by Ali Harris
Luckily, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. ‘I love the British sense of humour. You guys are so dry!’ He shakes his head and looks at me. ‘You know, I’ve heard a lot about you, Carly, but no one said how funny you are. Beautiful and stylish and intelligent, yes, but funny . . . ?’
He touches me gently on the arm again and I gulp as I look at him. He smiles at me and this time it’s the big reveal; a perfect chorus line of straight, white teeth are high-kicking their way across his mouth. I want to tell him he’s made a mistake, that I’m not Carly, but all the saliva has disappeared from my mouth (along with my voice, and the strength in my knees). Luckily I am saved because he speaks first.
‘I’d really like to take you out. If you’ll allow me, that is. I’ve heard so much about you. And you’re just how I imagined.’
I feel my heart plummet to my toes. I have to tell him.
‘I think you’ve got the wrong girl,’ I say softly, sounding much calmer than I feel, and I turn to go.
‘Surely that’s for me to decide?’ he replies quickly, his hand pulling me back to him. I stop, immobilized by his touch. ‘After all, isn’t that what dates are for? To find the right person?’ I gaze up at him and he looks meaningfully back at me.
I should walk away now, I know I should. This is Carly’s date, not mine. But he is looking at me so intently and my heart is thumping so wildly under this sparkly top that it looks like a glitter ball is bouncing out of my chest. And then I think to myself, so what if this cute guy thought I was Carly when he stopped me? He seems pretty determined now he’s met me to take me on a date.
I think about Carly and her life: the endless parties and dates, the trail of men who’ve lost their hearts to her, and the promotion she’s just got. She doesn’t need any more good fortune, surely? Would it be so wrong for me to grab this opportunity that’s been handed to me? After all, it isn’t like they’ve ever actually met. I’m not doing anything wrong. I can’t even be sure this is definitely the man she saw. I mean, he could be someone completely different. This could be another heart-stoppingly gorgeous man who’s just walked into Hardy’s this morning. Because obviously we get them all the time in here.
Sod it, I think. Why not chance my arm? The opportunity has presented itself and, as Dad would say, surely I should just ‘go for it’.
‘Do you want to try asking again?’ I say bravely, fixing my eyes determinedly on his. I wanted my life to change today, so maybe I have to force its hand a little. It’s not like working hard or waiting for good things to happen to me has worked so far. Maybe it’s time to try a different tack. The sequins on the Gainsbourg top prickle my skin like a conscience, but I ignore them. He smiles and adjusts the collar of the impeccably starched white shirt he’s wearing.
‘O . . . K,’ he drawls, and takes a step closer. He clears his throat. ‘Would you care to allow me to take you on a date to remember?’
‘And what if I don’t?’ I shoot back.
‘Don’t think I’ll hold it against you,’ he replies quickly, just like Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind. I think of Lily’s movie-star photos in her tearoom and suddenly feel like they have come to life and this is all happening in monochrome.
I teeter on the brink of doing The Right Thing. I should just say, ‘Actually, Mr Handsome American Man, I’m Evie, the stockroom girl,’ and then wait for him to retreat. I can then dream about what it might have been like to kiss those really nice lips of his.
‘Well . . . ?’ He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Are you going to make my day?’ Oh heavens, now he’s Clint bloody Eastwood. ‘Will you go out with me, Carleen, I mean Carly?’ He brushes the palm of his hand against his temple and looks at me expectantly, vulnerably almost.
Just tell him the truth, Evie, I think as I open my mouth and then, before I can stop myself I blurt out my response.
‘I’d like that very much,’ I reply.
I’d like that very much?
What the bloody hell just possessed me to say that?
‘Wunnerful,’ says Mr Wonderful in front of me. I look at him aghast, then smile dumbly and edge away, hoping to retreat before I get myself in any more trouble.
‘Well,’ I begin politely, ‘it was nice to meet you . . .’
‘Joel,’ he interjects. ‘Parker.’
‘It was nice to meet you, Joel Parker.’ I turn round and make for the staircase.
