Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Good. So no more tantrums about being a dramality star.’ He squeezes my shoulder and smiles over my head in the mirror.

  ‘Who, me?’ I laugh, waving a hand in the air as if to shoo him away. And Mulberry-On-Sea isn’t dull.’ I pull a pretend indignant face. I love living here.

  ‘Ha-ha. Well, it’s hardly Hollywood now, is it?’ Eddie quips. ‘Anyway, what do you think of my look? Dapper and debonair, yes?’ He does a twirl to show off another new suit. ‘Ciaran reckons I look like Gary Barlow channelling lord of the manor at Glastonbury. In the VIP area, obvs – I don’t do mud.’ He curls his top lip.

  ‘Hmm,’ I nod. ‘Well I can see why Ciaran thinks that. You look very suave in tweed, but are those green Hunter wellies really necessary?’ Eddie pulls a face. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Tom yet?’ I add, changing the subject.

  ‘No sugar. Like I said when you asked me yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, only emails – work-related ones. And no, I can’t ask why he hasn’t been in contact with you. More than my job’s worth. He made it very clear after that time you asked me to find out about his favourite aftershave, right at the start when you wanted to get him a little present. He was very insistent on the importance of our relationship remaining professional. I’m his BA, not his GBF.’ Eddie rolls his eyes. ‘And y’all know how gloriously masterful and proper he can be,’ he adds in an American accent as he flings the back of his left hand against his forehead like a lovestruck Southern belle in a back-and-white movie epic.

  ‘Hmm. Well you must at least know when he’s coming back. As his BA, won’t you have booked the flight?’ I say, giving my hair a quick pat.

  ‘Oh no, KCTV take care of all that now. And with Tom away, I’m to be Kelly’s go-to man while they’re filming instore, so I’ll be cutting back on my Carrington’s work – Kelly needs me more.’ He pauses to preen for a bit.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He did mention that he was hoping to be back in a week or two, though.’ My heart sinks at this news. I’ve really missed Tom and it’s only been five days since I last saw him. I can’t imagine another week, or possibly two, without him. ‘But it depends – he’s hoping to get his filming in the can, as it were up front. The plan is to then spread his scenes out over all of the weekly episodes, so the viewers think he’s travelling for the duration of the series. I heard Kelly chatting about it to one of her flunkies.’

  ‘Oh right.’ But before I can probe him further, Zara appears by the clothes rail, wearing a brown peplum dress. Eddie swivels his head to follow my eye line.

  ‘Ew, what’s she come as? A pork pie!’ he blurts out, before helping himself to a croissant. He pulls one claw off and stuffs it into his mouth.

  ‘Eddie! Whisper voice, she might hear you,’ I say, not wanting to antagonise her. She already hates me. The ghastly image from the internet, of her draped all over Tom, flashes inside my head, followed by an overwhelming sense of relief – at least she’s still here and not in Paris! Small mercies, and all that, I suppose.

  ‘Good,’ he huffs, before giving Pussy a tiny bite of his croissant. ‘That girl is driving me insane.’

  ‘Why? What’s she done?’ I crease my forehead.

  ‘What hasn’t she done, more like? Parading around the executive floor with her Swarovski-encrusted mobile welded to her ear while I do all the work running after Kelly and her entourage. Not that I mind, of course, Kelly is a proper ledge, but honestly – comes to something when her own daughter can’t even be bothered to pick out a Christmas present for her. Had me calling all over the place in search of something suitable for a “mean old mare” – her words, not mine.’

  ‘Ahh, such a shame,’ I say, thinking how exciting it would be to be able to go Christmas shopping for Mum. She loved all the build-up, marking off the days on her kitchen calendar, and she always got teary on opening her present from me. I make a note to visit her grave soon; perhaps Dad and I could go together. I’d like that.

