Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  I couldn’t wait for Sharon to come and assess my work at the end of that month and to tell me what my new job would entail, but first she had to get over her astonishment at the newly arranged stockroom.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she gasped, turning around on the spot. ‘I can see the floor. Everything has a place! It’s like you’ve worked magic!’ She pulled at her cropped hair thoughtfully and I thought I saw her almost smile. Then she patted me on the back, told me I was born to work in the stockroom and that instead of giving me a job on the shop floor she wanted to make me stockroom manager. For a moment I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I thanked her and decided to make the best of it. So what if I was starting at the bottom? Sharon would soon see that I could be an asset to the store. For the first time in my life I’d found something I was good at.

  Little did I know that by taking the job, I was effectively packing up my hopes and dreams and storing them away at the back of the stockroom, along with all the other unwanted goods at Hardy’s.

  Until today, I think, as I press the security code on the door and then push it open. The harsh neon strip lights flicker uncertainly as I switch them on and eventually the dark room lights up and the stockroom is revealed in all its grey glory. I may have managed to organize it meticulously so it no longer looks like some dead granny’s attic, but I never did manage to give it the lick of white paint it really needs. Sharon looked at me like I was insane when I’d suggested it a couple of months after I started. She said that there was no budget for such fripperies. So instead I took some bright, kitsch 1960s and 1970s magazine covers that I’d found in a box, framed them and put them up on the walls, then I put a couple of old display-damaged Tiffany-style jewelled lamps by the sofa. Each year, in December, I hang strings of fairy lights around the shelves. I’ve even bought a real Christmas tree and it has perched gaily in my lounge area since the last week of November.

  I flick the kettle on, just as the door buzzer sounds. I wander over and swing open the double doors at the back of the stockroom, which lead out to the store’s loading bays, and smile as a friendly, freckled face greets me. It’s Sam, the delivery guy, who comes every Monday and Thursday. I really look forward to his visits; sometimes he’s the only person I see all day. In fact, he’s the closest to a work colleague I’ve actually got. We’ve been friends ever since he brought a delivery during my first week when I was trying to organize the stockroom. I was completely bewildered by the enormity of the job, but once he’d unloaded everything he sat and helped me work out a plan. He even stayed so he could help me rearrange the room, moving the heavier boxes and bits of furniture I couldn’t manage. I honestly couldn’t have done it without him and our friendship has grown in strength ever since. Sam’s one of those lovely, laid-back guys who’s really easy to talk to. I feel like I’ve known him forever, which is weird because I’ve never had many male friends before. My brothers’ mates always treated me like some stupid kid and were way too intimidating for me, and the boys in my year at school were only interested in being friends with the girls they fancied. I’ve found it a refreshing experience to meet a guy like Sam. We just seem to get each other, you know? We’re the same age, both stuck in dead-end jobs that we don’t know how to get out of, and we both lived with our parents way longer than is socially acceptable. He’s the youngest of three siblings. They’re all more successful than he is, although I don’t know why, as he’s clever, funny articulate, creative and cute – if you like boyish-looking guys with messy hair the colour of maple syrup, a smattering of stubble, and big, soulful eyes, that is. He’s always wanted to be a photographer for magazines, but he’s finding it hard to get into such a competitive industry, so for now he’s a delivery guy at his dad’s company. But he never complains, which I really like.

  ‘You’re late,’ I admonish him now, waggling my finger at him.

  ‘No I’m not,’ he retorts as he huddles in the doorway, proffering a paper bag with his gloved hand. ‘I went to get you a pastry. I know better than to turn up here without breakfast.’

  He’s right. Sam has been bringing me breakfast every week since I started here. Sometimes it’s coffee and pastries, other times it’s a bacon or sausage and egg sandwich, and he’s even been known to bring takeaway pancakes, including blueberries and maple syrup. On special occasions he really goes to town. On my birthday he brought Buck’s Fizz and a selection of gorgeous cakes from Patisserie Valerie. I add ‘thoughtful’ to my mental list of Reasons I Like Sam.

