First five chapters

A Chapter by KJBlackwood

Chapter One

Alice sighed ruefully as she looked at herself in her full-length bedroom mirror. Twenty-six years old, 5’7” tall, a slim size 10, mousey brown shoulder length hair, quite acceptable, definitely above-average looks. She was no Gisele, but likewise she was no Janine from Eastenders when she was first in the show, remember that? A veritable pig in a wig. No. Alice could hold her head up high in the looks department. She was that most dreadful of things, a “nice girl”. She watched most of the soaps, was fond of a glass of white wine and kind to animals. You know the sort, the ones we refer to as the girl-next-door, not boring, just a nice, normal SINGLE girl. You see how single was capitalised? That was how Alice viewed herself Everything about her screamed SINGLE to the world, however much she tried to hide it. What’s that phrase? “You can put lipstick on a pig but it’s still a pig. It’s just wearing lipstick.” Poor Alice. Her self-esteem was pretty low, not rock-bottom, but low enough to affect her day-to-day living. Her days were punctuated by an inordinately large number of sighs. In fact if you’re taking the train to work in the morning close your eyes and listen carefully, what you thought was generic background noise is actually the unhappiness of thousands of young, single office workers.

Alice had been working as a Personal Assistant for almost five years now. For a girl with no degree (but respectable A-Levels) she was rather proud of what she had attained at the tender age of 26. A decent job with good pay, some savings in the bank and a modest little rented flat in Battersea, in which she was currently sitting as she thought about her life. The only blot on her mostly pleasant landscape was the lack of a boyfriend. Not that she was desperate for one, after all that would be a bit pathetic. Hmmm. Who was she kidding? Ok. Yes, she was a bit desperate, a bit pathetic. She would kill to be able to go to Ikea with a loving partner to buy badly-made furniture and accessories that they didn’t need, and go to friends’ houses for dinner parties and be one half of a smug couple for once, rather than the much-pitied token singleton invited as an afterthought to fill a space at the table, or as a project for her well-meaning but patronising married friends. Alice had lost count of the number of geeks and freaks her friends had tried to set her up with. The quality of the men proffered didn’t say much for anyone’s opinion of her.

It was all so tiresome. Why do single women always have a desperate need to be with a man? Men aren’t like that. You never see magazines like GQ and Esquire telling men that they need a perfect woman on their arm to validate themselves as human beings. They can be single for as long as they like and no one cares a jot. For god’s sake they can drink at home alone without anyone thinking they have a problem! If a man gets in from work and cracks open a beer what do you think? That’s right �" you think nothing at all. If a woman gets in, flings off her shoes and opens a bottle of Chardonnay she’s a raging alcoholic. It’s so unfair. A bottle of wine of an evening shared by two is respectable, normal, whereas a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc sunk at home alone in front of “Come Dine With Me” and “Deal or No Deal” screams loneliness and put the glass down woman, do you think maybe you should talk to someone?!

Although she didn’t have a partner Alice wasn’t completely alone in the world. She had her best friends Carrie, Polly and Phil. Carrie and Polly she’d known since Primary School so they were like sisters to her. Both were unfortunately (for Alice) happily married, which marred their friendship (well, in Alice’s eyes it did, just a teeny tiny bit), but then she had Phil, who’d been her best friend since University. He was gay, supercamp, totally filthy and refreshingly non-pc, and quite simply the best friend a girl could have. Plus he was single, which was a bonus. No bitchy boyfriend to steal him away from her. Basically she was his f*g hag, and she was perfectly happy with that. She could moan to him about her sad life and the lack of a man in it and he would make all the right noises. She sometimes thought that she owed him her sanity, as her love life was like a car crash and he was generally the first paramedic on the scene. Alice had been on SO many dates in her time. Some of them absolutely dire. More on those later…

Chapter Two

It was Saturday night and Alice had managed to persuade Phil and Polly to come over for the evening to watch a movie and sink a bottle or two of wine with her �" misery loves company and all that... She’d spent the day moping about her flat, restless with anxiety. When she was in this sort of mood everything in her life seemed wrong. Her job, which sometimes stressed her beyond belief, her weight (which was perfectly healthy according to any medical standard, just not when compared with the pictures of “healthy” celebrities that stared at Alice from the various glossy magazines she wasted her money on), her glaringly single status and her inability to simply relax and enjoy the moment, particularly if that moment was on her own. To Alice it was as if time spent alone didn’t qualify as real time, it wasn’t real life because real life begins when you get married or have a proper boyfriend, she lived her life in a waiting room, anxious for it to begin. Of course as long as you sit there waiting, the longer it takes, rather like watching a kettle boil. Alice had pondered on that repeatedly.

At 7pm, just as Alice was drifting further into a fog of despair the doorbell rang and shocked her into life. She sprang up, put a smile on her face and opened the front door.

“Phil, Polly! Thank god you’re both here �" I’ve been over-thinking again and was about to slit my wrists!”

Phil stepped through the doorway and handed Alice a plastic Tesco bag as he kissed her on the cheek. She looked down and saw it contained four bottles of white wine. Yes that’s right. Four.

“I thought that might be the case,” he responded, “Saturday night at home by choice? That’s the sign of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown! Oh! That’s the name of a movie isn’t it? Is it?” he raised an eyebrow as he pondered, “If it’s not it should be. You’re lucky I’m such an amazing friend that I’m prepared to give up a weekend of debauchery with hot young men to help you. Plus the wine was on special offer. It’s that “Dino” Pinot Grigio from Tesco that’s half price every other month. Tastes like s**t but at a fiver who cares? Still gets you pissed, hey?!”

