‘Will you take your clothes now or have them delivered discreetly?’ says Jasmine as she swipes Louise’s card.
‘I could probably take one bag now,’ says Louise, and chews her lip. ‘But no more than one.’
‘No problem.’ Jasmine nods in a businesslike way. ‘So … we’ll deliver the rest in a computer-paper box?’
‘Actually …’ Louise reaches in her carrier bag. ‘I brought this.’ It’s a flatpacked box, stamped with ‘Ligurian Olive Oil’.
‘I like it.’ I can see Jasmine looking at Louise with new respect. ‘Olive oil it is.’ She takes the box. ‘Tomorrow evening?’
‘Which one of you is Becky?’ comes a man’s voice, and we all start. You don’t often get men on this floor, but a guy in a leather jacket with a fleshy face is striding towards us. He’s holding a box marked ‘Computer Paper’ and wearing a deep scowl on his face.
I feel a sudden qualm. I really hope that’s just a box of computer paper.
‘Me!’ I say brightly, as Jasmine stuffs the olive-oil box under the counter and Louise quickly melts away. ‘Can I help?’
‘What the hell is going on?’ He brandishes the box at me. ‘What’s this?’
‘Um … a box? Would you like an appointment with a personal shopper, sir?’ I add hastily. ‘Menswear is actually on the second floor—’
‘I’m not after menswear,’ he says menacingly. ‘I’m after answers.’
He crashes the box down on the counter and lifts the lid. Jasmine and I exchange glances. It’s the Preen dress I sold to Ariane Raynor last week. Oh God, this must be Ariane’s husband. The one who used to be a rock star, apparently, but hasn’t had a hit for years. The one who tried to make a pass at the au pair and trims his pubic hair in front of Desperate Housewives. (We’ve chatted quite a lot, me and Ariane.)
‘ “Shop in Private”.’ He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads out loud in a sarcastic voice. ‘“Have clothes delivered in a cardboard box labelled ‘Computer Paper’ or ‘Sanitary Products’.” ’
Shit.
‘She’s been shopping, hasn’t she?’ He thumps the leaflet down. ‘How much has she spent?’
My phone bleeps with a text and I can see Jasmine jerking her head at it. I surreptitiously click on it to find a message from her.
Ariane is here for her alteration!!!! I put her in dressing room 3 while you were in with Victoria. Shall I warn her?
I nod unobtrusively at Jasmine and turn back to Ariane’s husband.
‘Mr …’
‘Raynor.’
‘Mr Raynor, I’m afraid I couldn’t comment,’ I say smoothly. ‘I have to respect my customers’ privacy. Perhaps you could come back another time?’
‘Jasmine?’ rings out Ariane’s distinctive voice from the dressing rooms. ‘Could you look at this hem? Because I don’t think—’ Her voice abruptly breaks off, as though someone’s muffled her – but it’s too late. Her husband’s face has jolted in recognition.
‘Is that Ariane?’ Incredulity spreads over his face. ‘Is she shopping again?’
No she’s not, you oaf, I want to reply, she’s having an alteration done on a dress she bought two years ago. And anyway, what about the Bang and Olufsen system you just insisted on replacing in your country house? That cost squillions more than a dress.
But instead I smile sweetly and say, ‘Our customer appointments are confidential. Now, if that’s all …’
‘It’s not!’ He raises his voice to a bark. ‘Ariane, you come out here now!’
‘Sir, please could you refrain from shouting in here?’ I say calmly, while reaching for my phone and texting to Jasmine:
Ariane’s husband v. irate. Take her out back way.
‘Ariane, I know you’re in there!’ he shouts threateningly. ‘I know you’ve been lying to me!’ He makes for the entrance but I block his way.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you in.’ I smile. ‘Only customers are permitted in the personal-shopping area. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Understand?’ He turns his wrath on me. ‘I’ll tell you what I understand. You’re all in this together, you witches. Computer fucking paper.’ He bangs a fist down on the box. ‘You should be in jail.’
I can’t help flinching. His blue eyes are bloodshot and I suddenly wonder if he’s been drinking.
‘It’s simply a discreet packaging option.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘Not everyone wants to flaunt designer labels at this time.’