  ‘Oh purlease, cry me a fucking river. That girl is up to something, I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, numerous international calls from the landline in Tom’s office. The bill arrived on Friday and it was nearly treble what it usually is. Flaming cheek, and it’s not like she’s so hard up for cash that she can’t afford to pay for her own personal phone calls. Kelly gave her two thousand pounds the other day, in fifties. Just like that!’ He clicks his fingers in the air. ‘All because she wanted to pamper herself ahead of today’s filming. Excuse me! But where do you know around here that charges money like that for a mani and pedi with a bit of a shoulder rub thrown in? Nowhere, that’s where! I mean, what are they using? Crushed diamond dust!’ Eddie flops down in the chair next to me. I try not to laugh at his indignation as he plonks Pussy on my lap and leans forward to inspect his teeth in the mirror.

  ‘Uh-oh, here she comes.’ Eddie elbows me and then jumps up and smoothes down his suit jacket.

  ‘There you are! Eddie, sweetheart, I’ve been looking all over for you.’ Zara flashes her perfect white veneers. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she adds, running a finger along the table in front of me.

  ‘Oh, we were just saying how fabulous you look and how exciting today is going to be, weren’t we Georgie?’ Eddie kisses the air either side of Zara’s head, which she reciprocates, while I cough as her flirty sweet Clive Christian perfume catches in my throat.

  ‘Err, yes. That’s right,’ I say, recovering quickly and flashing big eyes in Eddie’s direction when Zara isn’t looking.

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited. We’re going to be focusing on highlighting your inadequacies today,’ she says, inspecting her immaculately manicured nails and flashing me a look.

  ‘Oh?’ I stand up, so I’m operating from the same level as her, and hand Pussy back to Eddie.

  ‘Yes. That’s right. The board of directors asked KCTV to help you up your game, remember? So naturally we have to show the viewers that it needs upping in the first place, obviously. You’re going to be dealing with a customer complaint.’ Zara points at me. ‘And you, darling,’ she pauses to flutter her extra-long eyelashes at Eddie, ‘well, you and the dog are going to be showing off the new pet spa.’ She runs an index finger down Eddie’s lapel.

  ‘Fabulous. Kelly did mention it, hence the boots.’ Eddie grins, twirling a welly-clad foot in the air. ‘Can get very mucky in there with all that sluicing going on,’ he adds, lowering his voice and pulling an exaggerated grimace. Zara does a tinkly laugh before shaking her big hair around for a bit while admiring herself in the mirror.

  ‘OK, five minutes. Then can I have you all out on the shop floor?’ someone shouts out, before I have a chance to quiz Zara for details. I can’t imagine what the complaint is about; we don’t get many disgruntled customers, other than the odd light-hearted comment from a local about the high-end bags being too expensive.

  After doing more air kisses with Eddie, Zara sashays off with her mobile pressed up to her ear, and the first thing that pops into my head is – I wonder if it’s Tom she’s whispering to? I quickly shove the thought away and turn to face Eddie.

  ‘Whaaaat?’ he says, shrugging his shoulders and sticking his bottom lip out.

  ‘Nothing.’ I pull a face and roll my eyes.

  ‘Honey-pie, I’ve got to keep her sweet. She could hold the key to my new career,’ he says in a stagey voice, by way of explanation.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘As a dramality star, of course. I have to keep her on side. Besides, she actually knows Claire, Pete’s manager, and if I play my cards right then she’ll put a good word in for me. I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘Well, five minutes ago you didn’t trust her – talk about fickle,’ I say, gratefully taking the Loubs from a wardrobe woman. I run an index finger over the buttery soft black leather. It takes me less than two seconds to kick off my New Look heels.

  ‘And I still don’t. But I’m not
letting that stop me from lifting up a BAFTA at the telly awards next year. I’ve already rehearsed my speech,’ he says, with a totally serious look on his face. My pulse quickens as I slip my feet inside the exquisite shoes and nod to confirm that they fit perfectly, and even if they didn’t I’m not sure I’d admit it. I don’t care if I end up crippled like a geisha – these shoes are lush. And they’re staying on my feet.

  After thanking the wardrobe woman profusely, I shake off the black hairdresser’s cape that I’ve been wearing to protect my clothes – a beautifully cut cream DVF trouser suit over a shimmery green butterfly-patterned silk shirt. I feel so glamorous. Eddie stares at me open-mouthed before letting out a long wolf whistle.

