‘Wow! Good for him, sly old fox.’ Sam claps her hands together, seemingly thrilled to hear of another new romance, quickly followed by, ‘What’s up? Don’t you like her?’
‘No, no, it’s not that, Nancy’s really nice, lovely and warm, and I want to be supportive, but it’s … well, I don’t know. He’s my dad, I suppose.’ I shrug.
‘And he’ll always be your dad,’ Sam says, softly. ‘But he’s a man too. You want him to be happy, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘But what about Mum?’
‘Georgie, she died a very long time ago. And it doesn’t mean he loved her any less. He’s still here and very much alive, and you being happy for him doesn’t diminish your mum’s memory.’
‘But sometimes it seems like only yesterday to me,’ I say, immediately feeling feeble. Sam’s dad died less than a year ago and she seems to be coping far better than I ever did.
‘And you were a child, you cared for her before she went, then you had to live with strangers who didn’t know her or miss her like you did. No wonder it’s still so raw, your whole world shattered and you had to deal with that pretty much on your own … ’ Sam says, as if reading my mind.
‘Some days I just miss her so very much.’
‘Of course you do, and I bet your dad does too. Nancy won’t ever replace your mum – and I bet she’s worried you might be thinking like this. Why don’t you talk to her?’
‘Oh no, I’ve only met her once, I couldn’t.’ I shake my head.
‘Well, talk to your dad then. I bet he’ll put your mind at rest.’
‘But what do you think I should say? I can’t just blurt out, “What about Mum?” I’ll sound like a silly little girl. I’m a grown woman – surely I shouldn’t feel this way, and it’s not just Nancy. It’s almost like I’m jealous that he has someone else in his life. After so many years apart, I want to be the important one. I want all his attention for myself. Do I sound ridiculously immature?’ I bite my bottom lip.
‘Don’t be silly. I was just the same. I always felt put out for a bit whenever Dad had a new girlfriend, but he was a ladies’ man; women flocked to him like moths to a lamp. I got used to it as I got older; in fact, I got quite close to a few of them, as you know.’
‘Yes, Ava. I remember her. Wasn’t she at your wedding?’
‘That’s right. And I truly believe she loved Dad. She adored him, made him happy and that made me feel happy.’ Silence follows. ‘Georgie, talk to him. It’ll make all the difference. I bet he’d be upset if he knew you felt this way.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, feeling a bit brighter about it.
‘Tell you what – next time you see him, ask if he wants to bring Nancy along too, for Christmas lunch. That can be your lead-in … ’
We’ve just polished off a delicious crispy duck stir-fry followed by crème brûlée, and I’m enjoying a large glass of mulled wine, when Sam reaches across the table to clutch my hand.
‘Don’t look now. But guess who I’ve just spotted at a window table in the far corner?’
‘Who?’ I ask, immediately desperate to know.
‘Only Zara!’ she makes big eyes.
‘But that’s impossible. She’s in New York. With Tom,’ I add, not wanting to be reminded of the fact.
‘Well, I’m telling you, it’s definitely her. She’s sitting with a group of Arabic-looking men, and that woman from the last episode, Princess something or another.’
‘Ameerah.’
‘That’s the one! Oooh, it looks very formal, they’re going through a pile of paperwork.’
‘Really?’ My mind is racing. What’s going on? My heart starts pounding, what if Tom is here too?
‘No idea, and now she’s pointing to something.’
‘Who is?’
‘The princess. Hang on.’
‘What are you doing?’ I say, keeping my voice low as Sam pushes her chair back and flings her napkin on the table.
‘Finding out what they’re up to, of course.’
‘Nooo, you can’t. What if they see you, they’ll think we’re spying,’ I whisper quickly, but it’s too late. Sam is off.
I sit for a few seconds, trying to take it in, before I risk swivelling round in my seat, to see what’s going on. And Sam was right – it’s definitely Zara! Right here. In Mulberry-On-Sea, and sitting mere metres away from me. My mind races, what’s going on? Why is she here? And what does this mean for me? And Tom? Sam is loitering by their table now, with her back to Zara. She ducks behind a giant shoji screen, presumably within listening distance – it’s right behind Princess Ameerah’s chair. I circle the bottom of my wine glass with an index finger; silently praying that Sam doesn’t get caught. What if Zara spots her and tells Kelly? She might sack her – well, not sack her as such, but she could make the board give Sam notice on the lease of the café or something, I suppose. And I wouldn’t put it past Sam to have a word with Zara, ask her what she’s playing at with Tom. She’s always been a loyal friend.
