed when I went to bed that night, hoping Riley could be relied on to put this right. I didn’t sleep a wink.

Chapter 6

The Bag

I showered in tepid water to try to revive myself for the impending meeting with my first women’s handbag designer. I hoped Riley had come good on the chauffeur swap and had found me someone less Sandra Bullock in Speed and a bit more Driving Miss Daisy. But my heart sank as I left the hotel and spotted the same driver from yesterday. Her eyes were bright and she looked eager. I took a deep breath.

‘Good morning,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I mean bonjour.’

She showed her teeth and reached for the passenger door. ‘Bonjour. Allons-y?’

‘Um, yes. Let’s get going.’ I hadn’t climbed in yet. ‘I didn’t get your name yesterday,’ I said to her, offering my hand. She looked surprised but gave my hand a tightly gripped shake.

‘Nadia,’ she said.

‘I wonder, Nadia, if you could drive a little slower this morning. I’m nice and early and I don’t think we’re too far from my meeting.’

‘Slower?’ Nadia’s brow was twisted into several deep lines. I could tell this didn’t compute.

‘Yes, don’t drive too fast. I’m a bit of a nervous passenger so go slower.’ I made a gesture with my hands, moving my palms slowly up and down towards the ground.

‘Drive too fast?’ she said. ‘I will.’

‘No, I mean don’t drive fast.’ I shook my head side to side. ‘No fast. Slow.’ I hated it when Brits spoke like Tarzan to foreigners but my life was at risk and I wanted to see my family again.

‘So,’ said Nadia, ‘my instruction from the boss was drive very fast; the client like the speed to be quickly, non?’

‘Non!’ I shook my head. And then the penny dropped. Riley. She told me she spoke fluent French. What on earth had she told the chauffeur company I needed from a driver when my instructions were I needed to be timely? I dreaded to think.

I grasped at what little French I could muster to try to make Nadia understand that I didn’t need to be anywhere at breakneck speed and that being on time was good enough.

‘Non, rapidement, aujourd’hui. Ce matin, conduire lentement, s’il vous plait.’ That small amount of French really hurt my head. At sixteen, I’d spent most of my French conversation classes in the toilet smoking Gauloises. Now my biggest regret.

Nadia lifted her head in a slow nod, clenching her lips together, and I hoped she understood that I wanted her to slow down. To be on the safe side, when I got into the car I buckled up tight.