Christmas at Carrington’s (11 page)

‘I wanted to check it before I gave it to my wife. And good job too. She would have been devastated if I’d presented her with a special bag in such an appalling state. Maybe it’s you that used it. Or what about her?’ he says, jabbing a finger at Annie, who drops her jaw in silent protest. A camera immediately glides up close so as not to miss a nanosecond of Annie’s indignation. I open my mouth. I close it, willing my cheeks to stop flaming. I take a deep breath. I’ve had enough of this.

‘Zara, more like.’ But the minute the words come out of my mouth, I want to run away and hide. She already hates me. Silence follows.

‘Cut!’ It’s Leo Afro who breaks the moment. The guy in front of me starts laughing. His shoulders are actually pumping up and down like a cartoon character. He must think the whole thing is hysterical.

‘Nearly had you then,’ he says, winking at me as he pulls off his outdoor coat and wings it at a production assistant. ‘God, it’s boiling in here. I’m Lawrence, by the way.’ He places an elbow on the counter and leans into me. ‘Fancy a drink sometime?’

‘Err. No, not really,’ I say, dragging myself up to speed. Talk about surreal. Everyone starts clapping. I force a smile, but can’t help feeling that I’ve been had, and not in a good way. I take off my jacket and grab one of the Santa’s grotto promotional leaflets from the counter to fan my face, when Hannah appears.

‘Well done. That was amazing. Kelly is thrilled,’ she says, lifting my free hand and pumping it up and down.

‘
Really?
’ I make big eyes.

‘Deffo, she just called to say that she’s left a little something in the dressing room for you. A thank you for being such a shiny star.’

‘OK. And thank you,’ I say, feeling surprised. ‘But what about the ladder incident and the … ’ Oh where do I start? The whole scene was a complete and utter shambles.

‘No probs. Anyway, must dash, need to get over to the pet spa now for the scene with Eddie.’

‘Sure. Can I see Kelly before I go?’ I ask quickly. With a bit of luck I might manage to persuade her to cut the ladder bit after all.

‘Sorry, she’s already left.’ Hannah shrugs before glancing down at my feet. ‘And don’t forget to drop the Loubs back to the dressing room. They have to stay, I’m afraid.’

Crossing the road into the cul-de-sac, I head towards the retirement complex overlooking Mulberry Common. Two floors of net-curtained, brand-new sheltered housing, where each resident has their own self-contained flat. It’s amazing: there’s a communal lounge with an enormous flatscreen TV, onsite medical centre, a minibus to take the residents down to the supermarket and back – but best of all, Dad has company; he’s not sitting alone in the tired little studio flat on the sink estate where he used to live. The council condemned the block when somebody discovered asbestos, so now he lives here, and he was lucky enough to get a ground-floor flat – so he has a pretty garden and was allowed to bring his black Labrador, Dusty, with him too.

After saying goodbye to Annie and reluctantly returning the Loubs, I collected the present from Kelly, a gorgeous bunch of hand-tied russet and plum-coloured seasonal flowers with a card saying:

I’m not really sure how I feel about being a star, to be honest. Writing the column is more my thing. And yes, it was pretty exciting walking onto the shop floor and being part of it all, but the thought of seeing how they actually portray me on TV this time is utterly petrifying, especially if the pilot is anything to go by. I’ll be a laughing stock all over again, I’m sure of it. Eddie can’t wait, of course, and sent me a text suggesting he comes over to my flat on Wednesday evening so we can watch the first episode together.

I hoist the flowers further under my arm. Mum would have loved them, which gives me an idea – maybe Dad and I could put them on her grave, it’s still early. I’ll suggest going after lunch before it gets dark. I’m sure Dad will want to. I take the card from the cellophane and stow it inside my handbag, there’s a newsagent’s near the entrance to the cemetery where I can buy another one just for Mum.

Heading up the path, I see Dad coming towards me with Dusty bouncing along beside him, and he looks really well. Sort of sprightly and more energetic than when I last saw him a couple of weeks ago. He’s standing taller, not stooping like before, and I’m sure his hair looks darker and less grey – maybe he’s been at the Just For Men. Well, good for him, it’s nice seeing him garner back some self-respect, and Dusty looks good too, her coat is super-shiny. She wags her tail on recognising me and nuzzles my gloved hand affectionately; I respond by stroking her silky ears.

