Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  ‘Oh, look!’ cries Bernie from Haberdashery. She and her sister, Susan, have been quiet up till now. They don’t like change. They’ve never taken to Rupert and would love it if they could pretend it is still the 1950s. Which is why I was hoping they’d approve of my makeover. If they like it, it must be authentic. ‘Look at the pictures in the frame!’

  ‘They don’t make men like that any more, sure they don’t,’ Susan adds whimsically.

  ‘Who are they?’ asks Carly as she strains to get a better view of the black-and-white pictures I’ve put up.

  Susan and Bernie tut and roll their eyes. ‘Only some of the greatest movie stars who ever lived.’

  ‘They look so suave,’ sighs Jane wistfully.

  ‘Like proper gentlemen,’ agrees Jenny.

  I smile as I glance around the walls of Menswear, where I’ve hung the signed pictures from Lily’s tearoom, in big, ornate gold frames that were languishing in the stockroom. I hope she doesn’t mind.

  I suddenly remember that Joel will be waiting for me. This is my perfect opportunity to leave without anyone – and by that I mean Carly – spotting us.

  I slip past my colleagues and head unnoticed towards the front doors, deep in thought. My little idea has worked better than I could ever have imagined. Which makes me wonder: if I can do it for Guy’s department, why can’t I do it for everyone else’s? Especially those who are also about to lose their jobs, like Gwen and Jenny. It’s got to be worth a shot, hasn’t it? No one need know it was me who did the makeover. Guy can take all the credit and then Rupert won’t fire him.

  As I push the doors open and step outside I am hit by a wave of cold air. I shiver and turn back to the store. Everyone is still huddled around the stairs, chattering and pointing excitedly. Smiling again, I walk round the side of the building and stand in front of one of the windows. I decided when doing the makeover this morning that I had to do something in the window to try to draw new customers inside. So in one window, I’ve replaced the horrid, fake silver Christmas trees with a mannequin looking exactly like a 1940s film star in his vintage trilby. He’s kneeling on one knee and is proffering a small, beautifully wrapped gift box in Tiffany-blue wrapping paper out to the street, as if proposing to any woman that passes by. It’s not particularly Christmassy, but then, I reasoned, nor was my other display. To the right of the mannequin, in another old-fashioned gilt frame, is Lily’s signed picture of a smouldering Clark Gable, looking for all the world like he’s waiting for his Scarlett O’Hara.

  And in front of the window, checking his phone, is another handsome, debonair American, who is waiting for me.

  Joel looks up from his phone and as I teeter over to him. I feel a flutter of panic that I look ridiculous. But then he smiles and steps towards me.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ He puts his phone in the pocket of his thick camel coat and smiles before kissing me gently on the cheek. ‘You look glowing,’ he murmurs.

  Clearly he is too much of a gentleman to say, ‘You look a bit more done up than when I last saw you at the crack of dawn yesterday morning.’ But I’m convinced it’s what he’s thinking. I knew all this make-up was too much on me.

  ‘Yes, well, sorry I’m late. I just had some stuff to do before I could leave,’ I reply, feeling overwhelmingly shy all of a sudden. I’m cold, my feet are already hurting in these stupid shoes and I’ve only been out here two minutes. How does Carly do this every day? I longingly think about how snuggy my toes would be right now wrapped up in my thick wool socks and sensible leather brogues. And my coat – what I wouldn’t give for my trusty duffel coat. There are all sorts of draughts creeping through this silly cape.

  ‘You look . . . gorgeous,’ he says, stepping back to look at me. Suddenly his eyes are locked on mine and I forget all about my feet. ‘Are you OK to walk awhile?’ he says, turning up the collar of his coat and offering me his arm before glancing down at my heels.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ I reply brightly, trying to get into character. ‘I wear shoes like this all the time. In fact, I’m so used to wearing high heels that I feel uncomfortable in flat shoes. These are like . . . like extensions of my feet.’ I lift my foot, wiggle it a bit and then step towards him, but I stumble a little and have to grab his arm. I can feel my cheeks flush.

