by Rosie Nixon
I was worried about work, though. Joseph had been strangely elusive almost all day on Monday, holed up in meetings with Jeff, and I was getting increasingly paranoid they were talking about my future at Selfridges.
Eventually, at five o’clock, he returned with a face like thunder saying we needed to “up our game” and that the summer window theme hadn’t exactly “set the bigwigs on fire.”
“Not original enough,” he said. “Apparently, we ‘must try harder.’” He drew more quote marks in the air with his fingers. “What do they want? Windows that chat you up as you walk past?”
“Actually, there could be an idea in that,” I muttered, unhelpfully.
As I was leaving work that evening, he pulled me aside. “As you can tell it was a heavy day, wasn’t the right time to ask about your sabbatical. I’ll try later in the week, when, hopefully, we’re flavor of the month again. Okay, babe?”
“Okay, thank you, I really appreciate it.”
“What are you two gossiping about?” Shauna asked, bounding over to stick her nosy beak in.
“Shop windows, what do you think?” I shot back.
“Come with ideas tomorrow,” Joseph added, before giving me a wink.
* * *
“So I think the wink was an indication that it’s basically going to be fine,” I reported to Rob when he arrived at mine later that evening. We were staying over with each other almost every night at the moment and it was great. I’m having regular sex! I’m eating something other than hummus and pita bread for dinner most nights! I’m watching the news with someone to explain the repercussions of Brexit!
“But what will you do if it’s not?” he asked, confronting the big question that so far I’d been refusing to acknowledge. And he had a point; it could very well go out of my favor if Jeff remained in a foul mood all week.
“I guess I’ll quit,” I replied after a beat.
Rob sucked his cheeks in and sighed heavily. “Blimey, that’s pressure,” he said.
“Yes, it is, but I’m sure I’d get another job when we got back.”
“That’s a lot of pressure on me, I mean—I make you lose your job just to come with me to New York for three months.”
“Yes, but I’m not your sheep, Rob, I’ve made the decision, too. It’s me that’s taking the risk. Or are you trying to say something else? Are you sure you want me to come to New York with you?”
The words hung in the air between us for a second too long.
“Rob?”
“Of course I do, we’ve been through this before—I’d love nothing more. I just want you to be certain, too.”
“I am! I’d give up my job tomorrow if I had to—opportunities like this don’t come along often and I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t come with you. I want to spend as much time with you as I can. Why, are you having second thoughts?”
He took my head into his hands and looked at me, telling me with his eyes that I should shut up.
“I love you, Amber,” he said finally, “risk taker, adventurer and woman I can’t wait to get to know even more in New York.”
My heart leapt.
Oh. My. God. He said it. He said he loves me. And the way he said it made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
“I’m pretty sure I love you, too,” I whispered.
The corners of his mouth turned up and the movement continued until there was a huge grin spread right across his face, lighting up his whole being.
“Pretty sure?” he said. “Have I still got some convincing to do?”
I blushed.
“Well, I’m pretty sure I know how to start,” he continued.
We melted into one another, lips on lips, hands all over one another, his strong body guiding me to the bedroom. Just a few short words, a few seconds in time, and we were on the next level. We are a couple in love.
This time when we made love it felt different, it was more intense than ever before. I couldn’t help it but afterward, tears streamed down my cheeks. I don’t think he noticed in the darkness, because he rolled over and was soon lightly snoring, one warm arm flopped over my body. I cried because in that instant it was like I was letting go of all those years as a singleton, all the times I weathered whatever life threw at me on my own, getting on with things, relying on no one but myself. Don’t get me wrong, I was fine with it during that time—but it wasn’t always easy, doing everything alone. Now I had a reason to give myself completely to somebody else, to this gorgeous man, because he loved me and wanted us to be a team.
* * *
I must have been radiating something the next morning, because the man in Pret A Manger gave me a free latte and no sooner had I arrived at work than Joseph pulled me aside to say he’d been in early to chat with Jeff, and Jeff had approved my sabbatical.
