Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘He had a family matter to attend to in Sicily; his mother is Italian,’ I explain, trying once again to push away the nagging creep of doubt.

  ‘Hmm, so he was already en route when he decided to detour via Lake Como to bring you a cocktail by the infinity pool …?’ Eddie says, amplifying my fear that Tom turning up to surprise me wasn’t really the most romantic thing a man has ever done for me AT ALL.

  Well, we’ll see. I intend on grabbing my chance to be with him with both hands … one on each bum cheek as my best friend Sam says. She’s the reason I was in Italy – to be bridesmaid at her wedding to the lovely Nathan on a hilltop overlooking Lake Como, with my Dad giving her away. Her own dad, Alfie, had passed away just a few months earlier. Emotional doesn’t even come close to describing the moment she appeared to say her vows - stunning and breathtakingly beautiful in a raw silk ivory goddess gown, her blonde corkscrew curls loose around her shoulders and a pretty bouquet of assorted wild flowers in her arms.

  Sam is a true Queen of Hearts, the ultimate matchmaker so she never could resist playing Cupid, and knowing that I’d been lusting after Tom ever since I first clapped eyes on him in the staff canteen a few months ago, she had secretly arranged for him to turn up – her wedding gift to me, she had said. Of course, I didn’t know he was actually Tom Carrington then; he went undercover, pretended he was just another sales assistant. All part of his plan to assess the store from the ground floor as it were, before buying it from his Aunt Camille, whose grandfather was the original Mr Harry Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, on account of his philandering ways with the showgirls from the old music hall on Lovelace Road. And it really was a perfect moment. It’s just a shame Tom could only stay for a few hours and now I’m back here in Mulberry-on-Sea, while he’s still there in Italy.

  ‘And what about Carrington’s other gorge guy, James?’ Eddie steps forward to scrutinise me.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I reply.

  ‘Well, not so long ago you were besotted with him.’

  ‘Hardly.’ I frown, and he gives me a look. ‘The way I feel about Tom is totally different. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Besides, James and I came to an understanding, we’re just good friends now.’ A short silence follows. ‘You know, Eddie … I think Tom really could be my one.’

  ‘Dreamy. And I truly hope so, because if there’s anyone who deserves to bag their prince charming, it’s you, flower. Especially after that slutty skank of an ex, Brett, or whatever his name was. I never liked him,’ Eddie sniffs, pulling a face.

  ‘Yes, thanks Eddie, like I need reminding.’ Brett was my last serious boyfriend, before he cheated two years ago with a tall beautiful blonde. I’ve had a few liaisons since, including a one-night-stand with James but none of that even comes close to how I feel when Tom is around.

  ‘So, are you two actually an item now?’ Eddie nudges my arm.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well why not? If he really is your one, then what are you waiting for? You must go get him, honey.’ He looks outraged.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Rubbish, it’s only complicated if you make it so. I bet it’s just a matter of time. Ooh, I wonder what the other staff will think … The wealthy store owner and the penniless shop girl, does have a certain Pretty Woman feel to it,’ Eddie says with a flourish while waving his free hand in the air like he’s Walt Disney pondering on a new fairytale film ending.

  ‘Will you please stop it – I’m hardly penniless. And shop girl sounds so old-fashioned and dull … I’m an experienced and well regarded sales assistant and newly-appointed supervisor,’ I say, mulling it all over as the creaky old staff lift shudders to a halt. We fling open the cage door, side-step a couple of stock trollies piled high with flattened cardboard boxes and walk along the dimly-lit corridor that’s like a time warp with its original 1920s faded floral wallpaper.

  I suppose in a way Eddie does have a point. Sort of. Tom Carrington is the new managing director after all, the majority shareholder and what if he wants to focus on settling into his new position? Prove himself as a credible department store owner? He’s not going to want everyone on the shop floor tittle-tattling about his liaison with me, Georgie Hart, in charge of Women’s Accessories. And to be honest, his impromptu visit to Italy was so brief, I really didn’t want to waste a second of it by quizzing him about ‘next steps’ once we both got home to Mulberry-On-Sea. No, I had wanted to make the most of the few short hours we had together. That was before I got his email just as I landed at Gatwick airport.