  ‘I thought we’d go to my hotel . . .’ he says as we turn in the direction of Oxford Street.

  I extricate my arm from his immediately. ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate, to be honest,’ I say stiffly. ‘I may be wearing high heels and a lot of make-up but that’s not the kind of girl I am.’

  ‘I meant for afternoon tea,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘I’m staying at Claridge’s and haven’t had a chance to sample this fine British tradition yet. Is that OK?’ He looks worried.

  I nod primly and slip my arm back through his. ‘Well, yes, that does sound OK. Um, how far is it again?’

  The answer to my question is clearly ‘too bloody far’, but Joel doesn’t know that. Mainly because he doesn’t have to walk in four-inch heels down Regent Street on one of the busiest shopping days of the year. In the space of twenty minutes my feet are trampled on by more tourists than I ever thought possible.

  It is only when we reach the relative sanctuary of Bond Street that I am able to relax a little, but only because I’ve lost all feeling in my feet. We wander slowly down the street, which is home to some of the most elegant and expensive shops in the capital, chatting amicably about our homes and our lives. I tell Joel about Delilah, Noah and Jonah, and am just about to reveal my mother’s obsession with naming us all after people from the Bible when I remember I’m meant to be called Carly, and I have to backtrack. After all, even with my relative lack of religious knowledge I’m pretty sure there was never a Saint Carly.

  After that I decide it’s safer if I stop talking for a while.

  We walk past decadent art and antique stores, exclusive designer shops and bank-breakingly expensive jewellers until we arrive outside the grand London hotel that is the destination for our date. Suddenly I am hit by a wave of excitement. It is nearly Christmas. And I am on a date with a Hot American Man. At Claridge’s, no less.

  ‘Well, shake me up and put me inside a snow globe,’ I murmur as I gawp at the warm, red-brick exterior of the hotel, unable to believe this is all really happening.

  Joel’s laugh rings out. ‘You do say the cutest things. Come on . . .’ He pauses and a twinkle teeters on the edge of his pupils like a star hanging in the night sky. Not that I’m staring at him or anything. He clears his throat. ‘Aim desperaite for ai cup of char.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, don’t do that,’ I say, wincing and making a face at his terrible British accent.

  ‘I’ve been told my accent’s pretty good!’ he says defensively.

  ‘Who by?’ I retort. ‘Dick Van Dyke?’

  He laughs. Again. ‘Come on, Carly,’ he says. ‘Let’s take tea,’ and he ushers me inside.

  Half an hour later and we are nestled in the refined warmth and grandeur of Claridge’s dazzling art deco foyer. Above us Dale Chihuly’s famous silver-white light sculpture hangs from the foyer’s high ceiling like Medusa’s hair in all its glittering glass-coiled magnificence. We sip from the pretty green and cream striped tea service and smile at each other, slightly inhibited by our surroundings. We nibble on delicate finger sandwiches and I resist the urge to plough right into the scones and clotted cream. Instead I think, what would Carly do? I quickly deduce that she would probably have a single solitary sandwich and nibble on a little pastry but would leave the rest to her handsome companion. Or hide it in her handbag when he goes to the loo. She doesn’t get a figure like hers by troughing through a plate of cakes, that’s for sure. I decide the handbag idea is a brilliant one. Mainly because I figure that Felix will enjoy having his very own Claridge’s takeaway cream tea if I bring it to him in a doggy bag with his coffee on Monday morning.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Joel says, and he strides over to
wards the toilets. I hastily open my napkin in my lap and slip a scone in it. I glance around to check no one is looking, then pop a delicious-looking chocolate truffle cake thing into my napkin too. I decide not to risk the creamy strawberry dessert that’s in a glass; this isn’t my handbag, after all.

  A minute later two glasses of pink champagne are delivered by a gracious waiter and I smile guiltily at him and clutch my cake-filled bag tightly in case he happens to have X-ray vision and can see right through it. I take a sip of champagne just as Joel comes back and I watch him swagger over whilst luxuriating in the sensation of bubbles exploding in my mouth. I can’t help but notice most of the women in the room are watching him too.

