Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Darling, you can have whatever you want,’ Kelly says, sounding exasperated with her own daughter. Millie glances up from the crate, and on catching my eye she pulls a face before looking at Zara’s back. So Millie has the cut of Zara then, I see.

  ‘Well, in that case, I want to go to Paris.’ Zara kicks the point of her left Loub against the cherry-wood panelling next to the fireplace.

  ‘Oh not this again. Can’t you just make do with more money instead?’ Kelly sighs heavily and reaches for her handbag. ‘Anyway, don’t be ridiculous. You’re needed here to help me with the show.’

  ‘It’s so unfair. How come everyone else gets to do the exotic bits while I’m stuck in this provincial dump that doesn’t even have a wait list for Birkin’s.’ Zara jabs the panel again. I turn to look at Kelly, wondering what she’ll come back with. It’s like following the ball at Wimbledon.

  ‘Sweetie, if you want another Birkin, then you only have to say and I’ll put in a call to François. He owes me some merch, especially after all that product placement I did for him in my last series.’ Kelly plucks a black credit card from her purse and waves it in Zara’s direction to placate her. Zara ignores it.

  My ears prick up at this revelation. Does this mean, then, that Annie and I will be selling Hermès bags? Oooh, I hope so. I wonder if this is one of Kelly’s ideas to boost revenue for Carrington’s and put us on a par with the famous department stores up in London. Or, better still, Annie and I could actually carry a Birkin bag in the show? They could film us arriving at work or something. You never know, we might even get to keep one, especially if it’s been used and thereby can’t be sold instore – now that would be amazing. And it would mean that I could dump the fake one I bought from a street seller in Marbs. Although, I can’t see our regular customers forking out thousands for a handbag. Who can afford to do that?

  Or perhaps Kelly has ideas to attract new customers too, from out of town. Maybe down from London for a weekend, or how about a special exclusive event for the glamouratti from the boats moored up in Mulberry Marina. They all seem to be flocking here since the new casino opened, much to the annoyance of the local residence committee, I have to say. My neighbour, Frank, who does something on the parish council, ran a petition for well over a year and collected nearly nine hundred names. But anyway, I’ve seen some amazing super-yachts, and I’ve often wondered why we don’t make more of this untapped flow of high-end customers. I’ll talk to Tom about it, when we’re alone. Could be my way of showing him that, actually, there are no hard feelings, and I’m keen for Kelly to work her magic and make Carrington’s magnificent again. In just the same way he is. He could go back to confiding in me and it would become like our project, chatting and dissecting Kelly’s progress together. You never know, KCTV may even do a second series. Tom did say that he’d been thinking about opening another store, perhaps, and what better way to drum up publicity than by involving the viewers – read, potential new customers – right from the start. I make a mental note to chat to Tom about this too.

  Glancing at the wall clock, I see there’s only five minutes left of my lunch break. I clear my throat.

  ‘Oh, didn’t see you there with all this junk in the way,’ Kelly says, and I’m sure I detect a hint of frostiness in her voice. I wonder if Tom has had a go at her for making Annie and me look like fools. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Tom.’ I smile.

  ‘Oh he’s gone. You just missed him,’ Kelly replies, in a very airy voice.

  ‘Ahh, that’s right. Totes forgot,’ Zara chips in, unconvincingly, as she gives me an up-and-down look before raising a sardonic eyebrow. What is her problem?

  ‘Gone where? Do you know how long he’ll be? I could come back later,’ I say, deliberately keeping my voice light and breezy. I’m not giving Zara the satisfaction of seeing me rankled.

  ‘To Paris, of course.’

  ‘Paris.’ The floor sways beneath me.

  ‘Yep. To film the other half of the show. The exciting bit,’ Zara adds, pointedly. ‘The bit where the viewers will get to see him visiting high-end fashion houses – Paris, Milan, New York.’ She counts off the cities on her fingers. ‘Sourcing new stock lines, meeting suppliers, that kind of thing. And with a bit of luck I’ll get to join him.’