‘Georgie! It’s so good to see you love, and you’re looking well. Have you changed your hair? It was on your shoulders last time I saw you, it looks much longer now – how can that be in the space of a week or two?’ Dad asks, confusion creasing his forehead as he kisses my cheek and slings an arm around my shoulders, drawing me in close, the spicy fresh scent of his woolly scarf comforting and reminiscent of my childhood, before everything changed and he went to prison. I remember visiting him a couple of times, but it wasn’t the same. In there he just smelt of boiled cabbage and institution. We carry on walking side by side.

‘Hair extensions, Dad,’ I explain.

‘Well I never.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Oh, before I forget, I’ve got something for you.’ He pulls a scrunched-up Asda carrier bag from his pocket.

‘Oh Dad, you don’t have to buy me gifts,’ I say, unravelling the bag after giving him a kiss. There’s a used bottle of YSL Opium inside. The glorious, original, warm musky one. Neither of us speaks. My chin trembles momentarily.

‘Mum’s perfume.’ The words catch in my throat as I’m instantly transported back in time – sitting crossed-legged on the edge of the bed as Mum got ready for an evening out; once satisfied that her hair and make-up were perfect, she’d let me spritz the fragrance onto her wrists.

‘I found it in an old suitcase when I was unpacking after the move. Thought you might like it,’ Dad says, softly.

I manage a nod as I pull off the cap. The perfume is old and stale, but I can still, just about, inhale Mum’s scent. I know she died a long time ago, but with Dad in prison when she went, and then not really back in my life until recently, we’ve only started talking about her – it’s as if part of the grieving process has started all over again, only far nicer this time, now that we can remember her together. Fondly.

‘Shame to waste it, the bottle is almost full,’ Dad says to lighten the moment, and for some reason it makes me laugh. He gives my arm a squeeze and I bob my head down onto his shoulder as I slip the perfume into my coat pocket. I’m so glad we have each other again.

‘So how are you, darling?’

‘Oh not bad, Dad, thanks. How are you?’

Our breath puffs out into little clouds against the chilly winter air.

‘I’m fine, but come on … tell me what’s up.’ Dad stops walking and turns to look at me. I pull my coat in tighter.

‘Nothing, honestly, I’m OK.’ I smile.

‘Are you sure? You sound tired. Is that it? Have they been working you too hard down at that shop?’ he asks sternly.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you all about it,’ I say, knowing that he definitely doesn’t watch TV programmes like
Kelly Cooper Come Instore
, much preferring wildlife or gardening documentaries, and he doesn’t even know about Tom. I had wanted to wait a bit before mentioning him, and if recent events are anything to go by, then it’s a good job too! What’s the point of introducing a boyfriend to Dad if he’s just going to disappear without warning? Dad will only get disappointed; he’s always saying that people are meant to be together, in pairs, as nature intended, and that it’s time for me to ‘let a man come close’ … only a decent one of course. When I told him recently what happened with Brett, he wasn’t impressed.

‘Good idea, love, it’s perishing out here.’ Dad rubs my arm briskly as we step inside the communal hallway. After pulling off my gloves and pushing them into my pocket, I head towards his front door.

‘This way. I’ve got a surprise.’ Dad smiles and gestures towards another door in the opposite direction, and a little further down the corridor. There’s a mat saying HOME SWEET HOME beside a canary-yellow front door and a window box containing plastic pink begonias.

‘OK, but what about Dusty?’ I ask, and she wriggles her body excitedly.

‘Oh she’ll be fine, everyone here loves her, and she’s like a communal dog really, always in and out of the flats.’ He chuckles and rings the bell. Dusty waits patiently at his feet, her tail sweeping from side to side on the carpet.

A few seconds later, the door is opened by a plump, mumsy-looking woman wearing a stripy apron over a floral dress. Her blonde hair is short and wavy and she has a full face of make-up.

‘Oooh, perfect timing. I’ve just pulled the Yorkshire puddings out of the oven. I hope you’re both hungry, I’ve got enough here to feed you each for a week, with second helpings as well!’ she says brightly, wiping her hands on the apron. A delicious waft of roast dinner greets us.

