‘Hey, you can’t push in – and if I have to wait much longer I’m going to call it a day,’ a man in the queue shouts out.
‘It’s OK, we work here,’ I smile to cover the sinking feeling inside.
‘Well, you’d better get it sorted then. I booked for the first slot and it’s already gone eleven o’clock.’
‘We will. I promise. Come on, Annie.’ I grab her hand and we run through the staff entrance at the side of the building, and quickly make our way along the narrow, winding staff corridor, sidestepping a couple of stock trolleys piled high with flattened cardboard boxes, to reach the big Carrington’s Tunnel Tour placard that has been erected next to the gilt caged staff lift.
And then it immediately becomes obvious what the hold-up is: Betty and Mrs Grace are sitting on the floor of the lift, next to six big boxes full of her autobiography hardbacks, suspended just below the ground level.
‘Oh, thank God you’re here, lovey,’ Mrs Grace says, poking a bony hand up through the bottom of the metal concertina lift door. I crouch down and push my arm through a gap to clasp her arm. ‘This damn lift has broken down – an hour we’ve been sat here waiting for the emergency guy from the lift maintenance company to show his face. Emergency, my arse! My Stan could move faster, and that’s saying something; he hasn’t managed to shift his backside away from the telly for decades now, unless it’s to feed those filthy birds of his, of course, and then he’s like a ferret up a drainpipe.’ Oh dear. We all nod politely.
Betty manages to scramble up onto her feet first, and then helps Mrs Grace up before handing her granny bag to her. They both stare up at us – the lift must be stuck about two feet below ground level, so even if we could get the door open somehow, we’d still have to find a way for Betty and Mrs Grace to climb out of the lift.
‘Oh God. This is a nightmare,’ I say, gripping the metal door in frustration and giving it a shake, but it’s no use, it’s not budging. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Of all the days for it to break down – it’s always been slow and rickety, I’ve even been stuck in it too on occasion, but Charles, Carrington’s handyman, was always able to prise open the door for me.
‘It’s not your fault, dear,’ Mrs Grace says graciously. ‘I’m just pleased I had the sense to ask Lara to come along later. Can you imagine?’ I stare blankly. ‘Lara, she’s my publicist; oh no, it certainly wouldn’t do for her to be stuck in this lift for any length of time. You know she’s related to William Shakespeare? Oh yes, they only take on the best at my publishers,’ Mrs Grace says, proudly.
‘That’s nice.’ I press my nails into the palm of my hand in a desperate bid to get some perspective on this precarious situation as I try to ignore the ‘what if the lift plunges even further down the shaft’ scenario that’s currently playing out inside my head. The food hall in the basement is below us and then there are two floors with stock rooms on, and that’s before we even get to the actual floor where the tunnels are, so potentially the lift could plunge a further four levels. ‘We really need to get you out of here right away!’ And then quickly add, ‘There’s a queue a mile long – seems your tunnel tours are in great demand,’ to detract from the seriousness of the situation. The last thing we need is Mrs Grace and Betty to start panicking – they obviously haven’t realised the danger they’re in.
‘Is there really? Well, I never, there was only a handful of people when our taxi pulled up this morning, wasn’t there Betty?’ Betty nods and sinks back down onto one of the boxes.
‘Ooooh, I’m so desperate to spend a penny,’ she says, crossing her legs and pulling a face.
‘Oh dear,’ I say, eyeing up the old-fashioned fire bucket full of sand that’s chained to the corridor wall – if needs must, and all that. ‘What did security say?’ I ask, motioning with my head towards the emergency call button on the lift wall.
‘I went to see Charles in the loading bay and he said that the lift maintenance company were sending someone,’ Annie says, her voice all wobbly.
‘That was first thing,’ Mrs Grace interjects. ‘Young Annie was very good – I called her mobile phone and she came here right away. But we’re still waiting.’ Annie perks up on hearing the praise.
‘Annie, can you call the lift maintenance company and find out where the hell they are, please?’ I ask. We need to get this sorted out right away.
