Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Err, yes. Guess so,’ I say, quickly followed by, ‘Sorry, I’d be honoured to.’ I don’t want to spoil his moment. It’s not his fault I’m a dating disaster.

  ‘So why the long face then?’

  ‘Ed, are you sure about this?’ I ask, wondering what KCTV will want in return, and what if they fiddle with the filming? Who knows what they might do?

  ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well, it just doesn’t seem … very special. It’s almost as if you’re only doing it for the show. You know, to be on telly. It won’t be private, and think of all the viewers watching.’ I’d much rather have a romantic, intimate ceremony with just close friends and Dad there to give me away. But then I guess everyone’s different. I allow myself a moment to fantasise before snapping back to reality, because with my relationship track record, I’m far more likely to end up a wizened old woman, all on my own.

  ‘Exactly! Such a fabulous opportunity. And Ciaran agrees – why have boring old Mulberry-On-Sea register office when we can have OK! magazine?’ He makes big eyes. ‘Kelly reckons we’ll easily get a six-page spread, and they’ll pay us thousands for exclusivity.’ He laughs, and I can’t resist smiling at how he has it all worked out. ‘Now, let me tell you about this actor. In fact, I think you’ve already met him—’

  ‘Nooo way,’ I cut in. ‘If it’s the Chloé bag guy, then definitely not.’

  ‘OK, OK, don’t shoot the messenger. Hannah did mention another guy – the sound bloke, big hair with big matching microphone apparently. Oo-err, wonder if that’s some kind of euphemism.’ Eddie smoothes an eyebrow and does kissy lips in my direction.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Yep, that’s him.’ I shake my head emphatically and Eddie’s shoulders droop, his bottom lip too. ‘Georgie, flower, why not? It’s not like Tom’s here to mind.’ I give him a look. ‘Sorry, only joking kiddo. Oh purlease do it. All you have to do is walk into a bar with him, to make the scene look more authentic. Kelly said it would be dull for the viewer if I’m just sitting there with Ciaran, when he’s not even part of the show. And this is my chance to be really famous – get a free, fabulous wedding to the love of my life. Kelly might not go for it otherwise, you know how she rates you as the real star of the show. And you never know, it could spark something off. Maybe Leo’s your one … ’ I flash him another look. ‘Your other one!’ he quickly adds, before nodding and smiling enthusiastically, almost maniacally.

  ‘It won’t spark something off, as you say. Anyway, Leo’s not my type.’ I wonder if I would have been better off flogging washing machines down in the basement after all. I make a mental note to check with Amy. On second thoughts, I don’t want to annoy Kelly and end up getting sacked or something, like those sailors did. Probably best to suck it up. I’ll just make sure I steer clear of ladders from now on and do everything I can to not look like an idiot during filming. Plus, I’m really looking forward to doing the magazine column. I went through the goody bag and there must have been over thirty items inside. And Hannah cornered me in the staff canteen earlier to say that one of Kelly’s VIP friends has invited me to a red carpet event in London – the opening of a new cocktail bar. I just have to turn up and make sure the paparazzi snap me. Then share a few cocktails with the owners inside and give a short glowing review to a journalist. I’ll be paid four thousand pounds – I nearly passed out by the help-yourself salad bar when she told me that. Anyway, it’s all very exciting – but if I don’t do what Kelly wants, then that would all disappear in an instance.

  ‘Might make Tom wake up … ’ Eddie adds slowly, in a perky, persuasive voice, and changing tack now. ‘Nothing like another man on the scene to make you want someone and, trust me, honey, I should know.’ Eddie folds his arms and tilts his head to one side.

  ‘Hmm, let me ponder,’ I say, taking it all in. I think of the betting shop over the road. Valentina or Zara! And with only six weeks until the wrap party on Christmas Eve, I need to find a date – if only to save face. I couldn’t bear it if Tom walked in with Zara all over him, or Valentina or, worst still, both. Or all three of them crammed onto a horse with Bonnie belting out a power ballad in the background. And nothing would surprise me any more in this crazy, real-but-made-up world, I’ve found myself living in.

