But right now I’m relieved to have something to do, even if that something is tidying hangers and selling ridiculously priced clothes. It may be mundane, but it keeps me busy.
I turn up at Tina T’s, the shop I work in, about five minutes early and find Laura staring at a rail of clothes with a vexed look on her face.
“Bugger,” she says distractedly, then starts muttering under her breath.
“Everything okay?” I ask hesitantly. As a general rule I don’t talk to Laura. She’s the most terrifying person I’ve ever met and she has this way of just staring at you when you say something, like you’re some sort of insect and she’s not sure whether to swat you or not. Laura’s my boss, and she has eyes in the back of her head, can sell anything to anyone, and she can see a spot of dust on your clothes at ten paces. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a coat made of dalmatians at home.
“Bloody morons sent me size fourteen Marni. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I told them size ten. This is Notting Hill, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell wears size fourteen here?”
That’s the other thing about Tina T’s. It’s like the land of the thin. Take Laura—size six maximum. There’s just nothing to her. I actually think she’s too thin—all bony and angular, plus she wears her hair pulled back off her face into this really tight ponytail, so her face looks stretched over her cheekbones.
And all the customers are thin, too. Once this woman walked in and she was normal size, if you know what I mean. Not huge, but not thin, either. Anyway, Laura gave her this look, and within about five minutes she was out the door. I’d love to take Laura down to the West Country. People have bottoms there. Proper ones that you can sit on for hours without getting uncomfortable.
“Maybe they’ll sell,” I say thoughtfully, looking at the clothes more closely. “I mean, they’re a nice loose fit, aren’t they? They’re probably really flattering for a size fourteen. And we do sometimes get normal-sized people in the shop.”
Laura stares at me for a moment, raises her left eyebrow, then turns back to her shipping order.
“I don’t see what’s normal about being size fourteen. Natalie, would you mind taking that pile of Missoni down to the stockroom and tagging them up? Julie’s down there, but I need her up here to help me with display.”
Grudgingly, I walk toward the stockroom door. Stockroom duty is always the task given to the most-recent recruit apparently. I certainly seem to be down there a lot. Sometimes I think wistfully of my desk back at Shannon’s, but I convinced myself that you sometimes have to take a step back to take two forward. And at least I won’t have anyone breathing down my neck down there. I’ve discovered that stockroom duty enables you to sit down for a bit and read the newspaper—it’s easy to hear Laura coming down because the stairs are so creaky.
Julie is standing in front of the stockroom mirror, cigarette in hand, admiring herself in a Vivienne Westwood dress. She looks amazing. Julie looks like a movie star, anyway—she has this perfect white-blond chignon that never falls out of place, the palest skin I’ve ever seen, and she always wears really red lipstick and fitted skirts with high heels. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in trousers; she looks like she’s stepped right out of the 1940s. She even smells like a diva—all cigarettes and heady perfume. And the dress she’s wearing looks incredible—nipped in at the waist, with a corset top and really tight skirt that must be hell to walk in but looks amazing. It’s a shame we’re not allowed to wear the clothes on the shop floor, because the customers—sorry, clients—wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes off her. I bet these dresses would just walk out of the door.
Mind you, we’re also not allowed to smoke in the stockroom. Or anywhere near Tina T’s clothes. Not that it ever stops Julie.
“Looks nice,” I say appreciatively. “Laura wants you upstairs on display.”
“Fuck’s sake,” says Julie, stubbing out her cigarette. “Don’t get a bloody moment’s peace round here. You tagging up the Missoni?”
I nod.
“Do me a favor and lose this dress somewhere, will you? I want to wear it tonight and I guarantee if it goes back on the shop floor, someone will buy it. I’ll have it back on Tuesday, okay?”
Julie has already taken the dress off and handed it to me and I can smell traces of smoke on it. I look at her uncertainly. I’m pretty sure there’s also a rule about not hiding dresses from Laura.
“I’ll . . . see what I can do,” I say unenthusiastically.
