Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘And I’ve positioned the long mirror right here, see,’ Annie points an index finger, ‘becaaaaaause …’

  ‘Those who try it, buy it,’ we both sing in unison, grinning.

  Annie puts on a serious work face. ‘Sooo, what can I help you with? I take it you’re after some designer bags for your VIPs?’

  ‘Sure am. I need top handle day bags, evening – a clutch or two, some totes and a couple of those big stripy beach bags over there.’ I point towards the special ‘summer fun’ shelf that Annie has artfully created. A pile of bonkbusters, presumably for reading by the pool, are stacked at one end, and she’s even snaffled some of the glittery gold sand and sprinkled it in between the bags on display.

  ‘Blimey. Sounds as if they’re splashing the cash then … Anyone famous?’

  ‘I don’t think so – didn’t recognise them. A mother-and-daughter day, treating themselves,’ I say, as an image of me as a child, shopping with Mum, pops into my head.

  ‘Ah, that’s lovely. Right then, jump behind my counter in case a customer comes—’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to pick out the bags for me,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Babes, it’s no trouble. Besides, I want to – this is my kingdom now,’ she pauses to gesture around the floor. ‘And I really want to make this work. I want to be amazing at something. Just like you.’ She gives me a quick hug.

  ‘And you already are.’ I squeeze her back, thinking how much she reminds me of myself when I first started out in Women’s Accessories, full of ideas and enthusiasm. ‘But thank you, honey.’

  ‘No worries, leave it to me and I’ll sort out a nice selection for you, starting with the exquisite Cambridge satchel in fluoro lime, yes? New in, and totes amazeballs!’ She gasps, fluttering her eyelids and waving a palm in the air as if experiencing her very own bag nirvana.

  Once she’s come to, Annie races around the shop floor picking out the best bags, while I stand behind my old counter reminiscing – I must have only been a little girl when I first came to Carrington’s with Mum; we would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. Of course, this was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy café where the cakes are now éclairs and miniature pastel-coloured macaroons, and a good old-fashioned Victoria sponge is a magnificent six-tiered tower of rainbow-coloured layers decorated with blueberries and fresh lemon-infused cream frosting. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although meeting Tom is right up there too. And I so wish Tom could have met Mum; I think she would definitely have approved, especially with him being the majority shareholder – Mum was always a little in awe of anyone out of the ordinary. It was my thirteenth birthday not long before she died, and the nurses in the hospital organised a little party. They even invited someone from the local football team to turn up and give me a teddy bear – Mum went all fan-girl. And she would have loved the VIP suite, feeling special for a day, pampered … Such a shame she’s gone, and I would have loved treating her to a selection of gorgeous new outfits.

  I used to miss her so much, I still do sometimes, but having Dad back in my life has made a massive difference, especially as we’ve reached the stage now where we can talk about Mum together and remember the happy times. I make a mental note to call Dad later, see how he is and suggest a trip to Mum’s grave as we haven’t been since Christmas. I’d like to take some flowers – maybe Nancy will come too. Last time she made a beautiful Christmassy arrangement of pinecones, miniature ferns and cinnamon sticks, set around a gorgeous red poinsettia plant, for me to put next to Mum’s headstone. Nancy’s kindness and generosity made me well up with emotion. She’s such a kind, warm woman – and she really knows what it feels like to lose someone so close; her daughter, Natalie, died in a motorbike accident years ago, so she wears her necklace, with a gold letter N on, to keep her close always. I run an index finger over the silver locket that Nancy gave me as a Christmas present. It’s on a chain around my neck, which I never take off. Inside is a picture of Mum (Nancy got it from Dad) when she was young and vibrant; hair fanned around her smiling face and cornflower-blue bright eyes. In the other side is a picture of me, with a brunette bob and the same blue eyes, a similar image to the one Mum would have seen of me just before she died. I love that Nancy did this; it’s as if Mum’s memory of me is crystallised for ever and ever.

  ‘Here!’ Annie says, catching her breath and breaking my reverie. She holds out her arms to show off the bags that are looped all the way from her wrists up to her armpits. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘Can I have all of them?’ I ask, scanning the floor for a stock trolley. Reading my mind, Annie nods towards the little alcove behind the counter.

  ‘Yep – you will bring back any unsold merch, though, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. But I plan on flogging the lot,’ I beam, wheeling out the trolley.

  ‘Good. And remember to scan each piece they purch,’ Annie instructs, wagging an index finger in my face as we carefully load the bags so as not to damage the leather.

  ‘Yes, Annie. I know,’ I say in a singsong voice over my shoulder as I head back towards the lift with my stash.

  ‘Just checking,’ she calls out after me. ‘I don’t do shrinkage in my section. I can account for all of the merch … just so’s you know.’ She laughs.

  Cheeky! I laugh too. I’m so proud of Annie – she started at Carrington’s straight from school, just like I did. I gave her a chance, trained her, just like Mrs Grace trained me. And now she is indeed ruling her kingdom. Well, good for her … I hope she loves it as much as I did.

  I wheel the trolley into the staff lift and reach the third floor when it shudders to a halt.

