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

by Alexandra Brown

  Zara glances in Annie’s direction, and then raises a perfectly groomed HD eyebrow at the camera guy, as if deliberately drawing the viewer’s attention to the fact that she’s being ignored. Now the camera is panning towards the window display and oh my actual God. I want to die! Right now, in my shoebox lounge with a lump of partially chewed mince pie trapped inside my gullet. My arse is only gyrating around to that Beyoncé tune, ‘Single Ladies’. I’m even wagging my left hand in the air and pointing to my ring finger. And I swear they’ve put a wide angle on the shot. I know my bum is big, but it ain’t that flipping big.

  ‘Boom boom, peng ting! Yo go girlfrieeend … get jiggy with it and all that. You are magnificent,’ Eddie bellows, like he’s some sort of badass gangsta boy, and I think I might actually faint. With his voice shrieking in my ear and my wiggling bottom on the screen it’s like a total sensory overload. And my phone hand seems to have gripped itself into a spasm, so now I have the gnarled fist of an ancient old husk of a woman too, which will probably wither from inactivity and render me a cripple by the age of twenty-eight. Grreat. Big bum and club fist – not an attractive look. What on earth was I thinking?

  I’m usually so efficient at approaching customers, we both are. Annie and I always wait a few seconds, nobody wants to be pounced on the very minute they show an interest in the merch. OK, so we might send the odd text message when the shop floor is quiet, that’s why we keep our mobiles on silent in our pockets – we’re not supposed to, but everyone does. But we never ignore the customers. No, not ever!

  ‘This is so fucking ma-jor. You’re going to be a dramality star.’ Eddie sounds like he’s about to holler himself into a hernia, he’s that elated for me.

  ‘A whaat?’ I shout, fear and humiliation making my voice sound shrill.

  ‘You know … dramality. Real but made up. You’re going to be famous. You are going to be a celebrity and, let’s face it, that’s what everyone wants to be these days,’ he sniffs, as if he’s the authority on popular culture all of a sudden. ‘You’re going to be on that jungle programme, baring your teeth like a baboon when your cheeks peel back to your ears as you’re dropped from a helicopter into the Australian bush. You’re going to have your wardrobe critiqued in Now magazine. You’re going to win a BAFTA. Oh darling, I always knew you were a true star.’ He pauses momentarily and actually sounds genuinely emotional. ‘You’re going to feature in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame. You’re going to make a mint from doing your own fitness DVD. You’re going to have your own fake tan product range. Sweet Jesus … you might even get your own TV show!’ Eddie pauses to suck in a massive gasp of air before he’s off again. ‘I wonder if I’ll get to be in the show too. You must ask that delicious man of yours. In fact, call him. Right now! Tell him how much I adore Kelly. Been a fan for years, darling. Oh hang on angel.’ There’s a muffled silence for a second, and then I hear Eddie shouting out to his boyfriend, Ciaran. ‘Is my best suit back from the dry cleaners?’ More silence follows. ‘Whaat? Never mind watching Top Gear on your iPad mini. Check it! Check the wardrobe right now. I need the suit for work tomorrow. It’s vital.’ Eddie huffs. ‘Honestly, that boy has no sense of urgency. This is my moment. And I’m going to need representation. A manager! I’m going to call that blonde woman. Claire off the telly. That’s right. The one who represents Pete.’

  ‘Pete?’ I mutter, racking my brains. I’ve never heard Eddie mention having a famous friend called Pete.

  ‘Yes, Pete! As in Peter Andre?’ Eddie says in a stagey voice, like he’s his best friend forever and I’m the only person on the whole planet who doesn’t know it.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?’ I venture, having already decided I’m having no part of this. And how come Tom never mentioned it? I’m going to call him … but not to get him to ask Kelly to include Eddie. No. To tell him that he’s bang out of order and it’s probably illegal anyway. They can’t just rock up at Carrington’s and start randomly filming Annie and me. What about our privacy? It’s stalking! That’s what it is. And what about our human rights? I’ll phone up that court in The Hague; they’re bound to know if I have the right to go to work without worrying about my backside being plastered across the TV screen of every blooming home in the country. The whole world, in fact! If you count all those ex-pat satellite viewers in places like the Costa del Sol. And not forgetting hotels and laptops. These days you can be anywhere and still get your favourite TV channels. Oh God.