“And I’ve sent John out with the lads so I’m here for the duration!” added Polly as she stepped inside and gave Alice a hug.

“Oh guys I’m so glad you came over, we’ll have such fun! I thought we could watch my all-time favourite feel-good movie “Nil by Mouth” and get totally rat-arsed!” Alice was practically bouncing up and down with happiness at no longer being home alone, because it was only when she was actually physically faced with her friends that she was able to acknowledge how lucky she was to have them. People like Alice shouldn’t really be left alone, ever.

“But Alice, “Nil by Mouth” is the most depressing film ever made” said Polly, “it’s set on a dreadful highrise council estate and is basically two hours of Kathy Burke living in fear and getting half a dozen kinds of s**t kicked out of her by her husband Ray Winstone. Ooh, Ray...” Polly closed her eyes as she slipped into a reverie of images of Ray Winstone from his numerous movies, mostly “Sexy Beast” where he wears the tiniest little swimming trunks ever. Seriously. Ever.

“Exactly,” replied Alice, “that’s why it makes me feel good. However bad I might think my life is it will never be as bad as hers. You can’t beat a bit of schadenfreude on a Saturday night can you?!”

“Touché darling!” laughed Phil as he took the Tesco bag back from Alice and walked through to the kitchen to put the wine in the fridge. “Crikey!” he squealed, “you’ve already got three bottles in here you old lush!”

“In for a penny, in for a pound and all that...” smiled Alice.

By 9 o’clock they were well on their way and Polly was reassuring Alice about her life.

“You really should count your blessings more often Alice. Your flat is beautiful. Yes, I know it’s ex-council but you shouldn’t be such a snob about that sort of stuff. It’s gorgeous and I’ve never had any trouble when I visit. The youths loitering outside are perfectly polite. I’ve even been wolf-whistled before, which was rather nice. You should enjoy what you have, not what you don’t have. Sod it that you don’t have a boyfriend! You’ll get one, just not when you’re looking so hard. Your whole aura screams desperation, if I were a man even I’d run a mile, despite your beauty, figure and personality!”

“Thanks. That’s very reassuring.” Alice pouted.

“Seriously. You need to stop worrying. When is it you go to New York to see Carrie? Next weekend isn’t it? Whatever you do don’t go hunting for men in Manhattan. You’re not a tragic two-dimensional character from Sex and the City. Just enjoy the place, absorb the atmosphere. You haven’t been before so you’ll be far too busy seeing the sites to go out dating or shagging.”

“It’s all very well for you to say that, but you’ve got John and your perfect life in Wimbledon. I’d be giving the same advice as you if I had the good fortune to be in a relationship with the perfect man. Besides, I don’t just go out shagging men willy nilly thank you very much, I’m not a total slag!”

“Polly’s right,” chipped in Phil, “you’ve got to stop obsessing about a man. Look at me �" I’m single and I’m perfectly happy with my life. At least you can afford to live on your own. I have to share with a bunch of animals. If I want a shag I have to either go to his or sneak him into mine like a bloody teenager!”

“Phil, you earn more than me. You just spend a heck of a lot more than I do. How much was that hideous, sorry, divine, shirt?! You could live alone if you wanted to.”

“B***h. And dress like a Marks and Spencer’s Christian? Do me a favour!” Phil stroked the soft silk of his Versace shirt and smiled at it fondly. He was unusual among gay men of his generation in that he appeared to take his style tips from Elton John, a man nearly 40 years his senior. To be fair to Sir Elton though, he didn’t exactly dress his age. “I need to buy nice things to be able to attract a suitable boyfriend. I’m 30 next year which is practically dead in gay years. Once I’m happily partnered up I can move into the next gay clothing phase �" Abercrombie and Fitch. I’ll be a middle-aged Fitch B***h.”

“I always wondered why all the staff that work in their shops are young, fit model-types,” Alice responded, “yet the only people I see wearing their t-shirts are camp middle-aged flight attendants. Now all is clear. It’s an aspirational uniform for the older gay man, who wants to attract a younger model. Nice.”

“Always happy to educate,” said Phil, “but aside from all that do take my point. You have a life that many girls would kill for. Don’t waste it moping over the man you don’t have. I know that’s a bit rich coming from someone that’s dated more men than Lindsay Lohan’s had spray tans, but being a gay man I have to take a more scattergun approach to dating.”

Alice laughed. She always enjoyed herself when she was with her friends. Being with them took her mind off the things that were worrying her, and they were right, her “problems” were all so trivial. Her job was a good one and better than so many others, if a little stressful at times. So what if she didn’t have a boyfriend? She was only 26 and these days that’s still very young. Her body clock wouldn’t start counting down for at least another five years or so. She should just enjoy herself and count her blessings! Her flat was indeed lovely, although perhaps living alone, while being a luxury that not many twenty-somethings could afford, was what allowed her to dwell on things and over-think. Never mind. Such is life. That was her choice and she couldn’t bear the thought of sharing her space with a flatmate. Alice decided to do her best to focus on the positive and look forward to her New York trip. She hadn’t seen Carrie since she last visited London over six months before, so it would be great to catch up with her other best friend and get to explore the Big Apple. Alice took a large gulp of the rather disgusting Pinot Grigio, looked at her two friends chatting and smiled to herself. She was a very lucky girl really.

