Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Right. That’s their lot. Come on inside. The media pack are waiting for you.’ Kelly ushers me, Eddie and Mrs Grace away from the balcony and into a lounge area, closing the doors behind us. We take off our hats and coats, and Hannah piles them up into a mountain on a couple of wing chairs. I scan the room. It’s crammed with press people wearing plastic ID badges on chains around their necks. Some are holding pads and pens, others have Dictaphones primed to record.

  ‘Ooooh, this is the best night of my life.’ Mrs Grace helps herself to a flute of champagne. ‘Did you see the Peabodys? Turn up to an envelope opening, those two. And that snooty one from the WI? She won’t be looking down her nose at me again,’ she sniffs, before pushing her granny handbag into the crook of her elbow and turning towards a waiting journalist. ‘Yes dear, that’s G-R-A-C-E.’ I smile as Mrs Grace peers over the journalist’s shoulder, making sure she gets all the details correct. ‘Did they tell you that I’m “in talks” …?’ she pauses to do quote signs with the fingers of her free hand and the journalist smiles patiently. ‘That’s right, with Good Housekeeping magazine regarding a regular column, which is a huge honour as it’s a marvellous publication and everyone holds it in such high regard. You know, I heard the queen reads it and there’s no higher endorsement than that!’ Mrs Grace purses her lips and makes big eyes. ‘And I served her once. Such a charming girl she was.’

  ‘Did you? When was that?’ the journalist asks, looking interested now.

  ‘Oh, this was back in the Sixties when she was here on official business – a “meet and greet”, I think they call it, dear.’ She pauses so the journalist can catch up in writing it all down. ‘Anyway, Her Majesty came to Mulberry-On-Sea and … ’

  Kelly loops her arm through mine.

  ‘Come with me.’ She steers me over to the other side of the room. ‘Oh, hang on a sec.’ Her mobile rings. ‘Yes. What is it now?’ she says on answering. A short silence follows. ‘Zara, you can be so obnoxious sometimes … ’ Another pause. Hmmm, ain’t that the truth? ‘Fine. I will tell François that the seven thousand pound Birkin bag that he gifted to you is the wrong shade of pewter.’ She snaps the phone shut and lets out a huge sigh before turning back to me. ‘Now, the next person I’m going to introduce you to is very important, a handbag designer, and if you play your cards right, then you may get to help design some bags.’ Oh my God. Thoughts of Zara instantly vanish from my head and my heart actually misses a beat. Designing handbags, I’d love to do that. Instinctively, I smooth down my top and check my hair before swigging a mouthful of champagne. ‘Here she is. Now, five minutes only darling. Georgie’s in demand,’ Kelly says to an attractive blonde woman, who looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her in magazines. And then I realise … it’s Anya Hindmarch, designer and manufacturer of exquisite handbags and purses. I’ve read her Wiki page. Oh my God. I love her bags. Annie and I always squeal with delight when a new range arrives for us to sell.

  I resist the urge to do a little courtesy in reverence, and shake Anya’s hand instead. We chat about bags for the allocated timeslot and she gives me her business card before Kelly ushers me away. I’m introduced to journalists, brand managers and magazine editors. Someone from Closer magazine thanks me for my column, congratulating me on the in-depth detail and star rating I gave to each product, and promises to send me more goody bags, if I’m interested in doing a few more features – she suggests a special celebrity ‘what’s in your handbag’ piece, where I get to scrutinise the contents of A-list women’s handbags? Err, what do you think? Who wouldn’t want to get a glimpse inside someone like Victoria Beckham’s handbag? I bet it’s crammed full of luxury items and that special tea she likes.

  I’m having such an amazing time that when I glance at the crystal clock on the wall at the far end of the room, I’m surprised to see that it’s almost ten p.m. – I haven’t thought about Tom for at least four hours. But then, as if reading my mind, my mobile vibrates in my clutch. I pull it out. Unknown number. I hesitate. What if it’s Tom calling to explain? I’m not sure if I even want to speak to him now. I swallow hard and decide to go for it. I can always hang up if he starts on about having always loved Zara and how he wanted me to hear about the engagement from him first, bla bla bla …

  ‘Hello?’ I say, finding a quietish corner of the room.

