Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Georgie. So pleased you made it. And this must be Tom? Pleased to meet you.’ Dan and Tom shake hands.

  ‘Thanks for the invite, Dan; the gig was awesome. Can I get you a drink?’ Tom says easily.

  ‘No, but thanks dude, I have a backlog already.’ Dan shakes his head and lifts a half-empty pint glass, gesturing to the end of the bar where six full pints are waiting plus two ice buckets with bottles of champagne chilling inside. ‘In fact, you two could really help me out … Fancy some bubbles?’ Dan grabs a bottle and plonks it on the bar. ‘Let’s crack this open and have that chat about the regatta.’ He flips the cork out and fills three flutes, one for each of us.

  ‘Cheers,’ Tom lifts his glass.

  ‘To Georgie, and the Mulberry Regatta,’ Dan toasts.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I laugh, and take a big swig of champagne; thrilled that everything is pretty much organised now; #TeamCarringtons has done a fantastic job – my last committee meeting in the town hall went very well. Cher, Matt and Jared seemed impressed with my Pinterest pages, even if Meredith wasn’t. And I spoke to Sam last night and she said Christy had booked into a nearby hotel and that they were ‘chatting things through’, but she didn’t seem keen to elaborate and I wasn’t sure how far to probe. In fact, she was surprisingly reticent, to be honest. I really need to go and see her at home so we can have a proper heart-to-heart … I’ve popped into the café loads of times, but she’s not been there at all this week, which is understandable under the circumstances.

  *

  Dan and I have been through the logistics and I’ve explained that Jared, at Mulberry FM, is organising the mini-music festival, so his manager is going to liaise with Jared to get everything arranged for Dan’s performance. He’s not bothered about a full sound check and all that, as long as his band are looked after and he has somewhere to chill, away from the crowd, before going on stage. And he’s agreed to do a set of six songs, including ‘Sweet Sugar’ (I told him it’s my favourite). It’s going to be amazing.

  ‘I’ll chat to Cher, she’s the landlady at the Hook, Line and Sinker pub …’

  ‘Oh, yes I know it,’ Dan says. ‘Great location for a music festival, on the beach overlooking the marina … very St Tropez!’ Dan grins, and we all laugh. Mulberry-On-Sea is a trillion miles away from being as chic as the French Riviera, although at the last regatta committee meeting, someone did say the council had planted a row of palm trees along the promenade next to the penny slot amusement arcades, so I guess that’s a start.

  ‘I’m sure Cher will have somewhere you can use as a “green room”, a VIP area, just like they have backstage at Glastonbury.’

  ‘Awesome. We’ll talk more before then, though … Have you said hello to Kelly yet?’

  ‘Kelly?’ Oh my God, is she actually here? And then I remember, Kelly and Dan go back years. It’s how he came to be in the TV show, and subsequently how we met.

  ‘Yeah, you know … Kelly Cooper TV. Green geek glasses, looks a bit like Ronald McDonald.’ Dan laughs. ‘But don’t say I said so … you know what she’s like.’ He rolls his eyes.

  ‘Oh, how could I forget?’ My heart sinks. Instinctively, I can feel myself bracing, scanning in case a camera is nearby – which is ridiculous, I know, but I’m still paranoid after her filming me undercover and it being plastered on YouTube, which is exactly what happened when she rocked up instore last year and caught me twerking along to that ‘Single Ladies’ song. Hideous. I gulp down a big swig of champagne.

  ‘I didn’t realise Kelly would be here tonight; we must say hello,’ Tom says and, right on cue, Kelly appears, wearing one of her trademark swirly patterned Westwood playsuits, teamed with diamanté-studded biker boots, which are actually pretty cool (I make a quick mental note to indulge in some online shopping to see if I can find a pair).

  ‘Geooooorgie. Darling, how are you?’ Kelly shrieks in her usual flamboyant way – wild orange Medusa curls bouncing all over the place. She pulls me in close and delivers two air kisses either side of my head before letting me go and grabbing hold of Tom. Kelly flings both arms around his neck and plants a big kiss on his lips. ‘Oooh, the things I could do to you!’ she jokes, stepping back and pressing a palm to his chest. ‘But we mustn’t tell your mother! Oh no. Isabella still hasn’t forgiven me for hitting on that guy she was shagging in university … Not my fault if he just wasn’t that in to her.’ Tom coughs discreetly, and tactfully lifts Kelly’s arm away. Oh God! I had forgotten just how inappropriate she could be. ‘So, are you all getting on it? Hoovering lines of candy cane and necking the shots?’ An awkward silence follows, but Kelly is immune. ‘Wasn’t Dan amazeballs?’ she swiftly adds, making big eyes, while I stifle a snerk at her trying to sound all ‘down-with-the-kids’.

