Christmas at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Don’t worry lovey, everything will be all right,’ Mrs Grace whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘You’ll see. Push him out of your head and enjoy the moment. Adventures like this are a rare treat. I’ve been asked to go on Alan Titchmarsh – fancy that. At my age.’ She chuckles and pulls a powder compact from her granny bag before checking her hair in the little mirror. ‘And my Stan says it’s just like having a new dolly bird on his arm.’

  I’m in the usual place at my counter, wrapping a length of silver tinsel around the ring display, when ‘Deck the Halls’ starts playing and the actors move around, suddenly animated and enthralled in the merch. The spotlights are shining bright as before, making the spiced cinnamon scent from the pump under the Christmas tree even more intoxicating. I’m wearing an exquisitely cut black Donna Karan dress, with matching faux fur collared jacket, new instore this week. The girls in Womenswear were thrilled when the stock trolley turned up. Libby, the supervisor, said the suit comes in mink and aubergine too, and Kelly’s new rule about staff wearing Carrington’s clothes is an absolute must for them, which they’re all delighted by.

  We’ve reached the ‘fa la la la laaa’ line when a very attractive, petite woman, dressed in a navy abaya with Swarovski trim at the wrists, approaches my counter flanked by two men in dark suits carrying briefcases. The woman has a headscarf on with a discreet Gucci logo, and a puff of ultra-expensive Oud perfume floats around her. I immediately sense that it’s the high-end bags they’ll be interested in. They could be from the marina. Taking a break from their super-yacht, perhaps. Excitement rushes through me.

  ‘I come to buy gifts please,’ the woman says politely with a Middle Eastern accent. She fixes her heavily kohl-lined brown eyes on me. I do a quick scan of the floor, but the production team aren’t here, so I instantly assume she must be one of Kelly’s friends. Last week the actors made absolutely certain a camera was on them before they started performing.

  ‘Of course, I’d be happy to help you. Do you have anything in mind?’ I ask, relaxing into it. I’m in my comfort zone serving proper customers.

  ‘Bags. Louis Vuitton. The newest collection please.’

  ‘Certainly, if you’d like to come this way, please.’ I gesture to a cabinet housing six exquisite top handle bags in a variety of colours, nestling amongst a selection of Louis monogrammed scarfs and purses.

  ‘Would you like to look at one?’ I ask, reaching for the key to unlock the cabinet.

  ‘OK.’ The men move in closer as the woman reaches into her Chanel clutch to retrieve a diamond-encrusted iPhone. I place a signature biscuit-brown bag on the counter.

  ‘I buy it,’ she says, barely glancing at the bag. She takes a quick photo of it with her phone.

  ‘Thank you, would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I ask, wishing all of our customers were this decisive.

  ‘No no! I want aalll of them.’

  ‘All of them?’ I ask, wondering if I’ve heard her right. Perhaps she doesn’t understand about the gift-wrapping service.

  ‘Yes, this one and this one and this one and … ’ she says, pointing a perfectly buffed fingernail to each of the handbags in turn.

  ‘Six bags?’ I say, keeping my voice steady. Annie saunters over, her interest obviously piqued.

  ‘No no! Aalll of them,’ she says, sweeping a heavily jewelled hand in the air. A rock the size of a sugar lump clings to her wedding finger. ‘Every colour. Every style,’ she says, casting an eye over the adjacent counter housing the Louis luggage. ‘And scarves, purses and keyrings too. The whole collection.’

  ‘Um.’ I’m momentarily stunned. ‘Certainly,’ I quickly add, beaming from ear to ear. I discreetly flap a hand in Annie’s direction. She immediately dives into the little stock cupboard behind the counter to retrieve a pile of dust bags as I start unlocking the security ropes and emptying the Louis handbags from the cabinet. We both wrap. Fast!

  Adrenalin is pumping – I’ve never had a proper VIP customer like this before. I imagine this is how the sales assistants up in the big London stores feel all the time. I’ve heard about Saudi customers coming to England in the summer to escape the heat at home, but never at Christmas and certainly not to Carrington’s, in the quant, seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. Things are really looking up – maybe Kelly’s plan to rejuvenate the store might work after all. I hope so. It’s exciting, even if I am to be single again. I’ll just have to live vicariously through my new glamorous and seriously wealthy customers while trying to avoid Tom. He’s bound to return at some stage, and it’ll be hard seeing him every day if we’re not going to be together any more, but I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. I just seriously hope Zara or Valentina or, worse still, both, don’t rock up here and start hanging around instore. I’m not sure I could bear that.