‘I’m on it,’ Annie says, pulling her phone from her bag. We all listen while she talks. ‘Right, I see.’ She ends the call. ‘The guy is on his way, but he’s stuck in the regatta traffic. The main road into town is bumper to bumper, apparently, with everyone heading this way, eager to find a parking space before they all go.’
‘Oh God. Right, I’m going to find Charles; he’s got me out of the lift before … I don’t see why he can’t crowbar you out right now. And then we’ll figure a way to pull you both up here to the ground floor. Failing that, we’ll call the fire brigade. We have to do something; we can’t just leave you in here or leave all those people standing outside. It’s a disaster. Carrington’s will be a laughing stock.’ And I shudder to think what Tom will say when he hears about this, and I have to talk to him – I’ll do it just as soon as I’ve freed Betty and Mrs Grace. Besides, there’s no point in alerting him to this utter fiasco if I can possibly avoid it. He’ll only worry about the damage it could do to Carrington’s reputation and be disappointed in me for seemingly taking my eye off the ball, again.
‘Oh no dear. Charles can’t help – we’ve already been through all of that. He was here with us until about twenty minutes ago, explaining it all. He was very apologetic, but he could lose his job,’ Mrs Grace says, teasing her Julie-Andrews-style feather crop back into place. ‘It’s the new health and safety rules; he mustn’t lift a crowbar without the proper training.’
‘Whaaaat? But that’s ridiculous; he’s been doing it for years … because the flaming lift is so unreliable!’
‘Sorry duck, it’s the new Euro law. He’s not allowed; anyway, he’s gone now – had to bomb off to the Japanese marquee after Max rang him on the mobile demanding he get down there to fix a dodgy gas ring, and bring more supplies too, while he was at it. Seems they all went crazy for Mr Nakamura’s battered lobster,’ Betty says, folding her arms and clutching her body in obvious discomfort.
‘Tempura!’ Mrs Grace corrects. ‘It’s all the rage these days.’
‘Well, whatever it is, it’s a weird thing to have for your breakfast. Even if it has been cooked by a famous chef,’ Betty groans.
‘Hmmm, and it’ll be nearly lunchtime soon and we’ll miss out because we’re stuck in a lift shaft.’ Mrs Grace purses her movie-star red-coated lips.
‘OK. Then there’s no other option …’ And there’s certainly no time for us to sit around chatting like we’re on a tea break in the staff canteen. We need to get the queue inside and around those tunnels in record time, if we’re to stand any chance of catching up and saving the day. ‘I’ll lift the crowbar myself, and be damned!’ And, before any of them can protest, I sprint as fast as I can along the corridor and back out of the store, ignoring the now heckling queue, until I reach the loading bay. Right, now to locate the crowbar.
Half an hour later, and I’ve managed to prise the lift door open with just enough space to allow Mrs Grace and Betty to squeeze through. They’re stacking the boxes on top of one another to form a step high enough to climb up and out of the lift when the engineer finally turns up. And, oh my God, Mr Dunwoody, the MP, is powering along behind him with a thunderous look on his face.
‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Mr Dunwoody puffs, practically flinging the engineer out of the way. ‘My office phone is going berserk! My constituents are in that queue, and I can tell you they are fuming. And I’m not surprised, having to stand around for hours while you girls get your act together!’ He casts a disparaging glare at Betty as she takes a quick breather, having just hauled herself out of the lift with a helping hand from Annie and the engineer. She huffs, before bustli
ng off down the corridor in search of a bathroom. ‘And where’s she off to now? No time to powder your nose, dear!’ he shouts out after her in an extra-patronising tone.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I start, my hackles rising. ‘These women – Mrs Grace and Betty – have been here for ages. They arrived especially early in order to be properly prepared for the first tunnel tour – it’s not their fault if the lift packed up.’
‘That’s right. You tell him, Georgie.’ Mrs Grace has also made it out of the lift shaft and is now standing opposite Mr Dunwoody with her bony hands on her hips and a disgusted look on her face.
‘Well, it’s not my fault either! But my reputation is at stake here. I’ll be a laughing stock if this gets back to Westminster. So I suggest you crack on with the tours,’ he nods in Mrs Grace’s direction, ‘and you,’ he glowers down at me, ‘stop gadding about all over the shop and make this regatta a success, because if it isn’t then your boyfriend will have another think coming if he wants my support for his planning application for the purposes of purchasing another store!’ And with that he marches off back down the corridor. I gulp. So that told me.
