Kitabı oku: «Whisked Away By Her Millionaire Boss», sayfa 2
CHAPTER TWO
SARAH HALTED MID-STRIDE. She’d clearly blown it. First she’d witnessed the whole Leila incident, then she’d been caught spying on his confidential designs, and after that she’d pretty much told him he didn’t live in the real world.
Great! Clearly for some reason she’d forgotten that he was a multimillionaire CEO and her big boss. Idiot.
Slowly she turned. ‘Did I miss something?’
‘No.’ His cobalt blue eyes held a thoughtful expression. ‘Not at all. But I think I might have. I was wondering if we could continue our conversation over dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
‘Yup. I’ve got a table booked at Tatiana’s. Seems a shame to waste it.’
‘You want to take me to Tatiana’s instead of Leila Durante?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Despite her best intentions, her hormones had registered that Ben Gardiner had ditched his jacket and was now sitting in rolled-up shirtsleeves that exposed his tanned forearms. Sarah wasn’t sure what was so fascinating about the contrast between his pristine white shirt and the honey tone of his skin, but her gaze had snagged and stuck.
Perhaps she should just go along with this, but instead she said, ‘It doesn’t make sense. I am not exactly your usual type of dinner...associate. I’m not a model, or an actress, nor famous in any way whatsoever. Plus, you don’t even know my name.’
To give him his due he had the grace to look a touch abashed, but not for long. ‘You’re right. What is your name?’
‘Sarah Fletcher.’
Rising, he walked round the jut of his light wooden desk and headed towards her. ‘Pleased to meet you, Sarah Fletcher.’
He held out a hand and for a few seconds she looked at it, reluctant to actually make contact. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if they’d combust if they touched.
And of course they didn’t. Yet as she placed her hand in his she registered strength and warmth. A tingle shivered over her skin and she stared down at their clasped hands.
She looked up as he smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained this better, but now we’re properly introduced would you come and have dinner with me? I’d really like to continue our conversation and get more of an insight into how sales assistants think and work. Maybe I’ve lost touch with what’s going on at ground level, in the real world, and maybe you’re the right person to set me straight.’
‘So you want to go out for dinner with me to get my take, as a sales assistant, on the viewpoint of the ordinary woman on the street?’
‘Exactly. No strings attached.’
Their gazes caught for a heartbeat and her brain scrambled. ‘Strings? Um...yes. I mean, no. I’m good, thanks.’
Thanks? What was she thanking him for? And why was she still holding his hand?
Amusement glinted in his sapphire eyes now, but there was something else too—an awareness. And who could blame him? The signals she’d just sent out weren’t hard to read; she’d practically drooled and this man was no doubt an expert in the art of body language. This was nuts. She had barely noticed a man in the past six years.
If she had any sense at all she’d refuse his offer, go home and have a nice cup of tea with her mum. Mind you, her mum would think she’d lost the plot; her hormones certainly knew she had. What possible harm could there be in having dinner with him? One meal. In a restaurant for the stars. With the man who headed up Sahara Fashions.
Whoa. Hang on.
The man headed up an entire retail corporation. It was time to get over her hormones and start using her brain. This was an opportunity. A chance to get herself a job. If Ben Gardiner recommended her to one of the Sahara stores, perhaps she could wangle an interview. But first she had to let go of his damn hand.
Doing exactly that, she stepped backwards. ‘Um... Dinner sounds great. Though I do have a request.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I told you I used to work in a clothes store. Unfortunately it closed and I lost my job. I would love to work in a Sahara outlet and I wonder if you could interview me over dinner to see if you think I’m a good fit. And if you do maybe you could recommend me for a sales assistant job.’
Sarah paused for breath, aware that she had dug her nails so deeply into the palms of her hand that it hurt. She forced herself to relax as he studied her expression.
‘I leave recruitment to my managers—I don’t tend to interfere. If you’re interested in a vacancy, why haven’t you applied online? With your experience you would have a good chance of an interview anyway.’
In theory he was spot-on. But there was the small matter of her criminal conviction. She almost never made it to interview stage. These days she didn’t even bother applying.
