‘Actually, I have a question of my own,’ he says, casually.
‘You do?’ I swallow hard, wondering if this is a good or a bad thing. I was going to do it, I really was … I open my mouth again, but he gently puts a finger to my lips.
‘Shhhussshh. Ooops, oh hold on.’ And he bends down. ‘I’ve dropped the Haribo ring.’ But he doesn’t get back up; he stays down on one knee.
And oh my actual God.
I cup my hands up under my chin. I shiver.
Is this what I think it is?
‘Georgie. Please will you marry me?’
It is! I freeze. Scream. And instead of retrieving the Haribo ring, Tom stands up and pulls a small red velvet box from his pocket, and winces.
‘Tom! Are you OK?’ Instinctively, I dart forward to help him as he bends over in obvious discomfort.
‘God, I’m so sorry, I’m still getting twinges in my neck.’ He stands up straight and pulls me in close. And then he laughs. A proper big belly laugh. ‘Only joking.’
‘Whaaaat? But I don’t understand.’ My forehead creases and my voice wobbles. Tom lifts my chin.
‘Oh God, no, sorry. Oh Georgie. No, I didn’t mean it … I wasn’t joking about that. My neck is fine, honestly, look.’ And he shakes his head around. ‘Jesus. No, I’ve never been more serious in my life. I can’t believe I’ve bodged it all up for a second time. You know I had it all planned – helicopter ride, champagne picnic, romantic moment with the Grand Canyon for a backdrop.’
‘Oh my God. Really? Oh no! No wonder you were so cross with me. But in that case, I think you’ll find it was me who bodged it up the first time around for forgetting to open the envelope.’
‘None of that matters now,’ Tom smiles tenderly, and my heart flips over and over, and I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is what I want. I love him. I always have, right from the first moment I clapped eyes on him, standing by the help-yourself salad bar in the staff canteen, with my jaw practically on the floor. And I know I can’t guarantee that we’ll live happily ever after forever and ever, but something I do know is that one day I’ll be old and have lived a life worth living. And that will be a truly awesome thing.
‘So what do you say? Marry me!’ And he flips open the box. I gasp. Inside is the most beautiful diamond ring I think I’ve ever seen. And not at all the style I thought he would choose. I imagined something modern and huge. A statement. A rock. Oh God, I’m doing it again – perception. I vow to make a concerted effort to relax, to wait and see in future, instead of trying to second-guess all the time. This ring is exquisite. And the box is worn, the gold lettering on the inside of the lid is all faded, and I instantly imagine a sophisticated flapper lady graciously accepting it from her beau. ‘Is it OK? It’s old – well, they call it antique. But I know that you like stuff with a bit of history …’ Tom shrugs and grins, a little nervously.
‘It’s more than OK. It’s breathtaking. Perfect.’ And it is. It’s an Art Deco diamond cluster tablet ring, already with a lifetime of memories attached. I tiptoe up to kiss his cheek, thinking he knows me so well. He lifts the ring from the box.
‘So how about it, Georgie Hart. Me and you, what do you say?’
‘Yes! Yes please. A trillion times … I’d love to marry you!’ Tom slips the ring onto my finger and pulls me in close. I can feel his heart pounding right next to mine.
‘It’s going to be amazing,’ he murmurs, nuzzling into the side of my neck, then tracing a path with his lips to my mouth.
‘And I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than with you, at home in Mulberry-On-Sea.’
‘Ah, about that …’ Tom pulls back to look me in the eye and I’m sure there’s a hint of apprehension.
‘What is it?’ I smile tentatively, looking straight into his gorgeous velvety-brown eyes.
‘Ah, you’ll see.’ He grins and gently lifts a stray tendril of hair away from my face.
‘Oh, you’re such a tease.’ I bat his arm.
‘It’s a surprise!’ he says, cheekily. And his beautiful face breaks into an enormous smile. It sure is. And one I’ll definitely, definitely not be messing up this time around …
Epilogue
One year later …
The warm morning sun rises on the horizon as we stand back to get a better view.