21
Everything else is going smoothly. The food marquees are doing exceptionally well; Annie has headed off there to get some refreshments to take back to Betty and Mrs Grace – they quickly got the queue down by doubling up on the numbers for each tour and roping in lazy Luke and Stan to dish out signed copies of Mrs Grace’s book to the people joining the back of the queue – thereby saving even more time as people didn’t have to hang around afterwards. Thankfully, Mrs Grace had the foresight to sign all the books while she was trapped in the lift.
And I’ve managed to track Sam down – Annie had a regatta brochure with a colour-coded map inside. Her cake stall is inside one of the marquees near the Hook, Line and Sinker pub, so I’m going to head there next, just as soon as I’ve tried calling Tom again. His number rings, but there’s no answer. I decide not to leave another message as I’ve already left three and he’s obviously busy – it is regatta day, after all. He’s probably with the directors making sure everything is going smoothly, eek! Let’s hope they bypassed the common and the now-closed carousel. Besides, I don’t want to appear all stalkerish-annoying-girlfriend-bothering-him-when-he’s-working. And it wouldn’t kill him to call me back – we’re supposed to be adults, after all. I push my phone back into my bag, and try to ignore the swell of unease in the pit of my stomach. Bravado aside, it’s obvious he is still angry with me, or disappointed, or whatever it was Dad reckoned he was; but still, he could at least talk to me, he was the one who said we would … Just as soon as the regatta is over! Hmm, it’s coming back to me now. In that case, I’ll do what he wants – I’ll wait until tomorrow evening, when the regatta is over and deemed a monumental success. With a bit of luck, he won’t know about the carousel or the extended wait for the tunnel tours, because hopefully he’s having too much of a good time enjoying all the other regatta events with his parents. Yes, I’ll go to his apartment, talk to him and get everything sorted out. I let out a long breath before taking a swig of water from my bottle. I feel so much better now that I have a plan, like a weight has been lifted. Maybe my luck hasn’t run out after all … I can turn this around, I know I can.
Smiling, I smooth down my sundress and turn into Wayfarer Way. The afternoon sun feels glorious on my bare arms and legs, warm with a light breeze and the perfect weather for an ice cream, a proper swirly Mr Whippy cone with a chocolate 99 flake, just like I had as a child. But hang on a minute! Where are all the ice-cream vans? I can see one at the far end of the street – but there were supposed to be loads, one on every corner.
Speeding up, I make a beeline for the lone van. I think it’s the man from the pier; his lumbago obviously isn’t playing up today. His van is bright pink; it even has ‘Mr Whippy’ written in white lettering down the side, next to a picture of Snow White and the seven dwarfs, and two big plastic ice-cream cones are mounted on the roof at the corners of the windscreen – it’s perfect, and just how I remember from my childhood with Mum and Dad sitting on the bench by the pier polishing off our banana sandwiches and ginger beer before getting stuck into a huge swirly-whirly peaked ice cream in a cone. And when it came to the toppings, I always went for the works – a chocolate flake, butterscotch sauce and rainbow sprinkles. Mm-mmm.
‘Hey, where are all the other vans?’ I ask the guy, in between customers buying Screwballs, strawberry Mivvi and Fab ice lollies. I wait while he unwraps a vanilla ice-cream brick to sandwich between two wafers.
‘Sorry love, I’ve no idea. This is my allocated pitch for the day – I was asked to move away from my usual place down by the pier. Yes mate, what can I get you?’ he says, turning to serve the next customer – a man with a trillion children all bouncing up and down with excitement.
‘You could try the marina; there were hundreds of them down there a few minutes ago,’ a guy in a black-and-white London Grammar T-shirt suggests. ‘They might be open now. None of them were earlier – too busy sounding their chimes and arguing. That’s why I came here. I think there’s some kind of turf war going on down there.’
Whaaaat?
‘Thank you,’ I quickly shout out as I hare off towards the seafront.