‘Nancy, I’d like you to meet my wonderful daughter, Georgie.’ Dad squeezes my hand, puffs his chest out a little and smiles at the woman.

‘Lovely to meet you, dear. I’ve heard so much about you – it’s very nice to finally put a face to the name. And you are very glamorous; I bet the nets were twitching as you arrived. Lunch won’t be long,’ she says jovially, twiddling the gold chain around her neck with a letter N dangling on the end.

What’s going on?
I thought Dad was cooking and it was going to be just the two of us, but there’s no time to ask, so I quickly push out a hand to shake hers, really wishing I didn’t feel like a sulky four year old all of a sudden. The flowers nose-dive from my elbow and end up batting her on the shoulder instead. I open my mouth to apologise, but she beats me to it.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’

And before I can protest, explain that they’re Mum’s flowers and not hers, Nancy rescues the bouquet and presses her nose into it. My heart sinks.

‘Mmmm, they smell just like a basket of fresh laundry,’ she says on surfacing. ‘And such a treat. The bingo girls are going to be so jealous. Thank you, my dear.’ Nancy leans forward and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. A short silence follows and, as if sensing my disappointment, Dusty gives me a quick lick on the back of my hand. ‘Come in, come in. Where are my manners?’

Nancy leads us into her sitting room where there’s a real fire crackling in the grate and two big squishy armchairs either side of a silver Christmas tree with twinkling red and blue fairy lights. And it’s laden with chocolate snowman decorations wrapped in foil, hanging on gold threads. The room is toasty warm and sparkly pristine, with white lacy doilies everywhere. There’s an old-fashioned glass cabinet in the corner crammed full of mementoes – picture postcards, a sprig of lucky heather with its stem wrapped in tin foil and framed photos of people who I guess must be members of her family. On the mantelpiece above the fire is a picture of a pretty girl with long auburn hair next to a black-and-white picture of a young man in a policeman’s uniform with a helmet under his arm. ‘That’s my Bob, God rest his soul – passed two years ago,’ Nancy explains on seeing me looking.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say, unbuttoning my coat.

‘Don’t be, love. He had a good innings, was quite a bit older than me.’ She pats her hair and smiles sheepishly at Dad, who for some reason looks away. ‘Anyway, make yourselves at home. I’ll give you a shout when I’ve plated up,’ she adds cheerfully, before disappearing.

I am absolutely stuffed. Having eaten my way through the biggest roast dinner ever, with second helpings of everything, including treacle tart with custard
and
ice cream, I just about manage to roll off my chair and stagger back to the sitting room. Nancy insisted. I offered to clear the table and wash up, but she was having none of it, so now she’s in the kitchen loading her slimline dishwasher while Dad and I drink tea from china cups with saucers.

Dad motions towards an armchair for me to sit down. Dusty is stretched out on the rug in front of the fire, basking in the heat.

‘So how long have you known Nancy?’ I start, glancing up at him, and then quickly stop when he presses a hand onto my shoulder.

‘Darling, she’s a friend,’ he says, and I instantly know that it’s his way of saying she’ll never replace Mum, but I saw the way he looked at her when she answered the door, and what about the spring in his step, the hair dye – it all makes sense now. And I guess this is the news he wanted to share. I’m pleased for him, really I am, and it’s nice that he has a friend, especially as his old friends all disappeared when he went to prison. I want to be supportive, but there’s something else too – a weird feeling, making me kind of twitchy and unsure, one I haven’t felt before and I can’t work it out. I’m staring at the flames when Nancy appears in the doorway with a plate of chocolate Christmas Yule logs in her hand and a tin of Quality Street under her arm, Dad groans before patting his paunch, so I decide to park the feeling for now, and make a mental note to think it all through later on – when I’m alone and can get my head straight. Nancy seems really nice, even if she has taken Mum’s flowers.

It’s Wednesday evening in my flat, and the atmosphere at work this week has been really buzzy, mingled with lots of anticipation. There’s a rumour going around the store that Mulberry-On-Sea council want the cast of
Kelly Cooper Come Instore
to switch the Christmas lights on in town. Now that would be epic. Last year, they had the utterly lush country singer and local guy, Dan Kilby, do it. He turned up looking hot in leather jeans and a checked shirt, with his guitar slung over his shoulder, just like Gunnar Scott in
Nashville
.

