‘Rebecca.’
A familiar, haughty voice interrupts my thoughts. For an instant I can’t react. I think I might be dreaming. The back of my neck is prickling as I finally turn round … and there she is. Immaculate as ever in a pistachio-coloured suit, rigid hair, equally immobile face and her crocodile Birkin dangling from one skinny arm.
It WAS her, shoots through my mind. It WAS her outside the church.
‘Elinor!’ I manage. ‘What a surprise.’
This would be the understatement of the year.
‘Hello, Rebecca.’ She looks around the dressing room disdainfully as though to say ‘I expected no better,’ which is a nerve, as it’s just been redecorated.
‘Er … what can I do for you?’ I say at last.
‘I wish to …’ She stops and there’s a long, frozen silence. I feel as though we’re in a play and we’ve both forgotten our lines. What the hell are you doing here? is what I really want to say. Or, frankly, just Hhhnnnnhh?
This silence is getting ridiculous. We can’t stand here for ever like two mannequins. Elinor told Jasmine she was a customer. Well, fine. I’ll treat her like a customer.
‘So, are you after anything in particular?’ I take out my notepad, just as if she were any other client. ‘Day wear, perhaps? We have some new Chanel pieces in, which I believe might be your style.’
‘Very well,’ says Elinor after a lengthy pause.
What?
She’s going to try on clothes? Here? Seriously?
‘OK,’ I say, feeling a bit surreal. ‘Fine. I’ll select some pieces that I think would … er … suit you.’
I go to collect the clothes myself, return to the dressing room and hand them to Elinor.
‘Feel free to try on as many or as few as you like,’ I say politely. ‘I’ll be just outside if you need any advice or help.’
I close the door quietly, and give a silent scream. Elinor. Here. What the fuck is going on? Am I going to tell Luke about this? The whole thing is too freaky. I suddenly wish I’d pressed Luke more on what exactly happened between them, and what heinous thing she said. Should I be telling Elinor dramatically to get out now and never darken the door of The Look again?
But if I did that I’d probably get fired.
After about a minute the door opens again and Elinor appears, holding the whole armful of clothes. She can’t have tried them on, she hasn’t had nearly enough time.
‘Shall I take those for you?’ I force myself to stay polite.
‘Yes. They were satisfactory.’ She nods.
For a moment I think I can’t have understood.
‘You mean … you want to take them?’ I say disbelievingly. ‘You’re going to buy them?’
‘Very well. Yes.’ She frowns impatiently as though this conversation is already irritating her.
Eight grand’s worth of clothes? Just like that? My bonus is going to be fantastic.
‘OK! Well, that’s great!’ I’m trying to suppress my glee. ‘Any alterations needed or anything?’
Elinor shakes her head with the barest of movements. This is officially the most bizarre appointment I’ve ever known. Most people, if they were going to spend eight grand on clothes, would at least come out and do a twirl and say, ‘What do you think?’
Jasmine passes by with a rack of clothes and I see her eyeing Elinor incredulously. She is quite a sight, Elinor, with her pale, tight, over-made-up face, and veiny hands laden with rocks, and her steely, imperious gaze. She’s looking older too, I abruptly realize. Her skin is looking thin and papery, and I can see a couple of grey wisps at her temple which the hairdresser obviously missed. (I expect he’ll be shot at dawn.)
‘So, is there anything else I can help you with? Evening wear? Accessories?’
Elinor opens her mouth. Then she closes it, then opens it again. She looks as though she’s really struggling to utter something, and I watch in apprehension. Is she going to mention Luke? Does she have some piece of bad news? There has to be a reason she’s come here.
‘Evening wear,’ she murmurs at last.
Yeah, right. That’s really what you were about to say.
I fetch her six evening dresses and she chooses three. And then two bags. And a stole. The whole thing is becoming farcical. She’s spent about twenty grand and she still won’t look me in the eye and she still won’t say whatever she’s come here to say.
‘Would you like any … refreshments?’ I say at last, trying to sound normal and pleasant. ‘Can I get you a cappuccino? A cup of tea? A glass of champagne?’
We’ve run out of categories of clothes. She can’t buy anything else. She can’t stave it off any longer. Whatever it is.
Elinor’s just standing there, her head bowed slightly, her hands clutched around the handle of her bag. I’ve never known her this subdued. It’s almost scary. And she hasn’t insulted me once, I realize in sudden astonishment. She hasn’t said my shoes are shoddy or my nail polish is vulgar. What’s up with her? Is she ill?
At last, as though with a huge effort, she raises her head.
‘Rebecca.’
‘Yes?’ I say nervously. ‘What is it?’
When she speaks again, it’s so quietly I can barely hear her.
‘I wish to see my grandchild.’
Oh God, oh God, oh God. What do I do?
All the way home my head is spinning. Never in a million years did I think this would happen. I didn’t think Elinor was even interested in Minnie.
When Minnie was first born she didn’t bother visiting us for about three months. Then she just pitched up one day with her driver waiting outside, glanced into the crib, said ‘Is she normal?’ and when we’d said yes, left. And whereas most people give you gorgeous things like teddies or cute booties, Elinor sent the most hideous antique doll with ringlets and scary eyes like in a horror film. It was so creepy, Mum wouldn’t have it in the house, and in the end I sold it on eBay. (So Elinor had better not ask to see it or anything.)