Playing Her Cards Right. Rosa Temple
couldn’t stop thinking about the handbag in Veronique’s window and the prospect of Shearman selling handbags that no woman could resist.
A week after sighting the gorgeous bag my twenty-ninth birthday came around. Anthony surprised me with the handbag from Veronique’s.
‘My very first grown-up bag,’ I said. I held the bag on my knee as we sat on the sofa. I ran my fingers over the smooth, midnight-blue leather, opened and closed the gold clasp, inhaled the interior, and stroked the short straps. ‘It’s perfect, Anthony.’ I grinned up at him, wondering if Veronique did matching shoes. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
Anthony, looking slightly worried about my handbag obsession, took the bag off my lap and placed it to one side. He kissed me.
‘Well maybe there is a way I can show you how thankful I am,’ I said. I wrapped my arms around Anthony and pulled him into a kiss.
Anthony and I were made for each other; I was convinced of that. I never saw a break-up coming. Not then, not when we had our Saturdays.
The Assistant
I started making a slight diversion to and from work each day just so I could walk past Veronique’s. The idea of manufacturing women’s handbags never left my mind. I had to bide my time, though, and really think it through because keeping on top of the man bag market was not exactly a walk in the park. But once a very successful first year in business was under my belt I began acting on the idea of diversifying. I wanted the new range for women to be in keeping with the man bags: varying in price, style, and use but with a signature look that made them say Shearman.
It wasn’t an easy decision to make. Shearman was already a European market leader in man bags but the market for women’s bags was flooded with competition. I needed handbag designs that would wow every woman who saw them but none of the designers I approached or who approached me had anything new to add to the market. The process proved more difficult than I’d first thought.
I decided to cast my net wider than the UK when it came to designers. I’d started making inquiries in Europe. My search led me to track down three very promising contacts, all in Paris, and I planned a trip to meet with the designers in person.
A few days before the business trip, Riley, my dizzy secretary come receptionist and personal assistant in training, burst into my office.
‘You asked me to keep your caffeine levels up,’ she said. ‘This ought to do the trick.’
Riley was in her early twenties, very petite, completely lovable, and extremely naive. She had the willingness of a puppy, up on hind legs waiting for a ball to be tossed across the grass for her to fetch.
In many respects Riley was another of my challenges. Maybe I’d hired her as some sort of test for myself. You see I could tell she was neither a competent secretary, a useful receptionist, nor a potential PA at the interview. But then, neither had I been when I first started at Shearman as a PA.
I wanted to give Riley the benefit of the doubt; I really liked her a lot. Even though she turned up at work on her first day, half an hour late, with a goldfish in a bowl, which she plonked on her desk, splashing fish water everywhere, I still thought I could make something of her.
After her initial three-month trial everyone asked why I didn’t just sack her. I’d obviously made an awful mistake. She’d made blunder after blunder and I’d taken care of her mess-ups each time. She double-booked appointments, sent emails and letters to the wrong person, and ordered a taxi to take me to Harwich Harbour when I’d told her I needed to get to an interview at Harper’s Bazaar. But I knew, or at least I hoped I was right to assume, that somewhere deep down, beneath the charity shop chic and Doctor Marten boots, there was an amazing PA just waiting to emerge.
Riley was carrying two cups of caffè macchiato. She’d gone all the way to the place near the tube station for them. Not only because we both loved their macchiatos but because Riley had been blown away (her words) by the owner. Admittedly, he was gorgeous, if you went for the unshaven, Ryan Gosling type.
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