‘Sir Bernard doesn’t just meet people,’ he says. ‘That’s like saying, “Why don’t we just meet the Queen herself?” You don’t do that. You go through layers. You work the system.’
I don’t get that at all. If I wanted to see the Queen, I’d aim to see the Queen. But there’s no point saying that to Luke, because he’ll just give me some lecture about how I don’t understand the complexities of his business, like that time when I suggested matchmaking all his single clients.
And anyway, I don’t really care one way or the other about Sir Bernard Big-belly
‘How about you?’ He drains his coffee. ‘Work OK?’
‘Booming, actually,’ I say smugly. ‘Our appointment book is fuller than it’s ever been and the managing director just sent me an email telling me how brilliant I am.’
Luke gives an incredulous laugh. ‘I don’t know how you do it. Every other sector is dead, but you’re still managing to sell expensive designer clothes …’ His face suddenly blanches. ‘Becky, please tell me you’re not just selling them all to yourself.’
I gasp with affront. Number one, I made a promise, which I am keeping. Number two, if I was doing that, then why would I be standing here in a skirt which I bought five years ago from Barneys?
‘If you really want to know,’ I say haughtily, ‘we at The Look have a unique approach to fashion selling which is seeing us through the difficult times.’
I won’t explain that ‘unique’ means ‘we hide the clothes in computer-paper boxes’. Luke doesn’t need to hear every tedious little detail of my job, does he?
‘Well, all power to you then.’ Luke gives me a disarming smile. ‘I have to go. Give my love to Suze.’
I’m meeting Suze before work to see Ernie’s art exhibition at his school and – hopefully – bump into his headmistress. (I’ve prepared all sorts of cutting remarks. She’ll be quaking in her boots by the time I’ve finished with her.) And then we’re both going on to The Look for the big promotional tie-in meeting.
This is the other reason why my star is so high at work at the moment: my idea about linking Danny’s new collection with Shetland Shortbread totally worked! The whole collection is centred around tartan, so it’s perfect. They’re doing a special offer and joint publicity, and it’s all in association with the British Wool Marketing Board, and the promotional shoot took place on Tarkie’s farm with super-thin models standing amid herds of Tarkie’s sheep. And the best bit is, it was all my idea, and now everyone’s really impressed.
Jasmine said the other day that maybe they’d even make me a director! Of course, I instantly gave a modest little laugh and said, ‘Oh, rubbish.’ But I’ve already worked out what I could wear for my first board meeting – this amazing pale-yellow jacket from the new Burberry Prorsum collection, over dark pinstriped trousers. (I mean, you’re allowed to buy new clothes if you get on the board of something. Even Luke must know that.)
On my way to St Cuthbert’s two emails arrive on my BlackBerry which make me want to whoop. The first is from Bonnie, which she obviously sent last night. It says we’ve had forty-three acceptances already. Forty-three! I can’t believe Luke is so popular!
No. That came out wrong. Obviously I can.
But still, forty-three in two days! And that’s not even counting all the Brandon Communications staff, who still don’t know there’s a party but think they’re going to a conference.
And the other is from Kentish English Sparkling Wine. They want to provide drinks for the party! They’re sending me fifty bottles! All they ask is that they can issue a press release and publish photos of Luke and his guests enjoying their high-quality product. I mean, I’ve never tasted Kentish English Sparkling Wine, but I’m sure it’s delicious.
I can’t help feeling proud as I stride along. I am doing so well. I’ve got the marquee, the drinks, the canapés, the pompoms, and I’ve booked a professional fire-eater called Alonzo, who doubles as a Country and Western singer, if we want it. (He doesn’t sing Country and Western songs while he’s fire-eating. He gets changed and calls himself Alvin.)
St Cuthbert’s is in one of those posh white squares with lots of railings and stucco, and I’m nearly at the school gate when my mobile rings and shows Suze’s ID.
‘Suze!’ I greet her. ‘I’m just outside. Where shall I meet you?’
‘I’m not there! I’m at the doctor’s.’ Suze sounds despairing. ‘Ernie has a terrible earache. We’ve been up all night. I won’t be able to come to The Look, either.’
‘Oh, poor you! Well … should I just leave?’
‘No, don’t be silly! Go to the exhibition and grab yourself a cake. They’ll be delicious. Half the mothers have done a cordon-bleu course. And you could always look at Ernie’s painting,’ she adds, as though it’s an afterthought.
‘Of course I’ll look at Ernie’s painting!’ I say firmly. ‘And we must meet up as soon as Ernie’s better.’
‘Definitely.’ Suze pauses. ‘So … how are you?’ she adds. ‘How are the party preparations going?’
‘Great, thanks,’ I say ebulliently. ‘All under control.’
‘Because Tarkie and I had this great idea, if you’re serving coffee …’
I feel a flash of annoyance. No one will believe I can do this, will they? Everyone assumes I’m totally incompetent and can’t even serve coffee properly.