And oh my God! He’s right. Leaning against a wall to catch my breath, I can see ice-cream vans everywhere; there must be at least thirty – each one has a massive Carrington’s sticker on the side, and they’re all triple-parked up to form a blockade right outside the main entrance to the marina. The very heart of the regatta! And if that wasn’t bad enough, the deafening din of their chimes – ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ – fills the air. It’s a disaster. An utter, utter fucking disaster!
And the marina is packed with yachts – people are standing on their decks to get a better view. Jesus, one woman even has a pair of binoculars pressed up to her pillow cheeks. And I dread to think where Tom’s parents’ yacht is – I bet Isabella is horrified. Because right now, Carrington’s is a laughing stock. And what is that whirring noise? I look up into the glorious, cloudless blue sky and see a light aircraft hovering on the horizon, above the glittery sea, hazy in the heat – and it’s trailing a banner. Oh God. It’s Sky News. Filming the whole thing, no doubt!
My heart sinks – could today get any worse? There’s no way Tom isn’t going to find out about this – that’s if he isn’t watching, aghast, on TV right now. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called me back, he’s too blooming busy appeasing Mr Dunwoody, because I wouldn’t put it past him to have beaten a path straight to Tom’s door to have a bitch about his reputation being ruined in Westminster.
I get closer and spot Matt trying to reason with a big bald guy who has a spider tatt on the side of his neck. But it’s no use, as the guy just bats a dismissive hand in the air before bombing back into his van and sliding the plastic vending screen shut.
‘At last! You better sort this out, now that you’ve deigned to put in an appearance. And not before time … Where have you been all day?’ Meredith steps out from a doorway and taps her finger on my shoulder. And I snap! I’ve had enough. The last week or so has been a nightmare, not to mention today so far, and I’ve tried really bloody hard to make things right. I draw in a big breath before batting her hand away.
‘Um, excuse me, but where do you get off being so rude? I’ve been fire-fighting all day, making sure the Carrington’s tunnel tours happened, that people are having a good time – isn’t that what this is all about?’ I say, standing square on to her. ‘What have you been doing all day?’
‘I beg your pardon!’ she huffs, indignantly. ‘How dare you talk to me like this?’ And she goes to march off towards the ice-cream van fracas that’s unfolding before us.
‘Don’t play the victim here, Meredith. You’ve been arsey with me since the moment I turned up at the first committee meeting.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Yes you have.’
&
nbsp; ‘Well, it’s not my fault if you swanned in late to the first meeting expecting special treatment just because you’re dating Mr Carrington.’
‘Hardly! And, for the record, I wasn’t late – you started the meeting early.’ Ha! Take that. ‘So, what exactly is your problem?’ I can feel my heart pounding with adrenalin. It’s like she’s jealous or something.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I have to jog to keep up with her.
‘Yes you do. Tell me!’ I wince as my voice jumps an octave.
‘OK. You really want to know?’ Meredith stops and plants her hands on her hips, but before she can answer, a spectacular arc of raspberry sundae sauce catapults into the air before landing on her head. She turns to me with an outraged look on her face, pink gunge dripping down her cheeks. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then does a massive harrumph before stalking off.
I spin around and see, to my horror, there’s a full-on war ensuing now. The ice-cream men are all leaning out of their vans and pelting each other with chocolate flakes, mini plastic spoons, wafer shells and Haribo sweets. One even has a giant tub of rainbow sprinkles, which, after flipping the lid off, he swings, strong-man-style to gather maximum momentum before spraying everyone within a mile radius, or so it seems. Jesus Christ.
‘Georgie! Are you OK?’ It’s Matt, ducking down with his hand over his head in a desperate attempt to avoid the raft of flying missiles. And then I spot Denise, standing right behind him, with a brochure held up in front of her face like a shield.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I think,’ I say, picking sprinkles off my face.
‘You know Denise, yes?’ Matt yells, before quickly grabbing her hand and pulling her close into his chest for protection.
‘I sure do,’ I grin, and squeeze her free hand. Despite the ice-cream paraphernalia raining down on us, she’s beaming with happiness, having bagged a man ‘so dreamy’. Aw, I’m really pleased for them. ‘Do you know what’s going on here?’ I shout to be heard over the racket.
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