‘It’s fantastic,’ Tom says, taking my hand. ‘I knew you’d make it perfect.’
‘Wait until you see inside,’ I beam.
‘Hang on, there’s something I must show you first.’ Tom squeezes my hand and, after lifting his free hand, he points towards the main display window, which is concealed by an enormous white sheet. ‘Any minute now …’ He flings his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close, treating me to a burst of his delicious chocolatey scent. And the sheet is whipped away by Winifred from the window display team; she does a quick thumbs-up to Tom before tapping her watch as if to say, ‘right on cue, just as we planned’. Tom waves to thank her before she disappears back behind the scenes. And I gasp.
Oh my God! It’s the Georgie Bag. The collection is right there in the display window of the new boutique Carrington’s store, and it looks sensational. The satchels, top handles, coin purses and crossbody bags in a variety of rainbow brights and fluoro colours gleaming under the spotlights on a selection of little podiums, simple and understated, but perfect for summer and for the ‘everywoman’, as Gaspard likes to call us. There are even some bags in warm berry hues to take us into autumn/winter. I clap my hands together. Above the bags is a huge display sign hanging on lengths of crystal-covered wire under twinkling spotlights, with the words GET YOUR GEORGIE BAG HERE in swirly silver lettering. But best of all are the pencil drawings of me in Central Park – well, you can’t tell exactly that it’s me; they’re in profile, they really could be any woman strolling in a park in cherry-red satin pedal pushers. But I guess that’s the whole point – the normality, the ‘everywoman’ appeal of Gaspard’s collection.
‘It’s brilliant.’
‘So you approve then?’ Tom grins, kissing the top of my head.
‘I sure do. I absolutely do. I love it.’
We’re in London. Well, Chelsea to be precise, and the ideal location for the new Carrington’s boutique department store, designed to whet the appetite of well-heeled customers and entice them to come and see where it all began, over a hundred years ago, in the real Carrington’s flagship store in Mulberry-On-Sea. After months of planning, meetings, persuasion and negotiation, Tom eventually managed to secure the leasehold for the building that had housed the old department store Mum and Dad used to bring me to for a treat as a child. Tom kept his promise, and told me as soon as he could, the very next day after I asked to move in with him, and he proposed beside that ice-cream van. He had wanted it to be a surprise, knowing how special this place was to me. And I can confirm that this is one surprise that has gone meticulously to plan.
Tom then promptly asked me if I’d consider coming back to Carrington’s on a full-time basis – the board had all agreed that I was the best woman for the job: project manager to oversee the refurbishment of the glorious old Georgian building. Tom was suitably impressed by my organising of the regatta, especially my varied collection of notepads and highlighter pens and Pinterest pages, which he still teases me about, although he and the rest of the board never did find out about the punch-up over the carousel, or the ice-cream van turf war, or the queue for the tunnel tours, or indeed Dan being held hostage and very nearly missing his guest appearance. Isabella knows, Mr Dunwoody complained to her, citing something about going straight to the top. So patronising, especially when Tom is the one in charge of Carrington’s, not Isabella. But after putting a call in right away to another old friend from her university days, who luckily now owns the Mulberry Gazette, in addition to a number of other newspapers in his portfolio, Isabella was able to make sure the planned ‘carousel crunch time’ story, complete with up-close and gory pictures of the fight, was instantly s
helved. Sky News never did show footage of the regatta, either; something big happened in Toronto that day, which took precedence, luckily for Carrington’s and the quaint little seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. And Isabella agreed with me that there was nothing to be gained from Tom and the board being told. Besides, the deal had already been done for the new store, far away from Mulberry-On-Sea where Mr Dunwoody had no real influence over planning or building regulations in any case. And he didn’t get re-elected to Westminster – rumour had it that he had been fiddling his expenses, so he was very keen to keep a low profile and not make a fuss.
