Lucy Holliday - A Night In With Grace Kelly

The flip-side of it all, however, is that it can occasionally be … well, a little bit of a fight to retain a hundred per cent of what I guess you might call ‘creative control’. Or, more specifically, the direction the business is heading in. Twelve months ago, I might not have had a crystal-clear plan for it all. I just wanted to make quirky, Old-Hollywood-inspired costume jewellery, at an affordable price – but at least I was still happily meandering in that general direction. Ben, I’m slowly beginning to realize, has slightly different ideas and, in every conversation we’ve had over the last couple of months, he has been pushing me towards scaling back the cheaper end and concentrating on expensive, bespoke orders. Admittedly the margins are higher on these, but I have a suspicion that his reasoning is also motivated by the fact that he has other designers making more mass-market jewellery and accessories in his little ‘stable’ of companies, and – most of all – by the fact that Elvira Roberts-Hoare, his close advisor, is advising him to stick to the luxury end of the market where I’m concerned. I don’t have all that much contact with her, but I know she’s not all that sold on the Hollywood-inspired angle, for one thing –‘at the end of the day, darling, they’re just dead celebrities. It’s all a bit too Sunset Boulevard ’– and, more to the point, she’s even less sold on the whole ‘affordable price’ thing. Her vision for Libby Goes To Hollywood is, as far as I can tell, that I custom-make heinously expensive one-off pieces for a double-barrelled clientele – brides, mostly – who pop up on the society pages of Tatler .

I can only assume that this is because these things – double-barrelled clients, and the society pages of Tatler – are her particular area of expertise. And, I suspect, more to the point, because she’s cheesed off that Ben was the one who brought me under his umbrella in the first place, without her being the one to scout me, as is their usual arrangement. And that she wants to stamp her authority and opinions on Libby Goes To Hollywood as a way of asserting her position.

But I can’t complain. I mean that in its truest sense. I can’t complain. Ben owns sixty-five per cent of my company, and has put tens of thousands of pounds into it. And Elvira is his right-hand woman, so he’s always going to take her opinion over mine.

I’m just hoping that maybe, just maybe, today’s meeting might swing things a little more in my favour. I’ve been working really hard on the designs for a new collection of chunky bronze cuffs, studded with semi-precious birthstones, a few of which I’ve got to show Ben and Elvira today. I’m also armed with promising sales figures from the most recent collection that the factory in Croatia made for me, and …

I can hear that the front door is opening, and that Elvira and Ben are on their way in. Seeing as this means Elvira must have used her own door key, I’ll have to have a little word with her about privacy as soon as … actually, let’s be honest, I won’t have a word with her about privacy at all. This is her place – well, her father’s, but who’s splitting hairs? – and I’m staying here as close to rent-free as makes no difference. She could tap-dance in unannounced, in the middle of the night, with a marching band playing loud oom-pah-pahs right behind her, and I’d still keep my mouth shut.

‘Libby? You here?’

‘I’m right here, Ben!’ I reply, heading out of the back room and into the as-yet-empty showroom space at the front. ‘Hi! Great to see you both.’

Ben, who I go up to kiss on both cheeks, is looking as immaculate as I’ve ever seen him: sharp suit, open-neck shirt, and a hot pink silk pocket square, just to give the nod to the fact he’s the kind of multimillionaire venture capitalist who invests in fashion businesses rather than anything mundane like steel production or microchip technology. But Elvira … well, she looks positively extraordinary. She’s rocking a tiny paisley kaftan that only just covers her practically non-existent buttocks, Grecian sandals that lace up as far as her equally nonexistent thighs, a Hermès Birkin bag in the crook of one emaciated arm; her silver-blonde hair, in milkmaid plaits, is pushed back from her face with a colossal pair of sunglasses.

‘Elvira!’ I contemplate giving her a kiss too, but her forbidding aura of haughtiness puts me off. ‘Thanks so much, again, for all this.’ I wave a hand around the showroom. ‘Obviously I haven’t really had a chance to think about how I’m going to fit it out, yet, but it’s such a great space, I’m sure it’s going to be—’

‘I need water,’ she says, abruptly, cutting me off and starting to head up the stairs without waiting for an invitation. ‘Do you have flat mineral in the kitchen?’

‘Mineral water? Er … no, only tap. I can pop up the road to the shop, if it would—’

‘No time for that,’ she throws over her shoulder, clearly a woman in the midst of a dehydration emergency. ‘Tap will have to do.’

‘So, Libby, good to see you settled here,’ Ben says. His tone, as ever, is brusque, but I’m used to this by now and know that he (almost always) means kindly enough. ‘It’s a little fancier than … sorry, what’s the name of the place you were living before?’

‘Colliers Wood.’

‘A little fancier than Colliers Wood, huh?’

‘Yes, it’s lovely.’ I pick up my stack of bronze cuffs and the paperwork for my sales figures, and start to follow him up the stairs towards the living room. ‘Thanks, Ben, for getting Elvira to let me have the place.’

‘It’s nothing. Besides, El’s been talking about the idea of you working out of a showroom for months now, right?’

‘Yes, she has. In fact, that was one thing I was really hoping we could speak about today, Ben.’ We reach the living room; Elvira has gone on up to the next floor to source her urgent water from the kitchen. ‘I mean, I love having the showroom too, obviously, and it’s going to be fantastic for meetings with my bespoke clients and stuff … but I suppose what I’m still really hoping for, one day soon, is to actually start up my own shop premises. And I guess I’d really just like to be sure that that’s something you’d be supportive of, as well as the whole showroom thing, when the time—’

‘I thought you’d moved in.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I thought you’d moved in.’ Ben gestures around the living room. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’

‘Oh, right! This is all my stuff!’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No, no, I like to live with … er … a very minimalist aesthetic …’

‘You’re kidding,’ Ben repeats. He nods in the direction of the Chesterfield. ‘I mean, is that old thing part of your minimalist aesthetic?’

‘Well, no, but I like to mix minimalism with … vintage quirkiness.’

‘That’s vintage quirk, all right.’ Ben wanders over and peers, gingerly, at the sofa. ‘It doesn’t have mice, or anything, does it?’

I’m offended, on behalf of the Chesterfield, that this is the second time today someone has implied there are things living in it.

Or, more accurately, offended that it’s the second time someone has implied there are creepy-crawly, rodenty things living in it.

As opposed to the actual things living in it. Which are – and I’ll keep this ever so brief, because it makes me sound nuts, no matter how I put it – Hollywood screen legends.

And, to be honest, I don’t really think they live in the sofa, as such. It’s more just that they appear from it. Because the sofa itself is … magical? I mean, this is the best – in fact, pretty much the only – explanation I’ve been able to come up with myself.