For a stupid moment she was tempted to tell him the truth, explain the facts, but what was the point? Yes, she’d been completely innocent, but why should he believe that? No one else had, and she could still taste the hopelessness, the fear, as she’d told the truth only to have it rejected. She would never forget the moment she had realised that she’d been set up and that her boyfriend was leaving her to take the fall.
But she could not explain that to this man in the here and now.
‘I understand that, but your recommendation would give me an edge.’
He hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘If after dinner I think you’re suitable, I’ll recommend you for an interview. Not for a job. Because that is the store manager’s call—he or she knows the existing team and requirements better than I do.’
‘That’s fabulous. Thank you. Really.’ She couldn’t help the smile that lifted her lips; this could be the break she’d been hoping for.
‘Then let’s go.’
‘Yes. But...’ She looked down. ‘I can’t go to Tatiana’s in this. I’ll need to meet you there after...’ After she’d magicked up a suitable outfit from thin air.
‘We’ll stop at a Sahara store on the way and you can pick something out.’
Sarah hesitated. Logic dictated that for Ben Gardiner the gift of an outfit was the equivalent of a chocolate bar. Yet her scruples protested. ‘That seems wrong.’
‘We’re going to a Michelin-starred restaurant; it’s good publicity for Sahara if you’re seen wearing the label. Look at it as an interview test. We expect our sales assistants to be able to help customers pick the right clothing—this will show me if you can do that.’
Panic fluttered inside her, but no way would she show it. This was her chance to land an interview, secure a job, pay her bills and afford ballet lessons for Jodie. The idea galvanised her.
‘Sounds good,’ she said, her mind already playing with ideas so she’d know what to look for. ‘I just need to put my cleaning stuff away and sign out.’
‘Go ahead. I’ll close down in here.’
Pushing the trolley ahead of her, Sarah exited the office and headed to the room that housed the cleaning supplies. She put everything away and then dialled her mum’s number. ‘Hi, Mum. It’s a long story but I’ve been asked out to dinner.’
‘A date?’ Her mum sounded thrilled—she was always telling Sarah she needed to get out more. But Sarah had no intention of doing that. Jodie came first, and she didn’t want the complication of introducing a man into her daughter’s life. It was hard enough to explain Jodie’s actual father—or rather the conspicuous absence of said father.
Telling her, Well, darling, last I heard Daddy was in prison, and long may he stay there, wasn’t ideal.
‘No. Not a date. It’s complicated.’
No need to tell her mum about the possibility of a job interview recommendation; she didn’t want to get her hopes up. So maybe it would be best not to even mention Ben Gardiner until she got home.
‘It’s still a chance for you to go out for dinner. Take it. Jodie is fast asleep, and even if she does wake up I’m here.’
‘I know you are, Mum. Thank you. I owe you.’ More than she could say.
Again guilt piled onto her. After Imogen’s death twelve years previously Sarah had behaved appallingly—gone so far off the rails she hadn’t even been able to see the tracks. She’d messed up her education, and had sprinted, danced, whirled and run with the wrong crowd. All in a desperate attempt to feel something, to block out the horror of her guilt and grief over her sister’s death.
God knew her parents had tried to help, but they had had their own grief to deal with. In the end, trying to cope with that as well as Sarah had driven her father to the bottle and led to the disintegration of their marriage.
Enough.
Her mother had forgiven her, taken her and Jodie in, and now the three of them were a happy family unit. As for her father... It was best not to go there; he was lost to her. His descent into alcoholism had changed him beyond all recognition and he wanted nothing to do with her.
‘You don’t owe me anything, sweetheart. Enjoy yourself. Really. I’ll ask Georgia over and we’ll have a good old catch-up.’
‘OK, Mum. I shouldn’t be too late. Give my love to Georgia.’ Georgia was her mother’s best friend and like a second grandmother to Jodie.
Right. Deep breath. The die was cast and she was going out to dinner with the head honcho.
As if on cue, the office door opened and Ben came out, jacket back on. Sarah gulped.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Then let’s go.’
She followed him to the lift, suddenly stupidly aware of his sheer presence. From the tips of his gelled hair to the handmade shoes on his feet, he exuded an aura of leashed, lazy power. Unfortunately he also exuded a gorgeous whiff of something her hormones identified as sheer yum—fresh, woodsy, with a hint of citrus.
Oh, God, was she actually leaning in for a smell?