All week, the regular customers have been instore, dressed up in their best gear hoping to get their faces on camera. Mr and Mrs Peabody even turned up on Sunday, and Kelly let them in to mingle as background shoppers. And a reporter from the
Mulberry Echo
popped instore yesterday hoping to get an exclusive about the TV show, but one of Kelly’s minions appeared from behind the Missoni mannequin and shooed her away. Apparently, Kelly doesn’t do local rags, much preferring big glossy sleb magazines with three-page photoshoots. Serena, one of the Clarins concession girls, and absolutely stunning, did
GQ
after the pilot and got to keep the Calvin Klein jewellery collection she modelled. I wonder if I’ll get to do one – I’m still holding out for a free diet delivery service, especially as my tiny freezer is now jammed with a turkey that serves 10–12 people (I didn’t read the label properly) and one hundred and forty-eight cocktail sausages. Tesco had them in the ‘buy one box get two free’ deal. And my fridge is brimming with buck’s fizz for the festive period – it was such a bargain that I’d have been a fool not to, a case of six bottles for only £9 – I got two. So even if I did want to stock up on healthy food to cook from scratch, I’ve got nowhere to store it.

Eddie and Sam are here, and we’ve just polished off an enormous pepperoni pizza while waiting for
Kelly Cooper Come Instore
to start. Sam and Eddie are lounging side by side on the sofa, with Mr Cheeks kneading Sam’s thigh. I’m snuggled in the beanbag next to the radiator, wearing my fleecy leopard-print onesie and Ugg boots, and I’m still freezing.

‘Ooh, it’s
soo
exciting,’ Eddie says, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. ‘You know, Claire could be watching right now, scanning her flatscreen searching for the next reality TV star to manage – yours truly, natch.’ He pulls a compact mirror out of his man-bag and preens for a bit.

‘You know, I think Dad knew Claire. She’s Peter Andre’s manager, right?’ Sam says, casually, and I remember Alfie had lots of celebrity friends, so it’s highly likely.

‘
Whaaaat?
Faints. You mean to tell me that you’ve been sitting on this highly prized piece of information and didn’t even think to mention it?’ Eddie is outraged.

‘Sorry, didn’t realise it was important.’ Sam shrugs.

‘
Important!
This revelation could change my whole life. Can you call her?’ Eddie asks, leaning forward.

‘What now?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t know her. And I don’t have her phone number.’ Sam shakes her head and Eddie slings the mirror back in his bag before sidling into her.

‘But you could get it for your very best GBF, couldn’t you? Have I ever told you that I love you, and how your hair is looking
sooo
luscious these days, darling, and you’re going to be such a fabulous yummy mummy,’ Eddie purrs, working it to the max as he strokes Sam’s arm with a wicked glint in his eyes.

‘Stop it, you big schmoozer.’ Sam laughs. ‘I could ask Dad’s old PA, I guess. What’s it worth?’ She slurps the last of her orange juice through a pink bendy straw.

‘Err … a free stint in your delightful café!’ Eddie immediately offers.

‘Blimey, you must be keen. Not like you to volunteer for extra work, Ed,’ I interject, before swallowing an enormous mouthful of buck’s fizz. Thought it best to make a start if I’m to work my way through all of it before New Year’s Eve, when I’ll need the space for a bottle or two of champagne. I pour a generous measure into Eddie’s flute too.

‘Ha-ha.’ He sticks his tongue out.

‘Washing up?’ Sam asks hopefully, and Eddie winces.

‘I was thinking of something more … customer facing! Seeing as I’m such a wonderful raconteur, as you know … ’ He pauses for maximum impact. ‘So you might as well utilise my key skill, darlings.’ He flashes us both a look as we stifle a snigger. ‘Front of house, stirring drinks, that kind of thing.’ He makes pleading puppy-dog eyes at Sam and speeds up the stroking.

‘God, you’re incorrigible. I’ll see what I can do,’ she says, yanking her arm away. Eddie plants a kiss on her cheek and Sam laughs.

‘You won’t regret it.’

‘I think I already am.’ Sam rolls her eyes.