  Hi Georgie,

  I hope you had a safe journey home. I’m going to be here in Sicily for a while longer.

  Hope to catch up on my return.

  Tom x

  I knew he was travelling on to Sicily after surprising me, he told me he had a family matter to attend to, but I just assumed he would be back by now. If I’d known … well, then perhaps I would have broached the subject when I had the chance, and his email is far more formal than I had hoped for. Of course I read it a trillion times over the weekend, wondering exactly what it means – ‘catch up’ could be code for practically anything from ‘I’ll bump into you in the staff canteen sometime’ to ‘Let’s have gloriously filthy clothes-ripping sex the very second we next clap eyes on each other.’ And at first I was delighted to hear from him and felt really buoyant that he obviously wanted to continue things, why else would he send an email? He could have just ignored me. But now that I’ve let my thoughts spiral, I’m swaying between thinking his appearance in Italy was just a dramatic gesture engineered by Sam, because Tom was too polite to decline her invitation, or that perhaps he really does feel the same way I do, and as Eddie says … It’s just a matter of time until he’s back and we can really get to know each other and actually Get It On. God, I hope it’s the latter because he is hot – the archetypal (but 100% real) tall, dark, handsome guy with an actual personality. Bonus! And believe me, I’ve met some proper tools in my time.

  But that’s not all. He has a wicked sense of humour – insisted I call him Mr Carrington and threatened to tip me off my sunlounger and flip me into the infinity pool if I didn’t. I ended up pushing him in first. That was after we had a tickling fight. He’s surprisingly down-to-earth, given his privileged background, being independently and tremendously wealthy from a proper Italian dynasty, but he doesn’t have any kind of annoying sense of entitlement that the beautiful people sometimes have. There’s just something SO irresistible about him. A spark. And he’s a really nice guy. An incredible guy. Sometimes I can’t believe that he’s interested in me, because let’s face it, he really could have his pick of women – supermodels or socialites from wealthy families with impeccable pedigrees. I’m just ordinary Georgie Hart from Mulberry-On-Sea with a brunette bob that often does a spectacular impression of a pair of floppy spaniel ears, especially if I don’t use my giant sleep-in Velcro rollers for a bit of extra bouf.

  I pull out my iPhone to check for more messages. Nope, nothing. I tap through to my sent items just to be sure my reply to Tom did actually get sent. I hope so – I must have deleted the original and then tweaked it at least six times before I was satisfied it didn’t sound too needy, or clingy or desperate or whatever … I’m all in favour of appearing bright, breezy and chatty. Didn’t want to come across all bunny-boiler and scare him off. Frustrating, when what I actually wanted to write was, I literally CAN NOT stop thinking about you, hell, you’ve even appeared in my dreams, several times in fact. NAKED. Gloriously tanned, glistening in mist spray and begging to take me right there, wherever that may be. The last scenario was in the sauna (at the health club I joined and never went to but he doesn’t need to know that) resulting in me waking up in a very hot and highly sensitised state … or words to that effect.

  And this situation would be so much easier if Sam was here, she’d know what to do, she’s an expert when it comes to bagging the man of your dreams, but she’s on honeymoon so there’s no way I’m interr
upting her and Nathan to chat about my potential new lover … Hmm, steady on. It was just a kiss; several in fact. Yes, very passionate ones, but still, early days and all that. Besides, given my track record with men, I think it’s fair to consider that it could quite possibly fizzle away to nothing and I’ll miss out on having incredible sex with the sexiest man I’ve ever had the resoundingly good fortune to meet. Not to mention the chance of an actual bona fide relationship.

  We make it in to the staff room and after hanging up my mac and checking my make-up for rain slippage, I find my phone and click to view the email that I did eventually send.

  Hi Tom,

  Thanks for your email and for surprising me on the day before Sam’s wedding, which went really well btw. She’s now Mrs Taylor!

  Oh God, why did I put that? Like he really cares what my best friend’s new surname is. Cringe. I quickly press on.