A few minutes later, and Sam is back. She has her shades on and her hair pulled around the sides of her face, attempting to look inconspicuous. She hunches down in her chair before leaning into me.
‘Sooo?’ I breathe, as she draws out the moment of revelation. She peers at me over the top of her shades, swivelling her eyes around like an undercover secret agent.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Sam pants, eventually.
‘Tell me. What’s going on?’ I ask, absolutely desperate to know.
‘The papers are floor plans for a hotel. They were talking about bedroom numbers, concierge services … stuff like that.’ Sam flaps her hand dismissively.
‘Ahh, that makes sense. They’re lining up the next show. Probably going to call it Kelly Cooper Room Service. I told you, didn’t I, that I overheard her talking about a hotel with underground parking?’
‘Yes, I remember. But that’s not all.’ And Sam’s face suddenly pales.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. But Eddie was right – Zara is up to something.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Georgie. I’m so sorry.’ Sam takes a gulp of air and glances downward to avoid eye contact.
‘What is it?’ I ask, the look on her face making me nervous now, scared even.
‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Her forehead creases with concern.
‘Yes. Please, what is it?’ I inhale sharply through my nostrils, desperate to quell the creeping sense of unease.
‘I need some of your wine first?’ she says, her voice tinged with panic.
‘Now you’re really scaring me,’ I say, placing my hand over the top of the glass.
‘One sip won’t hurt the baby, give it to me,’ she says, pushing my hand away and taking the glass. She takes a mouthful before wiping her lips on the napkin. ‘OK. It’s not good, hun. But better you hear it from me, right?’ She grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. I nod, and hold my breath.
Sam closes her eyes and tells me really quickly without even pausing for air.
‘Zarawastalkingaboutheirengagement.’ She gasps. ‘To Tom!’
Sam flings her eyes open and rubs the back of my hand.
‘It’s going to be fine, Georgie. You’re going to be fine. I promise you. Who needs Tom? Let him get engaged to Zara. It’s his loss, he’s just … ’ But I can’t hear her voice any more, only a buzzing sensation all around me.
Tears sting in my eyes. I gasp and then swallow hard. It’s as if time has stood still. My instinct is to run away as fast as I can. But instead, it’s as if somebody has flicked on an autopilot switch. Slow motion. I down the rest of the wine in one huge gulp. I pull out my purse, place some notes on the table, push my chair back and apologise to Sam. She grabs her bags and follows me out of the restaurant.
16
Five shopping weeks until Christmas
I’m standing on the balcony of the town hall overlooking the market square, with a gloved hand poised over the
big red plastic button, and a massive smile stuck firmly in place. I feel far from happy inside, but this is proper celebrity stuff. It’s meant to be exciting. Fun. Plus, it helps take my mind off wondering how Tom managed to move on so quickly. It still hasn’t sunk in. I have to deliberately force myself to stop analysing – in fact, I’ve given myself a rule: I can have five minutes per hour max, to work out when and how he could have got engaged so soon after we split up. It’s the only way. I’m in danger of driving myself crazy otherwise. But it explains why he wouldn’t take my calls, or reply to my Facebook messages.
Everyone’s here from Carrington’s including Annie, Mrs Grace, Doris, Suzanne, Lauren and Melissa. Kelly is telling Eddie how wonderful he is, just inside the door behind me. Three KCTV cameras are positioned, ready to capture it all for Kelly Cooper Come Instore, and the mayor of Mulberry-On-Sea is making her way towards the front of the balcony. As the mayor starts the countdown, I scan the crowd below – groups of teenagers, families with young children, pensioners, Carrington’s customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, I give them a quick wave and they both wave back enthusiastically. Everyone’s happy and smiley and getting in the mood for Christmas; even Mrs Godfrey from the WI is here, wearing her rain bonnet.