  ‘He certainly was, and he’s agreed to perform at the Mulberry Regatta, so we have that to look forward to as well,’ Tom says to steer the conversation into more conventional territory.

  ‘Well, we have to support the local community. Don’t forget I grew up in Mulberry, and everyone, from primary school to my first Saturday job in Tesco and everyone in between, has been incredibly supportive over the years.’ Dan grins.

  ‘Perfect!’ Kelly jumps in and then hollers, ‘Georgie!’, making me jump. Tom squeezes my hand as if secretly saying, Just humour her and she’ll go away very soon …

  ‘How’s that column of yours going?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘Good. I just luuuuurved that piece you did on Scherzy’s handbag. She’s such a doll. Hilarious too! I met her recently at a TV awards do.’ She pauses to do the crossed-arm X Factor thingy. Cringe. ‘I’m hoping to do a special “Day in the Life” documentary with her next summer … Ooooh, have you met Gaspard?’ she adds, suddenly changing topic. I stare blankly – it’s a full-time job keeping up with her.

  ‘Err, Gaspard?’ I crease my forehead, wondering what the hell she’s going on about.

  ‘Oh, darling, you must. Come with me.’ Taking my hand from Tom’s, and before I have a chance to protest, Kelly whisks me away and practically propels me to the other side of the room, where an older guy, sixties maybe, with black-framed geek glasses and a flamboyant magenta-coloured velvet tuxedo, complete with frilly white shirt and bow tie, is chatting to a group of tall, incredibly beautiful women. I’m guessing he’s very important as they’re all hanging on his every word. Unperturbed, Kelly powers on through the throng and presents me, literally, to the guy.

  ‘Gaspard. This is Georgie Hart. The girl I told you about. The one who loves handbags … From Mulberry-On-Sea!’ A fleeting glimmer of disdain passes Gaspard’s face as he gives me a quick up-and-down look, before frowning, reluctantly excusing himself from the group, who quietly drift away, and fixing his gaze directly on me.

  ‘Ah, yes … I have a vague recollection,’ Gaspard says slowly, with a French accent.

  ‘The one from my last series … in the department store,’ Kelly prompts, and I wish my cheeks would stop burning – it’s obvious that he has absolutely no idea who I am. Awks! ‘Talk to her, Gaspard, she’s Isabella’s son’s girlfriend,’ Kelly instructs. ‘She’s a huge fan of your work.’ I am? Gulp. But before I can catch my breath, Kelly has disappeared, leaving me alone with a man who quite clearly would much rather be entertaining his fangirls than exchanging polite chitchat with me.

  ‘So, tell me, Georgie Hart, what is it you do in Mulberry-On-Sea?’ Gaspard slides a silver-embossed cigarette case from his breast pocket. He flips it open and offers me a cigarillo. Shaking my head, I politely decline. ‘Then I shan’t either,’ he says smoothly, before slipping the cigarette case away.

  ‘Oh, don’t stop on my account. I love the smell – my dad used to smoke them when I was a child before he went to … err.’ I stop talking, suddenly very conscious that I’m blabbering like a looper. A short silence follows.

  ‘Went?’ Gaspard’s monobrow twitches. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Um, oh, it doesn’t ma
tter,’ I say, trying to sound breezy, but wishing I could run away back to the bar to be with Tom and Dan. Gaspard is staring at me, waiting for a response, and I get the distinct impression that he’s used to people answering him right away. He’s very formidable.

  ‘Of course it does. He’s your father. Where did he go?’ There’s a short silence. ‘Was it to heaven?’ Gaspard’s eyes go all Bambi and for some ridiculous reason I want to laugh, and mix it up with a tinge of hysteria.

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that, he err …’ I pause, suddenly shocked at how the feeling of people knowing, and judging, still catches me unawares sometimes. ‘Went to prison.’ I drop my gaze and study the sparkly flecked carpet.

  ‘Is that all?’ Gaspard booms. His face breaks into a broad smile. ‘My dear, it’s practically de rigueur these days,’ and he actually nudges me conspiratorially. ‘Dolce et Gabbana, John Galliano … they’re all getting convictions.’ And then he leans into me and lowers his voice. ‘What did he do?’ He looks intrigued and there’s a hint of naughtiness in his voice.