‘Will you two pack it in, the show is about to start,’ I say, taking the TV remote and turning the volume up. I grab a cushion to hide behind – just in case. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach and I can’t stop shivering, but I’m not so sure it’s the winter weather now as it’s actually roasting in here. I guess it must be nerves. Eddie throws himself upright so he’s perched on the edge of the sofa.

A funky version of Dolly Parton’s ‘Working Nine To Five’ starts playing and, as he whoops, Eddie practically leaps across the room, he’s that excited.

‘Oh my God. I just knew this was going to be sensational. Kelly said as much when we were filming in the spa. She even gave me a speaking part,’ Eddie gushes.

‘What do you mean a “speaking part” – aren’t you all talking while you’re being filmed then?’ Sam asks, stating the obvious.

‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but given my natural flair for the limelight – Kelly’s actual words … ’ He pauses to strike a pose in front of the balcony patio doors, and I try not to laugh. ‘Yes, Kelly upgraded me to “staged spontaneity”.’ He makes quote signs with his fingers. ‘So, I got to act out a completely fabricated scenario. The whole crew were very impressed with my ability to … ad lib,’ he finishes with a flourish. Sam and I stare at him for a few seconds before clapping enthusiastically and then turning back to the TV.

Sam reaches her hand out to grip mine, and there on the screen is Kelly, standing on the pavement in front of the main entrance to Carrington’s, with her arms folded, talking about olde worlde charm and how it has no place in the modern retail world, and if Carrington’s wants to thrive and be part of the future then we really must up our game. And she’s the woman to show us how. I knew it! There’ll be glass lifts replacing the wooden escalators before we know it, and the cherry-wood panelling will be ripped out to make way for tiles and chrome. She’s going to sterilise Carrington’s. Oh God. Maybe us being on
Kelly Cooper Come Instore
isn’t such a good idea after all, and I so wish Tom was here so I could make him see sense before it’s too late.

I grab my phone, and without hesitation I press to call his number, one last time. I PM’d him on Facebook days ago which he’s ignored, I even tried Skypeing him but that request was ignored too. I’m going to try again, if not for our fledgling romance, then for Carrington’s, before it’s too late. The number rings out. Sam and Eddie stare at me. Eddie swipes the remote from the coffee table, pauses the programme and frantically mouths.

‘What the hell are you doing? We’re going to miss the start.’

I’m just about to hang up when the international ringing tone stops. Tom’s voicemail doesn’t kick in this time. I hold my breath. Silence follows.

‘Hello, Tom?’ I eventually manage. Sam is shaking her head.

‘Hang up,’ she whispers quickly, and tries to take the phone from me. It ends up being suspended midway between the two of us when a voice talks out into the open air of my lounge.

‘He is busy.’ It’s a woman’s voice. With a French accent. Sultry and breathy-sounding. Sam wrenches the phone from my hand and quickly presses the button to end the call.

‘What are you doing? You can’t chase him,’ she says, with a horrified look on her face.

‘Calling him, like you told me to,’ I say, desperately trying to keep my voice even. I want to yell.
Who is she?
He’s only been gone a little while and already another woman is fielding his calls. Answering his mobile – doesn’t get more intimate than that. Unless they’re actually having sex. The thought makes my vision filmy and my chest tighten.

‘But that was then, hun,’ Sam says, gently.

‘And now is now – which explains why he’s ignoring you,’ Eddie butts in, wagging a pointed finger in the air.

‘
Eddie!
’ Sam snaps.

‘Sorry, was just saying … ’ He shrugs his shoulders.

‘Well don’t.’ She glares at him.

‘Oh, I’m only joking. Georgie knows I adore her and, well, if I’m totes honest, then I’m cross – how dare Tom do this to her and then swan off?’ Eddie grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘Push it out of your mind, babycakes. You know how easily you jump to conclusions – she’s probably a production assistant and ugly as hell, with a Cyclops eye and a snaggle tooth. Maybe Tom was on the loo or something.’ He grimaces. ‘Tell you what, let’s watch the show and then you can see for yourself. They might show him scouring the Champs-Elysées looking for gorgeous handbags for you to sell. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ Eddie pats the back of my hand as if he’s placating a toddler.

