Rosa Temple - Playing Her Cards Right

‘ Non, rapidement, aujourd’hui. Ce matin, conduire lentement, s’il vous plait .’ That small amount of French really hurt my head. At sixteen, I’d spent most of my French conversation classes in the toilet smoking Gauloises. Now my biggest regret.

Nadia lifted her head in a slow nod, clenching her lips together, and I hoped she understood that I wanted her to slow down. To be on the safe side, when I got into the car I buckled up tight.

Down the curved drive in front of the hotel Nadia pushed as gently onto the accelerator as I imagined she knew how. She signalled – I hadn’t noticed her use any other controls in the car except gas and brakes before then – and we pulled out onto the fairly busy road. At a speed at which I was able to lip-read full conversations by passing pedestrians, Nadia poodled along the road for approximately five minutes and gently stopped at a restaurant bar just metres from the hotel.

‘Here is your meeting,’ she said in a drawn-out voice.

I looked out, quizzically. According to Google Earth, my breakfast meeting should have been further away. I checked the address on the schedule on my iPad. Nadia was quite right, Bar Bonne Amie. I could just as well have walked. Having completely lost faith in French chauffeurs and my ability to read Google maps, I gathered my man bag and got out.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Nadia. I leaned over and peered into the passenger side window. Nadia lowered it. ‘As my next appointment isn’t until this afternoon, I’ll meet you back at the hotel at three o’clock.’

‘Certainly,’ she said. Then she drove off like a normal person, observing the speed limit and making appropriate signals. I shook my head.

After adjusting the front of my coat I pushed open the door to Bar Bonne Amie and went in.

My appointment that morning was with Clara Marchand, a young designer of leather accessories whose workspace was not too far from the café bar but who obviously wanted to charm me with the food and win me over. She chose the right place. The aromas coming from the kitchen were making my mouth water. So much so I was looking at the counter of pastries and chocolates and, at first, didn’t notice Clara waving to me from the far corner.

‘Magenta?’ she called and I peeled my gaze away from the display counter.

‘Oh, hello! Yes. You must be Clara Marchand.’

Clara was a short woman in large dungarees over a red sweater. Her fair hair was mostly hidden by a bandanna, tied in a triangle on her head and knotted at the front. We shook hands and she walked me to a window seat in the corner. On top of the small round table was a large, leather-bound portfolio. An enormous cardboard box was tucked underneath.

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Clara, ‘I’ve ordered coffee, hot chocolate, and a platter of croissant and bread with butter and preserves. I didn’t know which you would prefer.’ She nodded to the waitress at the counter.

‘I really don’t mind that at all.’

As we settled in and exchanged pleasantries about the flight and the weather the waitress appeared with two carafes: one of coffee and one of hot chocolate. Which to choose? Very closely behind the drinks came the platter. I was in continental breakfast heaven for the next hour or so. Clara didn’t hold back. She grabbed the pain au raisin I had my eye on. With crumbs down our clothes and the chocolate moustache Clara had acquired after her first sip of the creamy drink, we began the meeting.

Clara opened out her portfolio and I was stunned into silence. These designs were better than the ones I’d seen on her website. She’d enticed me with some designs in an email but must have kept the main event for the meeting. Her designs of women’s handbags, shoulder bags, purses, and more were enough to convince me that this was a woman I could work with. Between the pages of her leather-bound portfolio was the promise of designs that would suit the Shearman brand very nicely.

A platter of croissant crumbs later and so much caffeine I was seeing double, I had more or less asked Clara to sign on the dotted line. I welcomed her as a new designer to Shearman.

‘I’m so excited about these, Clara. Your drawings are incredible.’ I flicked through the pages again. ‘I’m thinking I ought to do something more significant than just having an announcement about the new women’s bags,’ I enthused. ‘I’m thinking rebrand or something really exciting like that. A relaunch. Something big. I’d have to speak to my marketing consultants first, though. I’ll do that as soon as I’m back.’

‘Thank you, Magenta. You don’t know how happy I am to have my designs under your label,’ said Clara. ‘I wasn’t going to say this but you’re my idol. I’ve read every interview you’ve ever done and I can’t wait to start working with you.’

‘Me too, Clara. I’ll have my solicitor draw up a contract. Maybe for a period of six months to start? I’ll have to look closer at the work involved and decide on an appropriate number of designs that I’d need from you over that length of time. I don’t want to tie you to an overly long contract, if that’s okay.’

‘Right now I’d sign my life away.’ Clara had a beautiful smile. It lit up her already playful face and I couldn’t wait to start planning a Shearman rebranding party.

From beneath the table Clara drew out the cardboard box.

‘I was so carried away I forgot about the samples,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to have something to take home with you. I had prototypes made up but they’re not the best quality leather. Money and time, you know? Anyway these are for you.’

She took out six designer bags one by one and laid them either on the table or over my shoulder.

When I got up to pay for breakfast I got confused about which bag I came with. I fumbled around in my Shearman man bag to find my wallet. The wallet was well hidden in the vast pocket of the man bag among all my junk and I wished it was more easily accessible because the girl on the till was becoming impatient. Eventually I found my wallet and paid the bill.

‘Thank you, again,’ Clara said.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m back,’ I told her.

She gave me a kiss on each cheek and a customary extra one before I left.

With a satisfying meeting under my belt and just two more to go, I headed off to satisfy a niggling feeling I’d had since packing the day before. While rummaging in my bag at the café I’d noticed, again, the unopened box of tampons.

I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time before the next meeting to find a pharmacy, buy a pregnancy test (no biggie since I was sure it would be negative), then jump on the Metro, have a quick walk around the city centre, take in some sights, pick up a souvenir for Riley, and be back at the hotel for Nadia to pick me up at three. Perfect.

I walked for a few minutes following the signs for the nearest station. Just before the Metro I spotted the green cross over the door of a Pharmacie .

After a good search in a somewhat cluttered store I found a shelf of pregnancy kits. I thought I’d take the test at the hotel after my next meeting. Once I could satisfy myself I wasn’t pregnant I could then relax and have a period. I hadn’t worried Anthony with any of this; I didn’t see the point. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a baby with Anthony one day, but this wasn’t the time.

The man behind the counter rang up the price. I was flustered as I reached into my man bag because I’d asked him several times, in English, how much it cost and he didn’t understand. As I rummaged for my credit card one of the bags Clara had given to me dropped on the floor. I went to pick it up and another fell off my shoulder. This happened a few more times as if I was in a Seventies’ comedy sketch.