by Ali Harris
The morning passes quickly, so ensconced am I in my new role as secret shop-floor remerchandiser. I spent the first couple of hours, before anyone came in, roaming through the store, sketching mock-up makeovers in my notepad and scribbling down ideas for props I could use from the stockroom before heading back there to get even more inspiration. I spot the group of oval gilt mirrors I’ve been thinking about, which have been stacked against a wall in the corner of the stockroom for ages because I didn’t know where else I could put them. I’ve had this idea that I could use them in the shoe department to display some beautiful vintage shoes that have been gathering dust here. These pretty mirrors would look perfect dotted on the walls around the department, and I could ask Jan Baptysta to put a little shelf in front of each as the shoes would look great reflected there. There’s so many beautiful pairs in the stockroom that deserve to be properly displayed: gold T-bar sandals with a cute little heels; cherry-red pumps, silver ballroom shoes and a beautiful pair of peacock-blue Yves Saint Laurent peep toes. It’s utter sacrilege that they’ve all been hidden away in here for so many years. And then there’s the boxes of beautiful ex-display evening shoes I’ve found; faded, stretched and, as a result, unsellable, but I have another idea for them. Something bigger than just a shop-floor prop. I’m thinking a festive shoe tree in the middle of the department, with these shoes hung like precious, shiny decorations. It’ll look amazing. Just because we can’t sell them, doesn’t mean we can’t use them. They shouldn’t be in here gathering dust, with only me to appreciate them.
I gaze around and smile. Suddenly my grey little stockroom has been transformed into a veritable Aladdin’s cave, an endless treasure trove at my fingertips; every item seems to spark a new idea. All these forgotten vintage items have the power to turn Hardy’s fortunes around, I’m sure of it. I just need to convince everyone else. I step back and look about, feeling as though I’m seeing the stockroom properly for the first time since I started working here. All you need to do is look beneath the surface to see how beautiful these things really are.
I blink, feeling overwhelmed for a moment. Maybe it’s because it has dawned on me that this place feels more like my home than the beautiful converted attic I currently live in at my sister’s multimillion-pound house. Right here in Hardy’s stockroom was where my broken heart was slowly healed after my split from Jamie. It gave me a purpose in life again. Now, if I can just use its healing power to restore Hardy’s fortunes then perhaps the store, in one capacity or another, will continue to be my home for a long time to come.
I don’t want to work anywhere other than Hardy’s. I love it here. It’s the only thing in my life I’m certain about and I can’t lose it, I just can’t.
Suddenly the stockroom door swings open and Sharon marches in. Her usually pinched face is bright, her sharp eyes sparkling. I bob out from behind an aisle and she looked at me distractedly.
‘Oh, hello, uh . . . um . . .’ she stutters as she clearly struggles to remember my name.
I wait, resisting the urge to spell my name out with my arms YMCA style.
‘. . . Sarah?’ she says at last. I can see the relief in her face that she’s remembered it. ‘Working hard, I hope.’
‘Yes, Sharon,’ I mumble.
‘Good.’ She pauses and looks at me. I look back. She seems different today, softer somehow. Maybe it’s because her hair, which she usually wears pulled back in a harsh bun, is loose around her face. And she’s replaced her bright red lipstick with a caramel-coloured gloss. I suspect she’s been experimenting in the all-new beauty hall. ‘Stop whatever it is you’re doing for the moment, you might as well come and see this too,’ she says briskly. Clearly her manner hasn’t softened. ‘Carly is about to reveal her latest makeover.’ I try not to feel offended; after all, Sharon doesn’t know it’s me who’s responsible. Then Sharon smiles. This is very strange. ‘Carly has been working really hard on the designers department and we want the staff to be the first people to see the incredible work she’s done. I guess that includes you. So come on, chop chop!’
‘Oh, yes, right, OK,’ I say. I follow Sharon out of the stockroom. As we walk on to the shop floor I see a train of staff filing up the central staircase, chattering excitedly. I join the end of the queue behind Sharon. When I arrive on the first floor I stand at the back of the semicircle of staff whose excitement has diminished to a quiet murmur.