  ‘Err … wowdotcom. This just got a whole lot more exciting.’ He loops his left arm though mine. ‘Darling Georgina Hart, let’s go and meet our public!’ he announces, regally sweeping an arm out wide as if to clear a path for us.

  9

  We make it on to the shop floor that is lit up like a film set. There are four enormous light bulbs positioned either side of my counter, next to two white paper screens on metal poles, and it feels as though there are people everywhere. Some are obviously from the production company, KCTV; they’re wearing funky outfits and flitting around clutching clipboards and various gadgets. The others must be the actors – men, women, a few children; but they all have coats, hats and scarfs on, and a few are even holding Carrington’s Christmas carrier bags.

  Mrs Grace is hovering by the DKNY display and her beehive has grown a good inch or two higher since I last saw her. And I’m sure her lipstick is more luminescent. Annie comes over to meet me.

  ‘Blimey, you look stunning babe.’ She takes my hands in hers and holds them out wide to get a proper look at me.

  ‘And so do you,’ I say, smiling at her black fitted maxi dress with Audrey Hepburn style hairdo – the high bun is perfect and the expertly applied smoky eyes with flicky eyeliner make her look stunning.

  ‘God, I’m so excited. But that Zara said we’re getting a complaint. You know I hate dealing with complaints,’ she whispers, leaning into me.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll just do what we always do. I’ll deal with it. If they come to you, then call me over as you normally would. I think it’s important that we keep this as real as possible, even if we are dressed up like movie stars.’ I smile and give her hands a quick squeeze for reassurance.

  ‘Is it a real complaint then, do you think?’ She raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I have no idea, but let’s treat it as such. That way we can’t go wrong and get portrayed as inefficient like we were in the pilot show.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Annie grins, before being shepherded away by a production assistant.

  I take up my position by the counter, wishing I could wear sunglasses as the lights are so bright. I can already feel a trickle of sweat snaking a path down my back, it’s that hot in here. I’m contemplating plumping up a few bags as I normally would before we open up, when Hannah appears in front of my counter, bouncing around like an overexcited puppy.

  ‘OK Georgie, as we said on Friday at the rehearsal …’ I try not to smile. ‘Rehearsal’ is stretching it a bit, more like five minutes in the staff canteen in between bites of her tuna melt panini; she said to ‘keep it real’ and to ‘go with the flow’, whatever that means. I nod instead. ‘If you screw up then just carry on, we can always edit out any gaffs. You’ll be fab, but most of all – be yourself! Like I said before, you’re a natural and the viewers are going to lurrrrrve you. We’ve already had enquiries about your status,’ she adds enthusiastically, and the bouncing intensifies.

  ‘Status? What do you mean?’

  ‘Single. Married. That kind of thing. You never know, we might be able to get you filmed out on a few dates. Viewers love all that. And we’d foot the bill, of course.’ She elbows me affectionately as if we’re best friends chatting over coffee and cake.

  ‘But I’m not single.’ I bite my lip.

  ‘Oh!’ She frowns. ‘Are you sure?’ She stops bouncing, tilts her head to one side and wrinkles her nose instead. ‘I thought you were. I’m sure Kelly mentioned it.’

  ‘Well … not exactly. Maybe. Sort of … err, well it’s complicated,’ I mutter before glancing away, feeling like an absolute idiot.

  ‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll chat to Kelly and see what she has in mind,’ she says, lifting her eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘But I thought the show was abou—’ She dashes off, so I end up mumbling ‘helping Carrington’s to up its game’ to myself. My heart sinks. I feel duped all over again. I only agreed to be in the show because I thought it was about Carrington’s. Not my love life. Maybe I should have kept out of the spotlight and gone downstairs to sell washing machines instead. I suck in a big gulp of air. Well, they can’t make me be filmed on dates – I know there definitely wasn’t a clause about that in my employment contract. Hannah stops and dashes back to me.

  ‘And, ooh, I nearly forgot, what’s your writing like?’ she puffs.

  ‘My writing?’ I ask, momentarily stunned by the randomness of her question.

  ‘Not that it really matters, we can write it for you. A celebrity gossip mag, I forget which one, wants you to do a guest column, write about accessory tips, that kind of thing, tell their readers which bag goes with which outfit. You up for it?’

