by Ali Harris
‘So harness some of Hardy’s ideas but adapt them to suit your American clientele,’ I say. ‘The whole focus of Hardy’s makeovers has . . .’ I pause, ‘. . . seems to have been a retrospective. Instead of competing with the brand-new stores like Rumors, with all their high-concept contemporary displays, whoever has been doing these makeovers seems to have been looking back, making the old stock relevant again and giving customers something different; something nostalgic and traditional that no other London store is offering. It’s what people seem to want.’ I pause as I think about Carly and her love of contemporary fashion and then add hurriedly, ‘I mean, it’s totally not my thing, obviously, but there’s no reason why you couldn’t do similar.’
Joel studies me as a slow grin crawls across his lips. ‘Clever and cute,’ he says, and then he leans forward and kisses me lightly on my lips, his mouth lingering for longer than I expect until I feel the warmth of his tongue meet mine and we are kissing like love-struck teenagers, our hands curled round each other’s necks, fingers stroking each other’s hair. And then suddenly we are at the front of the queue and we step into the big glass pod with our arms wrapped round each other, leaning against the hand rail as we look out, ready to be lifted high in the air and over London Town. And as the people pile in and we begin to move up, up, up, I realize that once again, it is snowing and being in this pod with Joel is like being in my very own snow globe.
‘I wonder if we can see Hardy’s,’ I mutter, more to myself than to Joel.
‘I think you care about that place more than you let on,’ he says, moving behind me and leaning the weight of his body against my back, curling his arms around my stomach as we look over the city.
‘Yes,’ I reply, without thinking, ‘I guess I do.’
‘You know, sometimes I feel like I’m dating two different people,’ Joel says, and I feel myself stiffen in his arms. ‘One minute you’re this visionary, ambitious, powerhouse of a girl and the next, I see flashes of this soft, romantic side. It’s like you have a love/ hate relationship with Hardy’s. So come on, tell me what you love about the place,’ he murmurs softly.
And perhaps because up here, suspended like this over the city I love, with Joel’s arms around me, miles away from Carly and my family and people’s expectations of me, I somehow believe that anything is possible. Or maybe it’s because from up here, the big, expansive, vibrant city – which seems to have swallowed me whole ever since I moved here, making me invisible to everyone – suddenly looks like it’s constructed out of matches and I, for once, am a dominating presence looming over it like a puppet-master, pulling the strings of the people below and utterly in control of my destiny. But all I know is that for once I want to be totally 100 per cent truthful with Joel. And so I tell him about Hardy’s and how much I love it, without revealing anything else about me or my real role at the store. I realize with a growing frustration that this is the person I want Joel to fall in love with: the simple stockroom girl whose colleagues barely acknowledge her presence, who lives with her sister and is a glorified babysitter, and who desperately wants her life to change, but who has also come to recognize that she doesn’t want to be someone she’s not in order for that to happen.
As we make our descent to the ground I feel overwhelmed with sadness. Yes, I’m having a wonderful time with Joel, and for once I feel like I’m in an old black-and-white movie rather than obsessively watching them, and Joel is my Cary Grant and Errol Flynn and Jimmy Stewart all wrapped up in one gorgeous gift. But the truth is this gift wasn’t meant for me. It was meant for Carly. And the parcel Joel has received may have glossy packaging, but inside it’s pretty disappointing.
The pod slows almost to a stop and Joel turns me round and kisses me again, but this time I pull back. I can’t look at him. I know that if I do, I will cry and I don’t want to let that happen.
‘I’m sorry but I have to go,’ I gasp and, as the doors open, I run out into the bitterly cold air, feeling it whip against my exposed skin, as if it is punishing me for not being myself.
I pause for a moment as I work out which way to go. I literally have no idea. I run blindly down the Southbank, staggering into stall-holders trying to sell me their Christmas wares, the sound of Joel’s voice calling out Carly’s name carried to my ears by the cruel wind.