  We’ve finished gift-wrapping; Annie had to get a stock trolley to house all the Louis merch. The woman has bought the whole lot, including the monogrammed luggage collection, plus every Louis item from the big secure stockroom downstairs. Annie had to leg it over to Mrs Grace to collect the key before racing downstairs (taking the customer lift for extra quickness) so we didn’t risk losing the woman’s interest by making her wait a moment longer than necessary.

  The woman beckons to the men with the briefcases, who are hovering by the trolley.

  ‘Err, do you have ID available please?’ I ask, praying that she has, but knowing the total is way over the floor limit for one customer transaction. The woman produces her passport and I give it a polite cursory glance, not wanting to inconvenience her for a moment longer. The men flip open the briefcases and start unloading wads of cash. Annie does a little gasp before swiftly turning and burying her head in the cupboard behind us to conceal her flushed cheeks. I do a quick scan of the floor, wondering where the security guys are – I can’t have this much cash stashed in my till. Besides, from a purely practical perspective, it just won’t fit! I wonder how Harrods copes with all its big sales. Maybe it has extra large tills with safes underneath or something. Well, whatever they have, Carrington’s will need to find out and upgrade, ASAP, as our tiny old-fashioned tills just won’t do at all. Oh no! Not if we’re going to be servicing the shopping requirements of über-wealthy customers from now on.

  And I don’t believe it. I blink again to be sure. Yep. It’s Melissa. The sturdy plain-clothes store detective who used to work here. But how come she’s back? She left to work at the prison. Melissa catches my eye and surreptitiously wanders over.

  ‘You OK, G?’ she mouths discreetly, from behind the Juicy Couture stand. I flick my eyes to the enormous pile of notes in front of me and she pulls out a mobile, presumably to call security.

  A few seconds later, Kelly appears; she’s crawling on all fours as fast as she can towards the Christmas tree for cover. I make big eyes and pray that my customer doesn’t spot her. I bet they don’t have Ronald McDonald lookalikes crawling commando-style on the shop floor at Harrods. But then perhaps Kelly’s behaviour is perfectly normal in the real-but-made-up world. I bite my bottom lip and try to concentrate on counting the cash instead. It’s two hundred pounds over, which I hand back to the woman.

  ‘For you,’ she says, placing her hand over mine and gently pushing the wad towards me.

  ‘Oh no, but I can’t,’ I reply instinctively, holding up my palms.

  ‘I insist.’ The woman smiles. In my peripheral vision I can see Kelly flapping a hand wildly, gesturing for me to take the cash. So I do. I nudge it towards the till, unsure of what to do next. The woman says something in Arabic to the men, who fling the empty briefcases onto the stock trolley and start pushing it across the shop floor. Mick, the security guard, appears and offers to give them a hand, and they head towards the side door, which leads straight out to the directors’ car park. I make a mental note to see about us getting a proper Carrington’s concierge service. This calibre of customer will expect it. We could have a dedicated suite especially for VIP shoppers, park their limos, escort them aro
und the store, load their merch, or we could even deliver to their super-yachts. Fabulous. I’m going to mention it to Kelly.

  Annie is practically bursting with delight, and I’m bent over with both hands flat on the counter, taking a deep breath, when the woman returns. I quickly stand up straight and smooth down my jacket. Annie ducks back into the cupboard.

  ‘One for you, and one for your assistant,’ she says, handing me a small Carrington’s carrier bag.

  ‘Oh,’ I start, but on catching Kelly doing the flapping thing again, I immediately take the bag and thank the woman profusely.

  ‘Take me to the cosmetics hall please.’ She pulls a magazine cutting from her clutch. ‘I want to look like this,’ she adds, tapping the piece of paper. It’s Taylor Swift!

  ‘Of course.’ My mind boggles – never in a million years is this woman going to look like Taylor; she’s a totally different ethnic group for starters. ‘My colleague will escort you,’ I say, hoiking Annie from the cupboard. I figure it best to stay on my section – don’t want the voiceover guy saying I shouldn’t have abandoned the shop floor, with me being the supervisor and all. Annie starts bobbing from one foot to the other with glee, before quickly calming herself down and gesturing demurely as if the woman is royalty.

  ‘CUT!’