‘Just Joel is fine.’ He turns and starts walking alongside me. I have a sudden urge to say, ‘Well, just Joel, you can call me Evie.’ But I don’t. I pick up my pace. So does he.
‘You live in Clapham, right?’ he drawls. I swivel my head to look at him, even more aghast than before. That’s where Carly lives. How does he know that? Is he some sort of a stalker? What have I got involved in here?
He catches my horrified expression and laughs. ‘Oh God, that makes me sound like a weirdo, doesn’t it? I only know because I’ve been looking at the personnel files – for work reasons.’
I edge away, unconvinced.
‘I work in retail?’ he adds, his accent turning everything into a question. ‘As a consultant? For big department stores? Mainly in the US but I’m over here temporarily so I can work on a couple of projects in the UK. Actually my friend Rupert invited me here to show me around his store.’ I open my mouth to ask a question but just then his phone rings and he makes a face. ‘I’m sorry, I have to take this call but shall we do something this weekend?’ He looks bashful for a moment. ‘Could I take your number and I’ll give you a call tomorrow to make arrangements?’
I don’t know where to look or what to say. I can’t look him in the eyes, so I find myself looking at his arms, which are bulging under his suit. There is some serious muscle under there. Hypnotized by his biceps, I say yes, and I give him my mobile number.
After our brief encounter I head back down the stairs towards the stockroom. At least I think that’s where I’m going. I’m not entirely sure as my legs don’t appear to belong to my body any more and my head is floating somewhere above the grand central staircase. I can’t think straight, let alone see. What possessed me to pretend to be Carly? I have no idea what came over me. But . . .
I’ve got a date.
I can’t believe it.
This guy, this tall, handsome, erudite, well-dressed, drop-dead GORGEOUS American guy just asked ME out.
I slip on my coat and do it up so as not to get myself into any more trouble as I make my way back to the stockroom.
Suddenly someone jumps out in front of me brandishing a brush and a broad smile.
‘Can I interest you in a makeover, dear?’ says Gwen, who is the pushiest of salespeople. ‘You have beautiful skin, but you look like you could do with some help applying your foundation – and, gosh,’ her perfectly painted lips curl slightly, ‘is that meant to be blusher?’ Then she points at my face. I rub my cheeks self-consciously, aware that it’s just me blushing because of my encounter with Joel.
‘Er, no thanks, Gwen. I’m just going back from my tea break.’
She stares at me and a flicker of recognition crosses her face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were a customer.’
‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve been here two years. You talk to me all the time.’ She looks at me blankly and shakes her head so I lean in and whisper conspiratorially, ‘You have credit card debts that you don’t want your husband to find out about . . .’
‘Hush!’ Her hand flutters to her chest in panic. ‘How do you know about that?’
I take a deep breath. ‘You told me when you came into the stockroom for a cup of tea. Last week?’ I pause and look at her. Still nothing. ‘I work in there,’ I add despairingly.
‘Oh!’ She heaves a sigh of relief. ‘You’re wotsit, um, oh, yes! Sarah the stockroom girl!’
‘Anyway, gotta go.’ I nod resignedly and edge away.
‘Righty-oh,’ she says, her smile painted on her face like a clown’s. ‘Er, Sarah love,’ she grabs
me by the arm and her long, cerise-painted nails pierce my skin slightly, ‘You won’t . . . tell anyone about my little, er, problem will you?’ She laughs forcefully and I can hear the fear in her voice rise up and threaten to choke her. The thousands of pounds’ worth of credit card debt she’s secretly amassed over the past couple of years has become a massive burden to her. I’m no expert, but when she opened up to me last week I told her she needed to tell her husband and deal with the consequences. It would be far less stressful for her in the long run.
‘Of course not,’ I say gently. ‘What’s said in the stockroom stays in the stockroom.’ She nods in relief and I walk on through the store.
When I reach the stockroom, I punch in the security code, open the door, step inside and shut it.
‘Carly?’ I call.
No answer. I peer over to the sofa, but she’s gone. I do a double-check around the stockroom and then, when I’m sure I’m alone, I scream. And squeal. And jump up and down. Then I clasp my hand over my mouth as it hits me.