  I feel as though I’m suffocating. Tom has gone! Gone a trillion miles away, or it might as well be, seeing as we’re over. How are we going to talk now? It just won’t be the same on the phone; no – some things just have to be sorted out face to face. Silence follows.

  ‘But he never said,’ I manage, instantly hating myself for sounding all ‘little girl lost’.

  ‘Maybe he was too busy focusing on his priorities,’ Zara offers, before inspecting her nails.

  ‘It was very last-minute, to be fair. The flight was only booked this morning.’ It’s Millie, and she gives me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ Zara butts in, twiddling a diamond earring and flaring her nostrils.

  ‘He’s my … ’ I hesitate. What is he exactly? Before last night I thought he was my boyfriend, but now I have no idea. He never even mentioned Paris. I know he travels a lot, but since we started seeing each other he’s made sure to tell me when he’s going away. I’m stunned. How could I have got it so wrong? If he just wanted a good time, a casual fling, then why didn’t he say so? Why did he come all the way to Italy to surprise me at Sam’s wedding? Then appearing at my sun lounger wearing Daniel Craig-style trunks to show off his practically perfect body, teamed with an irresistibly cheeky grin. Why did he let me think we had a future? We had even chatted about spending Christmas together. I distinctly remember us laughing and saying how fab it would be to stay in one of those picturesque log cabins, with a roaring log fire, snuggled up together in red tartan blankets while sipping mugs of hot chocolate and looking out through frost-cornered windows as snow floats silently down from the sky. Just like in one of those soppy, old-fashioned Technicolor films, with Bing Crosby crooning in the background. It just doesn’t add up. I feel so confused.

  ‘Friend,’ I finish lamely.

  ‘And he’s also the boss around here, so he doesn’t have to answer to you.’ It’s Zara again. I give her a look. She throws me a sarcastic smile.

  ‘Girls. Girls. Come on. Play nicely,’ Kelly interrupts, before putting her arm around Zara and giving her shoulder a rub. ‘Honey, I can see why you’re sweet on him, and who can blame you? He’s diviiiine. Our very own Henry Cavill. Now, if I were ten years younger … ’ And the rest, I secretly think, feeling angry and hurt with Tom all over again. I can’t keep up with this rollercoaster of emotions. One minute I want him so much it aches, and the next I’m left feeling devastated.

  I take a deep breath, inwardly wishing my feelings for Tom weren’t quite so obvious. I really wish I hadn’t been so stubborn now. I should have swallowed my pride and agreed to talk later when it was more convenient. Instinctively, I pull my mobile from my pocket and quickly glance at the screen, willing him to have been in touch. To explain everything. Make it good again. But nothing. Just a text message from Dad, all in shouty capitals with no full stops, but at least he’s trying. I bought him a mobile for his birthday a couple of months ago, and then he went on the silver-surfers’ course at the community centre to master the art of communicating effectively in the electronic age. He’s asking if I’ll come for a late lunch on Sunday, says he has a bit of news to share.

  I glance up and my face immediately freezes. Kelly is looking directly at Zara. She was talking to her, not me. No wonder Zara is being frosty: she fancies Tom and wants him all to herself. And it explains why she’s so desperate to go to Paris. Probably thinks she’ll seduce him up the Eiffel Tower or whatever. Flaming cheek! My heart sinks.

  Well, if she thinks I give up that easily, then she’s seriously mistaken. It’s taken me a long time to meet Tom. OK, he’s behaving a bit weirdly right now and, like Millie said, it was all very last-minut
e and I didn’t exactly give him time to say he was about to board a flight to Paris before I ran out of his office. And it’s early days and all couples have bumpy patches. But if Zara thinks she’s going to steal him away from me with her supermodel looks and endless supply of designer handbags, then she’s going to have a fight on her hands. If there’s one thing I learnt during my time in foster care, it was that you have to stand up to the likes of Zara.

  I turn on my heel, and for the second time today, I leave the room as quickly and quietly as I can. Only this time, Eddie isn’t sitting outside to extend a consoling hand, and there aren’t any tears. Just a stunned realisation, deep down, that it might really be over between Tom and me. No chance of us making up. And no matter how much of a brave face I try to put on things with my fighting talk and bluster, if Tom doesn’t want to be with me, then, realistically, there isn’t much I can do about it. I can’t force him to want me. A shudder rattles right through me as a feeble sob catches in my throat.