  ‘Is that Georgie Hart?’ It’s a woman’s voice, but I can barely hear her. I put a finger in my free ear and duck behind a heavy velvet curtain.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Great. Georgie, I’m calling from CAN Associates. Claire would very much like to meet with you.’ Oh my actual God. It’s Claire. Peter Andre’s manager. My jaw drops. I fling the curtain back. Eddie waves over. He is going to S-C-R-E-A-M when he hears about this.

  17

  Four shopping weeks until Christmas

  There’s an actual courtesy car waiting for me! KCTV have sent a limousine to take me all the way to London, and it’s just arrived outside my flat. I’m off to the red-carpet opening of the cocktail bar in Soho, and Dan Kilby is meeting me there. Kelly suggested I invite him, and when the wealthy Chinese owners of the cocktail bar heard about my properly famous plus one, they trebled the fee, just like that. I check my hair in the hall mirror one last time. Perfect. KCTV also arranged for me to be styled – super big hair, tan, nails, make-up, lashes, and even arranged for me to borrow this exquisite crimson playsuit by Alexander McQueen. It clings in all the right places. A generous spray of the new Dior perfume (there was a 100 ml bottle in the latest goody bag) and I’m ready to go.

  We’re in the cocktail bar, which isn’t like any cocktail bar I’ve ever been in before, it’s more how I imagine a gentlemen’s club to be. There is a selection of podiums dotted around, with women in bikinis gyrating around poles. Black flock paper hangs on the walls, with strategically placed mirrors ensuring the audience gets to view everything on offer. And there must be at least four fountains pumping a creamy piña colada concoction up in the air that slides down into goldfish-bowl-sized glasses for people to help themselves to, before popping in straws to sample. At one end of the club is a stage set up on a flight of stairs, each with twinkling blue sparkly speck lights pulsing away in a light show extravaganza. Chinese businessmen in suits are milling around, and everyone else is trying not to stare at Dan, who is leaning casually against the bar next to me with two of his security people hovering nearby.

  ‘Have you tried one of these?’ he says, pointing to a caramel-coloured mixture in a tall frosted glass.

  ‘I don’t think so. Is it good?’

  ‘Sure is. It’s a Baileys Biscotti milkshake. It’s their signature cocktail especially for Christmas,’ Dan explains, over the loud music. He offers me the straw and it tastes divine. Mm-mmm. ‘Shall I get you one?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, nodding and smiling.

  ‘Or we could get out of here?’ he grins, glancing around the club and surreptitiously pulling a face. ‘Not really my thing … ’

  ‘Or mine.’ I grin too. ‘But aren’t we supposed to have pictures taken with the owners and talk to the press?’ I say, remembering the enormous fee I’m being paid. I can’t really just leave.

  ‘Probably. But I reckon they have enough publicity shots, don’t you? That guy over there hasn’t stopped taking pictures of us.’ Dan indicates over my right shoulder. I turn around to see a man in jeans and a T-shirt with a zoom camera pointing directly at us.

  ‘Is he allowed to do that?’

  ‘The owners are most likely paying him; we’ve been directed to the perfect spot for him to capture us underneath the bar’s logo on the wall behind us,’ Dan explains. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I know the perfect place and I’ll get my manager to square it with the owners, give them a glowing review from us both. This cocktail is awesome, so we’ll make sure we mention that.’ He laughs and takes my hand, nodding at his security men as we leave.

  We’re sitting on a squishy double seat in the back row of an old-fashioned
cinema, sharing a box of Maltesers. Organ music is playing as we wait for the film to start. It’s a Wonderful Life. A special late-night showing and part of the cinema’s Christmas-themed programme running right up until 24 December. And we’re the only people in here, apart from Dan’s security guys down in the front row, which isn’t surprising as this cinema is tiny and old-fashioned compared to the multiscreen complex over on the industrial estate. In one corner of the stage is a glorious 1950s drinks cabinet complete with chrome cocktail shakers behind sliding glass doors; in the other corner is an old Chesterfield sofa, and the screen is swathed in shimmery gold satin curtains. There’s a lovely, halcyon atmosphere of days gone by. I can just imagine the men in Trilby hats and pinstripe suits with sweethearts in floaty tea dresses, hair set in starlet curls framing rouged cheeks and crimson rosebud lips. The nostalgic images make me feel calm and relaxed.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Dan says, turning his head sideways to face me. ‘Better than a sleazy cocktail bar, isn’t it?’

