The Lingerie Designer Page 3

  Poppy resisted the urge to brush her daughter’s hair off her face. Lily had dyed her hair jet black. She wore it straight and lankly around her pretty, albeit slightly acne-pocked, face. Poppy felt dismay as she took in what Lily was wearing: a black chunky jumper over an equally shapeless floor-skimming cotton skirt. At least the skirt hid the scruffy Doc Marten boots. Poppy realised that she was taking orders from a teenager who looked like the Grim Reaper.

  “I’m not interested in flirting with men,” Lily said flatly, finally feeling that she didn’t have to dive under the table to avoid mortification now that the waiter was out of sight.

  “Men, boys, dudes – whatever you want to call them.” Poppy rolled her eyes to heaven. Public Health Warning: parenting teenagers may cause severe financial haemorrhage, loss of sanity, and stress-related illnesses.

  “I’m not interested in the male species, period,” Lily said as she rolled an olive around in a terracotta bowl with her chipped, black-nail-polished fingers.

  Poppy resisted the urge to tell her to stop.

  Mother and daughter sat in silence, like a couple whose days of romance had long since tarnished.

  It was Lily who spoke first.

  She sat up straight as if bracing herself for a punch.

  “Mum – I’m a lesbian,” she declared and looked at her mother defiantly.

  Poppy wrinkled her brow in confusion. “But I thought you were a Gothic!”

  “A Goth, Mum.” Lily rolled her eyes at her mother’s continuing attempt to be up to date with “youth culture”, as she called it.

  “A Goth then. Do you have to be a lesbian to be a Goth?” Poppy wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. Looking at Lily’s unsmiling face, she decided to bite her lip instead.

  Lily tried to be patient with her mother but she never made it easy. Everyone loved Poppy Power – pretty, funny and kind. A bit ditsy, but that just endeared her more to those who met her. To Lily, she was endearing unless you had to live with her.

  Lily softened somewhat when she saw Poppy’s eyes well up. That, and the fact that the waiter had just strutted by and her mother hadn’t even noticed. “It’s no big deal. You like dick, I like dyke!” She smiled at her own pun.

  “Sounds like a porn version of Mary Poppins,” Poppy said, putting her soup spoon down. She had lost her appetite.

  Poppy took in the room, warm and inviting. An aroma of garlic drifted from the kitchen. Groups of people were coming in from work for the early bird special. Couples chatted and laughed. At the table beside them sat a group of young women students, dressed up for a night on the town. One of them had three helium balloons tied to the back of her chair. Birthday cards and discarded wrapping-paper littered their table.

  Poppy wondered what age the girl was – nineteen, twenty maybe? Then, horror of horrors, she wondered if Lily was checking them out. Oh, Christ – what if she’s had sex with a woman? Poppy’s stomach jumped into her mouth and she thought she’d be sick. Instead, she waved her hand to catch the waiter’s attention.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Bella donna, can I help you? You no like the soup?” Angelo couldn’t help but notice, even in the dim candlelight that the foxy little redhead suddenly lacked lustre.

  “Wine, please – a bottle,” Poppy said quickly. She couldn’t process Lily’s information sober.

  “I get you the wine list.”

  “No! I mean, no need, once it’s wet and red.” Poppy gulped the last of the wine she’d been sipping. It was only Monday evening and she had clients booked in for therapeutic massages early the next morning, so she’d decided on having only one glass of wine with dinner. That was before images of girl-on-girl began to play on the screen of her imagination.

  Angelo hesitated and considered asking whether the hot mamma, who was now decidedly lukewarm, was all right. He decided to say nothing, lest she consider him rude, and shuffled off to fetch her wine.

  “Mum, you’re awful quiet,” Lily said, sounding a lot less defiant than a few minutes earlier.

  “You reckon?” Poppy replied sarcastically. She wondered what she’d tell a client to do if they found themselves in the same circumstance. Working as a masseuse all day was physically tough work and Poppy tried to limit the amount she did. She also worked as a psychotherapist, seeing people for one-to-one therapy sessions. So what, she thought, would she advise a client to do?