I’m a really bad person. Terrible, in fact. I’ve lied to someone really nice by pretending to be someone I really like and who I know likes the person that I think is nice. If that makes any sense. I need to rectify it. I need to find him and tell him the truth.
But you don’t want to, whispers a voice inside my head.
I do, I really do.
No, you don’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the door. Yes, I do.
You don’t want to because you deserve this. You deserve it more than her. You’ve been waiting for something like this for so long. It’s your turn for some excitement.
Is it?
Yes.
I open my eyes and look down at the top I’m still wearing. The yellowy-gold sequins glimmer at me brightly as if they’re winking at me.
Go on, they seem to be saying. Go on . . .
I shake my head, trying to get the voice out of my head and the devil off my shoulder. I dash past the aisles of stock, past the boxes waiting to be unpacked and the stack of order sheets waiting to be filed. When I get to the back of the stockroom I pull the top over my head and fling it down. I stand there, panting for a second in my faded white bra, gazing at the sequined Gainsbourg number like it’s Carly’s shroud. It may as well be. It has her face, her figure, her personality stamped all over it. I just happened to take them all on when I wore it. Now it’s off I’m back to boring old me. I can feel the excitement drain from my body, like water going down a plughole. I grab my shirt from behind the radiator and pull it on. Then I scurry to the corner of the back aisle, doing up the buttons as I go, ready to begin working on the latest stockroom report. I don’t want to be seen by anyone again today. And I don’t want to be anywhere near that top. It’s got me into enough trouble as it is. There’s no way I can keep this pretence up, no way.
Joel will be so disappointed when he realizes who I really am.
The hours trickle by but I’m finding the slow, methodical process of doing the stocktake to be very calming. I’ve even managed to convince myself it doesn’t matter that I failed to tell Joel who I really am, he’ll probably never call anyway. The ‘flurry’ of customers this morning was a one-off. I haven’t had an order through the printer for hours. And, weirdly, none of the staff has popped by. I don’t mind, though; I’m happy to be left alone. I clearly can’t be trusted around people. Especially handsome American men with tranquil blue eyes who, when they look at me, make me feel like I’m swimming naked in a sparkling pool warmed by a glowing, Mediterranean sun.
I shake my head and chastize myself. Get a grip, Evie.
I stiffen as the door creaks open. It’s two forty-five, fifteen minutes till my clocking-off time. I stand up, brushing my dusty hands down my legs. I’m about to go and see who it is when I hear the sound of muffled conversation.
‘Is anyone in here?’ says a reedy male voice.
I peer out from the aisle and see Sharon – who has her back to me – and Rupert Hardy. He has wiry, oatmeal-coloured hair, which he wears with a centre parting and which hangs down into his pale, watery eyes, and slightly too many teeth for his mouth. His cheeks are the colour of Russet apples, with lots of thin broken veins, which make him look like a child has drawn on him with a red Biro. I always think he has a look of perpetual surprise about him, like he can’t quite believe he’s running the place. He’s somewhere in his mid-thirties but appears younger, due to his diminutive stature. And he looks even shorter standing next to Sharon. I duck back behind the aisle as she walks through the door.
‘We’re all alone,’ she answers huskily. ‘The stockroom girl probably sneaked out a few minutes early, thinking no one would notice!’
I gasp and then clamp my hand over my mouth in case they hear me. The cheek of her! She knows I’d never do that. I press my body against the shelves and desperately look for a way out. They clearly want to have some sort of private rendezvous and I don’t want to be here during it, but if I reveal myself now they’ll think I was hiding. Which I sort of am, but that’s not the point. And if I don’t come out, Sharon will think I’ve skived off. I hear rustling. Maybe I should just saunter out now, grab my coat and say goodbye nonchalantly?
Just then, Rupert speaks and my opportunity for a sneaky getaway vanishes.
‘The figures are down again, Sharon,’ he says gravely.
Sharon drops her head. ‘I know. I’ve told the departmental managers what they need to do to improve their takings. We’ve tried remerchandising, retraining the staff with new sales techniques, but we can’t do anything about the fact that the customers just aren’t coming in.’