“Thanks, Natalie. Look, don’t worry; we do it all the time. Just leave a pile of stuff on top of it or something—there’s only a size ten left upstairs and if someone wants a smaller size, I don’t want them getting this one, okay?” Julie raises her eyebrows at me as she pulls on her own (equally glamorous) silver dress, then looks away as if she’s just thought of something. “You doing anything tomorrow night, by the way?”
“Nothing special.” Unless you count doing laundry, I think to myself. Opening other people’s junk mail. Having an existential crisis about the meaning of life—mine in particular . . .
“Well, if you fancy it, me and Lucy are going to Canvas.”
If I fancy it? Julie is actually asking if I fancy going out? God, next thing you know, Hugh Grant is going to wander into the shop and ask me out.
“Sounds good,” I say calmly. I know Julie’s probably just asking me because I’m doing her a favor with the Westwood dress, but I couldn’t care less. I’m going to Canvas, the coolest bar in Notting Hill, with Julie and Lucy, who are both pretty much the personification of “fabulous.” If Chloe were here, I’d be tempted to go for a high five.
“Okay. Well, as soon as Laura’s gone, we’ll go, okay? She always buggers off early on Mondays.”
And with that, Julie turns and walks up the stairs toward the shop floor.
I put the dress on a rail that has winter Marc Jacobs on it. It’s behind the Dolce and Gabbana rail, so Laura’s unlikely to find it unless she’s really looking, then turn back to the Missoni clothes and start to tag them. It’s not as easy as you’d think, particularly with knitted Missoni dresses and trousers—one mistake and a dress can unravel in front of your very eyes. If the person who worked here before me had been more careful, I wouldn’t have got this job, a fact which Laura reminds me of pretty much daily. I always want to reply, “Yeah, well if I hadn’t suspected my ex-boyfriend of cheating and left my job in a great advertising agency, I wouldn’t be here, either,” but I don’t. I’m not that stupid.
By one P.M. I’ve got everything tagged and ready to go, so I take the bundle of clothes up to the shop floor. It’s humming with activity—Sunday is couples day in shopping terms. There are sofas for men to sit on, and they can order cups of tea and coffee, so they have a great time chilling out while their wives and girlfriends try on item after item. I’m not sure that would have been enough to tempt Pete out shopping, though. He would develop this hunched back and slow walk whenever I took him anywhere near a clothes shop, and as soon as I said I might try something on, he’d tell me he’d wait outside the shop. And of course the guilt of having him wait in the freezing cold for me was too much to bear, so I’d forget it and come back later on my own. It’s memories like this that make me so angry now. Not with Pete so much, but with myself for putting up with it. What was I thinking?
Laura motions me to hang the Missoni next to the shop entrance, the most prominent display rack. The sun is shining through the windows, making the shop feel warm and summery, despite the subzero temperatures outside, and as disco beats play on the shop stereo, shoppers are ignoring our warmer ranges in favor of linens and light cottons. Laura is right on the money, because no sooner have I hung the clothes up than two women take dresses off the rack and ask me if they can try them on.
I smile my new “shop assistant smile” (I’ve been practicing) and take the dresses to the dressing room.
“Ooh, they’re gorgeous,” sighs one of the women, running her hand over the fabric as we walk into the cubi
cle.
“I know; they’re just in today, too,” I say. “You’re lucky to get your hands on one—in Harvey Nichols they’ve got a waiting list!”
I’m not sure if that’s strictly true, but I heard Julie say that to someone yesterday about some Alexander McQueen jeans, and they ended up buying two pairs.
The girls go into the cubicle excitedly. It turns out they’re sisters. Although why they’d want to buy the same dress is beyond me. Surely the point of getting something really expensive is that you don’t see someone else walking down the street in it?
It’s only when they come out of the cubicle that I realize who they are. One’s a film actress, and the other’s a film director—there was a huge article about them in The Times because they’re both up for Oscars for their latest project. I guess wearing identical dresses is likely to get them a lot more press coverage.
The only problem is that one of them looks really good, and the other one . . . well, I wouldn’t go out looking like that.
They look up at me and I wrinkle my nose slightly.
“What do you think?” says the taller sister, the one who looks stunning with the Missoni draped over her delicate frame. “Oh, really wonderful,” I say. “I mean, that dress really suits you.”