  13

  Six shopping weeks until Christmas

  ‘OK everyone, listen up. Change of plan. For today’s filming, we’ve got some real customers spending their own money, hopefully – Kelly’s friends down from London, special VIP guests mingled in with the actors – to liven things up a bit. Viewers love a bit of glitz. So be nice, and remember … keep it real.’

  We’re in the staff canteen waiting to start filming, and one of the production assistants is shouting out instructions from over by the soup urn. Everyone is here. Mrs Grace is sitting next to me, wearing a Wedgewood-blue trouser suit with a jaunty chiffon scarf knotted at the side of her neck. Millie has made her up with flattering, youthful pastels and her beehive has been replaced with a feathered crop. She looks just like Julie Andrews.

  Someone shouts out ‘tits and teeth’ and we all laugh, even me – I’ve decided to make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of goody bags, red-carpet events and magazine columns, and nobody likes a misery. And I might meet someone else; I don’t want to be like I was after the split from Brett, single for nearly two years, not when everyone else is settling down. And I certainly don’t want to end up an old spinster – alone, with a feline family and a motorised scooter to look forward to. Plus Eddie and Sam have a point: what will Tom think if he sees me with another man? He’s not the only one in demand now – I’ve had seven Facebook PMs from guys wanting to date me after seeing the show. Besides, I’ve got nothing to lose, especially as I haven’t had a reply to the text message I sent him after watching last week’s show for the trillionth time. It was late, I was home alone and I’d been at the buck’s fizz. I caved in and sent a message saying:

  I miss you so so so sooo sooooooooooooo much, but see that you’ve moved on. I hope you’re very happy Dirty Harry ps – Mr Cheeks really misses you too!!!!

  I shrivel every time I look at it. What was I thinking? It sounds desperate, and sarcastic and ridiculous, and why-oh-why did I have to mention his great grandfather, Dirty Harry? Everyone in Mulberry-On-Sea knows what a philanderer he was, I may as well have just come out with it and called Tom a two-timing snake, even though I don’t have concrete proof as such, like an actual televised snog or whatever. And it’s hardly the way to win back his heart, by insulting him and stalking him like an infatuated schoolgirl. I sent the message seven times. Epic cringe!

  ‘Don’t worry lovey, everything will be all right,’ Mrs Grace whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘You’ll see. Push him out of your head and enjoy the moment. Adventures like this are a rare treat. I’ve been asked to go on Alan Titchmarsh – fancy that. At my age.’ She chuckles and pulls a powder compact from her granny bag before checking her hair in the little mirror. ‘And my Stan says it’s just like having a new dolly bird on his arm.’

  I’m in the usual place at my counter, wrapping a length of silver tinsel around the ring display, when ‘Deck the Halls’ starts playing and the actors move around, suddenly animated and enthralled in the merch. The spotlights are shining bright as before, making the spiced cinnamon scent from the pump under the Christmas tree even more intoxicating. I’m wearing an exquisitely cut black Donna Karan dress, with matching faux fur collared jacket, new instore this week. The girls in Womenswear were thrilled when the stock trolley turned up. Libby, the supervisor, said the suit comes in mink and aubergine too, and Kelly’s new rule about staff wearing Carrington’s clothes is an absolute must for them, which they’re all delighted by.

  We’ve reached the ‘fa la la la laaa’ line when a very attractive, petite woman, dressed in a navy abaya with Swarovski trim at the wrists, approaches my counter flanked by two men in dark suits carrying briefcases. The woman has a headsca
rf on with a discreet Gucci logo, and a puff of ultra-expensive Oud perfume floats around her. I immediately sense that it’s the high-end bags they’ll be interested in. They could be from the marina. Taking a break from their super-yacht, perhaps. Excitement rushes through me.

  ‘I come to buy gifts please,’ the woman says politely with a Middle Eastern accent. She fixes her heavily kohl-lined brown eyes on me. I do a quick scan of the floor, but the production team aren’t here, so I instantly assume she must be one of Kelly’s friends. Last week the actors made absolutely certain a camera was on them before they started performing.

  ‘Of course, I’d be happy to help you. Do you have anything in mind?’ I ask, relaxing into it. I’m in my comfort zone serving proper customers.

  ‘Bags. Louis Vuitton. The newest collection please.’