“Told him if we didn’t let you go, we’d lose you anyway. You’re lucky, Amber. And with some of that luck I hope you’ll befriend Tom Ford while you’re out there and set him up with me,” he said, smiling. “Just promise you’ll come back, or that will be the end of sabbaticals, forever. I’m not joking.”
I looked him in the eye. “I promise, Joseph, thank you so much. I cannot tell you how much this means to me. And I swear I will carry around your photo so I’m prepared when I meet Tom. And I will.”
“Thanks, babe.” He winked his trademark wink. “Let me handle Shauna and the rest of the team. When are you planning to go?”
“We want to fly in a couple of weeks.” I took a deep breath. Saying it out loud was exhilarating, but also terrifying. “We’re looking into flights. I’ll let you know the second we book.”
“You lucky cow.” He beamed. “I love New York. Now, what are your ideas for the windows, now I’ve told Jeff how irreplaceable you are?”
“Well . . .” I pulled him aside.
* * *
In between packing up the flat, sorting out travel arrangements and discussing what Rob was going to do with Pinky, I spent the rest of the week putting in extra hours at work and doing all the things I wouldn’t be able to do in New York, like buying Greggs’s “three for five pounds” milk-chocolate cookies and eating them all in one go and getting on a Routemaster bus using the back door and watching Oxford Street whizz past the window on my way home from work. London suddenly had a romantic quality that I was going to miss so much.
Things were moving apace for Rob and on Wednesday evening, over a Thai takeaway at his flat, he gave me the good news that his work was going to cover the rent for a studio apartment in New York.
“Now I’ve just got to work on Ben looking after Pinky,” he said.
“Good luck with that,” I said, giggling. “Gay Pinky and bachelor Ben? Can’t see it happening, somehow. What about your mum?” He gave me a look. “Of course, stupid idea.”
“Your parents?” he suggested, lifting a brow.
“No way. They hate pets.”
“It’s either Ben or a pig sanctuary then,” he sighed.
And then I had a brainwave. “Nora! Why didn’t I think of her before? She loves farm animals—her first word was ‘oink’! Her eyes almost popped out of her head the first time she saw a photo of Pinky—it was love at first sight. I’ll work on Nora to persuade my sister to look after Pinky. They’ve got a shed in their garden and plenty of space. Pinky will be the toast of suburbia—and we’ll be able to FaceTime him whenever we want. It’s perfect!”
“That is quite possibly the best brainwave ever,” Rob enthused. “When can we see Nora?”
“I’ll see if she can come for a sleepover this Friday.” Project Pinky had begun.
* * *
“But you’ve never offered to have Nora for a whole night before,” my sister remarked, suspiciously, on the phone. “You and Rob don’t have any news you want to share, do you? You seem very keen to get some kiddie practice all of a sudden.”
“No, Luce, nothing like that, I just thought it would be nice for you and Rory to have a date
night, that’s all. And it would be lovely to spend some time with my beautiful, clever niece before I go.”
“Well, we haven’t had a night out together in ages—there are cobwebs in my makeup bag, not to mention other places—so it would be lovely, if you really don’t mind?” I could hear the excitement in her voice, she was already mentally planning her outfit. “We could drop her off at your place, and then get the tube into town. Christ, I haven’t been into town for about three years! Do you still need an Oyster card, or is it all done by electronic implants these days?”
“Perfect! I’ll get out of work a bit early. Come any time after five. Oh, and what’s Nora’s favorite dinner? I want to make everything perfect for her.”
“Fish fingers and chips and she’ll love you forever,” she replied. “Not too many chips though, no sweets and limit screen time.”
“Sounds like great fun. But don’t worry, I’ve got something planned.” I smiled into the phone. “See you Friday.”