I trudge miserably up the path that leads to the top of Primrose Hill, leaning into the wind and trying to ignore the couples that are filing past me, chatting animatedly whilst wrapped in each other’s arms. It seems everyone in the world has someone to share their Sunday afternoon with; more to the point, someone with whom they can really be themselves. I glance up and shiver as I look at the bare trees stretching their aged branches into the bleak, monochrome sky that is groaning with thick grey clouds.
My phone bleeps and I pull it out of my pocket wearily. It is the fifth text I’ve had from Joel in half an hour. I put the phone back in my pocket and keep walking. I don’t really know what possessed me to run away from him like that earlier; all I know is that I couldn’t handle being near him and not being myself for one more second.
Now I’m mired in regret and wish I’d stayed. I don’t want to go home and I don’t want to be here alone. But I walk on up the hill anyway, feet digging in the mud and slush until I reach the top and, by some stroke of luck, manage to find a free bench to sit on. I lean back, cross my legs and lift my shoulders around my neck to stop the wind whistling down my coat as I gaze at London sprawled majestically across the horizon. Then I wipe away a stray tear with the sleeve of my coat. It is so beautiful up here, but right now it feels like a place I don’t belong. Perhaps I should just give up and go back home to Norfolk, accept that my fate is a quiet, country life with no handsome men in the picture and no high-flying jobs in fashion.
I sniff miserably at the thought just as a figure passes in front of me and then sits next to me. I glance at my park compatriot wondering who else is alone on a day like this. He looks sad, like he is missing having someone with him too. I focus my eyes through the blur . . .
‘Sam?’ I say in delight.
‘Evie!’ he gasps as he turns towards me. ‘I had no idea that was you huddled up there. What are you doing here?’
‘I live here, remember?’ I say, laughing through my quickly evaporating tears. ‘More to the point, what are you doing here?’
There is a pause. ‘Um, well, it’s funny you should ask actually,’ Sam begins uncertainly, studying my face as if searching for some sort of sign. ‘It’s a long story and one that I’ve kind of been wanting to tell you for a while . . .’
‘OUCH!’ I yell as a ball suddenly whacks me against my leg and two snotty-nosed little boys come running up to grab it, before careering down the hill, kicking the ball and letting out peals of laughter.
‘Bloody kids,’ I shout as I rub my calf. I turn to Sam. ‘That really hurt! Why can’t their parents stop them from attacking unsuspecting people who are just trying to sit in peace and enjoy the view on a Sunday afternoon?’ I pause. Sam looks horrified by my outburst. ‘Oh God!’ I wail. ‘I sound like Scrooge!’ I shake my head as he laughs. ‘But honestly, sometimes I wonder why people bother having kids at all if they can’t look after them. I mean, it’s not a part-time job; it takes time and effort, and you need to dedicate all your energy to it. I just wish more parents would realize that. Then maybe there wouldn’t be so many frustrated children running about, and so many unhappy families, come to think about it . . .’
I’m ranting but I’m no longer aiming my anger at the two 8-year-olds who have inadvertently caused severe muscle damage to my leg. Instead I am thinking about Delilah and Will, who seem willing to dump their kids on me at any given opportunity in order for them to be able to pursue their careers. It just doesn’t seem right.
‘Oh,’ says Sam, shifting uneasily on the seat, probably trying to edge away from the madwoman sitting next to him.
‘Sorry, Sam.’ I reach my hand across to his knee. ‘I have some pent
-up frustration I haven’t quite dealt with. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Now, what was this long story you were about to tell me?”
Sam examines his fingernails and then looks away. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’ There is a pause and then he stands up and stretches out his hand towards mine. ‘Fancy grabbing a drink? I need to be someplace warm before I lose some really essential body parts to frostbite.’
‘You’re on.’ I grab his hand, laughing as he pulls me to my feet.
Giggling and still grasping each other’s hands, Sam and I run down the hill, past children and dogs and grandparents, and groups of friends and couples, towards the sparkling lights of the high street. We burst through the doors of the Queen’s Head pub, which sits on the corner of Regent’s Park Road and at the epicentre of Primrose Hill’s little high street and I grab a spare table in the corner, right by the roaring fire, while Sam goes to the bar to order drinks. I watch him for a moment as he stands next to a group of lads all discussing football. Sam looks at me and rolls his eyes and I smile and fake a yawn in their direction.