Around the square are several Christmas trees covered in sparkly baubles. On my right is a Santa’s grotto, with real reindeers in a straw-lined pen next to a sleigh swathed in tartan blankets and crimson sacks stuffed full of presents. Students from the local college are dressed up as elves, helping to supervise the lengthy queue of children, handing out balloons and offering photo opportunities. An assortment of delicious aromas waft up from the many wooden food cabins dotted around – selling roasted chestnuts, hot chocolate with swirly peaks of whipped cream, roast turkey and cranberry rolls and mulled wine. It’s all here. I spot Sam’s cabin decked out in garlands of twinkling fairy lights with boxed panettone and slabs of Christmas cake piled up high on the counter. The whole place is like a picture-perfect Christmas card, or a scene from a Hollywood movie. The music stops. The crowd cheers before counting down the numbers being displayed on a massive electronic billboard.
‘Five. Four. Three. Two. One … ’
The mayor starts clapping and I press the button. And, as if by magic, Mulberry-On-Sea is illuminated from one side of the town to the other in a rainbow of colour linking each streetlight to the next. It’s incredible. It’s amazing. And it literally takes my breath away. The crowd goes wild – whooping, cheering and clapping. Kelly is standing next to me now. She swings my left hand up in the air before grabbing the microphone and bellowing out to the crowd.
‘Happy Christmas everyone, from Carriiiiiingtons.’ Kelly leans in to me, and whispers, ‘Tits and teeth, darling. Tits and teeth. Hair shake. Look at them all down there while you’re up here. They adore you. Told you I’d make you a star. You too,’ she says through a fixed smile, all the while posing for the crowd as she turns to face Eddie, who’s standing the other side of her now. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Stars. Huge. The pair of you. Wonderful!’ We all clap some more and blow kisses as the opening notes of Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ starts belting out from four giant speakers erected on scaffolding.
‘Right. That’s their lot. Come on inside. The media pack are waiting for you.’ Kelly ushers me, Eddie and Mrs Grace away from the balcony and into a lounge area, closing the doors behind us. We take off our hats and coats, and Hannah piles them up into a mountain on a couple of wing chairs. I scan the room. It’s crammed with press people wearing plastic ID badges on chains around their necks. Some are holding pads and pens, others have Dictaphones primed to record.
‘Ooooh, this is the best night of my life.’ Mrs Grace helps herself to a flute of champagne. ‘Did you see the Peabodys? Turn up to an envelope opening, those two. And that snooty one from the WI? She won’t be looking down her nose at me again,’ she sniffs, before pushing her granny handbag into the crook of her elbow and turning towards a waiting journalist. ‘Yes dear, that’s G-R-A-C-E.’ I smile as Mrs Grace peers over the journalist’s shoulder, making sure she gets all the details correct. ‘Did they tell you that I’m “in talks” … ?’ she pauses to do quote signs with the fingers of her free hand and the journalist smiles patiently. ‘That’s right, with Good Housekeeping magazine regarding a regular column, which is a huge honour as it’s a marvellous publication and everyone holds it in such high regard. You know, I heard the queen reads it and there’s no higher endorsement than that!’ Mrs Grace purses her lips and makes big eyes. ‘And I served her once. Such a charming girl she was.’
‘Did you? When was that?’ the journalist asks, looking interested now.
‘Oh, this was back in the Sixties when she was here on official business – a “meet and greet”, I think they call it, dear.’ She pauses so the journalist can catch up in writing it all down. ‘Anyway, Her Majesty came to Mulberry-On-Sea and … ’
Kelly loops her arm through mine.
‘Come with me.’ She steers me over to the other side of the room. ‘Oh, hang on a sec.’ Her mobile rings. ‘Yes. What is it now?’ she says on answering. A short silence follows. ‘Zara, you can be so obnoxious sometimes … ’ Another pause. Hmmm, ain’t that the truth? ‘Fine. I will tell François that the seven thousand pound Birkin bag that he gifted to you is the wrong shade of pewter.’ She snaps the phone shut and lets out a huge sigh before turning back to me. ‘Now, the next person I’m going to introduce you to is very important, a handbag designer, and if you play your cards right, then you may get to help design some bags.’ Oh my God. Thoughts of Zara instantly vanish from my head and my heart actually misses a beat. Designing handbags, I’d love to do that. Instinctively, I smooth down my top and check my hair before swigging a mouthful of champagne. ‘Here she is. Now, five minutes only darling. Georgie’s in demand,’ Kelly says to an attractive blonde woman, who looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her in magazines. And then I realise … it’s Anya Hindmarch, designer and manufacturer of exquisite handbags and purses. I’ve read her Wiki page. Oh my God. I love her bags. Annie and I always squeal with delight when a new range arrives for us to sell.