  ‘Mmm, champagne,’ he says as he lifts his glass. ‘I do love your English tea but there’s nothing better than a glass of bubbly, don’t you think?’

  I nod happily and take another sip.

  ‘So, Joel,’ I begin, keen to find out a bit more about him, ‘you said you work in retail too. What exactly do you do?’

  He pauses before answering. ‘Well, I’m a retail consultant, which means I help department stores with the financial side of the business.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I nod as if I know exactly what he means. ‘Is that what you’re doing for Hardy’s?’

  He shifts on his seat. ‘Er, kind of. Obviously, it’s a pretty big job. Hardy’s is kinda struggling at the moment.’

  I nod sadly and the mood drops momentarily.

  Joel leans towards me and his eyes shine brightly. ‘But other than my day job I actually have my own family store, back in the little town in Pennsylvania where I’m from.’ He looks off into the distance. ‘That’s where my heart lies.’

  ‘Really?’ I exclaim in delight. A guy who has his own store? I can’t help but hear Lily and Iris’s voices in my head: It’s that age-old heady combination: shopping and sex. And to be honest, I’m more turned on by his passion for his family shop than anything else. He suddenly feels like a kindred spirit.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say, sitting back in my chair and taking another sip of champagne.

  ‘It’s called Parker’s,’ he says with a smile. ‘It’s a cute little place on Main Street in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania but unfortunately it’s not doing so well these days. My father doesn’t have the necessary retail vision to move it forward. It’s my dream to go back there and help steer it in the right direction. But it’s hard. Small businesses just aren’t doing so well since the economic crash, everyone seems to go to the nearest Walmart for everything from food to clothes to homeware, and failing that, they’ll head into Philadelphia or even New York for all the big department stores. Parker’s doesn’t seem to have a purpose any more.’

  ‘Just like Hardy’s,’ I murmur.

  He glances up at me and for a second there is a fizzle of understanding between us. He nods and smiles wistfully. ‘You know, Hardy’s reminds me a lot of my family business. There is so much potential there, but people want something different these days. It feels like there’s no room for our friendly family stores any more. It’s so sad.’

  I shake my head fervently and feel my hair fan out. Thanks to Carly it has wings today. ‘I don’t agree,’ I say firmly.

  Joel raises an eyebrow at me and sits back. ‘You know, I’ve heard that you have some great forward-thinking ideas for the store,’ he says as he takes a sip of tea. ‘I’d love to hear them from a personal shopper extraordinaire.’

  ‘And who exactly has been saying all these kind things about me?’ I ask teasingly, but desperately wanting to know who Carly’s big fan is.

  ‘Rupert, if you must know. He has high hopes for you.’

  I nod, suddenly realizing just how esteemed Carly is in Rupert’s view.

  ‘Tell me, Joel,’ I say, trying to appear nonchalant, ‘what was it that made you so sure I was Carly when we bumped into each other the other day? I mean, we’ve never spoken, never met, I could have been anyone.’

  Ain’t that the truth, I think but don’t say.

  Joel leans towards me, his eyes locking with mine, and I resist the urge to back away from him. But I badly want to know the answer so I fix my eyes firmly on his. ‘You couldn’t have been anyone,’ he murmurs, then reaches his hand across the table and puts it over mine. ‘You have this . . . aura about you. I can’t explain it. Maybe it was confidence, maybe it was style, but whatever it was I knew I had to get to know you. That realization hit me instantly.’

  ‘When you first saw me?’ I press, wanting to find out if he felt those things when he saw the real Carly in the store, or when he met me.

  ‘When I first saw you,’ he drawls softly, obviously thinking he is paying me the highest compliment. But he’s just confirmed what I already knew: he fell for Carly, not me. This is a serious case of mistaken identity.

  ‘Now it’s your turn to answer my questions,’ he says, turning all serious. ‘Tell me why you don’t agree with me that stores like Hardy’s have a place in the retail spectrum any more.’