  I peer inside the bag, suddenly aware that I’m starving. ‘Mmm, cinnamon and raisin, my favourite.’ I take a large bite, bigger than my mouth can actually manage, and begin frantically chewing, trying not to spit bits of flaky pastry at him.

  He gazes at me in amusement. ‘So I see.’ Then he gestures at the van. ‘Shall I start unloading?’ I nod, still munching hungrily on the pastry and he lopes off towards the van. ‘Pour us a cuppa,’ he calls back. ‘I’ll just have time for one before my next delivery. I need to thaw out. It’s bloody freezing out here.’

  I trundle obediently over to the kettle, happy to be spending time with him on my Big Day. I’ve not breathed a word of it to anyone but I really want to tell Sam about my impending promotion; he’ll be so happy for me.

  ‘Hunfffff.’ Sam heaves the last of the delivery boxes into the corner and I turn round, clutching his cup, to be greeted by a wall of cardboard.

  ‘Great,’ I grumble good-naturedly as I hand him his tea. ‘More stuff to unpack.’

  Sam takes a long gulp of tea and glances over at the boxes. ‘It’s from the latest collections, apparently.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Which were designed when, 1984?’ Being on trend is not Hardy’s strong point.

  I walk over to the boxes, pick up a Stanley knife, swipe it down the centre of the first lid and then gasp as I pull out a shimmering sequined top with padded shoulders and slashed sleeves. ‘Hang on, Sam, this is gorgeous.’

  I may not be a fashion expert but even I can see that this is more than a cut above the stock we usually buy in. Under the plastic the gossamer material is so light to the touch it feels like liquid silk between my fingers and, oh my God, the way it hangs makes me think it could look good even with my curves. I’m almost overcome with an urge to try it on but, aware of Sam’s indifference to it, I merely glance at the label instead.

  ‘Florence Gainsbourg?’ I read, and shrug my shoulders. ‘Never heard of her. How come we’re stocking stuff like this?’ I glance at the front of the box in confusion. ‘Are you sure this is my delivery, Sam?’

  He looks affronted. ‘Since when have I ever mixed them up? This job isn’t exactly rocket science, you know.’

  I flap my hand at him dismissively. ‘Don’t be so sensitive. I just can’t believe that any of our managers would order this stuff. It’s not exactly Hardy’s usual style. Whereas this is.’ I lean over to the shelf behind and pull out a massive pair of jodhpurs, stretching them to their full girth to emphasize my point. Sam laughs and I throw them back on the shelf before sitting down wearily on one of the crates. I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell him my news.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ I sigh dramatically. ‘How much longer am I going to be unpacking boxes?’

  ‘About four hours, judging by this lot,’ he says, slurping his tea and leaning against the shelves, seemingly oblivious to my hint. I hit him on the arm and a bit of tea dribbles out of his mouth. He pushes me back playfully. ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’

  ‘I don’t mean how long am I going to be unpacking these. I mean working in here.’ I look up at him, suddenly curious. ‘I know you don’t want to be doing deliveries for your dad forever either,’ I probe. ‘Don’t you ever get frustrated by your job?’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Sam shrugs. ‘I quite enjoy it. Plus there are perks.’ He raises his cup at me and I laugh.

  ‘Well, I just hope the new stockroom manager is as good a host as I am,’ I say casually. I drop my eyes and then loo
k up at Sam to gauge his reaction.

  ‘You’re not leaving are you?’ He’s clearly shocked.

  ‘Not leaving Hardy’s, no, but I am leaving the stockroom.’ I pause before saying tentatively, ‘You’re looking at Hardy’s new assistant manager. Well,’ I add bashfully, ‘it’s not official yet but I think it’s going to be announced this morning. I just couldn’t wait any longer to tell you. You’re the first person to know!’

  Sam puts his tea down and before I know it his arms are wrapped around me. I’m surprised at just how warm he is, given how cold it is outside.

  ‘That’s FANTASTIC news!’ he says as he squeezes me tightly.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I wriggle from his embrace, pleased but embarrassed by his reaction.

  ‘Don’t put yourself down,’ he says softly, then he lifts his hands up dramatically as if he’s making a declaration. ‘Tomorrow Hardy’s shop floor, next year, the entire fashion world!’