  Professionally, she’d heard all the stories, witnessed people’s pain, and sympathised with them. Sometimes she just sat silently, giving them the space to cry or vent their anger. But now a bombshell had exploded on her own turf. Would it be possible to apply the same calm to her own life? Who counsels the counsellor? The answer came with a pop of a cork. A bottle of wine would have to be her answer for now.

  “One or two glasses?” Angelo smiled broadly, proffering two.

  In unison, Lily said “One” and Poppy said “Two”.

  He left two glasses and disappeared. Hot Mamma had turned into the Ice Queen.

  “I think, darling daughter, if you’re old enough to be a lesbian, you’re old enough to have a drink with your mother.” Poppy poured the wine, but she made Lily’s a small glass.

  “I can’t help who I am, Poppy. It just feels right.”

  Poppy cringed at Lily’s words but she had regained her composure somewhat.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had sex with a girl then?”

  Lily hesitated but eventually replied, “No.”

  “Have you had sex with anyone then?”

  “No!”

  “Then you might not be queer! Lesbian, I mean!” Poppy felt a slight glimmer of light on the horizon.

  Lily raised her eyes to heaven but said nothing. Poppy had won the ping-pong of words.

  Mother and daughter downed the wine. The food went largely untouched. Still, by the time they called for the bill, Lily managed to crack a smile at the waiter who had kept throwing glances their way. She had the most beautiful white teeth and on the rare occasion she smiled, her whole face lit up and a spark ignited in her dark eyes.

  Poppy couldn’t wait to get out of the little Spanish restaurant. The wine had temporarily cooled her jets but now she was feeling claustrophobic. As she put the cash into the leatherette envelope to pay the bill, she added a generous tip. As always, more than she could afford. Counselling and holistic work weren’t exactly big payers.

  “Thanks,” Lily said as she stood, putting on yet another layer of black – a trench coat.

  Poppy knew she meant more than just thanks for the half-eaten paella. She smiled, putting a loving arm around her daughter.

  “You’re welcome, love. I’ll do my best to understand. But there’s one thing . . .” She looked at her daughter. “I may have to accept the whole female-loving thing, but I’m not quite ready to have you call me ‘Poppy’ – you’re the only person in this world who calls me ‘Mum’ and I’m not ready to let that go. I’m not sure I ever will be.” She swallowed hard, her voice a little shaky.

  “Okay, Mum.”

  They left the restaurant for home.

  Angelo pushed the kitchen door open with his elbow. In one hand, he balanced a tray, which held a cocoa-dusted gelato for the girl and a blue flaming sambuca for the mamma. He cupped his left hand protectively around the flame. Dessert was on the house and was sure to bring a smile back to mother and daughter. His smile faded as he looked up and saw crumpled-up napkins on the table and empty chairs where they had been sitting. He sighed in disappointment, accidentally extinguishing the flame.

  Chapter 4

  Helen twisted the small gold ring she always wore on her little finger. She glanced up at the clock – its black hands were edging towards six o’clock.

  “How are you doing with that print, Sarah?” she asked, anxious to get out of the office.

  “It’s frustrating. Have a look, tell me what you think.” Sarah pushed her chair away fro
m the computer monitor to let Helen see the changes she had made to the computer-aided design.

  “I know it’s a pain in the ass, designing a lingerie print.” Helen squinted at the screen. “We’ll have to limit the shades of green in that leaf.” She leaned forward and clicked on the mouse.

  “The colour combinations are endless,” Sarah frowned.

  “The more colours we use, though, the more the screen for the print will cost. We’ll have to be creative, within our budget.”

  “But each leaf takes three shades of green. How will I manage my limit of an eight-colour print when I haven’t even got to the flowers?” Sarah’s voice had risen an octave.

  “Just a slight change here, I think.” Helen made a double tap and stood back.

  “It looks great.”

  “It’s worth tinkering over. If we get it wrong, all the stock will end up being reduced,” Helen said, looking at her modification with satisfaction.

  “Okay – what will we call it?”

  They looked at the forty-inch monitor, heads cocked in unison, as if looking at the floral design from a different angle might provide them with a bolt of inspiration.

  “‘Elizabeth’!”

