‘So it had nothing to do with your mother and Kelly being friends from Cambridge then?’
‘A little, but Kelly will transform the business and really put us back on the map. Help us fend off this terminal decline.’
‘And make fools of us. Me in particular – did you actually see the show last night?’
‘Not yet. I got caught up on a conference call with a foreign supplier,’ he explains. And I secretly wonder if it might be a blessing in disguise. I’m not sure I want him seeing my embarrassing debut on the TV screen, despite what Eddie says – he’s my friend so he’s bound to be kind about it.
‘Was it any good?’ Tom smiles and raises his eyebrows enthusiastically.
‘No, it blooming wasn’t! It was embarrassing, and they set me up. Annie too. Did you know they were going to edit the film to make us look like totally incompetent and inefficient sales assistants?’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.’ He frowns, and then quickly adds, ‘They didn’t show your faces, did they?’
‘Like that makes a difference,’ I say, resisting the urge to slap his beautiful cheek.
‘Well, they wanted to originally, but I stopped it,’ he says, looking pleased with himself. I smart from his indifference and obvious loyalty to Kelly and Zara over me.
‘You could have at least warned me.’
‘I couldn’t. The board voted in favour of signing the NDA with the production company.’ I give him a blank look, hating myself all over again for feeling so out of my depth. ‘Non-disclosure agreement,’ he says, tactfully. ‘So you see, I couldn’t tell you, even if I’d wanted to.’
‘So you wanted to then?’ I ask, my spirits lifting slightly at the prospect of redeeming something from this hideous situation.
‘I know how much you love these reality TV programmes. It was meant to be a surprise,’ he says, deftly avoiding my question. He looks away.
‘A surprise? Tom, you humiliated me. You kept a secret and it’s not the first time.’ I bite my lip again.
‘Hang on a minute. I thought you understood about that,’ he says, his voice dropping and his eyes flashing.
‘Oh, I understood plenty. That you didn’t trust me enough to let me know you were Tom Carrington posing as just another sales assistant.’
‘And is it any wonder when you react like this?’ he says, running a hand through his hair.
‘Like what?’ I say, glaring at him.
‘Practically hysterical.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m too hysterical for you now.’ My heart is hammering inside my chest.
‘That’s not what I said.’ Silence follows. Tom clears his throat and turns away from me. ‘I can’t deal with this now, not here.’
‘But I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. We’ve been flirting for months, and now dating. I thought we had something, or did I get it completely wrong?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘So I’m ridiculous now?’
‘Georgie, this is getting us nowhere.
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ An awkward silence follows.
‘So what do we do now?’ It’s Tom who speaks first.
‘I have no idea. Why don’t you decide … seeing as you’re the one in charge,’ I snap.
‘Fine,’ he retaliates, looking really fired up as he paces around the room, flicking his shirtsleeve back to check the time on his watch. ‘If I’m upsetting you so much, then maybe we should just call it a day … ’ He comes to a halt in front of me and stands with his hands on his hips, as if daring me to challenge his decision.
‘Good. I was thinking just the same thing,’ I say, desperately trying to keep my voice steady. I don’t want to split up. I want us to be together. Having fun. Falling in love. Just like other blissfully happy couples. But I do have some pride, and if he isn’t as into me as I thought, which is glaringly obvious given that he’s this quick to suggest we split up, then maybe it’s for the best we end it before it goes any further.
‘Look, we should talk about it … ’ he says, his voice softening as if he wants to let me down gently.
‘Sorry, I don’t have time.’ Ha! I’m busy too.
‘I’m sorry.’ He glances away.
‘Well so am I.’
It takes me less than three seconds to leave the room, my shoulders stiff and my back constricting with a whole raft of horrible emotions. I grab my bag and coat from Eddie’s desk, and quickly brush him away as he stands to reach a concerned hand out to my arm.