Back at work, Joseph had taken our new concept for the windows to Jeff and it had gone down a storm with the boardroom bosses, so we were working long days to get the revised plans off the ground. They were to feature a “world first” interactive treat for the senses with scratch-and-sniff panels smelling of ice lollies, sun cream and coconut—all the scents of high summer against a backdrop of beach huts and candy-colored fashion. In another major window, digital touch screens featuring summer rope-soled platforms and seventies sunglasses which could be viewed from any angle and followed you down the street; and another featuring slick city styles for polished power dressers, with voices calling out to passers-by, transporting you to the trading floor on a blistering hot afternoon. The whole thing was a meeting of high-tech and high street and we were bursting with excitement about it all—I was even a little peeved I wouldn’t be around to see it all come to fruition.
* * *
As Friday rolled around, I worked through my lunch to ensure an early exit so I could get Nora’s dinner under the grill before she arrived, thus winning me brownie points from Lucy before Project Pinky came into play. Also, there was no way I’d get Nora to sit still and eat dinner once Rob had come around with the evening’s miniature entertainment. I’d instructed him to ensure Pinky was groomed to perfection: “Think Crufts for pigs,” I said, “make sure Pinky’s had a bath and smells nice. Lucy’s got a nose like a bloodhound. There’s no way she’ll take him if he’s smelly.”
I was just making my way to the front of the store to go home, when I noticed something going on. There were crowds of shoppers being held back by security guards. Oh God, not a fire drill or worse, a terror alert. I’ve not got time for this.
“Stay back everyone, won’t be long now,” the head of security was telling the excited faces all around him. Locking the doors to one of London’s premiere stores on a Friday afternoon was a very rare occurrence. I scanned the area for a member of staff I recognized, finally spotting one of the girls on the M.A.C counter who I’d befriended once when I was hungover and in desperate need of an in-store makeover. I elbowed my way through the crowd, flashing my staff pass to reach her.
“Hey, Sam, what’s going on?”
She was craning her neck and barely took her eyes away from the direction of the boxed-off Hermès area as she spoke: “Celebrity in the store.”
Although this was a relatively common occurrence in Selfridges, it was still exciting. My eyes widened. “Ooh—who?”
“We’re not meant to say, but seeing as she’s currently trending on Twitter.” She leaned toward me and whispered: “It’s Amanda Sykes. Word got out and suddenly tons of fans have turned up, trying to get a selfie with her. It was so crazy they had to close the doors. She’s currently buying up the entire Hermès concession. Literally all of it, according to Lisa in fragrance.”
Amanda Sykes. “Wow,” I gasped. Amanda Sykes was the biggest thing to hit the internet since Kim Kardashian’s bottom. Even Amanda Sykes’s right foot had its own Instagram and Snapchat accounts, with millions of followers. And those accounts had thousands more spoof accounts.
I looked in the direction of Hermès, too.
“Have you seen her?”
Samantha ushered me close. “Seen her? You can’t miss her. Let’s just say, her waistline is now a coastline, if you get my drift.”
I giggled. “I need to see this.”
I was just about to ask her if it would be okay if I stood on one of the makeup-counter stools to try to get a better view, when a frenzy of flashes went off outside the store. They lit up a whole window. Word spread that Amanda was holding up a necklace to the light.
Six security guards struggled to hold back more fans, who were trying to storm through the doors from the street.
I spotted Mike, one of the security guards I had got to know when working through the night on the windows, and pushed my way through a gaggle of Japanese tourists to reach him—they all had their iPhones and cameras lifted in the hope of snapping the top of Amanda’s head.
“The doors—are they really locked, Mike? I need to get out.”
“Afraid so,” he replied. “You’ll have to use the staff exit. But we shouldn’t be more than five minutes now. There’s barely anything left in the concession, according to one of Ms. Sykes’s bodyguards.”
I pulled out my phone to check the time: 4:45 P.M. There was a text from Lucy:
5 minutes away from yours. Lxx
Shit! I was really late for Nora’s arrival.
“I don’t have five minutes,” I pleaded. “I’ve got to get home for my five-year-old niece.”