  Now the initial shock is starting to wear off, I’m devastated. And really hurt if I’m totally honest. I feel like a fool. A fool for thinking that Tom trusted me. Obviously not enough to share this monumental revelation, and it can’t have happened overnight. He must have been ‘in talks’, as he likes to say, with the TV channel for absolutely ages, but he didn’t even think to utter a word about it. And like a fool I fell for his smouldering looks and fun-loving attitude. And I took in Mr Cheeks for him. I even read up on Renaissance art just so I could appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. It just goes to show that you can’t trust anyone these days. And those big hardback arty books don’t come cheap either.

  I glance back at the screen in time to hear Kelly talking directly into the camera.

  ‘Seems these shop girls are more interested in having a good time than serving you.’ And to emphasise her point, she sticks her index finger out, just like Lord Kitchener in that wartime poster. All she needs is the leather queen moustache.

  ‘Awks!’ Eddie sniggers like a smartarse, making me wish I could reach inside the phone to slap him.

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetcheeks, really I am. Ignore her. It’s probably all for the cameras. You know how these TV personalities like to mix things up a bit. Honestly, it’s not that bad. Quite exciting, in fact … just think, you’re going to be an actual star – nothing less than you deserve, of course,’ he states. ‘The camera obviously loves you, petal, and one day you’ll look back and laugh too. Promise. It’s just the shock of the surprise, that’s all. I’m your best friend, and as such it’s my job to tell you if you look ridic … but you don’t, you honestly don’t. Quite the opposite. Sassy and magnificent.’ I ignore him.

  ‘But how dare she?’

  Something isn’t right, because we never neglect customers. I don’t understand how they’ve managed to make it look as though we do. Sam squeezes my free hand tightly and gives me a reassuring but tentative grin. ‘And who says, “shop girls” anyway, these days? Talk about old-fashioned!’

  ‘Don’t worry, lover, I bet you know much more than she does about retail sales. Just focus on the fabulous perks that are going to be surging your way,’ Eddie says. ‘Yep. It’s move over TOWIE and Made In Chelsea and Hello Carringtonnnnn’s!’ he sings, like he’s about to star in the next West End musical theatre smash hit.

  Well, we’ll see about that.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say in a trance-like state to end the call, and I drop my phone down onto the carpet. I really thought Tom and I had something. Something really special. I had even started to think he might be the real deal. Everyone says you just know when you meet your one, and that’s exactly how I felt right from the very first moment I saw him. I was standing by the help-yourself salad bar in the staff canteen with my cheeks flushing and my mouth actually hanging open. He’s the quintessential tall dark gorgeous guy. Kind. Especially to animals. Calm. Impeccably mannered. Generous. Intelligent. Artistic. Gentle. Sometimes cheeky. Fantastic in bed. But how wrong was I? If he doesn’t even trust me enough to mention something as epic as Carrington’s starring in a reality TV show, then what does that say about our relationship? He obviously doesn’t feel the same way. And I’m so glad I held back on mentioning the L word. I grab my phone back up and punch out his number. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say for himself.

  2

  I’m on the bus making my way to work and I’m still devastated. After Kelly’s show last
night, I spent the rest of the evening going over and over the sequence of events for the last month or so, until a trickle of realisation dawned in the early hours of this morning. The film footage was doctored! Edited to look as if Annie ignored Zara, the customer, when in actual fact she hadn’t. It’s the only explanation. Especially as we only had one of those Anya bags in stock and I distinctly remember Annie’s elation when she sold it. To Zara. Must have been.

  Annie was whooping about adding the commission from the sale to her savings so she’d have nearly enough money to get the Flo Rida tatt removed from the spot just above her left boob. She’d had it done in a moment of madness on a crazeee hen weekend along the coast in Brighton, after hooking up with a guy called Vince who had gold teeth and seriously intricate sleeve tattoos. She’s regretted it ever since. I even remember saying she could have next Thursday off because it was the only appointment available at the laser clinic this side of Christmas. And we never normally allow it, not with Thursdays being late-night shopping, especially as the run-up to Christmas is our busiest time of year.