  7

  The warm Christmassy smell of nutmeg and orange cocoons me like a comfort blanket as soon as I push open the door to Sam’s café. Instantly, I feel myself calming down. Whenever I come in here, it’s as though I’ve entered an oasis of calm, a stark contrast to the vibrant festive atmosphere just a few floors below.

  I’ve just finished work and couldn’t face being on the draughty damp bus and then sitting at home all alone with a mince pie and custard to keep me company. Not when I could have been wearing black lace underwear and having incredible sex with a man who, only yesterday, I seriously thought might be the one. My happy-ever-after. I swallow before biting down hard on my bottom lip.

  ‘Hey, are you OK hun? You look frazzled.’ Sam appears, wiping her hands on a candy-pink-striped apron as she comes around the counter towards me.

  ‘Not really. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’ I pull a face and grip the strap of my handbag before hoisting it further onto my shoulder.

  ‘Well, you grab a booth and I’ll get us some cakes. They always make things better.’ She smiles and rubs my arm before heading off to the kitchen. Stacey, one of the waitresses, beckons me over to the best booth in the far corner, with full view of the café. Perfect for chatting and keeping an eye out to see who is coming or going.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, flinging my bag down into one of the reclaimed train seats. Crimson red velvet, they’re arranged in booths of four around low tables, with frilly shaded lamps that radiate a golden glow to create an authentic steam-train carriage feel. It’s just like being in an old black-and-white film, or aboard the Orient Express, circa 1920, and very in keeping with the elegant Art Deco style of the nine-floor Carrington’s building.

  Sinking down into a seat, I study the rich burgundy flock wallpaper, counting the sequence of the pattern before it repeats all over again, and I can’t help wondering if Kelly will want to rip it out and modernise everything. Install harsh strip lights and clinical tiled flooring, like some of the big chain stores up in London.

  I’ve been thinking about things all afternoon in between serving seventeen customers. Mostly women, clutching paper lists as they try to get a head start with their Christmas shopping. I got so caught up in worrying about my wide-angled bottom being on TV that I didn’t actually stop to think about the real impact for Carrington’s of being in Kelly’s show. She changes things! Improves businesses, supposedly. But what if her idea of improvement is dire? What will happen then? Tom’s not even here to keep an eye on her. I can’t believe he’s disappeared at a time like this. I just hope the board know what they’re doing – surely Kelly will have to run big changes past them first?

  Take the new pet spa next door – I bet she had to get authorisation to do that, she must have done. Well, if it comes to it, then I’m sure Tom’s Aunt Camille will step in and put a stop to it. She has in the past, when things have got out of hand.

  I pull my phone out of my bag and check again. Still nothing. And then I realise that I don’t know how long the flight is. Tom might not even be there yet. He could be sipping champagne or having a deep-tissue massage in the business lounge, or whatever it is people do in there.

  I’m contemplating sending him a text message, my finger is poised, when Sam appears and I realise that this really needs to be sorted out in person. Or at least in a proper telephone conversation. I resolve to call Tom later instead.

  ‘There. Get your laughing gear around this,’ Sam grins as she pushes a red velvet cupcake up to my lips. I manage a weak smile as I take the cake. After running my index finger over the buttercream icing, I pop it into my mouth. Mm-mmm. My favourite. ‘So, tell me all about it,’ she says, sitting down next to me and simultaneously sliding a three-tiered floral cake stand crammed with every cake imaginable onto the table. There is even a selection of macaroons – salted caramel, chocolate, pistachio, raspberry and vanilla. And Stacey appears with two enormous mugs of hot chocolate piled high with swirly peaks of marshmallow-topped cream. ‘I’ve dropped a nip of brandy in yours. Thought you could do with it,’ Sam says, giving me a cheeky wink as she takes a mug from Stacey and hands it to me.

  ‘Thank you. Do I look that bad?’