I take this moment to have a proper look at Carly’s work. To say the department is minimalistic is an understatement. The entire shop floor looks like it has been stripped bare. The gorgeous original wood-panelled walls have been covered with large white boards. Every single clothes rail and shelf has been removed. Strange, modernist glass prisms now hang desolately around the department from the atrium ceiling, like stalactites in an empty cave. Instead of endless rails tightly packed with garments there are now just four rails along each side of the department, each one holding only half a dozen or so items. All of them are in varying shades of grey, silver, black and white. In the centre of the room, four statement dresses are suspended from the ceiling with invisible thread, like pieces of modern art.
Carly is standing proudly in the centre of the department in between the four dresses/installations, a disgruntled-looking Elaine next to her. Carly is wearing a tight white dress with capped sleeves and crazy-high white stiletto shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and her eyes are glittering brightly. She looks like a pop star commanding a stage at a massive arena.
She raises her hands and silence immediately descends on the department. ‘Welcome to the all-new designers department,’ she announces proudly. She waves her hand and accidentally hits one of the scary looking installation dresses. Elaine rolls her eyes. Carly clears her throat and continues, ‘As you can see, I’ve worked terribly hard . . .’ Elaine coughs and clears her throat. Carly glances sideways at her, a flash of annoyance on her face. ‘. . . we’ve worked terribly hard to remodel the entire shop floor in a new, fresh, totally modern way. Hardy’s has been stuck in the past for so many years and I truly believe this is the reason that has caused us to fall so far behind our competitors.’
In front of me, Sharon nods in agreement. I try not to pull a face. I glance around at the other staff members, who are all gazing awestruck at Carly. Except Elaine, who is picking her fingernails.
‘This,’ Carly waves her hand, indicating the department, ‘this redesign is a symbol of what the store needs to do to survive.’ She raises her voice and lifts her hands. ‘We need to be modern, of the moment, fashion-forward and style savvy. This department,’ she declares, ‘is the future of Hardy’s.’
There is silence as we all take in her words. I hope for her sake that she is right. At that moment, Rupert steps forward and begins to clap. Everyone swiftly follows suit and soon the sound of applause echoes around the minimalistic department, bouncing off the white boards, refracting back off the glass prisms.
So, clearly I’m wrong then.
Carly smiles and nods, bowing a little as she accepts the positive reception. She catches my eye and I give her the thumbs up, then I slip away unnoticed.
I head slowly downstairs, towards Lily’s tearoom, feeling exhausted and defeated all of a sudden. I am desperate for a cup of tea and a chat with someone who is on the same wavelength as me. I could call Sam but what I really need now is some company. It is no consolation to me that the person I’m turning to now is an OAP. What does that say about me? That I’m an old-fashioned girl, stuck in the past who has no concept of what people want any more?
Judging by what just happened in Designers, this is obviously the case. My work in Beauty and Menswear was clearly a fluke.
For a moment, I am frightened about what this means. Then I rationalize that it just means that Carly will be its saviour, not me. Well, hopefully, anyway. She is far more qualified for the job. I should just go back to stacking shelves and doing delivery reports. Dad was right: I’m just a stockroom girl. I should for
get about trying to be anything more.
‘Darling!’
Lily breezes over to me. Today she is wearing a chic black bouclé two-piece suit with white trim. Her hair is pulled back into a neat chignon and, as ever, her lips are painted a deep red colour. She hugs me warmly. A scent of fresh gardenia and fragrant face powder fills my lungs and Lily pulls back and looks at me appreciatively, turning me around in a circle so she can get a full look at the red print shirtdress I chose to wear for my date tonight, currently the only bright prospect in this depressing day.
‘It’s wuuhnderrfull, darling,’ she purrs. ‘That dress is perfection on you. Nineteen forties, isn’t it? I always knew you had some glamour in you. This suits you way more than all that cheap modern tat you girls wear these days. Where did you find it?”
‘Battersea Vintage Fair,’ I reply, holding the skirt out with one hand. ‘I’ve had it ages, just . . . never had an occasion to wear it before. Or the inclination,’ I admit.