“It’s intense out there right now, you’ll have to wait until she’s gone,” Mike explained.
I looked through the doors; the crowd around the window closest to where Amanda was believed to be shopping was ten people deep.
“Honestly, I can’t, I beg you, Mike, it’ll take me two seconds to get out. I really need to.” My mind was racing to come up with a reason why I couldn’t wait. “I really need to go to Superdrug because I think I might be getting my period,” I pleaded. His face reddened. Before I had to elaborate, he surreptitiously opened the door a few inches, indicating I should squeeze through. Behind me, the perfume counters were seeing an unexpected rush, as fans masquerading as shoppers gathered to witness Amanda leave the store and get into her waiting car.
Squeezing out, I found myself in the middle of the throng, still clutching my Selfridges staff pass.
“Hey, do you work at Selfridges?” one girl shouted in my direction. I shoved the pass into my pocket quickly. “This girl works at Selfridges!” she continued. “I saw her pass. Can you get us in? We want to see Amanda.”
“Sorry, but the store’s closed,” I replied, feeling a little intimidated. Fans this close to their idol were a force to behold. In seconds the crowd around me had doubled. Chants of “Aman-da! Aman-da!” filled the air. In every direction were pointing fingers, phones and excited conjecture about when Amanda might be coming out and where she might be going next. I had to admit, I felt buzzed by it, too.
I made my way through the tightly packed group, toward the curb, where a large, blacked-out people carrier was parked. I’d found myself a good vantage position now, and there was a kerfuffle going on around one of the shop doors, so I imagined Amanda might be on her way out. Seeing as everyone else was doing it, I stopped, just a quick look at Amanda in the flesh would make an interesting story for Lucy and Nora this evening; I might even get a photo good enough for Instagram.
Suddenly the window on Amanda’s people carrier lowered and a shrill American voice called out, taking me by surprise: “Hey, Amber! Amber Green, is that you?”
I turned around. No, it can’t be. A section of the crowd turned, too, camera phones held upward all clicking, flashing and recording at once. It is, it’s that actress, Poppy Drew. I’d come across her in LA last year during awards season and now she was sitting in Amanda Sykes’s car, presumably waiting for Amanda to come out
and join her.
“Hey, stranger!” she said, pointing at me, causing the people with camera phones to turn en masse to capture my shell-shocked face. “You’re Mona Armstrong’s assistant, we met in LA last year. No way!”
She used the word “met” loosely; it was more that Poppy had given me evil eyes a few times over canapés and baggage carousels on the awards-season circuit, when she was hanging out with Mona’s nemesis, her assistant before me, Tamara. And now she seemed pleased to see me. Maybe she was enjoying the juxtaposition of seeing me stand in a London gutter, while she was in a megastar’s luxury car. From nowhere, a paparazzo turned up and started snapping Poppy through the window. She immediately produced some expensive-looking sunglasses, swished up her hair and wound the window down lower, beaming madly.
“Poppy,” I raised my hand in acknowledgment, moving a little closer to the vehicle and lowering my voice: “I don’t work with Mona anymore, like Tamara, I saw the light in the end.”
“Don’t blame you!” she squealed. “She’s a lunatic! So why are you waiting for Amanda?”
“Oh, I’m not,” I said, feeling embarrassed to have been spotted ogling, like a teenager. I was now just the other side of the car door to her. “I work as a window designer for Selfridges. Somehow, I got caught up in this on my way home. I’ve got my five-year-old niece staying over tonight and now I’m really late to meet her.”
“Cool job,” Poppy said. “Did you do the Christmas windows? Man, I loved them.” A frenzy of close-up flashing blinded me momentarily. Poppy had nailed posing through a car window. Chin lifted, she beamed, flashing her whiter-than-white teeth for the photographer. It was quite a skill. When the flashes had subsided, she pushed her glasses down lower on her nose and looked over the top. “Would you like a lift?”