  ‘Hello, lovey. How are you?’ It’s Betty, our mumsy switchboard supervisor. She steps into the lift. Her glasses, which are swinging on a chain around her neck, narrowly miss getting caught in the metalwork as she leans across to close the cage door.

  ‘Very well, thank you. And how are you?’

  ‘Not so bad now the sweats are easing off,’ she replies, wiping her top lip with a cotton hanky while I nod sympathetically. ‘Ooh, and I heard about the regatta,’ she swiftly adds, changing topic.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. My friend, Joyce, works at the council, so she knows everything that goes on here in Mulberry.’ Blimey, news sure does travel fast. ‘You know, I organised a village fete many years ago, so if you need a hand with anything … you just let me know.’

  ‘Oh thanks Betty, I shall definitely bear that in mind,’ I smile politely, not wanting to offend her, but really hoping the regatta will be a much bigger event than a village fete – more like a festival. And you never know – if we pull it off, then perhaps it could become an annual thing, with camping too, or special all-inclusive packages at the exclusive Mulberry Grand Hotel. It could be huge, like Glastonbury, only without the mud!

  ‘Yes, do. Hashtag Team Carrington’s!’ she says, cheerfully. ‘Isn’t that what they say on the Twitters?’ Betty looks at me for confirmation and I nod. ‘My Luke is on there all the time. I reckon he’s addicted – that, or he’s got himself a girl at last. Good thing, too, she can take him off my hands. He really should have left home by now – thirty-five is no age to be still sleeping in a box room with me doing his ironing and washing up after him. He has it too good, that’s what my husband says. Georgie, do yourself a favour, lovey, and bypass the whole kid thing. I love my Luke, but he’s so damn lazy. I suppose it serves me right in a way, I’ve spoilt him.’ She stashes the hanky inside the sleeve of her hand-knitted cardy. ‘And that MP’s assistant certainly needs taking down a peg or two. Apparently she’s got herself on the regatta committee, and Joyce was telling me that she’s forever calling the council to lodge complaints – she’s just a secretary, for crying out loud. Not a flaming Secretary of State, the way she carries on. You know, she was instrumental in campaigning against the new marina, so it’s a bit rich that she now wants t
o muscle in on the regatta, the one to be held at the very marina that she tried to block!’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, shocked. The new marina has made a massive difference to Carrington’s turnover, and to the whole of Mulberry, in fact, it’s helped attract loads more customers to the area, especially those with money to spend after mooring their yachts. Who knows where Carrington’s would be without the marina. Not so long ago, before the reality TV show instore, there was a very real possibility of Carrington’s spiralling into a terminal decline, but things are on the up now. Carrington’s is in the pink!

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But then she’s never been a fan of the store. Well, not since she was asked to leave, that is …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She used to work here … Years ago! She was secretary for a time to your Tom’s predecessor, old Walter, aka the Heff, as in Hugh Heffner, on account of his numerous dalliances with women half his age,’ she huffs. ‘Anyway, she and Walter were caught at it in the boardroom, which was all hushed up at the time, but then Walter’s wife, Camille, your Tom’s aunty …’ Betty looks for confirmation that she’s got the Carrington family tree correct. I nod. ‘Well, Camille found out and insisted she be sacked. So watch your back with her … I reckon she’d love nothing more than to exact a bit of revenge by ruining things for Carrington’s if she can.’

  Oh great. So not only do I have Isabella waiting for me to mess up, but also now it seems the scowly-woman-with-no-name could be out to sabotage things. Well, in that case, I’ll just have to make sure I pull out all the stops because I’m determined to make this the best regatta Mulberry has ever seen. There’s no way I’m letting the scowly-woman-with-no-name ruin it, and I’m definitely, definitely not showing Tom up in front of his mother, or jeopardising his chances to open another store. It means the world to him to demonstrate his business acumen. He really wants to take Carrington’s to the next level, grow the business, and I don’t want anything to spoil that, especially if we really are to have a proper future together. Isabella would be my mother-in-law, which means as her daughter-in-law I would want to be the best one she ever did have. I love Tom, I adore him, so I’d want Isabella to adore me, for us to get on brilliantly, have shopping days and spa weekends together, that kind of thing – be the daughter she never had. I could even call her mum, if she liked. Not that she’d ever replace Mum, but you know what I mean. It could be lovely. Mmm, I mull it all over. I’d be a part of something magical, a proper family, an Italian dynasty – Tom has loads of aunts, uncles and cousins. And family friends, too, who he’s known for years. I’ve never really had that – when Dad went to prison, everyone faded away, apart from Sam and her dad Alfie.

  Georgie Carrington! Mrs Georgina Carrington. Oooh, it has a nice ring to it, or would I keep my own name? Lots of women do, so how about Georgina Hart-Carrington? Hmm, or perhaps Tom could change his name – some men do. Mr Tom Hart … anyway, whatever happens, I have to say the thought of actually being Tom’s wife is a pretty spectacular prospect, something wonderful to look forward to. I just need to show Isabella what a brilliant match I am for her son because, let’s face it, having a mother-in-law who has ‘issues’ with you is bound to ruin things in the long term. And it’s not like I could ever talk to Tom about it, I’m not even sure I’d want to put him in that position, stuck in the middle, and from what I’ve seen so far, they’re very close – they chat on the phone practically every day. I couldn’t expect him to choose between us, or anything silly like that. No, the sooner Isabella gets to know me properly and see what I’m capable of, the better. And where better to start than by organising a magnificent regatta, which in turn will show my support, not only to the Carrington business, but to the Carrington family too.