  Kelly is up on her feet now, clapping and rushing towards me with her Ronald McDonald hair whipping around like candyfloss in a wind tunnel.

  ‘Bravo. Bravo! Perfect. How do you do it?’ she gushes, grabbing my hand and pumping it furiously.

  ‘Do what? I ask, feeling panicky and euphoric all at the same time.

  ‘Exude the perfect blend of exemplary service with such provincially naive wonderment.’ She wafts a hand in the air.

  ‘Um.’ What’s she going on about? ‘Is that good?’ I raise a tentative eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, you are so divine. Of course it is.’ She squeezes me tight, almost winding me in the process.

  ‘But I just thought she was an ordinary customer – well, not ordinary for Mulberry-On-Sea, but, well … ’ I say, managing to break free, hoping she wasn’t an actor after all. That would be really disappointing.

  ‘And she is. Or will be. I certainly hope she’ll become an “ordinary” customer. Carrington’s can’t be sustained with just the likes of that rain-bonnet woman, whatever her name is, spending a tenner once a year.’

  ‘Mrs Godfrey,’ I prompt.

  ‘Yes, whatever.’ Kelly flaps a hand. ‘Anyway, Princess Ameerah was insistent on not having a camera stuck in her face, hence my covert manoeuvring and the long-lens activity from the filming guys. It was the only way to get her to agree to come here,’ she says, and I’m suddenly conscious of being surrounded by the whole crew. They’re all laughing and stepping forward to shake my hand or kiss my cheek, and my heart lifts. It feels good to have got it right for a change – perhaps this will earn me a reprieve from the YouTube hall of shame this week.

  ‘Right. On to the next scene,’ Kelly commands, and clicks her fingers towards a wardrobe assistant, who immediately steps forward with a sumptuously soft grey cashmere wrap. ‘Put this on and follow me.’ Feeling like a proper celebrity, I swathe myself in the ultra-chic and super-luxurious wrap.

  ‘What about the money?’ I ask as we head off. It’s still stacked up on the counter.

  ‘Security can deal with it,’ she replies, as if it’s mere detail. ‘The extra is yours, the contents of the bag too. You must always accept Princess Ameerah’s gifts with grace and gratitude. Always.’

  ‘But that’s not Carrington’s usual policy,’ I say, despite the fizz of excitement bubbling inside me. I wonder what’s inside the bag and I’ll share the £200 with Annie, of course. She’ll be delighted too.

  ‘Well it is now. It’s etiquette when serving this calibre of customer. Harrods staff have been doing it for years.’ Kelly nods at Melissa as she steps out from her hiding place. ‘You can look after it all until Georgie returns.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Melissa says with a hint of sarcasm, and does an exaggerated salute before clicking her heels together and marching over to my counter. I quickly stifle a giggle, hoping Kelly didn’t notice, and make a mental note to catch up with Mel later.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, having to do a gentle jog to keep up with Kelly, which is no mean feat in six-inch-high Giuseppe Zanotti suede ankle boots.

  ‘You’ll see. Don’t want to give too much away, will ruin the spontaneity. But trust me, you will lurrrrrve it.’ She shakes her hands up in the air. I smile hesitantly. ‘And I want you to talk about the council’s plans for the Christmas ice rink.’ Her face changes to serious.

  ‘Err, OK. But what should I say?’ I ask, momentarily thrown by her random flip from wacky Ronald McDonald to serious businesswoman.

  ‘Anything. Just mention it – sure you’ll think of something, you’re a bright girl. And do it before Eddie proposes, I don’t want it getting overshadowed by wedding talk.’ Kelly grabs a bottle of mineral water from a passing catering guy, takes a massive slurp and hands it back. ‘Chop chop. Time is money in this game,’ she says, pumping her elbows up even higher to gather more speed.

  Ten minutes later we’re in Sam’s café, which has been festooned with paper lanterns and flickering tea lights to create a cosy, fairytale atmosphere. Sam is in place behind the counter wearing a new white T-shirt with Cupcakes At Carrington’s emblazoned in glittery gold lettering across the front, and a massive smile on her face. Her eyes swivel to the left, practically bulging with excitement, as if she’s telepathically saying, ‘Look who it is. Right here. In my café! Faints.’ There’s an elegant woman standing next to Sam, with her head down. She looks up. And oh my God.