  ‘Oh shush.’ I’m blushing. ‘Hardy’s is good enough for me.’ I shuffle my feet on the floor as I try to think of a way to deflect the attention back to him. ‘But what about you? I know you want something more than this too . . .’

  He shrugs and looks uncomfortable. ‘Life isn’t always about what you want, Evie.’

  I tilt my head to encourage him to go on but he’s too busy throwing the remains of his tea down his neck to continue. He wipes his mouth and then grins at me. His tawny-brown eyes are the colour of one-pence pieces, I notice. That’s probably why they always shine so brightly.

  ‘Gotta go, I’m afraid, or I’ll be late for my next delivery.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe we should . . . go for a drink to celebrate your promotion? I mean, we won’t get to have our morning chats any more now, will we? Not when you’re “One of Them”.’

  ‘Oh. No. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, yes, let’s definitely do that.’ I suddenly think of other people I could invite. We could make a night of it.

  ‘Just let me know where and when.’ And then Sam’s gone, waving his hand without looking back.

  For once, time passes quickly. It’s unusually interesting seeing what surprises lie in store for me in the new delivery. There’s a short, shimmering silk dress that looks like it’s been dipped in the Indian Ocean because of the way the bright aquamarine wash cascades down the swathes of silky white material. My jaw gaping, I pick out another. It’s a Park Avenue princess’s dream made in frothy white tulle embroidered with tiny gold cobwebs of sequins. I gently put it on a padded hanger, worried the delicate material will disintegrate at my touch. I pull out another garment, a scoop-backed, sculpted black dress, the skirt finished with hundreds of tiny beads. I’ve never been in such close contact with so many beautiful clothes and I’m almost too scared to touch them. To be honest, I imagine our customers will be as well. I mean, I know Hardy’s needs a serious fashion update, but this is way too ambitious for the kind of customers we actually have. But it isn’t my place to say anything . . . yet.

  As the clock hands inch towards nine I begin to get a fluttery feeling in my belly. I’m excited by the thought that once everyone knows about my promotion they’ll start to treat me like an equal. A shiver of anticipation comes over me as the staff begin filing into the stockroom, the new place for staff meetings. Rupert decided it was bad for business for potential customers passing the store on the way to work to see us all slumped lethargically around the till point on the ground floor during our meetings. He thought it put them off coming in the store.

  ‘Hello there, Sarah dear!’

  My heart sinks as Susan and Bernie, the silver-haired Irish sisters who’ve worked in Haberdashery for forty years, walk in and greet me. Even they haven’t noticed I’ve replaced the old stockroom girl, though as a child I used to spend hours helping them sort through the old buttons and fabric swatches. Each time I see them I hope that they’ll suddenly put two and two together. Maybe I’ll tell them now, start afresh with my promotion. I open my mouth to correct them just as Gwen and Jenny from Beauty walk in.

  ‘Hellooo, Sarah!’ they chime simultaneously.

  ‘Hi,’ I mutter, defeated again. I brighten up when Carly appears, flanked by Paula and Tamsin, her colleagues from Personal Shopping. All three look immaculate. Carly is stylish and naturally sexy; Paula is austere in a 1980s throwback kind of a way, with frosted lips, blue eyeshadow and big backcombed hair, like a latter-day Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served? Tamsin is pure Essex thoroughbred, complete with fake nails, fake tan, dyed platinum hair and suspiciously perky-looking boobs.

  The staff gather round Carly, gasping at her outfit and giggling as she regales them with yet another anecdote about one of her notoriously crazy and fun nights out.

  ‘Oh, Carly,’ Gwen wheezes, clutching her sides, ‘you are a card. Tell us what you said to those football fellas again?’

  After finishing her story Carly inches through the adoring staff members towards me.

  ‘Hiya, babe, how are you doing?’ she says warmly. I smile up at her. She looks radiant as ever in a futuristic-looking gold sequined top with fierce shoulders that protrude at right angles, in contrast to the rest of the top, which hangs against her body like a sheath. I recognize it as the Gainsbourg immediately. She must have preordered one for herself to wear on the shop floor. It helps to sell the clothes, though they’ve never before had such a tempting selection as today’s delivery.