“Oh, and by the way,” said Polly, “You’ve got a date on Monday night. He’s the cousin of a girl I work with. A tall, dark, handsome Frenchman by the name of Francois. No need to thank me.”

“What?!” Alice shrieked, her face whitening with fear, “What do you mean Monday?! You haven’t mentioned it before?! I’m busy!”

“No you’re not, you’re never busy in the evening and if you were you’d already have told me. So no excuses. He’s meeting you at Quaglino’s at 6.30 which is only over the road from your office so you don’t need to make any effort at all.”

“But I don’t know anything about him! He’s bound to be a freak! What would I wear?! He’s French so he’ll like chic sophisticated women and that’s not me at all! And besides, you were just telling me that I don’t need a man to be happy, so what’s with arranging a date for me?!”

“It’s not a relationship, it’s just a bit of fun and you never know, you might at least make a new friend, even if he doesn’t become the love of your life. You take dating and relationships far too seriously so a fun no-strings date is exactly what you need. Arranging this for you is simply underlining what I said before. Like I said, no need to thank me...” Polly beamed with self-satisfaction.

“Well. I guess if it’s a fait accompli then I may as well go. But I’ve no idea what I’ll wear for a Frenchman! Everything I have is so cheap and boring...” Alice became silent as she pondered on this. If only she had a better wardrobe and accessories...

Chapter Three

Alice arrived at work on Monday morning at 8.00, earlier than usual because Charlie was due in today. Oh dear. A day at work with Charlie was not a pleasant experience, but luckily it wasn’t a frequent occurrence, what with his hectic travel schedule. She was having mild anxiety issues about it, not helped by the triple-shot latte from Starbucks she’d had on her way in.

Charlie Porter was a very important man. Very important indeed. A hedge fund manager with his own office in Stratton Street, Mayfair, a beautiful townhouse in Notting Hill, a sizeable country pile in Hampshire and (naturally) a villa in the South of France, not far from Nice. He chose Nice because British Airways fly there so one can fly Club class rather than cattle, plus ones poorer (or actually posher and therefore more frugal) friends can take Sleazyjet. Mrs Porter (real name Sophie but inexplicably referred to as “Fru” since childhood) was the product of a minor girls public school, a natural blonde, tall, slim and with a mouth that was apparently crammed to bursting with marbles. She had that upper-middle class way of abbreviating and altering words so that they sounded like something from a comedy sketch �" “totes amaze” (totally amazing); “pedi app” (pedicure appointment); “amaze balls” (rather good) etc, and she even said “Yah” rather than “yes” like a nineteen-eighties yuppie throwback. Fru drove a pimped-up Range Rover Vogue SE with blacked-out windows, twin exhausts and TV screens in the headrests. Apparently it was chosen because of the high viewing platform which meant that she could better see the traffic and thus drive more safely with their precious children Cosmo and Venetia in the back. Children that actually went to and from school every day with the nanny, Esmerelda, in her five-year old Peugeot 206 that came with the job and had rather less visibility and fewer airbags than the Range Rover…

Anyway… you get the picture.

Alice was Charlie’s PA, however the job inevitably involved doing a certain amount of work for Fru. Not that she minded. Much. This mostly involved booking hotels and flights, generally to tie in with Charlie’s travel. He went all over the world for his work �" Stockholm, Madrid, Barcelona, Frankfurt, Munich, New York, Chicago, etc etc etc. Fru occasionally did a bit of “work” as a “holistic healer”. Which meant that really she did nothing at all but could avoid calling herself a housewife.

Alice herself was much more down to earth. She was the product of a comprehensive school education (but a good one in the Home Counties, not an inner-city one), she lived in Battersea, although not the trendy, fashionable part of Battersea overlooking the park itself. No, she was in one of the council blocks a couple of roads back from the river. The setting screamed “Nil by Mouth” (Alice’s favourite movie as already mentioned. Google it if you haven’t seen it �" you’ll get the gist), but actually it was rather nice. The neighbours were a mix of perfectly respectable black families, young professionals that couldn’t yet afford Battersea-proper, and yes, a smattering of chavs and young gangster types, but Alice had never had any trouble from any of them.

Alice’s job wasn’t particularly difficult. Well. It shouldn’t be. It was just a case of handling Charlie’s diary and making sure nothing clashed, keeping on top of admin and generally ensuring that things went smoothly for him. The problem was that Charlie had a terrible habit of changing his mind. Repeatedly. Regardless of the cost. For example he would have Alice arrange a meeting for him in Frankfurt on a Tuesday at 11am, so she would book him a flight from Heathrow at 9am. He would then change his mind and ask her to move the meeting to midday, and he didn’t like hanging around wasting time so she would have to move him to the next flight, at 10am. Charlie wasn’t interested in whether or not there were seats available on the flight, it was Alice’s job to just make it happen. On the Monday he might then decide that his time would be better spent in a meeting in Stockholm rather than Frankfurt, so Alice would then have to see if she could cancel the Frankfurt ticket and buy a Stockholm one instead. Probably at huge expense because booking at the last minute is always so much more costly. While in Stockholm Charlie might then decide that he needed to be in Frankfurt after all so Alice would have to sort out a flight there and see if there was anything to be had back from the unused ticket from Stockholm to London, or if it could be rerouted to return from Frankfurt. As well as the hassle of switching flights all of these changes would also necessitate changing, cancelling or rebooking chauffeurs in each city to take him to and from airports and meetings. Alice could have pretty much finished work for the day and a two-minute call from Charlie might mean she had to spend the next two or three hours making amendments. She had to constantly remind herself that this is what he paid her for, and pretty handsomely too compared to other PA’s.