Of course, I jumped at the chance to get involved in Carrington’s new adventure, and bought some shares too, enough to give me a seat on the board. So, after today, I’m going to be the new Carrington’s operations director, dividing my time between both stores – London and Mulberry. Making sure the staff are all happy and serving our customers with a smile. It’s what I love best, and I’m looking forward to passing on everything I learnt from Mrs Grace, who’s busy penning her second autobiography and enjoying a well-earned retirement.
And Annie was delighted when I asked her to take over my column for Closer magazine. She said it was the cherry on the proverbial cake, especially as she’s all loved up again. That’s right, she and Dan are in a proper relationship now. Luckily, the DKers fully embraced Annie; things could have got very tricky indeed if they hadn’t, although Mel, Carrington’s number one store detective, has been hacked off on occasion after having to herd them away from the Women’s Accessories section – they like to gather at Annie’s till to do Snapchat selfies with her while she’s trying to serve proper customers.
As for our actual wedding, Tom and I haven’t managed to organise it yet. We’ve been far too busy getting the new store ready for today’s grand opening, but it’s next on the calendar – probably a year from now. We just need to agree on the location. Isabella is keen on having it in Sicily, in the church on the hillside overlooking the village where she grew up, but Dad has hinted he wants it to be at Mulberry-On-Sea, in the little chapel overlooking the wild-flower field where Mum’s grave is. Nancy is delighted too and is still holding out for a grandchild, and who knows what the future may hold. And I guess we’ll eventually decide on the wedding too. You never know, it may even be a dual-location do, and why not? I know it’ll be perfect, wherever it is.
Dad is full of health these days. I think what happened in Andorra gave him a bit of a scare, so he’s taken up cycling now with Dusty on a special long lead; they go all over Mulberry and beyond. He says he needs to be fighting fit and ready to do the honours when it comes to my wedding. They made it back from Andorra, just about; Daisy conked out two streets away from the retirement complex and is now in a specialist VW restoration garage getting a new engine. Nancy has said that Daisy will make the perfect little runaround to take her to bingo, or maybe a jaunt along the south coast of England next summer … Certainly no hairpin bends on mountain roads, thank God!
We step inside the staff lift, a brand new gilt cage replica – I was keen to keep the character of the original building, but figured we could really do without the staff getting trapped between floors.
‘You’re here!’ It’s Sam and she’s glowing. She grabs my hand and almost pulls my arm out of the socket as she runs me into her new patisserie. Tom makes a more leisurely entrance and wanders off to take a look at the state-of-the-art professional kitchen. ‘Ta-da! What do you think?’ And I’m stunned. The last few times I’ve been here, Sam hadn’t let me in, and even the glass doors had been covered over so I couldn’t get a sneaky peek inside.
‘Oh Sam, it’s incredible.’ And it is. It’s just how I imagine a chic Parisian patisserie to be – all smoky brown walls with marble pillars and low lighting. Opulent flower arrangements cascade down china stands and sultry lounge music plays melodically in the background. And in the middle is a table piled high with cakes that customers can help themselves to – all kinds: enormous strawberry cream gateaux, delicate pastel-coloured macaroons, chocolate muffins, giant swirly patterned meringues and, of course, my favourite in the centre, a three-tiered cake stand bulging with magnificent red velvet cupcakes with buttercream icing. Mm-mmm!
‘Have one if you like.’ Sam takes a cupcake and a napkin and hands them to me. ‘I know you can’t resist.’ She laughs and I kiss her cheek.
‘Thank you.’ I tuck in right away, making a mental note to make sure we have loads of red velvet cupcakes at the wedding. I glance around. At one end of the patisserie, Sam has created another café – through an arch, complete with custom-built safety gate, there are lots of little tables and chairs. There’s a soft play area too, and a juice bar. There’s even a converted ice-cream van, which children can climb inside. Wow!