  ‘What do you think this announcement is all about?’ Carly asks me excitedly.

  I look at her curiously. It was only last week that I told her all about my hopes for promotion. To be fair, I did say it was top secret and she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone but she’s obviously forgotten. It’s understandable, though. Carly has such a busy social life she probably doesn’t have space in her brain to remember the things I tell her about mine. Every night she’s either going on a date, or to a fabulous party, or being invited to some opening of a cool new bar. Our lives couldn’t be more different.

  I glance up at her as she shakes her wavy brown hair off her shoulders. I say ‘brown’, but it isn’t brown like mine is brown. It’s intricately woven with gold, copper and auburn tones that make it glimmer and shine like a crown. She also has these cute, perky freckles all over her nose, and her eyelashes, which are long and perfectly frame her pale green eyes, giving her a wide-eyed look, as if even she is surprised at how beautiful she is.

  I still remember seeing her on her first day. I’d just left the stockroom to go on a break and she walked past me, followed by a trail of fawning staff members. She was telling an hilarious anecdote about a date she’d been on that had everyone – even grumpy Elaine from Designers – in hysterics. She was so confident and at home with everyone that I felt intimidated by her and didn’t introduce myself, but the next day, she turned up in the stockroom with a cup of coffee for me.

  ‘Mind if I come in?’ she grinned, and passed the cup to me. ‘I thought you could do with one of these. Someone told me you start at 7 a.m. every day. How do you manage that? I can barely drag myself here by nine! I’m Carly, by the way. Your name’s Sarah, isn’t it?’

  I took the coffee and opened my mouth to tell her otherwise, but I was too shy to explain that my colleagues were still getting my name wrong and I was also worried about drawing attention to the fact that I’d hijacked someone else’s job. It was just so embarrassing. Instead I asked her how she came to be working here. We sat for half an hour while she told me all about her year spent living and working in Sydney, her bijou Clapham flat where she lived with her best friend from university, and what it was like being newly single again. I heard about good dates and bad dates, girls’ nights in and big nights out. And I listened, completely intrigued by her colourful life, which seemed so different from mine.

  Then she asked me about Hardy’s and I was happy to oblige her with my knowledge. She was so grateful she offered to buy me a drink after work. Buoyed by the thought of having made my first proper friend at work, I phoned Delilah and
asked her if she wouldn’t mind picking the kids up from nursery. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon shopping in town ahead of my ‘date’ with Carly.

  I met her when she finished at 6 p.m. and we went for cocktails at a cool hotel bar in Soho. It was the best night out I’d had in ages. OK, make that the only night out I’d had in ages. We got tipsy and talked about bad boyfriends and good sex, like all girlfriends inevitably do. Well, she did most of the talking, to be honest, but that suited me fine. I went home that night feeling happy and young, and like someone had seen me for the first time in ages. And so what if she didn’t know my actual name?

  Since then we’ve spent lots of time together at work. Carly’s always hanging around here and we’ve had the occasional night out too; Mondays usually, as she’s always got something on the rest of the week. But we have hilarious conversations about the dates she’s been on, the latest clothes she’s bought and the nights out she’s had with her best girl mates. I love listening to her stories. It gives me a taste of the kind of life I’d love to lead.

  Now she turns, winks and motions at me for a cup of tea just as Sharon opens the door. I sidestep towards the kitchenette to pour Carly a cup from the pot I made earlier. Actually, I’m quite happy to be tucked away in the corner as I don’t want to draw attention to myself before the Big Moment. I imagine Sharon will spot my absence and wait for me to emerge. Or she’ll ask where I am and Carly will tell her. Then I’ll step into the cheering crowd as Sharon announces my promotion. Maybe Carly and her colleagues from Personal Shopping will even elevate me above people’s heads, like fans do in rock concerts.

  I smile at the thought as I top up the teapot and hear Sharon announce other notices. I’ve just poured Carly’s cup when Sharon’s thin, sharp voice rises in volume and she claps her hands. I swirl the teabags quickly when I realize she is about to make the Big Announcement.