  I smile at Stacey as she places the other mug on the table, before heading back to the counter to serve a couple of old ladies who are nudging each other and chuckling naughtily as they point to two gooey chocolate éclairs inside the glass display cabinet.

  ‘So, tell me all about it,’ Sam says.

  ‘I will. But first … I want to give you this,’ I pull the gift-wrapped parcel of three little Christmas-themed romper suits from my handbag. I called Poppy in Childrenswear, right after serving the fake customer and his son, and she had them waiting for me to collect on my way up here. She’s included a really cute rattle too. It has reindeer bells and pictures of snowflakes on.

  ‘Aw, thanks honey.’ Sam shakes the parcel, making the bells jingle. ‘Ooh, it sounds just like Christmas. Santa in his sleigh.’ Her eyes light up. I smile. I’m really pleased I got it for her.

  ‘So how are you feeling?’ I ask, flitting my eyes downwards towards her stomach.

  ‘Fine thanks. A bit tired, but to be expected I guess.’ She rolls her eyes and grins.

  ‘Well, just don’t be overdoing it,’ I say, pretending to be stern.

  ‘You sound like Nathan’s mum, Gloria. She’s gone all mother hen since Nathan gave her the news this morning. We just couldn’t wait, we’re so excited. Anyway, she emailed me a link to some article she read about first trimester do’s and don’t’s.’ Sam laughs and shakes her curls back.

  ‘It’s nice that she cares though. I bet she’s over the moon,’ I say, remembering how Gloria was on the night of their wedding. She’d joined me on the veranda as I looked out across the lush green fields, bathed in the glow from an orange sunset, just to ask me to confirm again that Sam definitely wanted lots of babies. ‘You can’t be too careful these days with you girls leaving it later and later,’ Gloria had said, her eyes all eager and sparkly as she clasped my hands in hers. And Sam isn’t even thirty yet!

  ‘It is, but … ’ Sam’s voice trails off and she looks away.

  ‘I know,’ I say, reaching across the table to stroke her arm.

  ‘Dad would have been so thrilled. And he’d have made a wonderful doting granddad. Probably have set up a trust fund and registered the baby for the best schools in the country by now,’ Sam says, smiling wryly and giving her stomach a stroke.

  ‘You can still do that,’ I say gently, thinking of Sam’s massive inheritance. She’s a woman of considerable financial means and could certainly afford to take her pick of schools. ‘If you want to, of course.’

  ‘We’ll see. But not boarding school. Even though I loved it, I’m not sure I could bear being away from my child. Not like … ’ Sam picks the side of her nail and I wonder if she’s thinking about her mum. ‘I’ve been pondering on whether or not I should try to contact my mother?’ she adds, confirming my tho
ughts.

  ‘Have you?’ I ask softly, not really sure of what else to say. Sam has never mentioned this before.

  ‘I don’t know. Being pregnant has changed things in my head, made me curious to understand how she could just leave me. A little girl.’

  ‘Oh Sam, she didn’t leave you. She left your dad, Alfie.’

  ‘Maybe. But then why didn’t she ever call me from LA? Was it really too much trouble for her to pick up a phone to ask how I was?’

  ‘Perhaps she just wasn’t cut out to be a mum,’ I say quietly, and immediately feel anxious, scared in case I’ve crossed an imaginary line. A short silence follows. ‘I bet she thinks about you every day, though,’ I quickly add. Sam shrugs. ‘And you will be a fantastic mother. You’re lovely and warm and caring, just like Alfie was.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sam turns to face me. ‘Anyway, I’m convinced there are twins in here,’ she says to change the subject. After casting a quick glance around the café to make sure nobody is looking, she quickly loops her apron off over her head and pulls up her top before pushing out her tiny, size-six waist. ‘Have you seen the size of me?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Your tummy is still flat.’

  ‘Hmmm. But not for much longer, and I intend on making the most of it.’ She nudges me gently before taking a massive forkful of a very gooey-looking slice of chocolate cheesecake. ‘Soo, tell me about your day,’ she says, wiping crumbs from her lips. Sam is one of those people that really can eat whatever they want and stay slim. I imagine she’ll have a tiny bump despite eating for two … or even three.