  ‘Err, yes please! Thank you.’ Wow, my own column. My mood instantly lifts as I try to take in this exciting new development. Maybe I was a bit hasty in dismissing my involvement in the show after all. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. ‘I’d love to.’ I grin.

  ‘Good. They’ll pay of course. Won’t be much, two grand-ish if you agree to a photoshoot too.’

  Whaaaat? £2,000. Oh my God. Amazing.

  I’m mulling it all over and feeling really chuffed when a pumped-up version of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ bellows through the speakers and the people in coats jump into action – chatting and wandering around the store, looking at and touching the festive merch, creating an authentic busy Saturday afternoon feel. For a moment I’m transfixed at the show unfolding in front of me; it’s like being in an actual film or a modern-day episode of Mr Selfridge – the atmosphere is buzzy and electric, and very, very exciting. My pulse quickens. I think I’m going to love doing this, after all.

  The music reaches the ‘gave you my heart’ bit, when a woman appears by the Marc Jacobs display. She seems just like a real customer and not how I imagine an actress to look like at all. She’s wearing a black mohair coat and even has droplets of rain on her red patent handbag. I can’t decide whether to approach her or not. Annie catches my eye and I can tell that she’s thinking the same thing. In my peripheral vision I see a camera gliding up behind the woman, who’s looking directly at me now, so I decide to go for it.

  ‘Good morning, were you looking for a particular bag?’ I give her a smile, and she responds with a poker face. I plough on. ‘Just give me a shout if you see anything you like,’ I add, retreating back to my counter, knowing that customers like this are best left alone until they’re ready to engage. Only she isn’t a real customer, and I have no idea what her agenda is. I busy myself with labelling up a new delivery of chunky cocktail rings to go in the display board on the counter. They arrived on Friday but we didn’t have time to unpack them then, so I might as well make use of being here on a Sunday. Besides, it will make the show look more authentic if I’m doing what I normally would at work. I’ve just placed an exquisite sunshine-yellow daisy design ring into place, when the woman beckons me over.

  ‘At last! I’ve been standing here for ten minutes. I want that bag,’ she says rudely, pointing to a gorgeous chocolate leather tote up on the top shelf.

  ‘Oh good choice,’ I say, grabbing the stepladder to retrieve the bag.

  ‘No. Not that one. This one.’ She wags her finger along the shelf towards the same bag, but in navy crocodile leather. I move the stepladder along and start climbing up. The c
amera shifts around until it’s positioned at the first rung looking up at me, and a sudden moment of panic sets in. What if they’re filming my bottom again? There’s no backing out now so I leg it up the ladder, retrieve the bag and make my descent in record time, figuring that if I keep moving then at least there won’t be too many static shot opportunities, but my left Loub catches on the carpet as I step down and I end up catapulting myself backwards across the floor. The bag does an Olympic standard high-dive somersault before landing in the real pine Christmas tree next to the Lulu Guinness display. Feeling mortified, I fling myself back into a standing position, quickly straighten my jacket and push my big hair extensions away from my face before retrieving the bag, brushing off the pine cones and handing it to the woman. I swear I can hear someone stifling a snigger in the background. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ the woman says, after inspecting the bag. ‘It has a scratch.’

  ‘Oh.’ I study the area near her pointed index finger.

  ‘Right there.’ She taps the leather a couple of times in quick succession.

  ‘I think that’s part of the actual crocodile skin,’ I state, diplomatically. I can’t see a scratch.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘No problem, I can easily get another one from the stock cupboard. In the original packaging,’ I offer, not wanting to argue about it, especially on camera.

  ‘But I want this one,’ she says, taking the bag back and flinging it over her shoulder.

  ‘Of course.’ I smile and she stares at me for a bit.

  ‘How much is it?’ she asks, pulling it open to inspect the monogrammed interior. I tell her the price and she nods.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’m more than happy to get another one for you, if you prefer.’ She shakes her head before glancing at the camera.

  ‘This one.’

  ‘Great. Would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I remember to keep smiling, thinking this is a bit bizarre; one minute she’s complaining and now … but I decide to ‘go with the flow’ as Hannah instructed.