  “It’s feminine, Sarah, but not the Queen Mother.”

  Sarah pursed her lips. “How about ‘English Garden’? It has a mix of rosebuds and ivy, like you’d see in a cottage garden.”

  “Maybe. Chances are when the Chinese printers do their version of it – it’ll look like an English summer garden all right – washed out.”

  “I’ll look up the thesaurus, see what other word comes up for ‘garden’.” Sarah tapped the keyboard and the results appeared. “Private grounds, precinct . . .” She didn’t bother reading the rest.

  “I can just see the swing tag, when the stock hits the store – ‘Flowery Precinct’ – images of a cop-shop with hanging baskets, the new Eden marketing pitch.” Helen glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late. We still have to get files and samples together for the Hong Kong trip.” She rubbed her face in her hands. “‘The Lover’s Garden’. Type that up in brush-script font or something swirly – it’ll look the part.” She walked away.

  “Oh Helen, I didn’t realise the time. I have a spray tan and manicure booked in fifteen minutes.” Sarah sounded flustered.

  “Go on, I’ll finish up here. I’ve already copied whatever files I can to a USB, so that just leaves the garment samples I bought in New York to split between us.” Helen pointed towards a rail of garments, covered in plastic.

  “Surely there are copyright issues Eden needs to consider, before handing over designer goods to the Chinese to knock off.”

  “Every high-street store does it – and we call it ‘inspiration’. Besides, it’s one of the few perks left in the job – being paid to go to New York to shop.”

  “I’m just thinking about Eden’s reputation,” Sarah sniffed.

  “Don’t worry, by the time we’ve pared them down to budget, they won’t bear any resemblance to the originals, unfortunately. Now go. I’ll see you at the airport in the morning.”

  Sarah hot-footed it out the door.

  Helen wondered if she could make her yoga class or if she’d just pick up an Indian takeaway and go home. Either choice qualified as preparation for all things Asian, she reckoned. Of course, the pub might not be a bad option either. Decisions, decisions.

  She decided on yoga, mainly because there was no one to go for a drink with. Helen half-walked, half-jogged along the pavement. A yoga mat and gym bag hung from her right shoulder. A laptop case and sample carrier hung from the left. She struggled to balance the two – the story of her life. The Hell and The Divine, as Rob, her not-quite-ex lover, liked to say – though he meant something else altogether by it. Her mobile buzzed in her pocket, just as it started to rain. She covered her head with the yoga mat in a vain attempt to save her hair from frizzafying. The mat unrolled, obscuring her view. “Fuck!” she cursed, as she battled to regain control of her belongings. The mat plopped to the ground, landing in a puddle. Her phone stopped ringing just as she managed to retrieve it.

  The young flaxen-haired manager of the yoga centre looked up serenely as Helen, now resembling an electrocuted rat, clambered her way through the glass doors.

  “Oh, to have automatic doors, hey!” Helen joked, resisting the urge to shake the rain off her, for fear she’d be mistaken for a dog.

  “Namaste,” the girl smiled, her hands in prayer position, giving a little bow. She wore a purple bandana and an elaborately jewelled bindi on the centre of her forehead. Incense burned in a Buddha statue beside her. “Remember the Yoga Rooms philosophy?” She looked at Helen, as if she herself was a great yogi seer talking to a moron.

  “‘No running to or from yoga class’,” Helen reeled off the answer she gave every week, as she arrived red-faced to their door. Well, almost every week, depending on who was in the pub.

  “That’s right. Now, breathe deeply and really arrive.”

  “Okay, deep breath . . .” Helen puffed as she signed the register.

  “Class starts in five minutes. We don’t want to be late and disturb everyone who arrived on time, now do we?”

  “What a pretty bindi you’re wearing today, Sharon,” Helen said. “Not many Londoners get to wear a bindi to work. Maybe it helps you stay calm, while the rest of us are so stressed.”

  The girl smiled tightly at Helen, unsure if the remark was a compliment or an insult.

  Once in the class studio, Helen sat in half-lotus position and felt herself relax as she closed her eyes for a few minutes’ meditation. Since Poppy had told her that it took years off your chronological age, she tried to do it regularly in the hope of avoiding a face lift.

