Yes! I thought so. On the lapel of her cardigan is a badge saying ‘Harriet Grayson MA, Headmistress’. This is the one who’s been giving Ernie a hard time.
Well, I’ll give her a hard time. Especially as I still feel guilty about snapping at Suze.
‘Hello.’ She smiles at me and extends her hand. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me, are you in Reception?’
‘Oh, I’m not a parent at the school,’ I begin. ‘I’m …’
I was going to launch into, ‘I’m Ernest Cleath-Stuart’s godmother and I’ve got a few things to say to you.’ But now I have an even better idea. No one knows me here, do they?
‘Actually, I’m a professional art scout,’ I say coolly.
‘An art scout?’ She looks taken aback.
‘Yes, Professor Rebecca Bloomwood from the Guggenheim junior department. I’m sorry, I don’t have my card.’ I shake her hand in a brisk, professional way. ‘I’m over here on business. We scouts like to visit school art events incognito, assess the new talent coming through. And I’ve found some, right here.’
I point at Ernie’s dark, splodgy painting and the headmistress follows my gaze uncertainly.
‘That’s by Ernest Cleath-Stuart,’ she says at last. ‘An interesting child, Ernest.’
‘Incredibly gifted, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you.’ I nod gravely. ‘Look at the subtle way he plants his message in the … the texture.’ I gesture at the sheep. ‘Look at the form. So easy to underestimate. But as a professional, I saw it at once.’
The headmistress’s brow is wrinkled as she peers at the painting.
‘Quite,’ she says at last.
‘I’m sure an excellent school such as yours is drawing out this unique child and nurturing him.’ I smile at her with gimlet eyes. ‘Because, believe me, you have something very special there. Does he have a scholarship for art?’
‘Ernest? A scholarship?’ The headmistress seems pole-axed at the very idea. ‘Well, no …’
‘I foresee other schools wishing to poach this extraordinary talent.’ I give her another gimlet smile and glance at my watch. ‘Unfortunately I must go now, but thank you for your time.’
‘Let me show you some work by our other pupils!’ says the headmistress, hurrying along beside me as I head towards the door. ‘This is by a very talented little girl called Eloise Gibbons, who’s now left us …’ She gestures at a painting of a field full of poppies, which looks just like a Van Gogh.
‘Derivative,’ I say dismissively, barely shooting it a glance. ‘Thank you so much. Goodbye.’
I stride swiftly out of the school gates and head down the pavement, clamping my lips together so I don’t laugh. Ha. Maybe they’ll start to appreciate Ernie now. And I meant it! OK, it was a bit weird – but I still thought Ernie’s dead sheep was the best thing in the whole place.
As soon as I arrive at The Look I can tell Danny’s already here, from the limo parked outside and the cluster of girls on the ground floor, comparing autographs on their T-shirts.
I head up to the conference room on the top floor – and as I walk in the big meeting is already in progress. There are plates of Shetland Shortbread everywhere, and images of the new collection up on the walls, and the table is full of business people. Danny is in the middle of it, looking like a peacock in a bright-blue and green coat over jeans. As he sees me he waves and pats the chair next to him.
All the top executives from The Look are here, plus some people I don’t recognize who must be from Shetland Shortbread, and Luke’s friend Damian, who has become a consultant to Tarkie. Brenda from our marketing department is doing a PowerPoint presentation, and she’s on some kind of graph showing pre-orders of the new Danny Kovitz collection, compared to last year’s.
‘Absolutely thrilling,’ she’s saying. ‘We’ve never had a reaction like it. So, thank you Danny Kovitz, for a wonderful partnership, thank you Shetland Shortbread for coming on board – and here’s to us all working together!’
‘Awesome job you guys have done,’ says Danny. ‘Hey, Becky, you should have come to Scotland for the shoot! We had a blast! Did my bagpipes arrive yet, Zane?’ He suddenly turns to a boy with dyed-red hair who is hovering behind his chair. He must be one of Danny’s five zillion assistants.
‘Um …’ Zane is already whipping out his phone, looking anxious. ‘I can check …’
‘You bought some bagpipes?’ I can’t help giggling. ‘Can you play the bagpipes?’
‘As an accessory. Believe me, they’re gonna be the new It Bag. Hey, you should have bagpipes in the store display.’ Danny turns to Kathy, the head of merchandising, who instantly grabs her notepad, writes down ‘Bagpipes’ and underlines it three times.
‘We’re also tremendously excited by the pre-launch publicity we’re getting,’ Brenda continues. ‘We’ve already had mentions in Vogue and the Telegraph, and I understand Lord Cleath-Stuart has recently done an interview with Style Central magazine.’
‘Tarkie’s in Style Central?’ I stare at her, wanting to giggle. Style Central is the most cutting-edge Bible for avant-garde designers and fashion editors who live in places like Hoxton. And Tarkie is … well … Tarkie. I mean, he still wears the cricket sweater he had at Eton.
‘He did it with me,’ chips in Danny reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I did most of the talking. Great pictures,’ he adds. ‘He wasn’t afraid to push the boundaries. There’s, like, a real experimental edge to Tarquin, you know?’