Until last night.
Putting the lid back on the lipstick, she threw it into her bag and pressed her palms to her cheeks as tears smarted in her eyes again. Big girls don’t cry: that was what her father always said. By the time Tamsin had been born Serena, two years older, had already cornered the market on ‘pretty and feminine’. Tamsin did ‘tough’ instead, and Henry had accepted her as the son he’d never had. Tears were for babies, he’d told her, and Tamsin had learned very early to hold them in.
Last night had been a minor blip—well, quite a major blip, actually—but she was back on track today. She stepped back, taking a deep breath and giving herself one last look in the mirror before heading back out there. As a designer, her clothes were about so much more than fashion, both mirroring her mood and influencing it. The way she dressed always made a statement, and today’s severe black trouser-suit said very loudly ‘don’t mess with me’. The four-inch heels she wore with it added, ‘or I’ll smash your face in’.
The noise from the press room spilled out along the corridor as she left the sanctuary of the ladies’, a loud babble of conversation, as rowdy and excited as the bar on match day. Tamsin shuddered. Right now it sounded good-natured enough, but she had a horrible feeling that in a few minutes it could turn into the sound of a pack of journalists baying for her blood.
‘Ah, there you are, Tamsin. We were waiting.’ Henry Calthorpe looked at his watch as he came towards her. ‘Is everything all right?’
Tamsin summoned a smile. It felt like strapping on armour plating. ‘Everything’s fine, Daddy,’ she said ruefully. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘No reason.’ Henry was already moving away. ‘You look pale, that’s all. But if you’re ready let’s get started.’
The noise level in the press room rocketed as they filed in. The cameras started whirring and journalists got to their feet, keen to get their questions answered.
Boards showing life-size images of the players lined up at the start of yesterday’s game had been placed behind the long table at the front of the room. Taking a seat right in front of Matt Fitzpatrick’s hulking figure in the picture, Tamsin found herself sitting between her father and Alan Moss, the team physio. He was there to comment on the effect the techno-fabric of the new strip was expected to have on the players’ physical performance, but he’d also come in very handy if she passed out, Tamsin thought shakily, picking up the pen that had been left on the table in front of her and starting to sketch.
Henry introduced them all, saying a few brief words about each person’s role in the new team. When he reached Tamsin, the reporters seemed to strain forwards, like greyhounds in the stalls the moment before the start of the race.
‘As you may be aware, Tamsin Calthorpe won the commission to design the new strip, as well as the off-field formal attire of the team.’
‘Surprise, surprise!’ shouted someone from the back. ‘I wonder how that happened?’
Outrage fizzed through Tamsin’s bloodstream. Instantly her spine was ramrod straight, her fingers tightening convulsively around the pen in her hand as her body’s primitive ‘fight or flight’ instinct homed in on the former option. Forcing a grim smile, she looked into the glittering dazzle of flashbulbs in front of her.
‘It happened thanks to my degree in textiles and my experience designing for my own label, Coronet.’ She didn’t quite manage to keep the edge of steel from her voice. ‘I believe there were three other designers competing for the commission, and the selection process was entirely based on ideas submitted for the brief.’
‘But why did you put yourself forward?’ someone at the front persisted. ‘You’re best known for designing evening dresses worn by celebrities on the red carpet. It’s quite a leap from that to top-level sports kit, wouldn’t you say?’
She’d been expecting this question, and yet the hostility of the tone in which it was asked seriously got to her. She wondered if the microphone just in front of her was picking up the ominous thud of her heart.
‘Absolutely,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘And that was exactly why I wanted the commission. I’d built up my own label from nothing, and I was ready for the next challenge.’
‘Was it the challenge you wanted, or the money? Rumour has it that the recent spate of high-street copies has hit Coronet hard.’
Tamsin felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. The bright lights of the cameras made it hard to see anything beyond the front row, but that was probably just as well. Lying was easier if you didn’t have to make eye contact.
‘Coronet’s designs are as in demand as ever,’ she said coldly. ‘My business partner, Sally Fielding, is already handling requests for next year’s Oscars and BAFTAs.’
All that was true. Sally had been approached by several stylists in Hollywood and London, but, since all of them expected dresses to be donated for nothing more than the kudos of seeing them on the red carpet, it didn’t help Coronet’s cash flow. But there was no time to dwell on that now. If she let her focus lapse for a second this lot would tear her limb from limb.
‘Would you agree that your background as a womenswear designer had an obvious influence on this commission?’ another voice asked.
Thank goodness; a straightforward question.
Tamsin was just about to answer when the speaker continued, assuming an outrageously camp tone. ‘The oversized rose-motif and the dewdrops on the rugby shirts are simply to die for, aren’t they?’
A ripple of laughter went around the room. Tamsin’s patience was stretched almost to its limit.
‘Maybe it might be an issue for any guys who aren’t quite confident about their masculinity,’ she said sweetly. ‘Fortunately, that doesn’t include any of the team. The dewdrops, as you call them, are small rubberised dots that maximize grip for line-outs and scrums. But you’re right—my background in couture has been influential. The starting point for any design is the fabric, and this was no different. Working in association with Alan here, and experts in the States, we sourced some of the most technologically advanced fabrics in the world.’
The room was quieter now. People were listening, scribbling things down as she spoke. A bolt of elation shot through her. ‘We started with tightly fitting base-layer garments beneath the outer kit,’ she continued, her voice gaining strength. This was safe ground. Whatever poisonous comments people could make about who she was or where she came from, no one could say she didn’t know her subject. ‘These are made from a fabric which actually improves the oxygenation of the blood by absorbing negative ions from the player’s skin. It also prevents lactic acid build up, improving performance and stamina.’
‘So why did England lose yesterday?’ someone sneered from the back.
Because Alejandro D’Arienzo was playing for the opposition.
Tamsin’s mouth was open, and for a terrible moment she thought she’d actually said that out loud. Casting a surreptitious, panicky glance around, she realised that the cameras were now pointing at the coach, who was talking about form, injury and training. Thank goodness. She picked up the mini bottle of water from the table in front of her and took a long mouthful, grateful for a moment of reprieve. On the pad in front of her she’d unconsciously been sketching the outline of an elongated female figure, and looking at it now she felt a wave of anguish. All the critics were right, she thought miserably, adding a drapey flourish of fabric falling from one shoulder of the figure. She didn’t belong here. She should be back in the studio with all the team, working on next autumn’s collection.
The pen faltered in her hand as dread prickled the back of her neck. If the business was still going then. The RFU commission had helped appease