‘Hey Georgie! Hang on,’ Eddie calls out, but I’m gone, tears stinging my eyes as I run along the corridor and back to the safety of the staff lift. I push the cage door back and step inside before slumping against the wall and crying my heart out. And not graceful lady tears like Meryl at an Oscar acceptance speech. Oh no, these are big gulping heaving sobs that I just know are going to make my face look like a swollen blotchy balloon in about an hour or so.
4
Over! I say the word over and over inside my head as I huddle inside the cubicle. I’m in the staff loo and I can’t stop crying. Angry tears. Sad tears. All mingled together.
‘Hey, you OK in there?’
‘Err. Who is it?’ I ask hesitantly, quickly wiping the back of a hand across my cheeks.
‘It’s me. Annie.’ I pull open the door and she hands me a wedge of tissues. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Bullshit! Tell me or I’m going downstairs right now to mess up your merch,’ she says, flinging one hand onto her hip and twiddling her nose stud with the other.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ I manage a watery smile.
‘Try me. You know those cute gold stars and sparkly white snowman shapes you spent all last week scattering amongst the DKNY shelves to create the perfect Christmassy display?’
‘Nooo.’ My eyes widen. ‘It took me ages to stencil them, spray-paint them, cut them out and then place them artfully amongst the winter collection … ’
‘Exactly.’ Another silence follows as I ponder on what to say. Everyone knows that Tom and I had started dating, but still … instinct tells me that I need to be professional about us splitting up. Besides, I refuse to be the stereotypical girl who has a fling with the boss, ends up getting burnt and her colleagues all rally round feeling sorry for her while slagging off the guy. Tom doesn’t deserve that. He’s gorgeous, my perfect man, or so I had thought. What’s happened between us doesn’t change all that. I stick a smile on my face and take a deep breath. ‘It’s the reality TV programme, isn’t it?’ Annie says, interrupting my thoughts.
‘Well, kind of,’ I say, feeling relieved. ‘Anyway, how are you? I thought you were upset about it too,’ I say, shifting the focus away from me.
‘Me? Oh no.’ She flaps her hand and pulls a face. ‘Yeah, I was a bit hacked off when I saw myself on the telly, but after Amy, the HR manager, said I’m not getting sacked, so this bad boy is still out of here, I’m cool with it.’ And she pulls down her top to circle an index finger around the Flo Rida tattoo.
‘Err, good,’ I say, feeling increasingly like the biggest party pooper going. First Eddie, then Mrs Grace and now Annie – they’re all keen to do the show. But how do they know it won’t backfire, just like that old airport reality show with easyJet? The bit I saw was just a load of customers complaining, so what’s to say Kelly’s programme won’t do the same to us? They’ve already made out that the service in Women’s Accessories is rubbish. If they do that throughout the whole store, it could seriously damage Carrington’s reputation forever. Instead of restoring the shop to its former glory, Tom will have ruined everything by calling in favours from old family friends. Maybe those doubters in the business world are right after all, and he is out of his depth.
‘Yep, and that’s not all – guess what?’ Her eyes widen. ‘We’re getting eighty pounds per episode on top of our usual wages. Well, the ones doing the show are … Denise in Home Electricals is well jelz. But I tol
d her, there’s no glamour in washing machines.’ She laughs.
‘Is that right?’
‘Sure is. Best news I’ve had in ages. And think of all the freebies, designer gear, goody bags, red-carpet invites, PR appearances – they all pay: big money, too! I’m thinking Sam Faiers – move over darling. I can not wait. Amy also said there’s going to be a special end-of-series Christmas wrap party with all of Kelly’s celebrity friends coming. And it’s going to be filmed live! And apparently, she actually knows Will.I.Am! Can you imagine? Faint! I’ve wanted to get close to him for like … ever since he was on The Voice.’ She clutches my arm in glee. ‘It’s going to be epic.’ Annie drops my arm to spread a hand in the air. ‘Bet we’ll get free VIP entrance to the Sugar Hut and everything now,’ she says, full of happiness as she shakes her frosted hair extensions back. ‘Anyway, better jog on, don’t want you bollicking me when I’m late back from tea break.’ She grins and nudges me gently with her elbow before leaving.