  ‘It sure is. I love it, and I can’t believe I haven’t been here before,’ I say, taking in his physique – tall and slender. A total contrast to Tom’s muscular athletic build. Stop it! I shove the comparison out of my head. There’s no point. Tom has made his choice, and I just have to accept it. Move on. And Dan is lovely. He chatted all the way back here to Mulberry-On-Sea – about how it’s still his home; he has a beach house in the private development. And how living here keeps him sane. He’s tried the whole fame game, even moving to LA for a bit, but he said that he just felt shallow and miserable most of the time.

  The lights dim and the curtains swish back to reveal the screen. I sink into the seat, grateful for the opportunity to switch off and relax for a while, and quieten the analytical voice from going over and over everything inside my head. Dan puts his arm around my shoulders and I lean into him. A feeling of bittersweet happiness trickles through me. And, for just a glimmer of a second, I can’t help wishing it was Tom sitting here beside me. I instantly feel ashamed. I force myself to get a grip. Dan’s a sweet man, and bringing me here is kind and thoughtful. Romantic.

  As the credits roll, we smile at each other and stand up. The film was so uplifting. Just what I needed. And it made me think about what’s really important. I do have a wonderful life. I have Dad back and I know he loves me, he thinks the world of me. I have amazing friends. A job I love. And I’m getting to do once-in-a-lifetime things that not so long ago I could only dream of. Like going on dates with famous singers …

  Stumbling and bumping into each other, we make our way down the dimly lit stairs and out into the cinema’s tiny foyer. Dan crunches up the Malteser box and drops it in a bin before pulling his hat low down on his forehead and pulling his scarf up around his chin.

  ‘Disguise,’ he says, smiling. ‘Means I can usually walk from here to the seafront without being recognised.’ He takes my hand.

  ‘What did you think of the film?’ he asks, smiling and pushing his hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Dan, it was perfect. Thanks for bringing me here.’

  ‘My pleasure. You seemed a bit down earlier on. Is everything OK?’ We leave the cinema and start walking towards the seafront. ‘Is what happened with the other guy on your mind?’ His eyes search mine and I look away.

  ‘Err, yes, a bit, I guess so. Sorry,’ I say, wondering how much he knows.

  ‘Ahh, don’t be. When KCTV got in touch about me making an appearance on the show, they said you had just split up with your boyfriend.

  ‘Oh, I see … ’ I start.

  ‘No need to explain. It’s none of my business, unless you want to talk about it.’ He glances sideways at me and I shake my head. ‘It’s really hard when something you thought you had turns out to be nothing very much at all.’

  ‘Sounds as if you’ve had a hard time too,’ I say, as we cross the road and walk along the promenade.

  ‘Yes. I split up with my ex in the summer.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ There’s a short silence.

  ‘So, how do you feel about being on a reality show?’ Dan says, pulling my hand inside his coat pocket to keep warm. I snuggle into his arm, drawing in his citrusy scent, and make a conscious effort to focus on enjoying the moment, instead of worrying about what might have been with Tom.

  ‘Well, it was a shock at first, seeing myself on TV without warning,’ I say, looking at the pavement. ‘And then I felt let down by … ’ My voice trails off.

  ‘But you’re having fun now? It’s changed your life,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. It has.’

  ‘Will you pursue a career in the spotlight, once the reality show is over?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I like some things about it, others not so—’

  ‘Ah, let me guess … YouTube. I was shown a clip of you.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I cringe.

  ‘You made me laugh, which is why I agreed to be your surprise date, and I’m glad that I did. We’re having a good time, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes. But it is a bit surreal, though, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Well, you know … you’re famous.’

  ‘So are you.’ He nudges me and I smile.

  ‘So why did you agree to be on the show?’ I ask.

  ‘Guess I just wanted to reach a wider audience.’ He shrugs his shoulders and laughs at his own joke. ‘Besides, it’s fun, especially if I get to hang out with you. You’re normal. It’s refreshing, and makes a change from the people I usually meet.’ He swings my arm playfully and it makes me laugh.

