complete with an antique slipper bath, next to a narrow workroom.
Leticia was selling a sexual dream in which each of her clients starred. So she created a stage setting of subtle erotic chic; just glamorous and sensual enough to stir the imaginations of the women she catered to.
And Leticia Vane didn’t cater to just anyone. Clients had to be referred. Exclusivity wasn’t a matter of money nowadays; everyone and anyone had money. In order to be desirable, you had to be unavailable. Celebrities were the kiss of death to any business; as they went out of fashion, so would you. And she didn’t make anything for women who’d had breast implants. Leticia’s objections were purely aesthetic. They simply ruined the balance of her creations. She prided herself on being able to lend a hand where nature had been careless or abrupt. Her nightdresses all had inbuilt bras which she fashioned from plaster moulds of her clients’ breasts. Discrepancies in size and shape were all catered to and gently adjusted. By raking the insides of each cup, she made the breasts fall forward, spilling recklessly, yet never fully escaping, bound by tissue-thin layers of sheerest net.
She didn’t make anything as vulgar as crotchless panties or cut-out bras, but she knew how to heighten the colouring, hand tinting the fabric of each design so that the nipples appeared pink and slightly swollen. And her famous French knickers were so silky and loose that they could easily be pushed to one side without ever completely removing them.
Leticia’s greatest asset was that she understood men and sympathized with women. The difficulty with most lingerie was that it repelled the very thing it claimed to enhance. Not every man was thrilled to arrive home after a long day to find his wife trussed up in three hundred pounds’ worth of bizarre, lurid corsetry – trying to act sexy in a get-up that had taken her a full half-hour to wriggle into. Both of them would be embarrassed by the effort of such a blatant overture; unsure of how to work various snaps and ties. Then there would be added pressure of having an unprecedented sexual experience that would warrant the expense. Leticia understood that when a woman went to such trouble, it was usually because her sex life had reached a crisis. But the very unfamiliarity of such a costume could make her feel ridiculous and, even worse, desperate. A deliberate performance always increases the possibility of sexual rejection.
Leticia firmly believed that quality was the result of quantity. Good sex was simply a by-product of having a great deal of all sorts of sex; rough, slow, quick and to the point or dreamy and drawn out, random gropes, teasing touches, full-on oral feasts – all these things qualified as sex to her. And so, to facilitate an unconscious air of sexual susceptibility, she created heightened versions of everyday pieces; deceptively simple white nightdresses, only fashioned from such sheer material and cut so cleverly that they draped the body in a provocative, filmy gauze, accentuating the peek of nipples, hugging the curve of hips, lengthening legs; billowing beguilingly with each movement. Because they appeared so innocent and unassuming, they were undeniably erotic. Instead of shouting, ‘Fuck me!’ they whispered, ‘Take me … see … I’m not even looking!’ The cleverest bit was that, while a man couldn’t help but be hypnotized by the erotic undertones, the idea of sex would be his. The pieces compelled a man to act, and made the woman feel languid. She could lie back and lure her husband into action. And a man who initiates sex always feels more virile than one who has it thrust upon him.
Leticia had been taught this invaluable insight along with the rest of her trade by her godfather, Leo. He’d been a West End theatrical costume designer. And like Leticia, he was entirely self-created. He smoked thin, black Russian cigarettes, probably had his nose done back in the sixties and wore his beautiful silver hair loose around his shoulders. His uniform was what he called ‘an Audrey’ – a black cashmere polo neck, black tailored trousers and soft, leather slippers he had specially made. He laughed often and firmly refused to countenance any form of self-pity or pessimism.
He came from a different world – not just a theatrical one but from another age entirely – an age that had no qualms about artifice; that had no desire to appear natural, and understood that a little sleight of hand was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d been a dresser to Marlene Dietrich when she used to pin her scalp back under her wig; had sewn sweat guards into Julie Andrews’s gowns in My Fair Lady and even adjusted the sleeves on Vivian Leigh’s costumes so that no one could see her hands shaking after a bad night.
Leticia slipped off her jacket, hung it up on a hook behind the door and looked round with satisfaction. Leo was retired now but he adored the shop. The slipper bath had been his idea. (It shuddered violently if you turned on the taps but it looked exquisite.) He was the only other person who really appreciated her collection of lace or the rare quality of the bolts of beautiful fabric.
If it hadn’t been for him, she might still be languishing in Hampstead Garden Suburb. He gave her a subscription to Vogue when she was eight. When she was ten, he presented Leticia with a little work table all her own in his studio. There she sat, making sketches, watching carefully as the greatest stage divas of the day were transformed from frightened, self-obsessed neurotics into creatures worthy of universal adoration. In her teens, he took her to the theatre, bought her her first cocktail in Kettner’s, showed her how to pluck her eyebrows and move in a way that commanded attention. He taught her the difference between presence, which includes everyone in its warm glow, and attitude, which keeps the whole world at bay.
There was nothing Leo couldn’t render magical. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
She opened her appointment book and examined the names. A romance novelist, a duchess and a rich American woman from Savannah. She didn’t like more than three appointments a day and nothing before 11 a.m. Early morning wasn’t sexy; once you were out of bed and dressed, the weight of the day pressed too hard on everyone’s conscience.
Her phone buzzed. She flicked it open. It was Leo.
‘Angel, how are we this morning?’ he purred, his voice tempered by thousands of cigarettes.
‘Brilliant. Are you coming in today? Please say you’re coming! I’ve got an order for a silk kimono I can’t make drape properly for love nor money. The woman has a bust like a mountain range. I promise to buy you a long, boozy lunch if you can fix it.’
‘Would love to but I can’t. Feeling a bit rough this morning. Truth is I was up late last night playing strip poker with Juan. You remember Juan, don’t you?’
‘That male nurse from Brazil?’ She riffled through the morning post. Another postcard from her parents in Israel. More brown envelopes. How boring. She tossed them unopened into the bin. ‘Didn’t you decide he was too young for you? Does he even speak English?’
‘Don’t be catty, darling. His English has come on a treat. Besides,’ she could hear him lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘we don’t waste our time on conversation.’
‘Please! I don’t want to know all your secrets!’
‘You know them all anyway.’
She smiled. ‘I have one.’
‘Really? What or rather who is it?’
‘Now who’s being catty? His name’s Hughie and he’s delicious!’
‘How old?’
‘Oh, I don’t know … early twenties?’
She heard him exhale. ‘You need a real man, Leticia. Not some boy.’
‘This from you!’ She closed the appointment book firmly. ‘Real men don’t exist. Or haven’t you noticed? Besides, he’s only a fling.’
‘They