‘And you have an occasion now, do you?’ asks Lily, ushering me through the empty tearoom and to a table. ‘I’m still listening,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘Just making you a nice pot of Earl Grey. You look like you need it.’ Lily glides back, clutching a tray filled with a gorgeous Clarice Cliff teapot, two matching tea cups and a little mini cake stand filled with pastries. ‘You pick first,’ she says, nodding at the stand and settling herself down in the chair opposite. ‘I’m going to join you. I’m not exactly rushed off my feet.’ She gestures around the empty room and smiles wistfully.
‘Maybe you should get Carly to come down and give you a makeover,’ I say, not without bitterness. ‘Everyone seems to be raving about her right now.’
‘Carly? Pshhh!’ Lily snorts. ‘She wouldn’t know true style if it came up and bit her on her arse.’ Her hand flutters up to her lips and she pulls a face. ‘Oops. Potty mouth. Sorry. I mean, she’s a beautiful girl but she has no imagination, no appreciation for art, or history or . . . or, ensemble. She simply copies catwalk looks she’s seen on models or celebrities. That’s not style, that’s imitation. It may be the sincerest form of flattery, but it sure ain’t fashion, Evie.’
Speech over, Lily takes a sip of her tea and looks at me. ‘Now, more importantly, tell me about this date of yours . . .’
An hour later I head out of Lily’s tearoom, my spirits lifted. I’d told her all about Joel, and she’d sighed and swooned in the appropriate places and clapped her hands, and did everything, in fact, that I hoped a good friend would do. I didn’t tell her that I’m pretending to be Carly as I can barely admit it to myself. Lily has even lent me her vintage black Chanel handbag for this evening, which she says will go perfectly with my outfit. I put it over my shoulder, gazing wondrously at the beautiful soft, quilted bag with the distinctive emblem. Lily sat back in her chair, looked me up and down and told me that Coco would be proud in a way that made me think perhaps she knew her. Then she held up her finger, got up and went to scrabble behind the counter, and came back clutching a handful of hairgrips. Then in one swift motion, she scooped my hair back off my face and with a single twist had pulled it back into a 1940s style, which she told me was called the Victory Roll, popular during that decade to celebrate the Allies’ victory in the Second World War. Then she stood back and nodded approvingly. ‘Now Joel will see more of your pretty face.’ Then she kissed me on each cheek and sent me off. But not before promising to come for a drink on Thursday night.
I’ve decided that instead of having a ‘Promotion party’, like Sam originally suggested, I’m going to invite my favourite people at Hardy’s to a little gathering and introduce them to one another. It seems crazy that Lily has never met Sam and that Sam doesn’t know Felix – they’re all such a big part of the store and yet, like me, they work in ‘invisible’ jobs. All the shop-floor staff go for drinks together, so why shouldn’t we? I know they’ll all get on really well. I haven’t told Sam yet, but I reckon he’ll think it’s a great idea. And Lily seemed uncharacteristically speechless, and a bit teary, actually, when I asked her. Then she’d clapped her hands and said she couldn’t wait to ‘step out’ with me and my chums.
I tentatively put my hand up to my hair and pat it, feeling my fingers bounce off the smooth roll. I feel taller suddenly, more confident. According to Lily all I need now is a dash of red lipstick and I’ll be ready to wow on my date. I didn’t tell her that I planned to use my usual lip balm instead. I don’t want to look like I’ve gone in fancy dress. Thankfully everything I’m wearing is so classic and stylish even now that I don’t look like some 1940s throwback. But the stockings and red lipstick Lily expects me to wear would definitely tip me over the edge.
I wander back to the stockroom through Menswear, which is quieter than it was on Saturday, but still far busier than it has been for months. Today Guy is sporting a flat cap and classic Pringle jumper with a pink shirt and tie and straight black slacks. He looks very cool. He doesn’t see me as I walk through his department. He’s standing with his hand cupping his chin, head tilted to one side, studying the mannequin he is in the middle of dressing. He looks . . . happy. I feel a swell of pride that I have helped him in some small way. I’m still watching him when his mobile phone rings and he answers chirpily.
‘Hellooo . . . Oh. Hello, Paul.’
I freeze. It’s Guy’s ex, the one who dumped him so cruelly the day they were meant to complete on their dream flat in Soho, leaving Guy homeless and hopeless.
