‘OK,’ he said, immediately sizing her up and down. ‘I’m sure I can do something . . .’
‘Not for me,’ she said with irritation. ‘A client.’
‘Ah, you’re a stylist?’ he said with a little more interest. ‘Which magazine?’
‘Freelance.’
‘Who do you work for?’
Sasha could see there was no point in pretending.
‘Look, I’ve been asked to find a dress for a private client. Annalise Tuttle. Her husband is Richard Tuttle, CEO of News Inc., and she needs a dress for a party tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Ben folded his arms and viewed her with good-natured cynicism. ‘You do know I do bespoke dresses? It takes a minimum of three weeks and four fittings with the client to make one gown.’
‘And that’s probably why they are so beautiful,’ Sasha said, sensing she needed to turn on the charm.
‘What about this?’ she asked, reaching out towards a mannequin swathed in green silk.
‘Don’t touch that,’ he said, swatting her hand away with a tape measure.
‘Don’t you have anything ready to wear?’
The designer shrugged. ‘What size is she?’
‘Thin. A size six. Or do you have a store I can grab some shop stock from?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Shop stock!’ he tutted. ‘Darling, I repeat, I’m a bespoke operation.This is my atelier and people come to me. I don’t have a shop.’
Sasha’s face dropped. This time she actually thought she might cry for real.
‘I’m stuffed,’ she said, suddenly feeling dizzy. Annalise would be back from the hair salon any moment, expecting her to turn up with her dress.
‘Would it be possible to get a glass of water?’ she said, not wanting to go back into the cold quite yet.
Ben pointed towards a tiny kitchen at the back of the studio. As she walked through, she inspected the mannequins and sketches on the walls. Elle had been right to feature Ben Rivera, she thought. His designs were sumptuous and innovative, but also flattering to the female form. Approaching the kitchen, she spotted a large French armoire from which billowed pale lilac chiffon, like a cloud at sunset. She stepped closer. The gown was exquisite; such fine needle-work and tailoring, it could have been the very finest Parisian couture.
‘What’s this?’ she asked with a rush of excitement.
‘It was a costume for the Royal Ballet,’ said Ben flatly.
‘Has it been used?’
‘Eventually, no,’ he said with disappointment.
‘Ballet dancers are skinny, right?’ said Sasha, thinking out loud.
He snorted. ‘That is not a party dress, my dear. It took two hundred hours to make that dress. Five thousand beads sourced from Rajasthan were stitched on by hand.’
‘Please?’ she said.
‘It’s not for sale.’
‘Please.’
He laughed. ‘You march in here, you ask for the earth, you don’t even tell me your name.’
‘It’s Sasha and I’m not asking for the earth. Just this dress.’