  ‘He, um, he … it was insider dealing, he sold information from the trade floor of the bank he worked at—’

  ‘Pah!’ Gaspard waves a frivolous hand in the air. ‘And those who bought the information from him ran free, no doubt.’ I smile wryly. ‘Sooo, you still haven’t told me what it is you do in the department store.’ Gaspard’s face softens as he tactfully changes the subject, thank God.

  ‘Well, I used to run the Women’s Accessories section, selling luxury handbags among other things, but now I’m a personal stylist and I write a—’

  ‘Ahh, yes, it’s all coming back to me now – Kelly said you stole the show, described you as an everywoman, the nation’s sweetheart … She also said that you’re very knowledgeable when it comes to women’s accessories.’ I smile graciously, but – stole the show? Hijacked it more like, by making an utter fool of myself, and as for being a nation’s sweetheart, well – I’m hardly Cheryl Cole. But get me chatting about handbags, and, yes, I can do that all day long.

  ‘So what’s your favourite style of bag?’ He looks amused as he tilts his head to one side.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m not sure I could whittle it down to just one … I mean, there are so many – top handle, tote, crossbody; it really depends on the occasion. I love all the bag babies,’ I gush, like a proper handbag fangirl.

  ‘Interesting. But if you could have the perfect handbag, then what would it look like?’ I ponder for a moment. And then I know.

  ‘Well, that’s easy.’

  ‘It is?’ He seems amused.

  ‘Of course. It would look personal.’

  ‘Personal?’ His forehead creases.

  ‘Yep, maybe with a unique sparkly keychain or a customised colour, you know – like the paint mixer in Homebase where you can mix up practically any shade of paint that you like.’ I pause briefly but he looks completely baffled – they obviously don’t have Homebase in France, or wherever it is he lives. ‘Or, oh my God, what about this?’ I say, getting really excited now. His eyes widen, scanning the room, most likely searching for Kelly to come and rescue him from this crazeee English shop girl talking about paint in places he’s never heard of. Unperturbed, I keep on. ‘A message of my choice, a poem perhaps, inscribed.’ I clap my hands together in glee. I can’t help myself, as I’m that into this whole design-my-perfect-bag conversation we’re having now. ‘Gold leaf lettering!’ I practically gasp, clearly losing the plot. ‘Or a cartoon caricature – I saw something similar, it was amazing … I’m not sure I’d have a cartoon of myself, though … no, someone far more gorgeous to look at, Ryan Gosling perhaps. Topless. Oh my God, can you imagine? Ryan embossed on the inside of your bag, naked torso winking every time you rummage for your purse?’ I laugh, definitely venturing into crazeee looper-land now.

  Silence follows. Oh God. And then Kelly appears.

  ‘I knew you’d love her, Gaspard. Isn’t she a doll?’ Kelly says, adopting a weird American accent.

  ‘She sure is! And exactly what I was looking for.’ Gaspard eyes me up and down. Whaaaat? Oh no! He’s old enough to be my dad, ugh. I turn to leave, but Kelly grabs my hand.

  ‘Excellent!’ She rubs Gaspard’s arm affectionately, and then turns to me. ‘Georgie, Gaspard is looking for a muse …’

  Oh, right! No. Do I even look like Edie Sedgwick? I saw that film Factory Girl – so no! No, no, no, no, no.

  But, ‘Ummmm’ is what comes out of my mouth.

  ‘And now I have found her. You must come to my design studio at once.’ Gaspard flings a hand in the air. ‘I want to …’ He pauses and looks baffled, ‘How do you say it? Pickle your brain.’ Fuuuuuuck.

  ‘Oh darling, don’t look so horrified.’ Kelly pulls me in for one of her cheek-crushing cuddles before quickly whispering in my ear. ‘Just smile and say yes.’

  She swivels me back around towards Gaspard, and breathes, ‘You’re going to launch the new Georgie Bag range! How epic is that?’

  Faints.