Alice wasn’t expecting Charlie in until about 10am this morning because he didn’t have a meeting scheduled, so there was no point in him being there any earlier. While Alice was battling through commuter hell he would be drinking Columbia Supreme dark roast coffee in the hugely expensive designer kitchen of his townhouse, perusing the Financial Times which was delivered daily. Alice still went in to the office at the usual time though because Charlie had been known to pop in early to surprise her, to test her more like.

She made sure that everything was up to date in Charlie’s diary and set up the coffee pot so that the moment he walked in she could press the ON switch. It was the same coffee that he drank at home, from H.R.Higgins in Mayfair, the Queen’s coffee merchant no less. Can you believe that? She has her own coffee merchant. And Charlie drank the same coffee. Of course he did. Who wouldn’t? Alice suspected it was more Fru’s choice than Charlie’s. The woman was such a snob. Every single thing in her life had to be designer, even the coffee.

At 9.50 the door swung open and the Great Man entered. He was a huge bear of a man, over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a slight belly and very large hands and feet. In his early fifties, he was already turning into a bit of a silver fox, in fact he was the epitome of an upper class Englishman in his handmade Savile Row suit, understated Cartier watch and cufflinks, and a signet ring with the family crest on his little finger.

“Morning Alice”

“Morning Charlie. No phone calls yet this morning.”

“Good good. I’ve just been on the blower to Jimbo Fitzpatrick, I’m meeting him for an early lunch at Roger Moore’s place so I’ll be gone from half eleven. An extra sugar today I think.”

“Yes Charlie” Alice responded. Charlie generally took two sugars in his coffee, but he’d have an extra one if he was in a particularly good mood. Jimbo was a friend of his from school and they met for lunch at least once a month. Roger Moore, yes he of James Bond fame, owned a restaurant in Mayfair and it was one of Charlie’s favourite lunch venues. He was such a regular that he didn’t even need to make a reservation �" they’d always find a table for him, and a good one at that.

“I’ve got some bits and pieces to go through so no phone calls unless they’re urgent ok? Not even Fru.”

“No problem Charlie. Let me know if you need anything.”

Alice genuinely had nothing else to do so after she’d made Charlie’s coffee she settled down to read Heat magazine, surf the web and wonder what her blind date that night would be like. By half eleven there had been only two phone calls �" one from a client that she was able to deal with herself and the other from Fru saying that she was out shopping and would be dropping by with some bags for Charlie to bring home for her after work.

Charlie’s door opened and he strode out with a smile on his way to lunch.

“Fru called. She’s bringing some shopping in later and said can you take it home for her tonight”

“Yes yes, got to go. Lunch awaits!”

And with that he was gone. He probably wouldn’t be back till much, much later, and pissed. The ever so hard life of a rich man. It seemed to Alice that it didn’t involve much work at all. She really had no idea what all his international meetings entailed, but whatever happened in them they certainly earned him a lot of money. She had the impression that upper class people managed to earn vast sums of money by having lunches and laughing with their friends, who were always similarly rich. If only it were that easy for everyone.

Alice was pondering on this when the door to the office reception burst open and Fru came tottering through it carrying a huge assortment of carrier bags from expensive Bond Street shops. The woman’s capacity for spending her husband’s money was incredible. Gucci, Mulberry, Chanel, you name it, she was on first name terms with the staff in most of them. The cost of her Hermés bag collection was enough to buy a decent family house in the nicer parts of the North of England. Honestly, that’s not even a joke. Today she was carrying a beautiful, pristine white Birkin, the sort of bag Alice could only dream of owning. She sighed inwardly as she took in the soft leather, the immaculate, understated brassware and the tiny little lock on the front with a miniscule key poking out of it. Such a beautiful bag. And Fru dumped it down on Alice’s desk as if it were a piece of Primark faux-leather rubbish!

Alice was going on her date tonight with the Frenchman that Polly had set her up with. Francois was his name. He’d be impressed and probably surprised to be met by a chic, sophisticated Englishwoman �" the English not being generally best described by either of those adjectives. A Birkin would convey that beautifully, but oh well, Alice’s mud-brown fifty quid River Island hobo bag would have to do.

“Darling,” drawled Fru, “I’m absolutely exhausted, I have to go to lunch and I can’t lug all this shopping with me so ask Charlie to bring it home will you? I’ll just sort a couple of things out first.”

She removed a dustbag from a large Chanel carrier and slid from it a beautiful, lemon yellow handbag, the classic quilted leather design with gilt chain strap. Alice drooled. She had no idea what it must have cost but she figured somewhere around the £3000 mark if not more. Loose change to Fru.

“I think this will suit my outfit better for lunch, don’t you think? White is so impractical. Can you give the Hermés to Charlie to bring home?”

“Sure. No problem” Alice said, thinking that she was supposed to be Charlie’s PA, not Fru’s skivvy.

“Yes, much better” said Fru, putting the strap over her shoulder and looking down at herself to check that it went well with her black Louboutins, skinny jeans, cream silk Ralph Lauren blouse and Oscar de la Renta tweed fitted jacket. Yes. Perfect. She tipped open the Birkin and emptied the contents into the Chanel. Alice thought that her whole year’s salary (and then some) was right here on Fru’s body and in her shopping bags. Cow.