  It was lovely seeing you and I can’t wait to continue from where we left off.

  Better. A bit too formal, but then he started it off like that. And then I go and ruin it all by signing off with this.

  Luv

  Georgie xoxoxo

  What on earth was I THINKING? Everyone knows love spelt L-U-V is code for I think I might actually love you already even though we’ve only kissed a few times, how else can I explain my totally irrational obsession with thinking about you every single second, it’s insane when I barely know you, BUT, I don’t want to look too keen and scare you off by actually writing the L word because I’m not really some kind of fffffreak with a fixation complex AT ALL. And as for the smiley face emoticon and the multiple hugs and kisses? Oh God. Purlease. Saaaaave me. What am I? Twelve years old!

  I tell myself it will be better when he’s back and we can communicate face-to-face, or better still, skin-on-skin. Nothing gets lost in translation then …

  ‘Don’t suppose you know when Tom is due back, by any chance?’ I turn to Eddie, who is Tom’s personal assistant after all. Well, boy assistant or BA for short. I will him to say ‘today’ and I’m already visualising me in my new French silk navy underwear set with matching lace-trim stockings, leading Tom by the hand into my bedroom just like the sultry siren I imagine myself to be in those dreams, when Eddie goes and ruins it all.

  ‘Sorry, petal, a month or so, I think … but I’m not sure.’ He gives me a sympathetic look then returns to inspecting his already immaculate cuticles. A MONTH! Oh no, no, no. I can’t wait that long. And how can Tom disappear for such a long time when he has a department store to run? ‘No doubt I’ll be enlightened further once I’ve thumbed through his schedule,’ Eddie continues, ‘but he did say something about travelling on to meetings in Milan and Paris with suppliers and brand managers once he’s left Sicily. You know how keen he is to be hands-on in turning Carrington’s around, which we all know, this store is in dire need of if last quarter’s sales figures are anything to go by. Plus he wants to get to know everyone involved in the store personally. Some more than others.’ Eddie nudges me hard, not missing a beat. ‘Which reminds me … Have you had the memo re the VIP summer sale preview event next month?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I saw something about it,’ I say quickly, feeling bamboozled by this sudden shift in subject. I want to talk about Tom.

  ‘Good, because the board has given me a list of VIPs to invite, and one of them, a personal friend of the Carrington family, Countess someone or another, has specifically requested a tour of the high-end handbag selection.’

  ‘Ooh, I shall look forward to meeting her in that case.’ I make a mental note to put together a selection of our very finest bags, realising that it might actually be a good opportunity to have something other than my obsession with Tom to think about, if only for a few seconds. And we could certainly do with some decent sales – as Eddie says, things have been extremely quiet this quarter.

  ‘Anyway, must dash sweetcheeks. People to please and all that …’ He plops his Costa cup in a bin before swinging open the door and sweeping away. And then, as if by magic, my phone pings alerting me to one lovely new email. I let my finger hover, savouring the potential promise this numerical symbol offers. And bingo! It’s another message from Tom. Maybe he likes emoticons after all! My pulse quickens.

  Pinning my gold Carrington’s name badge on to my uniform black top, I practically skip through the door leading to the staff corridor, bounce into the lift and float back downstairs to the shop floor. I’m going to save Tom’s email for later and then wait as long as I can possibly bear before replying. I don’t want look too keen, and besides, right now, a whole month without him feels like an eternity so I intend on savouring every single agonisingly exquisite second of this long-distance flirtation …

  Chapter Two

  The shop floor looks amazing, all summery and happy, lifting my mood to practically euphoric – the display team have done a fantastic job. Giant daisies hang on lengths of invisible string from the ceiling and the podiums dotted around the floor are swathed in pretend grass and decorated with candy-striped deckchairs, buckets and spades and piles of brightly coloured towel bales from Homeware are stacked high with bottles of lotions and potions dotted in between. Molton Brown. Cowshed. Soap and Glory, they’re all here. Another podium displays a sleek silver luggage collection beside a couple of cocktail glasses and a stack of bonkbuster beach books. Even the traditional cherry wood gilt-inlayed panelled walls have had a makeover and are now adorned with a trillion tiny daisies, pretty and sparkly with their gold-dipped petals.

