Only a little white lie, thought Sasha as Annalise reluctantly opened the door.
‘Well, I hope you’ve been briefed,’ said Annalise briskly, sweeping back into the house and up a long flight of stairs. She led Sasha into the master bedroom, which smelt of roses and had views over Onslow Square. ‘The event is my husband’s company’s Christmas party and naturally I have to look spectacular,’ she began, reclining on a vast cream armchair.‘I’m sure Venetia has told you my husband is the chairman.’
‘Of course.’ Sasha smiled. ‘We’ll make you look wonderful. Not that you need any help in that department.’
In the beginning, she had pumped clients’ egos through gritted teeth, but now the compliments rolled off the tongue like a hot knife sliding through butter. She quickly began opening the cloth bags and laying the dresses carefully on the bed. By the time she got to the third bag, she was already fighting a sinking feeling in her stomach; she could tell that the selection was poor at best. They were all beautiful dresses but completely wrong for the client; the primrose-yellow and cornflower-blue gowns were wrong for Annalise’s blond hair and ruddy complexion, while the charcoal theme Venetia had chosen for the rest would age anyone over forty-five. Sasha clenched her teeth together. Bloody Venetia! she thought. It was obvious she had just taken the first things off the rack in front of her with no thought for what would work best for the client – and it was Sasha who would have to take the flak.
‘Hand me the black strapless,’ said Annalise impatiently, standing behind Sasha and holding out her hand.
In full view of the open window she stripped off and slid the long, inky dress over herself before turning to the mirror.
‘This is huge!’ she said furiously, pulling at the sagging bust-line. ‘I told Venetia I’ve been on the grapefruit and egg diet for the last week and this is just hanging off me.’
‘Perhaps we could pin,’ said Sasha uncertainly.
‘And risk being stabbed all the way through dinner?’ She pulled off the dress and flung it on to the bed in disgust. ‘I need something else,’ she demanded. ‘In a size six.’
Sasha scrabbled through the dresses, looking at the labels in rising desperation. She could barely believe it; everything was a size ten.
Annalise looked as if she was about to have a meltdown.
‘Seriously, all these gowns are beautiful, but you’re right, Venetia hadn’t briefed me properly. She told me about your amazing figure and
colouring, of course. You really have the most fantastic body of any celebrity I’ve ever worked with.’
‘Hmm,’ said Annalise with the hint of a smile.
‘No, you need something that will show you off as the most luminous woman in the room.’
‘That’s exactly what I said to Venetia,’ said Annalise. ‘If she’s not prepared to listen to me, then . . .’
‘Between you and me, she’s been under a lot of stress recently,’ said Sasha in a low voice. ‘But don’t worry, I know how important this party is and I’ve got exactly the right piece in mind. Give me until tomorrow afternoon and you’ll have the dress of the decade.
Annalise looked at her cynically. ‘Well, I’m at John Frieda at midday to have my hair done. Be back here at four and don’t even think about bringing me Jasper or Catherine Walker,’ she added, taking a sip of iced lemon water. ‘Everyone is going to be wearing them. I have to look unique, or believe me, I’m going to tell all my friends how you fouled up on my most important night of the year.’
The next day Sasha was in a fix. ‘Shitterty, shit, shit,’ she muttered to herself, glancing at her watch in desperation. It was almost two in the afternoon and she had zero options. Yes, over the past year she had built up good relationships with most of the fashion houses and major stores in London, and yes, if she was styling a Vogue shoot, she probably wouldn’t have a problem pulling in some beautiful pieces. But this wasn’t a photo shoot and she’d struggle to convince anyone of the benefits of rushing a dress around to Annalise Tuttle. Even if she lied and said it was for an editorial story, most fashion houses did not yet have London press offices and there was simply no time to get something sent over from Milan or Paris.
There was always Harvey Nichols. She had borrowed clothes from the department store on a sale-or-return basis in the past, but of course their stock would be this season’s. Annalise was not going to be happy.
How did it come to this? Sasha wondered. In some ways, life was considerably better than it had been a year ago. She was now living in her own studio flat in South Kensington, albeit at the Earls Court end. She had enough money to shop at French Connection and Portobello Market, where she found vintage Ossie Clark dresses and was complimented on her style at least every day. Thanks to her natural fashion sense, she had repeatedly been offered jobs at various magazines, and it was certainly tempting. But she hadn’t been able to forget what Robert Ashford had once told her over a family dinner at their Holland Park house: ‘Smart people don’t work for other people, Sasha,’ he had said. ‘Smart people don’t line other people’s pockets. Smart people work for themselves and build their own fortunes.’ There were lots of things about that family Sasha had tried to forget, but some things were worth hanging on to.
She knew she had to do a great job transforming Annalise from corporate wife to soignée style-setter. Annalise was no great beauty, but she was connected. Her husband was the influential European head of an international media group and she had lots of wealthy friends, women with plenty of money but no sense of style, women Sasha could charge five hundred – no, a thousand pounds a day to look better than their friends. If she could crack this, she could become known for her style, for her power to transform. She could become a brand herself. But first, I’ve got to find her something to wear.
She ran through a mental list of where she could turn next. Grace Ashford’s friend Freya worked at Lynn Franks PR and could possibly loan her a dress from one of their fashion clients, but Sasha knew she’d be on one of their ‘long lunches’. Then she had a brainwave. She recalled a small piece in Elle about a bespoke eveningwear designer working out of south London. She took her mobile phone out of her bag. She wished these things were smaller but she liked her latest gadget. She dialled her friend Louise, a section editor on the magazine.
‘Who’s that guy with the atelier in Battersea?’ she asked. ‘Ben someone. You don’t happen to have an address for him, do you?’
Scribbling it in her Filofax, she summoned a taxi.
Ben Rivera worked out of a tiny mews house in a Battersea back street. He was about thirty, of slight build and no more than five feet five tall. His bright blue eyes stared at Sasha quizzically as she swept purposefully into the studio.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked with amusement.
‘You’re not Spanish,’ she said with surprise, as she took in her surroundings. There were rolls of fabric stacked up against every wall, sketches pinned to a huge cork board and mannequins swathed in elaborate folded chiffon and silk. He shook his head.
‘My dad’s Puerto Rican. Why, what were you expecting?’
‘Your name, it sounds Spanish . . . Anyway . . .’ She waved her hands in the air as she realised she was wasting time. ‘I understand you make couture gowns. I need a dress.’