“Must dash darling. Heston’s place is a total mare �" if you’re even a second late they give the table away and I’m simply dying to have his snail porridge again!”

In a designer flash Fru was gone, leaving behind the GDP of a small African nation in several carrier bags. Alice started to put them to one side near the door so that she wouldn’t forget to give them to Charlie when he left. She turned back to her desk and was struck by the sight of Fru’s white Birkin sitting there so seductively. Sooooo beautiful! She reached out to touch it. Sooooo soft! She slowly picked it up by the handle and put her hand through it to rest it in the crook of her arm, just like the supermodels do �" she was only human after all so how could she resist?! Wow. It looked good. Really suited her. How can a piece of leather and metal feel so good? How is that possible? She looked over to her chair and the drab brown piece of River Island crap hanging from the back of it. And back to the Birkin. Crap. Birkin. Crap. Birkin. A spark ignited in her brain. Oh no. This is how really bad things happen. You can see it coming can’t you? This is where in the movie you see it happening and you scream at the TV set “DON’T DO IT!!!!”. But she’ll do it anyway, you know that already…

What harm could it do? She’d only be borrowing it for one evening. She’d “forget” to give it to Charlie to take home and could then impress Francois with her elegant ways this evening! What a brilliant idea! Fru would never know. The bag would be back in the office first thing in the morning and it would have nabbed Alice a wonderful, sophisticated French boyfriend! Brilliant, clever bag that it is. What a stroke of luck it was that Fru came into the office!

There was actually no sign of Charlie for the rest of the day so that was even better �" Alice wouldn’t have to pretend that she’d forgotten to give him the handbag. Excellent!

At 5pm, with still no Charlie and no more work to do, Alice started to get ready for her date. Polly had relayed a bit of information from her colleague whose cousin Francois was - he was 35, a university lecturer and newly divorced apparently, no kids. You could read a lot into that if you wanted to but it was early days yet and Alice would reserve judgement until she’d at least met the guy. What with him being an intellectual and all she didn’t want to look tarty, so she applied her make up to make it look as if she wasn’t wearing any, that sort of nude look that you see in magazines, with just a clear lip gloss and no colour apart from the tiniest bit of rouge on her cheeks, to give the illusion of being a healthy, outdoorsy sort of girl. She put her hair up into a low chignon, but with a few tendrils artfully escaping around her face to make her seem effortlessly chic. She’d already dressed for work in what she intended to wear for the date �" cream trousers, white blouse and a dark brown jacket, with sensible but fashionable low-heeled brown shoes. Sort of professional-but-not-too-serious girl-about-town look. All she added was a chiffon scarf tied jauntily around her neck. Hmmm. Might be a bit air-hostessy. Or too faux-Frenchy. She decided against the scarf. Finally she put the Birkin in the crook of her arm and looked in the window to see her reflection. Fantastic! The bag was the cherry atop the icing on the cake �" absolutely perfect! She looked just like one of those London girls that she’d always envied, the trustafarians braying along the Kings Road. What could go wrong with borrowing a handbag? It was just a bag after all…

Chapter Four

Francois had suggested that they meet for a drink at Quaglino’s because it was only a two minute walk from Alice’s office and had a nice piano lounge for cocktails. How fancy schmancy Alice thought! He must be really sophisticated to suggest somewhere like that, not that she’d actually been before, despite its proximity to work �" she and her friends were more Pitcher and Piano or All Bar One girls, large glass of pinot and a bag of nuts sort of thing.

They’d agreed to meet at 6.30 so Alice left the office at 6.25 for the short walk over Piccadilly to Quaglino’s. She figured she’d walk in at 6.35 to make sure that he’d be there but also because being 5 minutes late showed that she was a lady but not that she was disrespectful or rude. A lot of thinking goes into decisions like these! She felt ever so conspicuous carrying the Birkin and she thought that all the women walking past her in the opposite direction were staring at it. They probably weren’t but it was to her as if she had a beacon on her head screaming 5000 quid handbag everyone! Look at me! I can’t afford this bag! I stole if from my bosses wife!!! God. She mustn’t think like that. To think like a criminal is to act like a criminal. Who said that? Probably no one. But technically it was theft, wasn’t it? No. Just borrowing a bag. But borrowing without asking permission IS theft isn’t it? Particularly when what you’re doing (taking the bag out) is the precise opposite of what the bag’s owner requested (have it taken home). Stop it Alice! Stop over-thinking!

She arrived at the entrance to Quaglino’s, a glass wall on a side street just behind Piccadilly on the corner of Jermyn Street. She pushed open the huge door and walked down the staircase and past the cloakroom, where she declined to check her jacket. Turning left toward the bar she could see the sweeping staircase that led down to the famous restaurant, with its renowned seafood bar to the right. Being in a basement there were no windows but it had a long v-shaped piece of glass on the ceiling, coloured blue to give the illusion of a bright blue sky. It was the epitome of eighties glamour and just as she’d imagined. The bar area was quite dark, with comfortable low sofas in the middle of it next to a grand piano, small tables and chairs along a dark maroon banquette, and tall stools the length of the highly-polished steel bar. She scanned the room and realised that of course she had no idea what Francois looked like! So she sat at one of the bar stools and took out her mobile to call him. Before she had a chance to even bring up his number a smooth, low voice said in a French accent:

“You must be Alice, no? You are as beautiful as your pictures �" I am Francois”

“Oh, yes! Thank you that’s very kind! Nice to meet you!” Alice held out her hand and rather than shake it Francois took it and raised it to his lips, gently kissing it while looking Alice in the eye and whispering “Charmant, charmant…”

Wow.