  A smug feeling washed over her when she heard the yoga instructor enter the room, five minutes late. “Put that in your bong and smoke it, Sharon,” she muttered. She opened her eyes on hearing a silky-smooth voice gently guiding the class to a standing position.

  Now he is fit, Helen thought as she saw the teacher – tall, dark and with big muscles, in Lycra pants.

  “Namaste. My name is Ian – welcome to my advanced class. I look forward to connecting spiritually with each of you through yoga, breathing and meditation.”

  Helen thought of other ways of connection.

  “Before we begin, has anyone got any injuries? Is anyone pregnant?”

  “Not yet and not yet,” said Helen, delighted she hadn’t gone to the pub nor eaten a fatty curry. She would arrive in Asia tomorrow a glowing goddess.

  Satisfied the class were fit and healthy, Ian continued.

  “Let’s close our eyes for a moment, putting awareness on our breath. In . . . and out . . . in . . . and out . . .”

  This is positively Tantric, Helen mused.

  “For today’s class we’ll bring the yoga limb of Yamas to our awareness. Let Yamas guide your mind away from feelings of violence, sensual indulgence and greed.”

  Considering the impurity of her thoughts, Helen realised she was buggered. She tried to focus on her breathing and behave, but as soon as Ian did his downward dog in those yoga pants, all thought of purity went out the window. Helen, following his lead, pushed her bum high into the air. She tried to watch what the instructor was doing through the gap between her legs. Thankfully, he could not see her face. Was she imagining it or was he checking out her upside-down cleavage?

  “Excellent poise,” he said, smiling at her.

  Helen’s phone, which she had wrapped in her sweater on the floor, shrilled and vibrated. Ian was no longer smiling.

  “Sorry, sorry. Doctor on call,” Helen said. It wasn’t strictly a lie – some doctor, somewhere, was on call. She grabbed her phone and tried to extricate herself from the classroom with the minimum of fuss.

  She stepped on a classmate’s fingers.

  By the time she got to the foyer, the phone had stopped ringing.

  “Bugger!” Helen shouted at her phone. It was a blocked numbe
r.

  “That language is unacceptable in the Yoga Rooms,” Sharon snapped. She stood, hands on hips, glaring at Helen.

  “I’m on call,” Helen winced, and hoped she looked convincing.

  “Your occupation is listed as a lingerie designer.”

  “Underwear has its emergencies too, you know. Haven’t you heard of wardrobe malfunction? A thong riding too high, a bra-strap snapping off?” Helen clicked her fingers and smiled weakly, in an effort to appeal to Sharon’s Zen side.

  But the Zen had zonked.

  Chapter 5

  Helen sat on her couch tucking into a Tikka Masala she had picked up on the way home, after being told by an arm-folded, toe-tapping Sharon that she was no longer welcome at the Yoga Rooms. Helen was barred.

  Her phone buzzed again, the screen showing a blocked number.

  “Helen?” Poppy’s voice sounded shaky and slightly slurred.

  “Poppy, are you okay? You don’t sound the best.” Helen felt a twinge of concern.

  Over the years, Helen and Poppy had exchanged many a distraught phone call. In childhood it had been mainly about Poppy’s strung-out parents: baby boomers who were into free love and drugs, yet they never managed give their love freely to their eldest daughter, whom they named after their favourite hallucinogen.

  Then came the teenage years. When most girls were running up huge phone bills, gossiping about boys, Poppy rang Helen for advice on how to handle her brothers, who were running wild, drinking, and getting brought home in the back of police cars – the same brothers who now were all abroad and rarely even contacted her. Helen’s advice was to join them and party, but Poppy had taken on the role of mother, father, housekeeper and spiritual-guidance teacher because her folks hadn’t realised the sixties were over and it was time to grow up.

  Then, of course, there was the phone call when the young Poppy had discovered she was pregnant with the daughter she’d name Lily, after Poppy’s grandmother. Poppy liked the idea of upgrading her daughter on the floral chain from her own namesake, a poppy which grew wild in fields, to a lily, a flower of elegance and sophistication. So far though, Lily was a late bloomer.