  ‘Certainly, if you’d like to come this way, please.’ I gesture to a cabinet housing six exquisite top handle bags in a variety of colours, nestling amongst a selection of Louis monogrammed scarfs and purses.

  ‘Would you like to look at one?’ I ask, reaching for the key to unlock the cabinet.

  ‘OK.’ The men move in closer as the woman reaches into her Chanel clutch to retrieve a diamond-encrusted iPhone. I place a signature biscuit-brown bag on the counter.

  ‘I buy it,’ she says, barely glancing at the bag. She takes a quick photo of it with her phone.

  ‘Thank you, would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I ask, wishing all of our customers were this decisive.

  ‘No no! I want aalll of them.’

  ‘All of them?’ I ask, wondering if I’ve heard her right. Perhaps she doesn’t understand about the gift-wrapping service.

  ‘Yes, this one and this one and this one and … ’ she says, pointing a perfectly buffed fingernail to each of the handbags in turn.

  ‘Six bags?’ I say, keeping my voice steady. Annie saunters over, her interest obviously piqued.

  ‘No no! Aalll of them,’ she says, sweeping a heavily jewelled hand in the air. A rock the size of a sugar lump clings to her wedding finger. ‘Every colour. Every style,’ she says, casting an eye over the adjacent counter housing the Louis luggage. ‘And scarves, purses and keyrings too. The whole collection.’

  ‘Um.’ I’m momentarily stunned. ‘Certainly,’ I quickly add, beaming from ear to ear. I discreetly flap a hand in Annie’s direction. She immediately dives into the little stock cupboard behind the counter to retrieve a pile of dust bags as I start unlocking the security ropes and emptying the Louis handbags from the cabinet. We both wrap. Fast!

  Adrenalin is pumping – I’ve never had a proper VIP customer like this before. I imagine this is how the sales assistants up in the big London stores feel all the time. I’ve heard about Saudi customers coming to England in the summer to escape the heat at home, but never at Christmas and certainly not to Carrington’s, in the quant, seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. Things are really looking up – maybe Kelly’s plan to rejuvenate the store might work after all. I hope so. It’s exciting, even if I am to be single again. I’ll just have to live vicariously through my new glamorous and seriously wealthy customers while trying to avoid Tom. He’s bound to return at some stage, and it’ll be hard seeing him every day if we’re not going to be together any more, but I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. I just seriously hope Zara or Valentina or, worse still, both, don’t rock up here and start hanging around instore. I’m not sure I could bear that.

  We’ve finished gift-wrapping; Annie had to get a stock trolley to house all the Louis merch. The woman has bought the whole lot, including the monogrammed luggage collection, plus every Louis item from the big secure stockroom downstairs. Annie had to leg it over to Mrs Grace to collect the key before racing downstairs (taking the customer lift for extra quickness) so we didn’t risk losing the woman’s interest by making her wait a moment longer than necessary.

  The woman beckons to the men with the briefcases, who are hovering by the trolley.

  ‘Err, do you have ID available please?’ I ask, praying that she has, but knowing the total is way over the floor limit for one customer transaction. The woman produces her passport and I give it a polite cursory glance, not wanting to inconvenience her for a moment longer. The men flip open the briefcases and start unloading wads of cash. Annie does a little gasp before swiftly turning and burying her head in the cupboard behind us to conceal her flushed cheeks. I do a quick scan of the floor, wondering where the security guys are – I can’t have this much cash stashed in my till. Besides, from a purely practical perspective, it just won’t fit! I wonder how Harrods copes with all its big sales. Maybe it has extra large tills with safes underneath or something. Well, whatever they have, Carrington’s will need to find out and upgrade, ASAP, as our tiny old-fashioned tills just won’t do at all. Oh no! Not if we’re going to be servicing the shopping requirements of über-wealthy customers from now on.

  And I don’t believe it. I blink again to be sure. Yep. It’s Melissa. The sturdy plain-clothes store detective who used to work here. But how come she’s back? She left to work at the prison. Melissa catches my eye and surreptitiously wanders over.

  ‘You OK, G?’ she mouths discreetly, from behind the Juicy Couture stand. I flick my eyes to the enormous pile of notes in front of me and she pulls out a mobile, presumably to call security.