“As beautiful as my pictures you say? That’s lovely, but what pictures were they?”

“Facebook. I looked at you through Polly’s page. You really must tighten your security settings, haha!”

“Oh, right! Of course! Silly me!” Alice felt a little uncomfortable. Could you call that stalking? No of course not. Looking at someone on Facebook was just par for the course, in fact she felt silly for not doing it herself, although from what he’d intimated she wouldn’t have been able to see him anyway because of his privacy settings, but then him admitting to looking at her pictures was a bit one-sided when she wouldn’t be able to see his. Hmmm. Stop thinking Alice!

“Let us sit somewhere more comfortable” Francois suggested in his deep, silken French voice, and she stepped down from her stool as he led her to one of the comfortable sofas in the middle of the room. As they sat down a waiter came over and Francois simply said “Dom Perignon 2000, s’il vous plait”. Crikey! Alice had never had Dom Perignon before! Sometimes Moet yes, even Bollinger, but never Dom Perignon �" it was only drunk by really posh people and rappers! She couldn’t help but be impressed. She didn’t say anything though. The sort of woman that carries a Hermés Birkin doesn’t flinch at ordering Dom Perignon. She set the bag at her feet and waited for him to speak.

But he didn’t speak. He stared intensely into her eyes as if he wanted to eat her up. Weird. Really, really intense. Alice felt rather uncomfortable.

“So, it’s lovely to meet you. I haven’t been to Quaglino’s before and it’s very nice, do you come here often?”

“Sometimes. I like the mood of it. The bar is dark and very romantic, no?”

“I suppose so, it IS very dark, yes…” Alice replied, looking around her as if to take in the darkness of the place.

“It is like a woman’s womb, dark, red, comforting, sensual, you can feel the passion oozing from the walls, yes? It is sexy, erotic, stimulating yes? You can feel it no?

“Ummm… I’m not sure…” Alice was always very bad at saying what she was actually thinking. What she was actually thinking at this moment was “WEIRDO!! Someone get me out of here NOW!!!” But the chances of her saying something along those lines were about slim to none. She was prevented from saying more by a new waiter appearing with a bowl of nibbles �" olives and fancy crisps �" and the original one arriving with the champagne.

Alice smiled politely as the waiter poured the champagne. She could see that Francois was watching her, and pursing his lips into a little moue, kind of winking at her. Jesus Christ. What was he doing? Was he trying to be romantic? The waiters left and Francois leant over and took her hand to kiss it again.

“You have such beautiful hands, they are so soft and smooth, they smell so good, I could almost eat them… He kissed the back of her hand and she felt his tongue dart out and lick the knuckles. Euuuugghhh!! What the hell?! Alice quickly withdrew her hand and picked up some crisps and shoved them in her mouth.

“Speaking of which,” she mumbled with her mouth full, “ I didn’t have any lunch today, I’m famished! Are you? My, these crisps are delicious! Much nicer than Walkers, but I suppose they’re posh crisps, nothing as common as Walkers here eh?!” She laughed nervously and picked up some more crisps, as Francois slid across the sofa till he was just centimetres away from her. Oh god.

“I like crisps very much, why don’t you let me try some too yes?” He leant toward her and started to kiss her on the lips as she chewed. Alice was in shock. They’d only met ten minutes ago! His tongue suddenly poked its way into her mouth �" why didn’t she push him away and tell him to piss off?! She was frozen, like a deer in the headlights. Her mouth was full of half-masticated crisps and his tongue was in there too working its way around, picking out bits of potato! What a very powerful, long, pointy tongue he had! Alice briefly thought it would be better used for other, even more intimate activities, before the horror of what he was doing struck her again.

Francois started to moan with pleasure and chew as well �" he was actually taking crisps from her mouth and eating them!! Oh. My. God. Alice suddenly felt sick. She was going to vomit. Oh god. To be sick into a man’s mouth. One hears about such things in books but not in real life! Oh God Oh God. Instinctively Alice pushed him away from her and picked up her handbag just as she was overcome by a wave of nausea. Her mouth exploded with a sea of chewed crisps, champagne and the sandwiches that she had actually had for lunch, just as she realised that she was not in fact holding her cheap River Island handbag, but a rare and precious Hermés bag that would cost several thousand pounds to replace even if it were possible to get hold of one, and which she had borrowed without Fru’s knowledge. She was thinking this just as the vomit spewed forth and soaked into the soft white lambskin interior, staining it irrevocably and possibly ending her career at the same time.

“So... sorry...!” she croaked as she continued to hold the bag to her face while getting up to run to the toilets. Why the hell was she apologising?! The b*****d had just eaten chewed up crisps from her mouth for god’s sake! He was the reason that she had ruined a priceless bag and was about to lose her job! Maybe she could keep the bag though, that would be nice, it was ruined after all. Funny how the mind works under pressure.