  But what I’m absolutely gutted about is that Tom must have allowed Kelly to fix the sequence of events. He must have known she was going to portray us like that … Surely he would have investigated, done his ‘due diligence’, as I’ve heard him say, before putting Carrington’s, the business Dirty Harry started over a hundred years ago, in this ridiculous position. We’ll be a laughing stock. Well, I already am. I’ve had seventeen tweets this morning from people wondering if I’ve seen the YouTube clip of my bottom. Somebody posted it up with the title Carrington’s Christmas Cracker! Like I’m some sort of novelty joke. I couldn’t even bring myself to look, but apparently it’s had three hundred and eighteen hits already. Cringe. Hardly viral, but that’s not the point.

  And what about our loyal customers? They won’t like being filmed. Some of them have been coming to the store since childhood, just like I did. Mum used to bring me to Carrington’s, before she passed away when I was thirteen years old. She had multiple sclerosis, which had worn her down so much that when she caught pneumonia she just couldn’t fight any more, so I ended up in foster care because Dad was still in prison and my only other relative, Uncle Geoffrey, couldn’t – or wouldn’t – take me in. But before it all happened, Mum and I would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. This was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy café where the cakes are now cupcakes and a Victoria sandwich is a layer cake with elderberry infused jam and gold glitter frosting decorated with delicate edible butterflies made from hand-spun Valrhona chocolate. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although, thinking about it, my hat trick with Tom does come a pretty good second … hmmm, but putting that aside, it’s as if all those glorious memories have been tarnished now.

  Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, I jump off at the bus stop beside the bandstand to look across the road and up at the Carrington’s frontage. Even after all this time it still excites me. An impressive, powder-blue Edwardian building with intricate white cornicing around enormous arched windows housing this year’s Christmas display – a real wooden sleigh, piled high with wrapped presents, pulled by four life-size reindeer figurines. They even have faux brown fur, enormous antlers and jingle bells nestling on crimson collars at their necks. Shimmery fake snow is scattered on the floor and all around the edges of the windows. The display lights create a magical, almost Narnia-esque image within the white colonnaded walkway of olde worlde streetlamps and pretty hanging baskets, bursting with seasonal purple cyclamen swaying gently in the wintery-cold breeze.

  Set in a prime location in the centre of Mulberry-On-Sea, Carrington’s department store is a family firm spanning three generations, offering old-style elegance with a strong sense of tradition; that special something, where loyal customers are addressed by name and the staff are treated like personal friends. No matter what’s going on in the outside world, you know that when you step inside Carrington’s you’re entering a bubble of sparkly optimism where nothing bad ever happens. Well, until last night, that is. Thanks to Tom and his new best friend ‘Ronald McDonald’, everything’s changed in an instance. Carrington’s is a tradition, a landmark synonymous with Mulberry-On-Sea, and not some gaudy sideshow that relishes making fools of people. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell him, and her, if I get the chance.

  Pushing through the door of the staff entrance at the side of the building, I say hello to a couple of the Clarins concession girls and head towards the rickety old gilt-caged staff lift. I unwind my super-chunky long knitted scarf as I go – I made it myself from a kit that came free with a magazine, all part of me doing my bit for the austerity drive. I’ve made a few maxi dresses, too, and a pair of curtains, with Mum’s old sewing machine, some patterns I found in amongst Dad’s stuff and a bit of help from Iris in Haberdashery.

  ‘Hello lovey.’ It’s Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee. She used to run my department, Women’s Accessories, before retiring at the grand old age of seventy-one, but after her husband spanked all their savings on his pigeons, she had to come back to work. So she now looks after the stockrooms on a part-time basis and, if I’m not mistaken, she’s changed her lipstick to movie-star red. Her Garnier blonde hair, which is usually bouffed up into a big Aunty Bessie bun, is now styled into an elegant beehive with a super sparkly diamanté clip holding it all altogether. And she’s smoothing down a smart, two-piece skirt suit instead of her usual hand-crocheted waistcoat and easy-fit trousers. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she says, crinkling the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Exciting?’ I say, not quite sure what she means as I press the call button for the lift. My heart is thumping with anticipation of the showdown that’s about to unfold with Tom. I wonder if he’s bracing himself too. He must know I’m on the warpath. When he didn’t answer his phone last night, I left a very terse voicemail followed by a text. Well, four to be exact. Just to be on the safe side. He needs to know how seriously upset I am.