  I duck into the little alcove behind my counter here on the ground floor, next to the floor-to-ceiling window display giving me a magnificent view of the cobbled High Street with its white colonnaded walkway and pretty hanging baskets brimming with fuchsia begonias suspended from romantic olde worlde streetlamps. During quiet times, I love watching all the people milling up and down outside, or relaxing in a deckchair enjoying a musical performance on the bandstand opposite. And on a clear early morning, when the town is still empty, I can see as far as the peppermint-green railings down by the harbour and out to the glistening sea beyond.

  After surreptitiously sliding my mobile from my trouser pocket, (we’re not really supposed to have phones on us, but everyone does and as long as we’re sensible and keep them on silent mode, then nobody knows) I read the email.

  Hi Georgie,

  I’m looking forward to picking up from where we left off too.

  Tom x

  Ps – does that mean I get to kiss you all over next time after I’ve tickled you into submission??

  Mmm. Flirty. And I like it. A lot.

  I let out a long breath before smoothing down my hair and straightening my top – one of our regular customers could appear at any moment to catch me red-cheeked, and that really wouldn’t do. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on purely for the customers’ retail shopping pleasure where everything else can be left behind the scenes. It’s all an illusion. When a customer enters Carrington’s, the store with more, as our strapline says, they want it to be about them, not the flirty goings-on of the sales assistant.

  I sneak one last quick peek at the email before slotting my phone back inside my pocket.

  ‘Hey, what are you grinning like a looper for?’ It’s Annie, my assistant, and she’s scrutinising me from behind the biggest pair of sunshine yellow geek glasses I think I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Nice frames,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t try to change the subject.’ Annie flicks her frosted hair extensions back over her shoulder. ‘Something’s going on,’ she pauses to ponder, crinkling her forehead and placing her index finger on her lip. ‘You’ve had sex!’ she bellows.

  ‘Shuuuuush,’ I mouth, swiftly dragging her behind the Marc Jacobs display, and narrowly avoiding regular customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, who never actually buy anything, they just like to come in store for a chat and share pictures of their grandchildren who live in California. But still, I don’t want them overhearing Annie �
�� she can be very loud and animated when she gets going. Plus, I’m not sure I want the rest of the staff knowing about Tom and me just yet. And the last thing I want is him thinking I can’t be discrete. Trusted. He may want to keep things under wraps for now. He is the boss after all.

  ‘It’s Mr Carrington, isn’t it? Oh my God … It is, isn’t it!’ Annie practically screams, before slapping her hand over her mouth. ‘You are one very lucky lady. Fuuuck … what I wouldn’t do to grab hold of him.’ She smiles and shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘Whisper-voice, Annie, someone might hear you, and no, I haven’t had sex,’ I tell her, before scanning the floor.

  ‘But why not? He’s totes gorge,’ she adds, lowering her voice now.

  Annie makes big eyes and waits for me to respond.

  ‘Err …’ I start, wondering how on earth she even knows about me and Tom, when the only Carrington’s staff in the loop are my best friends, Sam and Eddie, and I trust them both. Eddie might be the biggest drama queen going, but he’s completely reliable and Sam, well, she’s the kindest, most loyal friend ever, we’re practically sisters and we’ve known each other ages – since we started school together at five years old.

  ‘Oh, it’s OK. Everyone knows … Well, not everyone everyone.’ She shakes her head and grabs my hand reassuringly. ‘Only me and Betty, that mumsy switchboard supervisor. And Mrs Grace I think, but not the customers or anything.’ Oh that’s good. Betty is the biggest gossip going, and Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee will certainly have something to say about it. She’s a stalwart for tradition and upholding the ‘proper way to behave’; she really won’t approve of Mr Carrington carrying on with me – I can see her now, clutching her granny bag and wagging her bony finger, warning me not to dally with the likes of them upstairs on the executive floor. She’s old-fashioned and a bit of a ‘them and us’ and ‘it’s alright for them’ type.