Alice stumbled down the sweeping staircase to the loos looking like a sophisticated gimp with the Birkin tightly affixed to her face. She could sense that eyes were turning to look at her and shame was beginning to take the place of shock. The loos were empty, thank God. She went to the sinks and lowered the bag from her face. The stench of vomit was almost overpowering. There was sick on her chin which she wiped away with the back of her hand. Jesus. This was really bad. Really really bad. The shame of vomiting in a glamorous bar was one thing, but she’d just ruined a bag that cost the same as a small family car. A bag that wasn’t even hers. F**k. F**k. F**k. She looked inside the bag �" ruined. Maybe after being rinsed out it wouldn’t be too bad? She emptied the few contents into the sink with the sick and turned the tap on, filling the bag up with water. S**t. Not a good move. The water was just making it worse. The one silver lining was that the bag didn’t smell of puke so much. What should she do now?

Alice cleaned herself up as best she could and slowly made her way back up the staircase to the bar area. Francois was looking anxious, waiting for her to reappear.

“Darling, what happened, are you alright? You must have food poisoning or something, we need to get you home and into bed. I’ve already got the bill, let’s get you into a taxi Chérie,”

Darling? Chérie? What was this guy on? Did he not realise that having semi-masticated crisps scooped from her mouth by his pointy Gallic tongue was what had caused her to throw up? It was quite literally one of the most disgusting things that a man had ever done to her, and it wasn’t even in the privacy of a bedroom! He had performed what he clearly thought was an acceptable erotic act in the very public arena of one of the poshest bars in London. Alice made a point of not looking at anyone else in the bar. She was too mortified.

“Um, yeah, I’m not feeling too good. Definitely coming down with something so I’d best get some sleep...”

“Oh, you poor thing! Yes, the sooner you get to bed the better, we can repeat tonight when you are feeling well again, there is so much that we have to talk about, I can tell already that we are kindred spirits!”

Francois held Alice’s arm and guided her up the stairs to the exit. She no longer had the Birkin in the crook of her arm, chic doesn’t cut it when the Birkin in question is vomit and water sodden. She just held it forlornly by a single handle, shocked by what it symbolised. This piece of wet leather meant the end of her career, or at the very least the loss of her job. What was she going to do?

Francois flagged down a cab and Alice got inside and gave the driver her address. Francois leaned in through the window.

“When you get home go straight to bed with a glass of water. I will call you tomorrow to see how you are.”

Alice didn’t reply, just smiled weakly as the taxi pulled away. She wouldn’t be going to bed. She’d be up all night trying to fix the damned bag.

Chapter Five

Alice was in the office just after 8am. She had stopped blow-drying the bag at about 3 and sprayed the lining with a copious amount of Angel by Thierry Mugler to try and mask the smell of vomit. She managed to get a couple of hours of very bad sleep, in which she dreamed of being chased down a street by designer handbags that oozed vomit and massive pointy tongues invaded her mouth. Awful. She was resigned to her fate and could imagine Fru’s reaction when she saw the bag. Do you remember that film about Hobbits that Cate Blanchett was in? Lords of the Ring or something. The one where she played an elf princess? She’s like the most beautiful woman you can imagine, but when she touches this magic ring she turns into a monstrous, horrific likeness of herself surrounded by blue fire and screams “I will be beautiful and terrible!” or something along those lines. That’s what Fru was going to look like. Oh god. Alice felt sick with stress.

At 9am Charlie emailed to say that he and Fru were just having breakfast and would be in sometime around 10. Great. Countdown begins. Fru didn’t normally come into the office two days in a row, let alone in the morning with Charlie. She must know that Alice had borrowed her bag and was coming in to sack her with Charlie. His email was too brief to analyse �" just the one sentence so no lines to read between. Maybe he would show her some mercy? Not sack her but deduct the cost of the bag from her wages on a monthly basis? Fat chance.

Alice looked around the office to take in the surroundings, as this might well be her last time seeing it all. Despite everything she’d mostly enjoyed working here. Working in Mayfair was really quite something �" the rich heartland of one of the most important cities on the planet. Not every girl from a small suburban town gets to do it. On a daily basis Alice walked past the restaurants and clubs that were mentioned in gossip magazines and newspapers, like Nobu, Sketch and Gordon Ramsay. She was surrounded by countless five star hotels, the sort of places where footballers took their young starstricken groupies for a spot of gang rape. You know the kind of place I mean. And the shops! Chanel, Gucci, Dior, Louis Vuitton, all the places where she could never afford to buy anything and in fact wouldn’t even dare to go inside, but which were window-shopping heaven, particularly for a girl that reads the glossy magazines. Where would she work next? Croydon? Acton? Do they even have to give you a reference when you’ve been sacked for ruining the boss’s wife’s handbag?

At 10.00 there was still no sign of Charlie and Fru. Alice’s palms were sweating with nerves. The Hermés bag was sitting next to all the designer shopping bags that Fru had left behind yesterday. It didn’t look too bad actually. The outside hadn’t been damaged at all, it was the lining that looked a bit dodgy. At least it didn’t smell of sick any more. It smelt pungently and very strongly of Angel by Thierry Mugler, which was the only perfume that Alice had to hand at home. Oh dear.

At 10.05 the door swung open and Charlie came striding into the office beaming, followed by Fru who was grinning like the Cheshire cat. They’d obviously had some good news. Charlie smiled at Alice, said “Morning Dear” (Dear? Dear? What on earth?!) and went straight through to his office. Fru took a step toward Alice.

“Alice Darling! We’ve had the most wonderful news! So exciting!”

