The Personal Shopper by Carmen Reid Page A

seem to be going anywhere, and break into soaps: Roddy as a sexy baddie and Connor as handsome, hunky boy-next-door.
    After extensive restyling by Annie, Roddy had emerged as crew-cut, leather-jacketed, slightly stubbly and wicked and had progressed from thug in The Bill to   a bad, newly returned brother of somebody in EastEnders . Meanwhile, a scrubbed-clean, rosy-cheeked, knitwear-clad Connor had landed the starring role in the Sunday teatime-slot nostalgic series The Manor . On the back of this, stage roles in the West End came rolling in.
    ‘How’s work?’ Annie asked.
    ‘Oh daaaling, it’s wonderful,’ Connor said at first, then added grumpily: ‘I’m never agreeing to go on stage again, it’s bloody drudgery.’
    ‘Ha! Bloody well paid drudgery,’ she said and stroked his jumper knowingly. ‘Eight-ply cashmere doesn’t come cheap.’
    ‘Give me telly any day. When are you coming to see me on stage anyway?’
    ‘Oh, well . . . very soon,’ she assured him, secretly thinking that musicals, even those by Noël Coward, weren’t really her thing.
    ‘Now . . . Connor,’ she began, since favours were being traded, ‘my gorgeous one?’ She linked fingers with him.
    ‘Uh-oh,’ he replied. ‘This sounds as if it’s going to be dangerous – expensive – or possibly both.’
    ‘I’ve got a favour to ask. Actually, two favours.’
    ‘You’ll definitely have to grovel. Preferably on your knees.’
    ‘How do you feel about camping? The tent kind?’ she added quickly.
    Connor pulled a face: ‘I know everything about camping and nothing about tents.’
    ‘There’s this male-bonding, man-and-boy, orienteering event – men and their sons, or their nephews, or their friends’ sons even.’ She caught his eye, to make sure he understood. ‘And Owen has showed me a leaflet   for it, has been saying, about fifteen times a day: “Wouldn’t that be really good fun? Doesn’t that sound like a great place?” and so on. You know how much camping he used to do with Roddy . . . and I can’t think of anyone else who could take him. And it’s around the time of his birthday and—’
    ‘I don’t know anything about camping, Annie,’ Connor moaned. ‘And you can’t camp, so even if you were male . . . you’ll have to do something different. How about a spa weekend? I’d come on that.’
    ‘I hope you’re joking. Owen is going to be ten,’ she reminded him.
    ‘You’re never too young to groom.’
    Annie gave a sigh: ‘OK, OK, I’ll let you off camping. But now you have to say yes to my next request.’
    ‘Hit me.’
    ‘You know it’s my mum’s retirement party next month?’
    ‘No! I don’t think your mother’s retirement was flagged up on my event horizon . . . but . . . so . . . would I be correct in thinking you’re about to utter the oh-so-flattering words: “plus one”?’
    ‘Connor?’ Annie snuggled up against him. ‘You could ask for favours in return for this.’
    ‘Favours?’ he wondered. ‘You can’t offer me sexual—’
    ‘Material,’ she clarified. ‘It’s worth at least two, maybe even three extra discount purchases from the Annie V Trading Station.’
    ‘Oh, thanks a lot!’ he said huffily, ‘I want free designer knickers or I don’t co-operate.’
    ‘I may be able to arrange that,’ she said, recalling a   pyramid of Calvin Kleins on three for two at TK Maxx.   Hopefully there wouldn’t just be XXLs and XXSs left.
    ‘Big family gathering for the retirement?’ he wondered.
    Annie nodded: ‘I don’t want to go on my own. I mean, obviously Lana and Owen are coming, but I want someone there just for me.’
    He stroked her hair, then let a smile break over his impressive features. ‘Will there be ageing aunties?’ he asked.
    ‘At least three. Maybe four.’
    ‘Ooh, I do like a tipsy ageing aunty, that’s my core fan base, you know . . . Wild drunken dancing?’
    ‘Definitely. A live band apparently because it’s a Scottish-themed ceilidh