  12

  So it turns out that Gaspard is a famous international designer – up there with the likes of Dior and de la Renta! That’s right. So much for my fashion awareness – I had no idea who he even was at the party, or that he was at the helm of the famous House of Mercier, for my shame – but then his pieces are for a more mature woman and far too expensive for the older Carrington’s customers. I certainly know all about him now, though! That’s right, I Googled him the very second I stepped outside that penthouse suite. Of course I did. And then felt marginally more on-trend when I discovered that he’s very reclusive, likes to stay away from the media spotlight, and his surname is actually Pumphrey, far less exotic. His mother was French. And he was at the party as Kelly’s plus one – they go back years, apparently.

  Anyway, he’s looking to branch out into women’s accessories aimed at a younger market and, rather than consult with his usual panel of experts, he wants me, Georgie Hart, from Mulberry-On-Sea, to help him design a range of handbags to appeal to, and I quote his exact words, ‘the ordinary girl-about-town’, but – and he was very fastidious in pointing this out as well – to ‘a girl who dreams of something more …’ That’s me, apparently. Gaspard reckons it emanates from my soul, and to quote him some more, ‘quicker than a ray of light’. Hmm, interesting theory, or perhaps he’s just been listening to that Madonna song for way too long, but whatever it is, I’m delighted to help out and can’t wait to get involved.

  And then Gaspard went off on one talking about monogrammed interior fabrics and metal work but, to cut a long story short, the party was last Saturday, seven days ago, and I’m now at Heathrow Airport waiting to board a flight to his funky design studio in the Tribeca district of New York City – it’s where Robert De Niro has a restaurant. And Beyoncé and Jay-Z have a house there too. And I’m so damn excited I could actually burst. Of course, I also got straight on Google Earth the very minute I came off the phone from his PA, the day after the party, and the pictures I saw are just how I imagined, dreamed, they would be – a cast-iron building with huge windows and fire-escape ladders running down the front. Honestly, it was just like something out of Sex and the City, and I literally can-not wait to get there and see it all for myself.

  Gaspard also told me that he caught a whiff of wanderlust wafting around me when we spoke at the party, and it’s true, I have been hankering to travel, as you know, but it’s funny how the universe sends a curveball when it’s least expected. To be honest, it’s not really the best timing, with the regatta and everything (the bank holiday weekend is only three weeks away), but there was no way I was turning down an opportunity this good. Even if I am a bit petrified of the potential consequences, both here – remember Isabella and her ‘it would be such a shame’ line re. the regatta – and abroad in NYC where, let’s face it, it’s entirely possible my design ideas could end up being a big pile of pony poo and I’ll be on the first plane home and back in Carrington’s personal shopping suite q
uicker than Gaspard can speed-dial a proper professional designer.

  I turn to face Tom. ‘Are you definitely definitely definitely sure?’

  ‘Like I said the last time you asked, I’m definitely sure, a trillion times over, it will be fine.’ He smiles and shakes his head before pulling me in close for a cuddle. ‘It will be an adventure, Georgie. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And if your Georgie Bag is any good then, who knows, we might even stock it in Carrington’s …’

  ‘Hey, what do mean, might?’ I play-punch his arm.

  ‘Only joking. Of course we will – just make sure it’s a quality item.’

  ‘Ha ha, like I’m going to help design a piece of old tat.’ I pull a face. ‘My bag will be epic.’ I laugh and make big eyes before stretching a palm through the air for added impact. ‘It will be the best handbag ever.’

  ‘See, you’re getting excited about it now, too, so why wouldn’t you go? And please don’t use the regatta as an excuse. Or Mr Cheeks – he’ll be having the time of his life in that cat hotel you found for him, with his own room and a little chaise to lounge around on, while waiting for his daily pampering session in the grooming parlour.’ Tom laughs. ‘We’ve been over it so many times. Your team, the hashtag, or whatever it is they’re called,’ he rolls his eyes and smiles, ‘will make sure everything stays on track; and besides, it’s only for a fortnight. You’ll be back before you know it, and certainly in plenty of time to make the final tweaks.’

  ‘Well, four days, to be exact. I get home on Monday and the regatta starts on the Saturday …’

  ‘Stop worrying!’ He kisses the top of my head before pulling back to look me in the eye. ‘Honestly, it will be brilliant. You’ve spent months organising everything, so it’ll really just be a case of executing your best-laid plans on your return. And the team won’t let you down.’

  ‘True. I know I can count on them. And Annie was delighted to be made acting team manager while I’m away.’ Although on hearing that Dan’s a definite yes for the headline act, she was ecstatic and practically ripped the piece of paper with his manager’s number on from my hand. I’ve also left her in charge of liaising with Cher to sort out the ‘green room’ for him.