  5

  I make it to the town hall with just five minutes to spare after getting caught up on a Skype call with the editor from the magazine – she wanted to chat a bit more about my new idea for a What’s In Your Handbag piece for next week. It’s Nicole Scherzinger and it’s going to be shamazing for sure. Her people were very generous in supplying a list detailing the contents of her designer bag.

  ‘If you’re here for the regatta meeting then you’d better get a move on.’ There’s an enormous desk just inside the door with two security men in black uniforms lounging behind it. The older one with the bushy grey hair and the lovely Corrie accent stands up. ‘You’re the last one, duck,’ he says with a smile. ‘Second on the right.’ I head in the direction of his pointing finger.

  ‘Thank you,’ I breathe, pulling my scarf off as I go – it’s like a sauna in here. I find the room and push through the double doors.

  ‘Ahh, here she is, the famous Georgie Hart from Carrington’s department store.’ Oh God, it’s the scowly-woman-with-no-name standing on a stage with a pen poised. She snaps up a clipboard and gives it a big firm tick before treating me to an extra-special scowl.

  ‘Hello,’ I mouth, giving her my best eyes-and-teeth grin, figuring it best to kill her with kindness – Mum swore by it, and that old adage that you ‘catch more flies with honey than vinegar’. She pretends not to have noticed, so I scan the room instead. There must be at least twenty people in here, sitting on plastic chairs in rows, and they’re all staring at me.

  ‘Um, hi. Hello.’ I do a feeble little wave but nobody reciprocates, so for some ridiculous reason, I quickly add, ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I glance over at the wall clock opposite and there are still five minutes to go before the meeting officially starts, so why on earth am I apologising? But they all look so serious.

  I spot an empty seat, right in the front row and opposite the stage. I dive into it, grateful to be out of the spotlight, but conscious of the scowly woman’s beady eye boring down into me.

  ‘Right, so where were we?’ she huffs, rustling her papers excessively, as if to labour the point of my perceived lateness.

  ‘You were saying how important punctuality is, given that we don’t have an awful lot of time left to organise the event. Every second counts!’ someone behind me pipes up.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, and if you could all pay attention too. We really do have our work cut out if we’re to pull this off within just a few months. To be honest, it’s more or less going to be impossible, but then, what could we do?’ The scowly woman sighs and shakes her head, clearly exasperated. ‘We only got the go-ahead last week – one of the biggest sponsors did keep us waiting rather a long time …’ She harrumphs a bit more before shooting me another look.

  ‘Carrington’s,’ someone mutters. Oh, this just gets better. So I’m the reason the pressure is on. I make a mental note to talk to Tom later to find out exactly what’s been going on.

  ‘Right, let’s get on with it. We’ve done the introductions – Georgie, I’m Meredith, Mr Dunwoody’s personal secretary, as you already know. You’ll have to catch up with everyone else later.’ Cue another sniffy look, this time accompanied by a pointy finger. Hmm, so who made her the boss of us? ‘So, quick recap, we know Mulberry Yacht Club is in charge of all the sailing events and races; they’ll be organising the entry forms, legalities and brochures too, detailing the programme of events. Now, as a quick aside – if any of you would like to place a business advert in the brochure, then please speak to Bob, the harbour master.’ Meredith points to a rosy-cheeked guy in a chunky-knit Aran sweater who leaps up and waves both hands above his head like he’s air traffic control marshalling a jumbo jet into landing. Steady on! ‘But in your own time, please!’ She coughs. ‘This leaves us to sort out the stalls and fun events, which will take place around the marina’s perimeter and on either side of Wayfarer Way, the main road from the town centre, taking in the market square and leading on to the marina.’

  ‘But what about the new industrial estate?’ a guy behind me heckles.

  ‘What about it?’ Meredith says, officiously.

  ‘Seems all the action is in town, so none of the regatta visitors are going to bother with us and I’m only here to see about drum
ming up more business,’ the guy huffs, before muttering something about his new indoor amusement arcade that’s ‘right next door to Asda so you’d think it’d be heaving’, but is ridiculously quiet. He stands up, causing his chair to make a hideous scraping sound across the floor, before shoving his hands in his pockets and lumbering off.

  ‘So, any more ideas?’ Meredith dismisses, seemingly unfazed as the arcade guy lets the door slam behind him. A few people stick up their hands, but Meredith just keeps on talking. ‘The various youth groups – Brownies, Guides, Scouts, Sea Cadets, etc., are already busy organising floats for the carnival procession, which will parade through town ahead of the official opening of the regatta. And in addition to this marvellous event, we’ve come up with …’ She pauses to refer to her clipboard, ‘Yes, that’s right – beer tent, tombola, welly throwing, lucky dip, wet sponge throwing at the mayor, guess the name of the teddy bear …’