“I’m not sure,” says the other sister (the director), craning her neck round to see her back view in the mirror. “I’m not sure this dress is really me.”
Too right it isn’t. “Do you really need the same dress?” I ask.
“Yeah—our publicist wants us photographed tonight outside the Ivy, and we’ve been everywhere looking for something.”
“Have you tried Joseph?” I suggest. I saw some really lovely backless dresses in there the other day. They’d be perfect.
Suddenly Julie appears out of nowhere. “Oh. My. God. Will you look at that. You look sensational!” she says dramatically, and shoots me a look. “These dresses are just gorgeous on you both. It’s so lucky you’ve managed to find them in your size, too—Harvey Nicks has got a waiting list on these.”
“Yeah, I know,” says the dumpier sister. “But I’m not sure it’s really me. Does my bum look big?”
“Are you kidding? It looks fabulous! We have a lovely wrap that will go with them, too,” says Julie, staring at the sisters with utter admiration.
“Ooh, that might work,” says the sister whose hips have been widened terribly by the unforgiving Missoni stripes.
“Natalie, why don’t you get a couple of the wraps?” suggests Julie. As I walk over to the accessories area, she grabs me.
“Do you not want to make any money?” she hisses in my ear. “For God’s sake—you’ve got a sale here. Don’t start telling them to go to fucking Joseph!”
I redden and walk toward the wraps. Wrap schwrap. The dress will look terrible whatever you drape over it.
I dig some out and hand them to the sisters, who are still preening in front of the mirror.
Then I take a deep breath. “Wow!” I say with as much feeling as I can muster. “That looks . . . really great—the wraps are just perfect. Do you want to try on some shoes? We’ve got some fabulous Prada heels that would look lovely with that dress.”
The sisters nod in glee, and I go down to the stockroom and pick up a couple of pairs of the most expensive shoes Tina T’s stocks. “You can do this,” I mutter to myself. “Sell, sell, sell.”
The sisters love them. “Come on, let’s get them,” says the lanky sister.
“Fine,” agrees the larger sister, who then turns to me. “You’re sure the dress doesn’t make me look too . . . wide?”
I stare at her. She’s looking at me so trustingly—can I really let her go out with her sister looking like that when she could look so much better? But I’m never going to keep this job if I send great customers away. God, I never thought a job in a clothes shop would pose such a moral dilemma.
Trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing, and managing to not actually look the sister in the eye, I smile as brightly as I can. “Too wide? You must be joking—it looks gorgeous!”
She smiles in relief and ten minutes later I’m putting through a sale for £2,000. That’ll be another £100 in my pay packet this month. Laura gives me a look that for once doesn’t make me break out in goose bumps, Julie winks at me, and I feel pretty good. And, in the pit of my stomach, guilty as hell. At least I’m in London. It’s not like I’m ever going to see that woman again. And if I’m going to make a go of this job, which frankly I need to, I think I need to toughen up.
At three P.M. I take my tea break. We only get fifteen minutes, but I always go out. At lunchtime I take a quick wander up to Hyde Park and watch the ducks swimming in the pond, and even with fifteen minutes I go for a little wander—unlike Julie, who spends the whole time down in the stockroom drinking coffee and smoking. I love London, but I do sometimes miss the open stretches of countryside I grew up with. Not that Julie would understand that—she thinks I’m mad going anywhere near green open spaces, which for her represents a nightmare of muddy grass and dogs. But I suppose if you always wear four-inch heels, muddy grass would be a liability.
As I wander up Ledbury Road and along Westbourne Grove, I go through the morning’s events in my head, trying to rationalize my behavior. I didn’t lie to that woman—I just did my job, like Julie said. I mean, we’ve all had shop assistants tell us things look great when they don’t really, haven’t we? God, I’ve had friends say something looks great only to catch my reflection in a mirror (usually when it’s too late to do anything about it) and realize that it was a big mistake. And anyway, the dresses looked fine. I need to just stop taking things so seriously. It’s not like advertising was so squeaky clean, was it? There was this one campaign I was working on for a furniture manufacturer where the whole focus was on quality. It was really nice-looking furniture, too, so I bought one of their tables and it fell apart within a month. And when I told my boss he hardly blinked—he just grinned and said, “Don’t believe everything you read.” Like it was my fault for believing my own advertising slogan.