I peer in the mirror to examine my face and quickly perform a tissue repair job on my make-up, cursing myself for having already dropped off my handbag. We used to stash our bags under the counters, but when Tom took over, that all changed, so now we have to stow them in lockers in the staff room upstairs. For our own protection, he said. Shame he wasn’t bothered about that last night when my backside was being broadcast to the whole nation.
I checked YouTube from my phone when I was on the bus earlier, and my views are up to nearly five hundred now. And some guy even DM’d me on Twitter asking if I fancied joining him and Pu, his new Thai ladyboy bride-to-be, for a threesome. Hideous. Tears sting in my eyes again. I can’t believe Tom and I are over before we even really started.
After letting out a long, shaky breath, I help myself to a generous spritz of complimentary Cavalli. One of the perfume girls left a couple of bottles as an incentive for us to direct customers to her section, so she can flog more special Christmas gift sets with the matching body lotion. I dab my eyes again and think of Annie’s excitement, Eddie’s too, but I haven’t changed my mind, they’ll just have to film around me. Or put one of those blurry things over my face or something, like magazines do to Harper or Suri when they haven’t got permission to show their pictures.
After leaving the Ladies, I make my way along the narrow, winding staff corridor that’s like a time warp with its original 1920s faded floral wallpaper. I have to step around a couple of stock trollies piled high with flattened cardboard boxes, to push through the double security doors that lead out to the shop floor.
It’s lit up like a giant Santa’s grotto full of goodies.
This year’s festive theme instore is Winter Wonderland. Fake snow covers the normally black, swirly patterned carpet, and sparkly white model seals nestle inside Perspex balls suspended from a twinkly, Arctic-inspired ceiling. All of the display podiums are crammed with festive present ideas, pyjama sets tied up with scarlet satin ribbons, gloriously fragrant Jo Malone candles, glittery woollen mittens, luxury lingerie in tissue-packed boxes and every kind of perfume and aftershave gift set you can imagine. There’s even a pop-up shop selling Santa-shaped gingerbread men, striped candy canes and chocolate tree decorations covered in foil, hanging from lengths of gold thread.
The magnificent Art Deco marble pillars are swathed in garlands of holly and ivy, mingled with silver, spray-painted pine cones. And the air is filled with a warming, cinnamony-orange scent, pumped from a machine hidden underneath the enormous, ceiling-tall Norwegian Christmas tree that stands in the centre of the floor, in between the two original wooden escalators. Customers are laughing and joking as they touch the merch. Children are weaving in and out of their parents’ legs, eager to get down to the basement to see Father Christmas in his grotto, and hand over their wish list full of presents.
My mood lifts instantly. It’s really hard to suppress the swirl of excitement on glimpsing the glorious array of festive colours in such a buzzy atmosphere. The run-up to Christmas is my absolute favourite time of the year instore, and it’s not like I haven’t split up with a guy before – I have. So I’m sure I’ll survive. I’ll have to. I think of my freezer jammed with all those mince pies and make a mental note to pop into Masood’s corner shop on my way home for a carton of custard and a soppy film. He always has a stack of DVDs to choose from and you really can’t beat a mince pie or two with a warm custard drizzle. That will cheer me up a bit. I might even get ten Benson too while I’m at it.
Making my way over to my counter, the best one on the floor, right opposite the main customer entrance and next to the giant, floor-to-ceiling Christmas window display, I make a conscious effort to pull myself together and put on a brave face. It wouldn’t do to crumble in front of a customer. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on where everything else must be left behind the scenes, upstairs in the staff canteen or in the sanctuary of my cosy flat. Besides, for all I know, Zara, Kelly – or worse still, Tom – could be spying on me via the CCTV. Maybe that’s how they doctored the film footage of Annie, supposedly texting and ignoring Zara. Hmmm.