The lift pinged to a stop and she practically leapt out through the doors and had to force herself to slow down as they crossed the marble lobby. The idea was to impress him with her poise and professionalism.
They exited the building as a sleek black car drove up to the entrance. A car with a driver—this was a true glimpse into a different world.
Ben opened the back door and she climbed in, slid all the way across the cream luxury leather and fervently hoped she hadn’t left a smudge of dirt. She tried not to look across at the solid muscular bulk of his thigh, relieved at the space between them.
‘The flagship store, please, Leo,’ Ben said, and the car accelerated smoothly forward.
Sarah focused on the London streets—the hustle and bustle, the red splash of the double-decker buses, the throngs of people, the lit-up shopfronts that glittered and lured, the restaurants... The atmosphere of the city seemed more vibrant, brighter than usual. And all the while her thoughts raced, considering a suitable outfit.
Professional, as this was like an interview. Stylish. Fashionable, but to suit her body shape. Not sexy, but she did need to look good. Because that would give her confidence, and Lord knew she needed that. Not too expensive, but not too cheap.
‘Here we are.’
They got out of the car and walked to the front of the store and Sarah scanned the carefully arranged mannequins in their autumnal garb. After all, if someone had already put together the perfect outfit in the window that would be helpful. But no such luck.
He entered a security code and within minutes they were inside the store.
‘Take your pick,’ he said. ‘I’ll be over there.’ He pointed to an alcove that had been cleverly furnished as a waiting area, with plush seats and magazines and a water machine. ‘You’ve got half an hour.’
‘Right. See you in thirty.’
Already scanning the racks, Sarah turned and headed down the main aisle. Panic fluttered. The store was huge and she was unfamiliar with the layout and this was important. If she wanted Ben Gardiner to recommend her for an interview then she needed to show him that she appreciated clothes, loved the Sahara range and was able to choose the right outfit for the occasion.
Fifteen minutes later she’d made her selection, opting for something bolder than a little black dress, but not too over the top. The black and white dress was perfect. It had a bold black pattern on a white background, not too long, not too short, and it skimmed her tummy and accentuated her long legs. Scoop-necked, it avoided a showy plunge, and the short sleeves showed off her slender arms.
Black high heels had been easy to grab from the rows of shoes on offer, and a splash of colour from a small red clutch bag that matched a lipstick she happened to have in her own bag.
Sarah studied her reflection and knew her hair would look better loose. But she couldn’t do it. Not yet.
Jodie’s voice rang in her ears. ‘Mummy, do you dye your hair because you don’t like being ginger? Gemma told me that ginger people smell. Does that mean I smell because my hair is red? Cos my hair is really red. Do you not smell because you dye your hair? Can I dye my hair?’
After that conversation, there had only been one way forward. Sarah had stopped dyeing her hair—but she hadn’t been prepared for the effect it would have on her, the avoidance of mirrors, the sudden sharp bursts of grief and guilt.
Not now, Sarah. This dinner was too important.
Quickly she released her hair and then tied it back into a softer twist. It looked better now, but wouldn’t distract her.
A glance at her watch and she exited the changing room and made her way back to the alcove, heels clicking lightly on the floor, heart thudding against her ribcage. Sudden realisation slowed her steps. This wasn’t just the pinch of nerves because she wanted to pass an interview test—this was a desire to spark admiration in Ben Gardiner’s eyes. She wanted him to be bowled over, wanted to see the spark of reciprocal attraction.
What the hell?
Reciprocal attraction would get them nowhere; it certainly wouldn’t get her a job. Plus, why would he reciprocate? This was Ben Gardiner—he’d been splashed across the gossip mags with supermodels and actresses on a regular basis.
So it was imperative she kept this professional. Yet still her heartbeat continued to accelerate as she headed through the racks of Sahara merchandise, the billboards and empty tills towards him.
CHAPTER THREE
BEN LOOKED UP from his phone, where pieces of fruit whizzed across the screen, alerted by the faint sound of heels on the store floor. Curiosity and a sense of intrigue touched him as he watched her walk towards him—emotions that sparked into appreciation.
She’d got it spot-on. The outfit was perfect for dinner—a judicious mix of professional and fashionable. More than that, though, was the way she wore the clothes—as if they were made for her.