  I am flummoxed. When he said that earlier I was about to launch into a passionate speech about how I don’t agree with him because I think there is a place for stores like Hardy’s and Parker’s. That people do still want the same friendly, informed, intimate shops where assistants know your name and personal shopping isn’t a department it’s an experience, it’s just that we’ve been conditioned into thinking that we should prefer either superstores where you can get everything under one roof, or haughty high-end shops and malls where you can get lost in a sea of swanky products and snooty staff, so that we’ve all become shopping sheep, buying what we’re told to by magazines, models, celebrities and advertising campaigns, rather than shopping for what actually suits us.

  But now I know he really does want Carly I feel compelled to be just like her. So what the hell would she say?

  I stall for time by taking an extra long gulp of champagne. I accidentally down half the glass in one mouthful, the bubbles go up my nose and I cough and splutter. Joel gets up and pats me on the back.

  ‘Sorry,’ I gasp at last. ‘That went down the wrong way.’

  ‘So I can see,’ he says as I hastily down the rest of the champagne.

  By the time I’ve got to the end of the glass I’ve thought of a response.

  I look at him but his eyes bore into me and I lose my confidence.

  Channel Carly, I think. Think fashion, think modern, think like her.

  I clear my throat. ‘Well, um, I don’t think it’s sad because shopping and especially department stores need to look to the future. People are used to internet shopping now, they don’t want overly fussy staff and cluttered stores, they want minimal, minimal, MINIMAL.’ I bang my hand on the table to emphasize my point and Joel jumps a little. ‘Clean lines and a selective number of products displayed in a pure, white environment.’ I pause. ‘Fashion should be like art,’ I breathe, into my Carly character now, but in my head thinking that’s exactly what it shouldn’t be. I suddenly visualize my poor Wardrobe with the clothes that have hung unloved in there for so long. I put them from my mind and refocus.

  ‘I mean, take Rumors, for example,’ I continue. ‘How cool do all the staff look in their couture? And those transparent dressing rooms are just amazing. A place like that is the future of department stores, not Hardy’s. That’s what I told my manager just before she gave me my promotion,’ I say proudly, as I remember Carly repeating her post-promotion monologue to me the other day. ‘I said to her, I said, “Sharon, we need to be more modern, appeal to the younger clients, clients like me. They want shops to be more exclusive, more fashion. It is the future, after all.”’ I smile beatifically at the waiter as he refills my champagne glass, then I take another gulp. I feel warm and fuzzy, like Christmas has come early. This date is going brilliantly, even if I do say so myself. Being Carly is easy.

  ‘Well,’ Joel says eventually, ‘I guess I agree that department stores need to have a new vision for the future, or they’ll fall by the wa
yside.’

  ‘And that’s what’s happened to Hardy’s,’ I say gravely, forgetting that I’m not meant to know about Rumors’ potential takeover. ‘I mean it could happen,’ I quickly backtrack. ‘We’re so quiet, after all. Is that why you’ve been coming in? To try and help us?’

  Joel pauses and his expression becomes a little strained. ‘It’s top secret, to be honest. I’d love to tell you, but it’s more than my job’s worth. All I can say is that all will be revealed soon. And from what you’ve just said, you’ll be very pleased with the results.’ I furrow my brow, trying to unravel what that means. What result would Carly want? What have I just said? I’m so confused, I feel like I could be getting essential inside information about Hardy’s fate from Joel, but I can’t ask him directly. He’s made it clear it’s not open for discussion. I’m just left wondering if it’s what Carly would want, would I want it, too?

  Joel smiles at me and skims his finger around the top of his china tea cup. ‘You know, Carly, I hear you’re very talented. Rupert raves about you. And,’ he adds leaning closer, ‘I don’t blame him.’

  I furrow my brow and look away because I know that in actual fact, Rupert doesn’t even know my name. Come to think of it, nor does Joel. I take another sip of champagne. I’m feeling a little bit squiffy. And I’m exhausted by all this pretence. I realize that my brow is still furrowed and so I open my eyes really wide instead, put my elbows on the table and my face in my hands to give me an instant facelift. I smile but Joel appears slightly alarmed so I let go of a bit of my face skin and he looks relieved.