  ‘Ahh, thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Seems to me we’re in similar places right now, relationship-wise, so we might as well keep each other company.’ Dan stops walking and we turn to face each other. He takes my other hand in his. ‘If that’s OK with you?’ He grins, and I grin back. I’m having a really nice time with him, and it sure beats sitting at home alone on a Saturday evening with my phone at the bottom of the laundry basket, just so I’m not tempted to send Tom another trivial text message to like ‘congratulate him on his engagement’, or ask if I can have my Adele CD back – that was a particularly low moment when I just wanted a response from him. A reaction, anything, even a short, sharp ‘NO’ in reply would have been a comfort. It’s so rubbish that I haven’t even had a chance to ask him why we ended up the way we did. But it’s done with; I’m drawing a line under it. I take a deep breath and puff a big cloud out into the frosty night air, as if to mark my decision.

  ‘I’d like that, Dan.’

  ‘Good. Me too,’ he says, and we carry on walking.

  We reach the bandstand on the promenade, which is illuminated by a trillion tiny golden lights set in snowflake shapes against the inky night sky. The rhythmic swirl of the sea laps the shore. The icy air makes my cheeks numb. I press my free hand up to my face in an attempt to keep warm, when Dan swings me around to look me straight in the eye.

  ‘Georgie, can I kiss you?’ He pulls me in close.

  ‘Um, yes. OK,’ I say, instantly wishing I’d thought of something slightly more inviting to say, but before I can utter another word, his lips are on mine. Soft and warm. It feels nice. Not electric. Just nice and comfortable. Instinctively, I close my eyes and melt into the moment. My pulse quickens. We finish kissing and pull apart. A spark of light catches my eye. Dan sees it too and, as we turn together, there’s another spark. A camera. He grins at me. I grin back.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ he says, raising an eyebrow and lifting a lock of hair away from my face. I nod. ‘After three,’ Dan whispers in my ear, and a few seconds later he moves one hand up between my shoulder blades and circles my waist with the other. ‘Let’s give them something to talk about.’

  And in one swift movement, he leans forward, dips me back, and plants a massive kiss on my lips, holding it for several seconds in true, sweepingly romantic Hollywood movie-style, almost taking my breath away. As my hair swings back in the breeze, m
y right leg pops up against the side of his thigh, and I cherish the feeling. It’s exhilarating. Glamorous. Fun. A wonderful life … or so it seems.

  18

  Three shopping weeks until Christmas

  It’s Monday, my day off, so I’ve decided to surprise Dad with an impromptu visit, I’ve brought banana sandwiches and ginger beer just in case he’s free and we can take a trip to Mum’s grave, followed by a stroll along the promenade. Just the two of us. It will give us a chance to talk, for me to let him know I’m pleased he’s met Nancy, and see if he wants to invite her to Sam’s house for Christmas lunch.

  I press the intercom and wait for him to answer. There’s no reply. I press again; perhaps he’s in the bathroom. But still no answer. I rummage in my bag to find my mobile. His number rings before going straight to the answer service. My heart drops with disappointment. I’m just about to leave when an old woman wearing a festive red Santa hat decorated with tinsel, and dragging a tartan wheelie shopper, comes to the door. She presses the security pad.

  ‘Ooh duck, you’d better come on in – can’t have you standing out in the cold. Not when you’re, well, you know … ’ she says, standing aside as the automatic door buzzes open.

  ‘Thank you. Err,’ I mutter, wondering what she’s going on about, but before I have a chance to ask, she’s off up the path, bellowing out to the minibus driver to make sure he waits for her. I’m hovering in the hallway when my mobile rings. It’s Dad.

  ‘Georgie, I’m so sorry, I missed your calls. Are you OK?’ he says, sounding different – panicky, edgy perhaps.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine thanks, are you?’ I brace myself, desperately hoping he hasn’t slipped back into his old ways and got in trouble again – gambling is an addiction, after all. And I know he’s never missed a meeting since he left prison all those years ago, but it’s still there, secreted in the back of my head as a possibility, I don’t think that will ever go away. And I couldn’t bear it, for his sake too, if he succumbed again. I know he’d be devastated. And what would Nancy think? Dad could lose everything he’s worked so hard to rebuild.