His only quibble would be that she should have left her glorious red hair loose; instead it was up, though she’d softened the style a little by looping it into a twist.
‘Excellent choice.’ He cleared his throat to try and excuse the strangled tones.
She did a quick twirl and, dammit, he nearly swallowed his tongue.
‘So do I pass the first test?’
‘Yes.’
Get with it. This woman was a prospective as well as a current employee. Not—repeat for emphasis, not—a date.
‘Thank you.’ There was a heartbeat of silence. ‘Mind you, I do realise I was spoilt for choice. Perhaps a harder test would have been to take me to a random charity shop and see what I could pull together there.’
The words were breathless, wide brown eyes were still locked with his, and now awareness glittered in her gaze as she stepped close. He caught a tantalising hint of her grapefruit-tinged scent, and just like that he completely lost the thread of the conversation.
Silence lengthened, stretched and echoed round the dim interior of the store, until his brain finally kicked in with a staccato burst.
‘Yes,’ he said in the hope that that would encompass a correct response. ‘Now we’d better go.’
‘Yes,’ she echoed.
It still took them a moment to actually move, but once they’d started both of them accelerated towards the door.
Back in the car he relaxed slightly. He had to douse this whole attraction thing and remember what was important here: to get a feel for how his workforce thought, to make sure he was still grounded; to assess whether Sarah Fletcher had what it took to be a Sahara Sales assistant. That was what this dinner was about.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Tatiana’s, located in one of London’s most renowned hotels.
A doorman opened the door and they climbed out, and he sensed Sarah step a little closer to him, though she didn’t falter as they made their way through the glass revolving door and towards the restaurant.
‘Mr Gardiner. Welcome.’ The maître d’ glanced at Sarah and to his credit didn’t give even the slightest indication that he had expected a supermodel. ‘And your guest, of course. Please come this way.’
He led them through the opulent room and up a couple of stairs to a central table, and handed them two leather-bound menus.
‘Mario will be over shortly to take your order.’
‘Thank you.’
Sarah smiled up at the maître d’ before he glided away and Ben was struck afresh at the classical slant of her face: a face that would age with beauty and class.
‘This is incredible.’ Her smile was tentative. ‘Though if I’d known I’d be sitting on a mustard-yellow armchair, I might have picked a slightly different outfit.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘I do! Those chandeliers alone are awe-inspiring. I mean, where did they get them from? And how can something so immense also be so delicate? Each one is so pretty and yet magnificent.’
‘They redecorated a year ago; it was pretty luxurious before, but now it’s...’ He glanced round at the powder-blue walls, lined with Greek-style moulding and objets d’art.
‘Imposingly rich, yet somehow it feels a bit like a private dining room rather than a restaurant. Maybe it’s because they’ve spaced the tables really well.’ She looked down at the menu and exuded a sigh. ‘I may need a little time.’
She wasn’t kidding, and yet he didn’t mind the wait as she read the menu carefully, clearly weighing her choices. In truth he welcomed the opportunity to study her. Light from the chandeliers tinted her hair with auburn, and her face was creased into an endearing frown of concentration.
An elusive idea niggled at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. The latest Sahara slogan rang in his mind. The ordinary is extraordinary. His new range was for people who lived in the real world, and yet he himself no longer did. So—dammit—had he got it wrong?
He stole another glance at Sarah as she looked up from the menu. ‘Right. I think I’ve decided. Though it wasn’t easy. I’m not sure I even know what some of these things are, but I think I’ll go for the stone bass—unless you think that’s a mistake? It comes with rock oyster sauce and pickled mushrooms.’
‘If you don’t like it we’ll swap,’ he said. ‘I’m going for the duck, with mandarin butternut puree. Does that sound OK?’
‘That sounds wonderful—in fact maybe I should have that—but...’
It was impossible not to smile at her frown of indecision. ‘We can go halves.’
‘Thank you. This certainly makes a difference from pizza!’
She gave a sudden smile when she looked at his expression and he blinked.
‘I’m guessing it’s been a while since you had pizza?’
‘Yes.’ Her smile seemed to have rendered him tongue-tied. All suave sophistication had exited the restaurant and the appearance of the waiter was a relief.
‘Champagne and a selection of canapés,’ Mario announced. ‘And then if you are ready to order?’