‘I’m faboosh, thanks, sweetie,’ Guy says in a singsong voice. ‘You? . . . Sorry, what? I wasn’t listening . . . Oh, that’s nice. . . . Hang on, sorry, can I put you on hold a sec?’
He pulls the phone away from his ear, pops it down on the floor and continues dressing the mannequin for five minutes. I watch, totally entranced by this new Guy. Seeing him now, being so cool with the man who had broken his heart – and, worse, his spirit – is incredible. It’s amazing what a self-esteem boost can do for a guy. Especially this particular Guy.
And this girl, I think, looking down at my outfit and thinking of Joel.
Just then, Guy picks up his phone again. This is better than any movie.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says flippantly. ‘Now, what were you saying? Tonight? Oh, sorry, Paul darling, no I’m not free.’ He pauses for just the right amount of time. ‘I’ve got a date. It’s with this real cutie who came in the shop over the weekend . . . What?’ His expression hardens. ‘Yes he is under seventy,’ he snaps. ‘I’ll have you know Hardy’s is having a turnaround.’ Another pause. ‘Well, you’d better believe it. Things are changing round here, and I like it. After all, a change is as good as a rest. Isn’t that what you told me? Now, sorry but I have to go. Customers to serve. Ta-ra!’ He stabs the Call End button and then claps his hands and squeals, ‘Ohhh, that felt gooood!’
I give him a round of applause and he turns in surprise and then bows, sweeping an arm across the floor and up in a port de bras that Lily would be proud of. He whistles as he slowly walks over to me. ‘Woohooo, honey, you look hot! Who’s the lucky fella?’
I shrug, embarrassed suddenly.
‘Well, just you remember what someone once told me: that you’re truly special and you deserve to be loved. You just need the courage and the heart and brains to find the right person.’ He pauses and shakes his head. ‘Can’t remember who told me that, but it really helped me.’ He snaps his fingers suddenly. ‘It must’ve been Judy.’ He clips his heels, makes a sign of the cross and looks heavenward. I clearly look confused as he sees fit to elaborate. ‘Garland, sweetie. Keep up!’ He snaps his fingers. ‘The Wizard of Oz! Courage! Brain! Heart! Yes, it was definitely Judy.’ Then he shakes his head ruefully at me as if he can’t believe I didn’t know he was talking about the great woman herself.
I don’t have the heart to tell him it was actually me who gave him that advice during one of our many stockroom heart-to-hearts. But it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember. What’s important is that my advice he
lped.
By the time I reach the stockroom I am ready to flop. My red stacked heels with little patent bows over the toes are killing me, and the last thing I feel like doing is running round the aisles collecting items for various departments. Judging from the ticket-roll that is spurting endlessly out of the printer, it is clearly proving to be another busy day for the store. Curiously, I haven’t had one single order from Designers. It is much more of a niche department, though, I rationalize.
Just then the stockroom door opens and a despondent-looking Carly comes in. Her sleek ponytail has sagged, her tight, white dress is ruched in all the wrong places and she immediately kicks off her heels and comes stomping into the stockroom.
‘I need caffeine,’ she growls, and then flops down onto the sofa and buries her head in her hands. This is most unlike Carly.
‘Coming right up,’ I say, and dash over to the kitchenette, glancing back over my shoulder as I pop the kettle on. Carly hasn’t moved. Fleetingly, I notice her toenail polish is chipped. I look down at my own feet. I did my toenails last night especially for my date. They’re painted ruby red. Lily would be proud of me. I wanted to make the effort even though my high-heeled pumps are not peep-toe.
‘I am so over today,’ Carly says through her hands.
‘Why, what’s happened?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘What’s not happened, you mean.’ She looks up and slumps back on the sofa, as if her body cannot support the weight of her head. Which to be honest, given her skinny frame, is highly likely. ‘We haven’t made one sale in Designers,’ she says tearfully. ‘Elaine says it’s a total disaster. And Rupert and Sharon are probably saying the same.’ Her bottom lip quivers. She swallows and sticks her chin out defiantly. ‘Not that I care what they think anyway.’