  ‘With the film crew being here, dear. Did you see the show last night?’ she asks, and I nod. ‘Such innovation, your Tom is very clever. My Stan would never have come up with such an idea, but then he’s far too busy messing around with those filthy birds.’

  I can’t believe it. Mrs Grace is the last person I thought would approve of Tom’s actions. She’s not even keen on TV, much preferring her bingo. And being such a stalwart for tradition, a self-appointed protector of the Carrington’s good old days, she really wasn’t happy when we got a memo saying not to address customers as Sir or Madam any more. Tom said research showed it sounded old-fashioned, that some women get offended by it, it makes them feel old – and, as much as it pains me to say, given how I feel about him at this precise moment in time, I do think he had a very good point.

  ‘Oh dear, what is it love? You don’t look very happy. Here … ’ Mrs Grace snaps open her granny bag and pulls out a crumpled pink-and-white striped paper bag full of pick ’n’ mix sweets. ‘These will cheer you up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, helping myself to a slightly fluffy foam banana. I take a bite and relish the sugary taste.

  ‘Take two, one is never enough,’ she chuckles, rustling the bag enticingly, so I take a green pear drop to be polite and pop it in my pocket. ‘I thought you youngsters loved the telly. It’s the only reason I voted in favour of doing the show.’

  ‘Voted? What do you mean?’ I ask, creasing my forehead and racking my brains as I try to work out what’s going on. She’s standing directly underneath one of the original 1920s Tiffany wall lamps, which is casting an eerie glow on her face, and I can’t help thinking that it makes her look like one of those spooky old china dolls.

  ‘At the special staff meeting in the canteen after work one night. Ooh, it must have been a good few weeks ago now, may even have been a few months. My memory’s not so good these days,’ she chuckles as the lift arrives and I crank th
e cage door back. We step inside and I pull the door closed before pressing the gold button.

  ‘Was everyone at this meeting?’ I must be going mad. I definitely wasn’t invited to a meeting, and surely Sam and Eddie would have mentioned it last night if they already knew about the TV show. Fair enough, Sam might not have known, given that she’s not technically a Carrington’s employee – her café business leases the space. But anyway, if she knew, maybe overheard one of the other sales assistants talking over a coffee perhaps, then she would definitely have told me, there’s no way she would have kept a secret this massive. No, Sam was as shocked as I was. She was actually speechless, and it takes a lot for that to happen to Sam. Eddie, on the other hand, may have held out on me, but then he is Tom’s BA so I suppose he’s kind of conflicted, a bit. On second thoughts, no! There’s no way Eddie would have managed to contain himself for a nanosecond, let alone weeks or even months – he was way too excited about me becoming a star.

  ‘Oh no, just the board and a handful of senior staff,’ Mrs Grace continues. ‘I was invited because I used to be a manager. Confidentiality they said. On a “need-to-know” basis only.’ She pushes her granny bag into the crook of her elbow before making little quotes signs with her bony fingers. ‘But between you and me, I think I was only invited as a courtesy, probably to get me on side so I didn’t form a protest.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Oldest trick in the book – get the potential troublemaker on board first.’ She chuckles. ‘We even had to sign a form to say we wouldn’t blab any of the details as it would spoil the surprise element of the show. Very Hollywood and hush-hush, it was. They gave us free pizza,’ she says, pronouncing it peeeza, ‘although I didn’t have any as all that cheese gives me heartburn something rotten.’ Mrs Grace pauses to pat her chest. ‘And they paid for a cab home. Kelly wasn’t actually in the meeting, just the production team, but her glamorous assistant was and she’s a real beauty up close. All milky skin and bee-sting lips.’