Once he’d taken their choices and left, Ben lifted his glass. ‘To the real world,’ he said.
‘Yours or mine?’ she asked.
‘Both. Because they are both real.’
‘Even if never the twain shall meet?’
‘They are meeting now. You’re here.’
‘Sure. But...’ She pressed her lips together, studied the canapés, chose a tiny blini topped with smoked salmon.
Ben shook his head, realising that whatever she had been about to say she’d deemed it inadvisable. ‘If this is going to work we need to agree something upfront. I want your honest opinion. No faking. Agreed?’
A hesitation. Another canapé—this time a thin wafer disc, topped with a delicately flavoured cheese concoction. Then, ‘You’re sure? You want my unvarnished opinion on everything? No faking at all?’
‘Precisely. I promise you there will be no adverse effects on your job interview. I will tell you here and now that I’ll arrange an interview with the manager at my Mayfair store. No matter what.’
Yet her eyes were still flecked with doubt, so in response he pulled his phone out and wrote an email, then turned the screen so she could see the words—a request for an interview to be set up. As she watched he hit ‘send’.
‘Done. So now we are agreed? No faking.’
Her smile illuminated her whole face. ‘Agreed.’
‘OK. So what were you about to say?’
‘That, yes, we are both here, but this is just a blip. I’m not meant to be here. You can afford to come back next week, or tomorrow, or whenever you like and you’ll most likely bring a celebrity or actor with you. Someone from your world.’
‘I...’ He opened his mouth and then closed it again. There had been no censure in her voice, her tone had been observational, and yet he sensed defensiveness creeping into his stance and he shook his head to repudiate it.
Yes, he liked to eat in the best restaurants, and enjoyed the knowledge that he could afford it. Tangible proof that he’d made it. A way to show the world and his family that he was worth something. And, yes, he loved being successful, revelled in the power that wealth and status gave him. The power to lavish money on his mother, to show her that her choice to keep him had been the right one, to make up for all those years she’d struggled.
Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?
‘Ben?’
Sarah’s concerned voice penetrated his sudden lapse into a trip down the tarnished road of memory lane.
‘I didn’t mean it as a criticism. You’re entitled to your world—I only meant it’s very different to most people’s. Most people have to worry about bills and rising food prices and whether they can afford ballet lessons for their kids. Ninety-nine per cent of the population can’t afford to eat here because the cost of a meal is probably more than their monthly food budget.’
She was right.
‘Which is why I want to hear your take on things,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping that our new range of clothes isn’t out of touch with what the customer on the high street wants. The idea is for these clothes to be everyday, normal clothes that you feel good in all the time.’
‘The type of clothes I’d wear to have a pizza?’
‘Yes.’
As she considered her response Mario returned with their starters and Sarah beamed up at him. ‘This looks amazing. They both do,’ she added as she looked across at his plate.
Once the waiter had disappeared as unobtrusively as he’d appeared, she gestured to his. ‘But what is it?’
‘Cauliflower,’ he explained. ‘Infused with lemon curry oil and topped with parmesan. You want to try some?’
‘Sure. And you can have a bit of mine. Scallops with artichoke puree and some sort of sauce—a truffle jus, I think.’
As she tasted a sample of his she closed her eyes, and he was tempted to do the same, to block the effect she was having on him. Instead he asked, ‘Well?’
‘It’s delicious. I had no idea cauliflower could taste like this—it’s like magic.’
He grinned. ‘I’m not sure the chef has an actual wand, but perhaps that’s his secret.’
‘Anyway—sorry. I’m here to give you my opinion on clothes, not vegetables. Right... Well, I’d have to see the clothes in more detail, but going for a pizza could be different, depending on the occasion. A family dinner might get messy—globs of tomato sauce, drips of ice cream. So you’d want clothes that are easy to wash and that also won’t show up grubby stains too much. Or you may go out and eat pizza on a date—and you may travel there by bus. In that case you’d want a more layered look—something pretty under something practical. Or you may be going after work—in which case you’d need something light and sparkly that you can put in your bag and use to transform your work clothes. Anyway, you get the picture.’
He did, and what he liked—alongside her spot-on observations—was the animation that lit her face, the way she waved her hands around to emphasise a point.
‘So that’s what you’d want to wear and what you would want to sell?’