  A few seconds later, Kelly appears; she’s crawling on all fours as fast as she can towards the Christmas tree for cover. I make big eyes and pray that my customer doesn’t spot her. I bet they don’t have Ronald McDonald lookalikes crawling commando-style on the shop floor at Harrods. But then perhaps Kelly’s behaviour is perfectly normal in the real-but-made-up world. I bite my bottom lip and try to concentrate on counting the cash instead. It’s two hundred pounds over, which I hand back to the woman.

  ‘For you,’ she says, placing her hand over mine and gently pushing the wad towards me.

  ‘Oh no, but I can’t,’ I reply instinctively, holding up my palms.

  ‘I insist.’ The woman smiles. In my peripheral vision I can see Kelly flapping a hand wildly, gesturing for me to take the cash. So I do. I nudge it towards the till, unsure of what to do next. The woman says something in Arabic to the men, who fling the empty briefcases onto the stock trolley and start pushing it across the shop floor. Mick, the security guard, appears and offers to give them a hand, and they head towards the side door, which leads straight out to the directors’ car park. I make a mental note to see about us getting a proper Carrington’s concierge service. This calibre of customer will expect it. We could have a dedicated suite especially for VIP shoppers, park their limos, escort them around the store, load their merch, or we could even deliver to their super-yachts. Fabulous. I’m going to mention it to Kelly.

  Annie is practically bursting with delight, and I’m bent over with both hands flat on the counter, taking a deep breath, when the woman returns. I quickly stand up straight and smooth down my jacket. Annie ducks back into the cupboard.

  ‘One for you, and one for your assistant,’ she says, handing me a small Carrington’s carrier bag.

  ‘Oh,’ I start, but on catching Kelly doing the flapping thing again, I immediately take the bag and thank the woman profusely.

  ‘Take me to the cosmetics hall please.’ She pulls a magazine cutting from her clutch. ‘I want to look like this,’ she adds, tapping the piece of paper. It’s Taylor Swift!

  ‘Of course.’ My mind boggles – never in a million years is this woman going to look like Taylor; she’s a totally different ethnic group for starters. ‘My colleague will escort you,’ I say, hoiking Annie from the cupboard. I figure it best to stay on my section – don’t want the voiceover guy saying I shouldn’t have abandoned the shop floor, with me being the supervisor and all. Annie starts bobbing from one foot to the other with glee, before quickly calming herself down and gesturing demurely as if the woman is royalty.

  ‘CUT!’

  Kelly is up on her feet now, clapping and rushi
ng towards me with her Ronald McDonald hair whipping around like candyfloss in a wind tunnel.

  ‘Bravo. Bravo! Perfect. How do you do it?’ she gushes, grabbing my hand and pumping it furiously.

  ‘Do what? I ask, feeling panicky and euphoric all at the same time.

  ‘Exude the perfect blend of exemplary service with such provincially naive wonderment.’ She wafts a hand in the air.

  ‘Um.’ What’s she going on about? ‘Is that good?’ I raise a tentative eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, you are so divine. Of course it is.’ She squeezes me tight, almost winding me in the process.

  ‘But I just thought she was an ordinary customer – well, not ordinary for Mulberry-On-Sea, but, well … ’ I say, managing to break free, hoping she wasn’t an actor after all. That would be really disappointing.

  ‘And she is. Or will be. I certainly hope she’ll become an “ordinary” customer. Carrington’s can’t be sustained with just the likes of that rain-bonnet woman, whatever her name is, spending a tenner once a year.’

  ‘Mrs Godfrey,’ I prompt.

  ‘Yes, whatever.’ Kelly flaps a hand. ‘Anyway, Princess Ameerah was insistent on not having a camera stuck in her face, hence my covert manoeuvring and the long-lens activity from the filming guys. It was the only way to get her to agree to come here,’ she says, and I’m suddenly conscious of being surrounded by the whole crew. They’re all laughing and stepping forward to shake my hand or kiss my cheek, and my heart lifts. It feels good to have got it right for a change – perhaps this will earn me a reprieve from the YouTube hall of shame this week.