I resist the urge to do a little courtesy in reverence, and shake Anya’s hand instead. We chat about bags for the allocated timeslot and she gives me her business card before Kelly ushers me away. I’m introduced to journalists, brand managers and magazine editors. Someone from Closer magazine thanks me for my column, congratulating me on the in-depth detail and star rating I gave to each product, and promises to send me more goody bags, if I’m interested in doing a few more features – she suggests a special celebrity ‘what’s in your handbag’ piece, where I get to scrutinise the contents of A-list women’s handbags? Err, what do you think? Who wouldn’t want to get a glimpse inside someone like Victoria Beckham’s handbag? I bet it’s crammed full of luxury items and that special tea she likes.
I’m having such an amazing time that when I glance at the crystal clock on the wall at the far end of the room, I’m surprised to see that it’s almost ten p.m. – I haven’t thought about Tom for at least four hours. But then, as if reading my mind, my mobile vibrates in my clutch. I pull it out. Unknown number. I hesitate. What if it’s Tom calling to explain? I’m not sure if I even want to speak to him now. I swallow hard and decide to go for it. I can always hang up if he starts on about having always loved Zara and how he wanted me to hear about the engagement from him first, bla bla bla …
‘Hello?’ I say, finding a quietish corner of the room.
‘Is that Georgie Hart?’ It’s a woman’s voice, but I can barely hear her. I put a finger in my free ear and duck behind a heavy velvet curtain.
‘Yes it is.’
‘Great. Georgie, I’m calling from CAN Associates. Claire would very much like to meet with you.’ Oh my actual God. It’s Claire. Peter Andre’s manager. My jaw drops. I fling the curtain back. Eddie waves over. He is going to S-C-R-E-A-M when he hears about this.
17
There’s an actual courtesy car waiting for me! KCTV have sent a limousine to take me all the way to London, and it’s just arrived outside my flat. I’m off to the red-carpet opening of the cocktail bar in Soho, and Dan Kilby is meeting me there. Kelly suggested I invite him, and when the wealthy Chinese owners of the cocktail bar heard about my properly famous plus one, they trebled the fee, just like that. I check my hair in the hall mirror one last time. Perfect. KCTV also arranged for me to be styled – super big hair, tan, nails, make-up, lashes, and even arranged for me to borrow this exquisite crimson playsuit by Alexander McQueen. It clings in all the right places. A generous spray of the new Dior perfume (there was a 100 ml bottle in the latest goody bag) and I’m ready to go.
We’re in the cocktail bar, which isn’t like any cocktail bar I’ve ever been in before, it’s more how I imagine a gentlemen’s club to be. There is a selection of podiums dotted around, with women in bikinis gyrating around poles. Black flock paper hangs on the walls, with strategically placed mirrors ensuring the audience gets to view everything on offer. And there must be at least four fountains pumping a creamy piña colada concoction up in the air that slides down into goldfish-bowl-sized glasses for people to help themselves to, before popping in straws to sample. At one end of the club is a stage set up on a flight of stairs, each with twinkling blue sparkly speck lights pulsing away in a light show extravaganza. Chinese businessmen in suits are milling around, and everyone else is trying not to stare at Dan, who is leaning casually against the bar next to me with two of his security people hovering nearby.
‘Have you tried one of these?’ he says, pointing to a caramel-coloured mixture in a tall frosted glass.
‘I don’t think so. Is it good?’
‘Sure is. It’s a Baileys Biscotti milkshake. It’s their signature cocktail especially for Christmas,’ Dan explains, over the loud music. He offers me the straw and it tastes divine. Mm-mmm. ‘Shall I get you one?’
Christmas at Carrington’s Page 17