I take a few deep breaths and walk back toward the shop, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Is it my imagination, or am I actually beginning to look like I belong here? It’s not just the clothes (although I am wearing the uniform of drainpipe jeans, skinny T-shirt, and pointy shoes)—it’s a way of walking; hurried, preoccupied, unapproachable. It’s known as the London defense system—you never know when some nutter is going to accost you in the street. For a second I wonder if I want to become a defensive, neurotic Londoner; then I shrug. Of course I do. Why would I be here otherwise?
I walk back into Tina T’s purposefully, and walk straight over to a customer who’s looking at some Jimmy Choos.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” I say with a little sigh that I’ve seen Julie use.
That afternoon I sell another £600 worth of clothes, with hardly any help from Julie. That’s a total of £130 commission in my pocket. And I feel great.
At six P.M., Laura comes over. “Natalie, did I actually see you make a sale?” she asks with a mocking smile on her face.
I nod. I suddenly realize who she reminds me of. It’s the witch from The Wizard of Oz. Which I guess makes me Dorothy. Or maybe Toto.
“Well, it just shows how good the clothes are this season,” she continues, smiling thinly.
“I think she’s a bloody natural,” says Julie, coming to my defense quickly.
“Really?” says Laura with false surprise. “That is interesting. I wonder if you think this is natural, too?” She holds out one of the Missoni dresses I tagged up this morning. Someone has tried to rip the tag off the dress and it’s left a tear in the fabric.
“You think that was me?!” I ask incredulously. “That’s ridiculous. Someone’s obviously tried to rip it off.”
“Impossible,” says Laura. “I was near them all day today. I warned you about tagging, Natalie. I could fire you for this. If you hadn’t actually
sold some clothes today, I would have fired you. As it is, I’m prepared to give you another chance. But you’ll have to pay for the damage.”
My eyes narrow. I want to hurl an insult at her. Or throw a bucket of water over her and watch as she shrinks. But instead I just say “What?” in a strangled voice.
“Come on, Laura, it looks like a shoplifting attempt to me,” says Julie uncertainly, but Laura purses her lips.
“There’s no use trying to defend her,” she says calmly. “And I don’t wish to discuss the matter further. I’m leaving now, so Julie, would you cash up? Rotas for the rest of the week will be up tomorrow morning. Natalie, you’ve got Tuesday and Thursday off. Julie, you’re off on Tuesday and Wednesday, and can you make sure Lucy knows she’s off on Thursday and Sunday again? I expect good sales this week, and won’t suffer any incompetence.”
“Incompetence? You . . . you . . .” Not wanting to say the words that are desperately trying to hurl themselves out of my mouth at Laura, I give up speaking altogether and simply pick up my bag and leave. I’m so pissed off I don’t even say good-bye to Julie. I hate Laura. One day, I think to myself, one day, when I don’t need her stinking bloody job, I am going to wreak my revenge. God knows what I’ll do, but bloody hell, I’m going to do something.
I need to calm down, so I decide to go home via Graham & Green, my favorite shop in the whole world. Some people drink to steady their nerves; others do meditation. I come to this place—it’s like a sanctuary, full of lovely velvet bedspreads, handmade cards, squishy leather sofas, and antique-looking candlesticks. The air always smells of jasmine and there’s a reassuring peace to the place that always soothes my spirits. If anything’s going to make me feel better, this will.
I open the door and hear the familiar jangle of the little bell. Upstairs is full of beautiful furniture and frames, but I head downstairs to the bedroom department, where I ogle the velvet gowns and Egyptian cotton nightdresses. This is what life should be like, I think. Full of lovely things. I wish I worked here instead of bloody Tina T’s. I wish I worked anywhere instead of bloody Tina T’s. Except Shannon’s, of course. I think . . .
Little White Lies Page 4