| The
Collector
by Amy Louise Colclough
Another service station, another pitch. I might call it a day after
this one, although that does entirely depend on meeting my quota. Still,
as I step out of the car and smooth down the rumples in my skirt, I have
a good feeling about this one.
It’s one of those new build places, with fountains and a mock park
area surrounding the main building – motorway amenities gone chic.
Inside there is a chi-chi fairtrade coffee shop alongside the usual array
of fast food outlets and overpriced newsagents.
I head straight for the coffee shop – I detest fast food unless
it can’t be helped and this looks the sort of place that holds infinite
potential – busy, with an assortment of commuters and upmarket travellers
seated in the comfortable armchairs or perched precariously on bar stools.
Plenty of opportunity to conduct business, even if the coffee will undoubtedly
cost a fortune and end up on the lukewarm side of hot.
The girl behind the counter is efficient and the coffee surprisingly warm,
although slightly too milky for my taste. Like all other things, I prefer
my coffee rich. I have already picked my spot – or maybe it picked
me seeing as there is only one place left to sit.
‘Is this seat taken?’
The woman at the table is comfortably into her thirties but attempting
to look about twenty-five, with the on-trend copper highlights and slightly
too well fitted jacket. A bit of a sad sight if ever there was one –
why can’t women just accept the aging process and get on with it
gracefully instead of primping and preening themselves to a perma-tanned
pulp? Still, it does mean she’ll probably be interested in what
I have to offer. I look at her expectantly, a fellow professional desperate
for a sit down after long hours of driving. It works.
‘No, it’s not taken. Feel free.’ She waves her hand
distractedly and turns back to her paper – the style section of
some national daily. This just keeps getting better.
I slump into the chair gratefully and place the coffee on the table, along
with my handbag, which immediately catches my companion’s eye. It’s
electric blue (very ‘in’ this season) and soft leather –
cost me a fortune from some uptown New York boutique but then you can’t
afford to skimp on the key components. It’s all in the accessories
you know – handbags, shoes, hair ties - all can be of vital importance
in this game.
‘What a gorgeous bag…’
I blush and smile at her. ‘Thank you! It’s from our new collection.’
The woman appears suitably impressed and leans a little closer. I can
feel the anticipation begin to creep up my spine. This is where the real
work starts.
‘You’re a designer? How interesting…’ Her voice
has a tone of indifference but I can tell she is captivated.
I give a flick of my hair and laugh lightly. ‘Unfortunately not,
although I can dream! I’m just the PR girl. I’ve been promoting
these at an event in London all day. It’s by a new designer. I’m
Claire by the way.’ I hand over a glossy business card, all muted
colours and professional logo. They cost a fortune too but they’re
worth their weight in gold. Accessories, like I said.
The woman glances up at me properly for the first time. She has an intelligent
face – I imagine she works in business herself, retail or finance.
Her suit is certainly shiny enough to suggest she’s bringing home
the money and her eyes have that vaguely haunted look carried by successful
women, suggesting hidden guilt. There’s probably a nanny looking
after children somewhere, although that may just be the workings of my
cynical mind. She has rather intense blue eyes - I can feel them scrutinising
every inch of me, although I do not flinch under her gaze as I imagine
many would. She is taking in my neat hair, tied back with the blue bow
I picked up in a market somewhere (another minor detail but I like to
think it suggests an artistic streak), and the suit which is expensive,
but not too expensive.
Eventually she holds out her hand, expertly manicured nails at the tip
of each finger, ‘Ellen Lavery. Pleasure to meet you, Claire. You
said you’ve been promoting these?’
Shaking the proffered hand I nod. ‘The collection has done rather
well actually, although we’re still trying to garner some interest
from the larger stores. I imagine people will be all over them next season
though – or at least my MD seems to think so. Are you interested
in fashion?’
Ellen smiles and takes a sip from her coffee. ‘A passion of mine.
One of the few luxuries I indulge in – but then, don’t we
all?’ She puts the mug down firmly and leans in once more. I catch
a hint of some haute couture perfume as she moves her hair. I might be
able to go home soon after all.