Moments later he brings over two glasses of mulled wine, pulls out a stool and sits in front of me. The table is small so our knees our touching and I try to shift them away but there’s no room, so I relax and allow our legs to press softly together. He pushes the glass of steaming, ruby-coloured liquid across the table and I clasp my hands around it, sighing with pleasure as the scent of cinnamon, mixed spices, apple and wine waft up to my nostrils.
‘Mmm,’ we say in unison, and there is a moment of mutual contentment.
‘So why were you sitting up there alone, looking so miserable?’ he asks gently, sitting forward on his stool, fixing his eyes on me intently.
I shift a little in my seat as the space between us lessens and I feel a rush of intimacy that I didn’t expect.
‘New boyfriend trouble?’ he says, averting his gaze as he takes a sip of mulled wine.
‘I guess so,’ I admit reluctantly.
Sam nods and I take a deep breath and blurt out everything that I’ve been feeling. I can’t tell Sam I’m pretending to be Carly, that’s way too embarrassing to admit, so instead I focus on the worry that I’m trying to be something I’m not to impress Joel because I feel like he is out of my league. Sam listens quietly to everything I tell him, sipping on his mulled wine and nodding every so often to encourage me to continue. When I’ve poured out my heart to him he puts his elbows on the table and rests his head in one of his hands and looks straight at me.
‘It’s tricky, Evie. It sounds like you really like this guy and he is clearly totally enamoured of you.’ He pauses. ‘And who could blame him?’ I feel myself blushing as Sam continues, ‘The truth is I’m no expert on relationships – in fact I’m probably the last person you should ask; I’m a bloke, after all – but if I had to give it a shot all I’d say is that I know without question that to truly fit with another person you have to tell them everything about yourself, no matter how hard that may be. We each have a past but in order to have a future with someone you have to be able to reveal every single layer of yourself.’
I suddenly notice that Sam is no longer looking at me or even directing his words to me any more. Instead, he looks down and mutters, ‘It’s the only way,’ then drains his glass and stands up. ‘Are you ready for another one?’ he asks, but heads to the bar without waiting for me to answer, leaving me to ponder his words.
‘You know, Sam,’ I say when he places another glass of mulled wine in front of me, ‘you’re right. I always thought that in order for someone to want to be with me, I’d have to show them a different version of myself. Take my ex, Jamie. Even though I thought I was being myself, I put my life on hold for him just so he could follow his dream. I wanted to be close to him but I lost sight of my own ambition and where my life was going, and became his shadow. No wonder he ended up with no respect for me. What an idiot I was.’ I shake my head as I take a long sip of the warming wine.
‘I can understand why you did that,’ Sam says quietly. ‘Sometimes even the most mundane job is more pleasurable if there’s someone there you like.’
‘So what’s your history?’ I ask, interested suddenly in Sam’s life before I met him. ‘Have you left a trail of broken hearts in your wake? Are you a womanizer, a commitment-phobe, a new man or a serial monogamist?’
‘Are they my only options?’ Sam laughs. ‘Not all blokes fit into such stereotypes, you know.’
‘Really?’ I reply drily, thoroughly unconvinced.
‘OK, fair enough, most do, but some of us have a more, let’s say, chequered history.’
‘Really?’ I repeat, leaning forward over the table, suddenly intrigued.
‘Oh God,’ Sam almost chokes on his drink as he clocks my expression, ‘now you think I’m some sort of Lothario! I can see it in your face!’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘No, I don’t, I just think there’s something more to you than meets the eye. I can’t quite put my finger on it,’ I say, narrowing my eyes as if trying to study him more closely than I ever have. ‘You seem experienced . . .’ Sam raises his eyebrow and I suddenly realize how that sounds. ‘N-no,’ I stammer, ‘I don’t mean like that, or um, then again you know, maybe you are, I don’t know. What I mean is, how could I know that?’ I take a deep breath, suddenly struggling to articulate myself. ‘Anyway, that isn’t my point. What I mean is, you seem experienced in love, like you’ve had something wonderful, but it also seems like you’ve also been badly hurt.’