I sneak a look around and my pulse speeds up. There! I knew it. Right there on the wall above the Marc Jacobs stand, glaring directly at the counter, is what looks suspiciously like a camera to me. A small, black, domed piece of plastic, and it definitely wasn’t there last week. I know, because I was up there with my feather duster. I make a mental note to climb back up the long ladder and strategically place a weekender bag right in front of it. That should block the view. I could even put one of the miniature Christmas trees on the very top shelf. That will definitely do the trick.
I’m crouched down behind my counter, sorting through a box full of old Olympic merch from last year – sequinned Union Jack clutches and sparkly London 2012 key rings, couldn’t even shift it during a BOGOF campaign – when a guy, wearing denim board shorts and the biggest funky Afro I’ve ever seen, waves one of those huge grey fluffy microphones in my face. Next to him is an arty-looking woman wearing leopard-print skinnies with blush patent wedges and a floaty vest top. She’s got a red leather folder pressed inside her crossed arms.
‘Can I help you?’ I say, shoving the box under the counter with my foot.
‘Perfect!’ The woman ignores me and whips out what looks like a paint chart from her folder, and holds it up near my shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’ I pull a face and push the chart away.
‘This is her. The girl. The one Kelly wants heavily featured,’ the woman says to the guy.
‘Hellooo. I am here, you know,’ I say, feeling irked at the mention of Kelly’s name. It’s her fault Tom and I have split up. Everything was wonderful before she came on the scene. I wave my hand in an attempt to get their attention.
‘Oh, sorry. How do you feel about cerise?’ the woman says, scrutinising me now.
‘Cerise?’ I repeat, thinking it’s a bit random. ‘Err, can’t say I’ve given it much thought of late.’
‘Or how about a rich chocolate or silky cream, with, wait for it – ’ she does a massive, almost manic grin, and waves her hand around before glancing at the guy, who nods enthusiastically – ‘a dash of delicate mint green? Oh yes, that would suit you far better. Bring out the gorgeous turquoise of your eyes.’ She fiddles with the chart again. ‘It’s very important that we get the right palette for you.’
‘Palette?’ I say, conscious of sounding like a parrot now.
‘For your clothes! Hence the light chart.’ She gives the card a quick wave for emphasis. ‘Sorry.’ She puts the chart back inside the folder and stuffs it under her arm before pushing the pen into her messy ballerina bun for safekeeping. ‘Hannah Lock. Production assistant.’ She sticks a hand out to greet me and I notice her gorgeous French navy gel nails.
‘Leo Aguda. Sound technician. Or Leo Afro, as they call me.’ The guy with the microphone grins and raises a clenched fist for me to thump. Awkwardly, I duly oblige.
‘Georgie Hart. Women’s Acc
essories,’ I say, sounding like a bit of a plum, but I’m not used to people announcing their name, surname and job description all in one go. ‘And don’t worry about a palette for me, I won’t be needing one. Besides, I have a uniform,’ I smile apologetically, having spotted a man with a little boy hovering near the Chloé display.
‘Don’t be silly. Kelly will want all of you sales assistants to be dressed in Carrington’s clothes. How else can customers see what the store’s merchandise will look like on them? She’s already given Womenswear a makeover, replaced the entire stock with catwalk couture, all the latest fashions, instead of that dowdy, middle-of-the-road merch thing they had going on up there.’ She rolls her eyes up towards the first floor while I wonder if I should mention that our regular customers obviously like the ‘dowdy, middle-of-the-road look’, as we’ve never had any complaints. ‘And you might as well make the most of a free fabulous wardrobe opportunity,’ she says, doing the manic grin again. ‘You’ll probably get to keep most of the clothes, and Kelly’s already told the board about the new rule – Carrington’s staff wear Carrington’s clothes. End of.’
‘I’m sorry, Hannah, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have a customer to serve.’ I gesture in the man’s direction before heading over to greet him.
‘Are you looking for a particular bag?’ I ask, giving the guy a big smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hannah nudge a little closer.
‘Yes please. Something expensive for my wife. A Christmas present. Thought I’d get organised for a change,’ he says in a lovely lilting Irish accent before ruffling the little boy’s jet-black curly hair.
Christmas at Carrington’s Page 5