  It’s Mary Berry. Baking queen. The actual, proper ledge herself, Mary Berry. I love Mary Berry. She’s brilliant on TV and now here she is right in front of us. Incredible. I do a speedy silent scream at Sam, when Mary isn’t looking. Sam reciprocates.

  Mary holds up a cake stand bulging with red velvet cupcakes smothered in butter cream icing with miniature snowflakes scattered on top. Striped candy canes are hooked around the edges of the cake stand and Mariah Carey is singing ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ in the background. This is amazing. I just about manage to resist the overwhelming urge to blurt out, ‘Hey, look everyone, it’s Mary Berry.’ Now, that would be so uncool. And it’s true then, Kelly really does know all the famous people. Wow!

  I flash Sam a ‘what’s going on’ look? But there’s no time. A camera moves in as a guy counts down – three two one with his fingers – before Millie appears, sweeping an enormous blusher brush over my cheeks, flicking a lock of hair away from my face and straightening the wrap. She gives me a quick wink and mouths, ‘Break a leg.’ Eddie and Ciaran are sitting in a booth, laughing and chatting as if it’s just any other day in the café, seemingly oblivious to the cameras, Mary the Ledge, and the crowd all around us. And I feel so excited.

  Eddie catches my eye and smooths his already immaculate hair. Now he’s fiddling with his cuff links as if he’s nervous, which is extremely unusual for him. I know he’s about to propose, but I thought he couldn’t wait … he’s that keen to get to Vegas and have his moment in the spotlight.

  In the space behind my head, I sense Kelly clicking her fingers.

  ‘Her date! Her date! Where is he?’ she whispers furiously. A girl with a clipboard and a blank face appears. ‘Oh never mind. If you want something doing … ’ Kelly puffs, before shooing the girl away. ‘Get ready to grab his hand and walk towards the gays,’ she hisses in my ear. ‘And look happy.’ She disappears.

  My heart sinks. I don’t really want to grab Leo’s hand and look happy with him, but I guess it’s only show business, and if it’s OK for Tom … I inhale sharply through my nose.

  ‘Go. Go. Go.’ Kelly is back. I spin around, but I can’t see Leo. An arm reaches out through the crowd. Kelly pushes the crew guys out of the way. And then I see him. My fake date.

&nbs
p; Oh my God.

  Oh my actual God. It’s not the actor. It’s not Leo.

  It’s Dan Kilby.

  Singing star. Sexy and soulful. Proper famous. But there’s no time to react. He takes my hand. His fingers feel warm against mine as he leads me over to join the others. My pulse quickens, not because of Dan (I don’t think so, well, maybe a bit – he is utterly gorge with his messy brown hair and soft grey eyes) but because all can I fathom is: what will Tom think when he sees this?

  14

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ I’m on the bus and Dad’s on the phone. He sounds delighted. Nancy has just started on the silver surfers’ course and was messing around on her new iPad mini when she spotted a picture of me plastered across the front page of an online gossip magazine above a caption saying:

  Recently heartbroken Georgie Girl, star of new reality show, Kelly Cooper Come Instore, finds love with sexy singer …

  I want the ground to open up and drag me in. It’s not true – I haven’t found new love. It’s surreal having my private life dissected in the media. I’m mortified. And where did they get the picture? Dad says it’s of me standing outside Carrington’s chatting on my phone, so I can only assume I was on a tea break and that I’m being stalked by paparazzi. Oh God. And they don’t hang around, these sleb hunters – the scene with Dan Kilby was only this morning, which just goes to show how quickly they pounce. I’m not sure I can keep up with it all. Not so long ago I was ordinary Georgie Hart from Mulberry-On-Sea, looking forward to spending Christmas with my new boyfriend, and now … well, it seems I’m a reality TV star linked to one of the most famous singers in the country.

  ‘Dad, you know how the media make things up, embellish the facts,’ I say quietly, turning towards the window, conscious of the other passengers all whispering and nudging each other before glancing in my direction. Dad should know more than anyone what it feels like to be suddenly thrust into the limelight. From the moment he was arrested back then, the newspapers wouldn’t leave him alone. Mum used to get so upset on reading lies about him having had secret women on the side, or how he’d ‘been fiddling the books’ at the bank where he worked for years – I guess that bit is sort of true, but not the rest, I’m sure of it. Even after Dad went to prison, he still sent Mum cards saying how much he loved her. And Mum still loved him – right up to the day she died. She told me so at the end.