I lean a little closer, as if to share secrets. ‘It’s handbags
for me you know. I have to hide them from my boyfriend every time I smuggle
a new one home!’
Ellen laughs merrily at my shared confidence. ‘I know exactly what
you mean – my husband is forever telling me that if I buy any more
bags or shoes, we shall need another house just to store them all in!
But it’s one of life’s few pleasures so I spoil myself anyway.’
I can feel the conversation begin to drift. Before you know it we’ll
be swapping amusing anecdotes and berating the entire male sex and that,
entertaining distraction though it is, is not what I am here for at the
moment. Time to give this chat a little direction.
‘Perhaps you might like to see some of the other items in the range?’
I suggest, indicating the bag still sitting on the table between us like
a prize awaiting its winner. ‘At the moment we’re taking private
orders at a discounted rate.’
‘Really? Gosh, that is…fortunate.’
I can sense the suspicion hidden behind her words. She is beginning to
see our benign meeting as something more sinister – some kind of
PR stunt no doubt. But she’ll take the bait, for the sake of curiosity
if nothing else. I pull some leaflets out of my bag, glossy and inviting
with large curling font and stylish pictures. Her eyes dart towards them
greedily. The suspicion is still evident but I can see the lust there
as well - vanity, thy name is handbag. I place the brochures in the centre
of the table, neutral territory.
‘These look very professional, and I do have to say that your range
is very stylish,’ Ellen simpers politely, her gaze scrutinising
both text and images.’ “Although they are rather expensive
aren’t they?’
I nod sagely, as if to agree with her. ‘They are rather more expensive
than the average working handbag,’ I admit, glancing down at my
feet modestly. ‘But we use genuine Italian leather and all the bags
are dyed and made by hand in our UK based factories. Plus, of course,
they are all individually personalised by the designer herself. Owning
one of these is a bit like having your own special designer handbag!’
I finish on a cheery note, a bright smile on my face.
Ellen smiles back, but behind it I see wariness. ‘Well… I
am interested I admit. But I really would like to think about such an…
extravagant purchase. Perhaps you could add me to your mailing list instead?’
I sigh lightly. ‘Well… we do have a mailing list as it happens.
Although you’d miss out on the discount, of course.’
I hand her another piece of paper, a simple form this time with the same
curly font as before. No glossy pictures on this one though, just a few
lines for the salient details: name, address, date of birth. Ellen pulls
a neat little fountain pen out of her own handbag and fills in the form
in a swirling cursive script, adding her signature to the bottom with
a flourish before handing the paper back to me. I file it away and begin
to rise from my chair, a dejected air in every movement.
‘Well, it was lovely meeting you Mrs Lavery. I’ll make sure
that I add you to the mailing list as soon as I get back to the office.’
Ellen looks up at me and smiles a slow, triumphant smile. ‘I look
forward to hearing from you again soon Claire. Have a safe journey home
won’t you?’
As I walk away I know she thinks she has scored a victory. I can imagine
her harping on to her husband when she gets home about the PR girl (‘a
sales rep really darling – you could tell by her suit you know,
just one of those off the peg things from M&S’) who tried to
con her into buying an expensive handbag. But I have the last laugh. You
see, I don’t really care if she buys the handbag or not because,
to be honest, I don’t have any to sell. As if a woman of my talents
would be touring the country selling handbags – what a laughable
thought. No, what I want is far more valuable and Mrs Emma Lavery gave
me that without a second thought. The form with her name and address on
is filed away neatly in my bag along with all the others that Claire has
collected today. Contact details you see – names, addresses, postcodes,
phone numbers, a date of birth and a signature. Some research on the computer
at home is all it will take for me to turn them into something far more
valuable – some bank details perhaps, or a nasty little secret that
I can exploit. It’s amazing what you can do with a little information
these days. I suppose you could call me a thief. I’m not entirely
sure what I would call myself. A collector maybe… a title that rolls
off the tongue and is gloriously non specific. It leaves people wanting
more details - so fitting for the work I do where, let’s face it,
details are everything.
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