“Morning Fru, what news?” Alice glanced nervously at the bag sitting innocently just a few feet away from Fru. Fru hadn’t so much as looked at yesterday’s shopping or the bag, let alone mentioned anything.

“Charlie’s been knighted! Can you believe it? Well, not yet, but it’s being announced this week, he’s getting a knighthood in the New Years Honours! Sir Charles Porter! I’m going to be Lady Porter! Sir Charles and Lady Porter! I knew it was a possibility but didn’t expect it to happen so soon! I thought we had at least another ten years to wait. I mean, it’s not that big a deal, naturally, many of one’s friends have titles,” One? When did Fru start referring to herself as one? “but it’s just wonderful that Charlie’s good works are being recognised.” Good works? What good works? Is making a s**t load of money for yourself a good work?

“Wow, that’s amazing! Crikey, I don’t know anyone with a title.” Alice tried to sound excited but it was difficult with her imminent unemployment hanging over her.

“No, I don’t suppose you would, Alice darling. But now you do! It doesn’t change anything though, it really doesn’t make any difference to one,” One?!! “I’m the same Fru that you’ve always known, just Lady Fru, haha! Oh how funny! Lady Fru! Well, Lady Sophie. Actually, Lady Porter but you know what I mean!” Fru suddenly sniffed. “What’s that smell?” She sniffed again. “Have you been to the perfume counter at Debenhams or something?” She carried on sniffing and moved toward the source of the smell: her handbag.

Alice froze. She decided to just be honest about it. Well. Not totally honest. She could hardly say that she took the handbag on a date and threw up in it. That sounds quite bad, doesn’t it?

“Oh, um, I’m so, so sorry. I had an accident yesterday with your handbag. I spilled a cup of coffee and it went inside. I took it home to try and fix it but it still smelled a bit of coffee, so I sprayed the inside with some perfume. I’m really sorry! I’ll replace it, just let me know where to get one!” Alice thought it best to play dumb about the value of the bag. Even though she didn’t know the exact price she was aware that a Birkin would cost thousands and thousands of pounds and there was no way that she could afford to replace it. Fru stooped down and picked up her bag. She opened it and sniffed, sighed a little. There was just the briefest flicker of annoyance on her face which was replaced with a smile.

“Oh Alice, don’t worry about it. It’s just a bag! It’s not the end of the world and no one’s died! I’ve got dozens of bags at home so I won’t miss this one! Besides, I think white has rather had its day anyway. It’s no big deal. One can’t be too precious about material possessions, really one can’t. There are far more important things to be worrying about in life. The sick, the needy.”

What was happening? Was this really Fru Porter standing before Alice? No. It couldn’t be. She must have been cloned by bodysnatchers from the planet Mars.

“Oh, are you sure? Because I feel really bad about it, I hardly slept last night for worry,” she said.

“Really. Doesn’t matter. In fact you can keep it if you like. I won’t use it again.” She smiled beatifically at Alice, and that was when she realised what was happening. This wasn’t Fru Porter standing before her, this was Lady Porter, charitable benefactor! Alice’s heart jumped with excitement and relief. Fru was so over the moon about her elevation to Lady that the last thing she would care about is a handbag. Much as she protested that it wasn’t a big deal really it was a huge deal. It would be a huge deal to anybody, not just one. Charlie’s knighthood was a massive achievement, if you can call being well-connected and making oodles of money an achievement. The added bonus of his knighthood was that Alice would not only get to keep her job but would also get to own a Hermés Birkin! Yes, a vomit-soaked, Angel-stinking Birkin, but a real Birkin!

“Wow, Fru, I don’t know what to say, are you sure?” Alice held her breath as she prayed that Fru wouldn’t reconsider. She now really wanted that bag, regardless of its state.

“Yes of course I’m sure. It’s just a bag!”

“Oh thank you so much Fru, sorry, My Lady,” Fru smiled and pretended to be embarrassed at this, “I really am genuinely sorry for damaging it and I appreciate your being so good about it. Really I do.” And Alice meant it. The cloud had lifted from her day and been replaced by a haze of happiness. Fru’s joy was spilling over into Alice’s world and her day, no not even day, her life had just got better. She was still employed and was now the proud owner of a beautiful sick-stained bag.

“Oh stop it Alice, you’re welcome to it! And stop worrying! I only came in with Charlie to share the news with you. He’ll be in there calling his friends to tell them now. He’s very pleased and it came as such a surprise! I’ve got to go to lunch with some girlfriends, they’ll be so jealous! We’re meeting at Harvey Nicks so I can get a bit of shopping in first. What should a Lady wear? I need to think about that. I’m not sure my wardrobe is suitable. Hmmm...” Fru appeared to lose herself in thought as she walked out of the office. Clearly she was going to use her new position as an excuse to spend a fortune on new clothes to suit it. Alice wouldn’t be surprised if she went out and bought herself a tiara. Fru wasn’t a bad person, just a bit shallow. But Alice wasn’t going to complain. She’d kept her job. And the bag. Alice decided that someone upstairs was looking after her and she really did need to count her blessings. She picked up the Birkin and placed it under her desk, by her feet and smiled.

My Review

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flash

Refreshing to read UK satire. I'm so used to the American style of flowing. Not bad. Like her dirty way of doing things.She is crisp observer and a clear eye into the surroundings you are expressing. Good description but after 3 chapters honestly, where are we going? Interested to see a story. You write well, throw a tease of a plot in there and I'll buy that book!! Nice job!! Keep doing it!!