‘Now I have the best of both worlds, I get to bake and spend time with Holly and Ivy,’ Sam says. ‘To be fair, it was Ben’s idea.’ Hearing his name, Ben looks up from the box of Lego that he’s unpacking and waves over. Sam and I do little waves back before she nudges me. I nudge her back. We hastily turn around and go to leave – Sam sniggering and me desperately wiping buttercream icing from my face, which I wish would stop blooming flaming.
‘Stop it. He’ll notice,’ I whisper, trying not to giggle as Sam loops her arm through mine as we walk away really fast like a pair of silly schoolgirls.
‘I think there’s a high chance he may already know that the pair of you have crushes on him.’ Nathan appears behind Sam and, after wrapping his arms around her, he plants a big kiss on the side of her neck. ‘Honestly, you two are incorrigible. Leave the poor guy alone.’ We are all grinning as we head back to the lift.
‘You wait until you see the brasserie,’ Sam says, pressing the button to take us up. ‘It’s my dream come true. Who would have thought, all those years ago when Dad made me do that culinary course instead of the round-the-world cruise?’ She’s full of happiness as the lift whizzes us to the rooftop.
‘I bet he’d be so chuffed, Sam.’ I give her hand a squeeze as we step out of the lift.
And it’s breathtaking, with panoramic views across the city; we can even see the Thames, shimmering in the sun. Christy, being an interior designer, has helped Sam to create something truly remarkable here. In addition to spending lots of time getting to know Sam and her family (Christy lives in Mulberry-On-Sea now – she decided against the flat in Brighton, wanting to be closer to Sam), she has gone to great lengths to make their reunion work. It’s a joy seeing Sam so happy, and now that I’ve got to know Christy too, I can see that she and Sam are so alike. We get on well, too, especially after Christy apologised for being such a diva, throwing her pashmina my way that time. She explained that she was just so nervous after all those years apart from Sam, that the reunion moment she had played out inside her head a trillion times hadn’t had a stranger in it, so when I answered the door she panicked and went all aloof. But she’s really not like that at all. In fact, she’s funny and down-to-earth and kind and caring … just like Sam.
I look around. There are real palm trees lining the route to the maître d’s desk. There’s even a giant fish tank embedded into the walls either side. Nathan and Tom head straight to the open chrome kitchen set right in the centre of the brasserie.
‘It’s like being in LA,’ I say, weaving through the tables and stepping out onto the terrace. ‘Eddie would be sooooo impressed.’
‘Why don’t you ask him what he thinks?’ Sam laughs.
‘No! Oh my God, is he here?’ I yell, not having seen him since New York. We’ve FaceTimed and spoken on the phone, of course, but it’s really not the same.
‘I sure am, honeypie.’ And he is too. Eddie walks out onto the terrace to join us. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
‘Group hug!’ Sam flings her arms out and the three of us, BFFs, have a massive cuddle. We’ve been through so much together, a proper rollercoaster of good times and bad, but we’ve always been here for each other and long may it c
ontinue. My two best friends. They mean the world to me.
‘Oh God, I’m getting emosh,’ I laugh, wiping away happy tears as we break apart.
‘Maybe this will cheer you up,’ Eddie says, pressing something into my right hand.
‘What is it?’ I ask, opening the white envelope; inside is a wad of twenty-pound notes. ‘Oh Eddie, you looper!’ I grin on realising. ‘But you didn’t need to.’
‘Well, a bet is a bet. And you did propose first, well, sort of … you put the Haribo ring on his finger.’ He shrugs. ‘But, honestly darling, please can you hurry up and book a venue already? At this rate, even the draughty village hall will be taken.’ He pulls a face and I can’t help laughing. I shake my head – he never changes. ‘Oh, sweet pea, I’m so happy for you. Come here,’ and he pulls me in close for another hug, followed by, ‘right, that’s your lot,’ a few seconds later. He smirks and drops his arms to straighten his exquisitely cut Tom Ford suit.
Sam darts off and then reappears a few minutes later with a tray of drinks – flutes of pink champagne. She hands one to me and one to Eddie before taking a glass for herself.
Carrington's at Christmas Page 83