‘W-w-well, i-it’s not good enough,’ Rupert stutters. He’s a sweet guy but his management skills are shaky, to say the least. No one at Hardy’s seems to have any respect for his authority. Maybe it’s because he has no retail experience. Prior to this he was running the family’s farm in Gloucestershire. The poor bloke’s used to lovingly tending cattle, not dealing with argumentative, moaning shop workers. ‘We need to try harder to entice them into the store with some canny moves and gentle encouragement,’ he adds unconvincingly.
‘You’re not on your farm now, Rupert.’ Sharon treats him like he’s beneath her, probably because she wants him to be beneath her. Ever since he started here she’s been on a mission to snare him. ‘Customers aren’t like sheep: you can’t just herd them in,’ she finishes huffily.
‘But of course you can!’ Rupert blusters. ‘That’s the point! You need to woo them, encourage them gently but firmly into the pen . . . I mean, store . . . and then shut the gate . . . I mean, door behind them. You should be like a sheepdog, Sharon!’
‘And you’re barking mad,’ she grumbles. I stifle a giggle. They’re like a comedy double act. Little and Large? I bite my lip to stop myself laughing.
Rupert sighs loudly. ‘Look, Sharon, I understand that my lack of retail experience makes it hard for you to understand where I’m coming from, but I just want you to see that we have to do something. I care about this store, and the truth is, if we don’t drastically improve our takings it won’t be here much longer.’
Fleetingly I wonder if this is what Joel was talking about earlier. Rupert has obviously called his old friend in to help advise him on the store’s financial situation.
‘But Hardy’s won’t close,’ Sharon replies quickly. ‘It’s been here forever.’
‘And some people would say that’s too long,’ Rupert replies. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this but we’ve had interest from another store to acquire the site. My father is putting pressure on me to accept the offer. He thinks the store has had its day, that we should get out while we can and pour the money into other investments. He doesn’t care about Hardy’s any more, he just wants to ensure he has a hefty retirement fund,’ he adds bitterly.
‘But you can’t sell Hardy’s!’ Sharon exclaims. ‘What about our jobs?’
Rupert’s voice is strained. ‘I’m doing all I ca
n to save as many jobs as possible right now. But the truth is, if the store’s takings don’t go up drastically, we’ll all be out of work. Including me.’
I shake my head in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Hardy’s can’t close. It’s been here for one hundred years, survived two World Wars. What about Gwen’s debts, Jenny’s IVF, Becky’s rent? Where will Iris get her soap? What about Mrs Fawsley’s peacock fascinators? What about me? It’s Christmas in three weeks. They can’t lay people off before then, can they? Can they?
I peer through the shelves. Sharon has stepped closer to Rupert.
‘What about you, what do you want?’ She brushes her match-stick-like body against his, like a chicken bone propped against a side of pork. I have a sudden mental image of them as animals – with Rupert as a disgruntled pig and Sharon a clucking hen, pecking at him continuously. Her advances are clearly lost on Rupert. He steps away and turns his back on her, and Sharon staggers forward awkwardly. She quickly assumes a new position, this time with one hand on her hip, the other arm stretched up against the shelves. She looks like she’s about to launch into the ‘I’m a little teapot’ routine. Poor Sharon, even I can do sexy better than this.
‘I want to give this wonderful old place one last chance,’ Rupert says with quiet determination. He seems to be talking to himself more than to her but I’m impressed by the passion in his voice. ‘It’s my family heritage,’ he goes on, his voice now choked with emotion. ‘My great-grandfather founded it; it was his and my grandfather’s whole life. I grew up here and I know how great it once was. I want more than anything to turn it’s fortunes around.’
Sharon’s arm has tired during his speech and has dropped back to her waist. She flings it back up in the air as he turns to face her.
‘But I can’t do it without your help.’
‘You know I’ll do anything to help you, Rupert,’ Sharon purrs. She takes a step closer to him again and runs a finger down his arm. ‘Just tell me what you . . . need.’