Sam tilts his head to one side. ‘Carry on, Mystic Meg, you’re doing pretty well,’ he says wryly.
‘Well . . .’ I pause as I try and sum up what I’ve seen in him . . . ‘it’s kind of like you’ve known the best that love has to offer, something really simple and pure, but that it has also been cruelly snatched away from you when you least expected it. Yep, that’s it, I think,’ I finish jubilantly.
Then I look at Sam’s face. He seems overcome with fatigue and sadness, like all the life and laughter have been drained from him, and I realize that, without meaning to, I have touched a terribly raw nerve.
‘Oh, Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘No, it’s fine, Evie, honestly,’ he says, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I guess you just hit me where it hurts. The truth is I do love someone deeply – I have for years now – but because of situations beyond my control I can’t be with that . . . person as much as I’d like, and it kills me. And then on top of that I feel the same as you: that because of this person, I can’t really be myself with the other people – person – I care about.’ He sighs as he struggles to explain his situation. ‘I don’t know . . . it’s kind of complicated.’
‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ I say, stretching my hand across the table and placing it over his. He clasps it as if he is drawing strength from my grasp. ‘What a pair we are, huh?’
He looks at me, his soft brown eyes melting my heart a little as I suddenly see how much he’s been hurt. I want more than anything to help to mend him, to make him feel like he has a chance at love, but as the air between us grows thick with intent, I suddenly panic as I see his lips reaching across the table for mine. I can’t do this. There’s Joel. And Ella. I pull back suddenly and he slumps down in his seat.
‘Let’s not make our lives any more complicated than they already are, eh?’ I rasp, a sudden searing pain in my throat constricting my words.
Sam nods, answering without looking at me. ‘I’m sorry, Evie. I don’t know what came over me. It’s just the wine and the fire and the . . .’ He waves his arm round the pub, which is glowing with life, love and festivity, the Christmas tree in the corner sparkling merrily, snow now falling softly outside the window. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he mumbles.
‘I know,’ I say as we push out our stools and silently put on our coats before heading out into the bleak midwinter.
We hug awkwardly and then turn and go our separate ways.
I pause for a moment on the now-
empty street and glance back at Sam, who is trudging up the foggy, snow-capped hill, softly illuminated by the frail yellow glow of the Victorian streetlamps, and I feel a pang of regret as I wonder just what would have happened if I’d let him kiss me. I cross the street and head for Chalcot Square, secure – but not necessarily happy – in the knowledge that now, I’ll never know.
Monday 12 December
13 Shopping Days Until Christmas
Despite it being Monday, and even though I’m feeling particularly weary after my emotional day yesterday, I’m still at the staff entrance at 6.30 a.m. Well, there’s no time to waste. I don’t even have time to chat to Felix today again, but I’m a bit thrown when I arrive and discover he’s not in his office. For the two years I’ve worked here he’s always been at his desk when I’ve walked in. Maybe he’s not very well. I miss his cheerful face and I suddenly realize that without his seeing me it could be hours before anyone even knows I’m here.
I wander out into the still-dark store and sigh as I try to summon up the energy to makeover another whole department on my own in the space of two hours.
Just then, the lights click on and, as if by magic, Felix, Lily, Sam, Jan Baptysta, Justyna and Velna appear. I gasp and laugh as Lily steps forward and waves gaily at me. She is wearing black cropped trousers with flat pumps, a black top and a scarf wrapped around her head, like Norma Desmond. She most certainly looks ready for her close-up.
‘Morning, Evie!’ she trills. ‘We hope you don’t mind, but after our session on Thursday night we decided you could do with a hand – well, a few hands actually – for the next makeover. We figured you’d start today. So, just tell us what you want us to do; we’re all here ready to help!’