‘That goes back to the point I made earlier. I don’t necessarily have to buy in to the whole range of clothes to be able to sell it. What’s right for me isn’t what’s right for everyone. I don’t have to love it to promote it.’
‘So I should be looking for a good sales technique over genuine love for the product?’
‘In an ideal world you’d need both. But sometimes loving a product isn’t enough; there’s a whole lot more to it than that.’
‘I get that. My business model is based on giving customers what they want, and for that I rely on feedback from the sales floor. I expect my sales force to listen to what the customer wants rather than push them into buying the wrong clothes just to get a sale. Happy customers come back.’
‘I agree with all that—but again, with respect, all that is manager-speak.’
‘Meaning...?’
‘OK... Imagine that you are a sales assistant, you love the product, and you know company policy is to listen to the customer and deliver “excellent service”, et cetera, et cetera. I am the customer. I’ve come in and I’ve tried on an outfit—a pair of jeans that are clearly a size too small for me and a tie top. The same outfit that is on one of your billboards, only the model happens to have super-skinny legs and a toned, flat stomach.’ She glanced down at her own midriff. ‘Trust me—I have neither attribute. So, are you picturing it?’
Oh, God. It had all been going so well.
Ben reached for his wine glass, changed his mind and opted for water instead. He told himself that the temperature in the room could not have gone up. ‘Um...yes. Um...’
Pull it together Ben. This is a serious conversation.
‘You want to know what I would say—would I give my honest advice or would I tell you that it looks great?’
‘Exactly. Because there are so many questions here. You don’t want to damage someone’s self-esteem. Women have enough issues with their body image as it is. But equally the truth is that different fashions suit different body shapes. So here I am, standing in front of you, an ordinary person in the changing room. I’m wearing a tie top that emphasises assets I don’t have and exposes a midriff that is less toned than it could be. What would you do?’
‘I’d tell you that as long as you’re happy with the outfit that is the most important thing.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘But surely that would imply that you don’t like it?’
He had to get a grip. Unfortunately that was proving hard, because right now he liked it a whole lot—he was sure the outfit would look pretty damn good on her. But that wasn’t the point and he knew it.
Focus. And as he considered her words he realised exactly how difficult the question was. What would he say?
‘OK. The point of Sahara clothes is to make the customer feel good in themselves. So, personally, I believe that it doesn’t matter if your tummy is toned or not. The important thing is that you feel happy and comfortable showing off your shape or size. If you feel good about yourself you can carry off any fashion.’
It was his turn to trail off as he spotted her raised eyebrows.
‘That’s all very well, and I completely agree with you, but...’
‘But it doesn’t answer your question. What should I say to the customer?’
Disbelief touched Ben—why couldn’t he work out an answer? Instead he was sat here spouting manager-talk. Blah-blah-blah.
‘OK. I give in. What’s the answer? What would you say?’
Sarah speared a final scallop as she considered the answer. ‘I’m not sure there is a standard answer, because you have to consider each situation individually. You’d say something different to a teenager than you would to a middle-aged woman. But you could compliment her choice of outfit. So maybe, That’s a great combination—one of our best sellers, in fact. And then I’d ask questions—ask if she has any reservations, or what she wants the outfit for. Create an opportunity to offer a different choice. I might say, If you want, I can get you another of our most popular combinations, and I’d get her something more suited to her body type. Then I’d leave the choice to her.’
Ben studied her for a moment. Sarah Fletcher knew her stuff. She was intelligent, had a good grasp of fashion and customer service and could forge an excellent career in retail. At a guess he’d put her in her mid-twenties. So why on earth was she working as a cleaner when her interests were clearly elsewhere?
Not his business.
‘OK. I like that,’ he said. ‘I think it would be useful if we ran a few seminars for our sales assistants and put them through a few hypothetical scenarios like that.’
‘Another idea would be to have more ordinary-shaped mannequins in store. That way you can actually show that your new designs are really made for ordinary people.’
If they really are...
The words were unspoken, yet they echoed across the table and Ben stared at her. Had he really thought about that? Yes, he did agree in principle that the ordinary was extraordinary, that clothes should be designed for all shapes and sizes, and that had been his vision. But had he made sure that vision had been translated into the real world, where people came in very different shapes and sizes compared to the models he paid to advertise his products?
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