‘Yes, maybe,’ I manage, calming down a bit. He’s right, the sexy-sounding woman could be anyone, and I mustn’t judge all men by my ex’s, Brett’s, standards. I take my phone back from Sam and surreptitiously swipe through to the world clock app. It’s ten p.m. here, which means it’s eleven p.m. in Paris – surely Tom wouldn’t be filming this late in the evening? The thought lingers as Eddie presses play on the remote control, and Kelly comes back onto the screen.

The first half of the show is mainly Kelly talking about her years of experience serving customers in the fashion and retail business, with clips of old film footage from the Sixties of her strolling down Carnaby Street in London, dressed in a mini dress and long white vinyl boots on her way to work in a trendy boutique with freaky-looking mannequins in the bay window. And now she’s talking about Carrington’s staff, introducing each of us as if we’re celebrities.

‘Remember to look out for the gorgeous Georgie Hart who runs Women’s Accessories; she’ll also be sharing her fashion and beauty tips next week in
Closer
magazine.’ Wow, how nice of her, and I find myself smiling, despite still feeling disgruntled over the French woman answering Tom’s mobile, and the very real possibility that Kelly may change Carrington’s beyond recognition – and not necessarily in a good way. Eddie and Sam give me a round of applause. ‘And Eddie, the boss’s BA. What can I say? He’s a natural star. Born for this.’ Eddie glows as he beams at Sam and me.

‘See! I told you she adores me,’ Eddie says. ‘You too Georgie.’ And maybe he has a point. I glance at the bulging goody bag nestling under my little silver Christmas tree (I couldn’t wait to put it up) which arrived from a PR company. It’s crammed full of lotions and potions for me to try out and talk about in the column. Hannah said not to worry if I can’t be bothered to actually test the products and then write about them, as she’ll get one of KCTV’s people to do it for me. But I
can not
wait to dive in. I’ve already had a peep and saw a Jo Malone candle in a new gingerbread Christmassy scent, a beautifully fragrant Soap & Glory strawberry body scrub, there’s even a full-size pot of that new CC cream that everyone is raving about – it costs a fortune and they gave it to me for free! I really could get used to this celebrity lifestyle, especially as ASOS are couriering a selection of accessories for me to try out and write about too.

Next up on screen is Zara, donning her floppy hat, which is pretty pointless, given that all of the Carrington’s staff know who she is now. She does a spiel about having identified several areas of Carrington’s customer service that ‘need work’ – flaming cheek. And now I’m on the screen, with the poker-face woman going on about the scratch on the crocodile skin bag, and I don’t believe it. The voiceover guy is wittering on about me just not getting it.
Not getting what?
Sam tuts. Eddie is up and pacing around now, and I’ve got my face half hidden behind the cushion. I don’t look too bad, my hair and make-up is fab, and the DVF suit nicely accentuates my curves. That old adage of the camera adding on ten pounds doesn’t seem true, as I still look fairly slim – not as slim as Annie, of course, she’s tiny, but not too bad, even if I do say so myself.

Zara is back now and is saying that I should have offered the woman a substantial discount to compensate for the scratch, and that’s why I lost the sale! Unbelievable. If she was half the retail expert that she thinks she is, then she would have familiarised herself with Carrington’s pricing policy – if there’s any kind of hesitation over the quality of the bag, then we always offer another unopened one from the stockroom, which I did. Every decent sales assistant knows that knocking money off the high-end bags just depreciates their value and perceived specialness. It’s a basic. I take a big gulp of buck’s fizz. At least they cut the ladder incident – something to be grateful for, I suppose.

After the ad break, they show me dealing with the complaint, but have cut out the bit where the actor accuses Annie of having used the bag, and also my ‘Zara’ comment. And now Kelly is talking about the new pet spa, and how it’s already boosting revenue for Carrington’s. Eddie is silent, he’s actually got his palms pressed together in a kind of meditative state as we watch him appear on the screen, and he looks fantastic. Really suave, and sort of … illuminated. He’s got a ton of make-up on and has the ‘tits and teeth’ thing going on too, with his shoulders back and an enormous gleaming white smile fixed into place, and the camera really loves him. It’s amazing. It’s as if he was born to it. He’s parading around the spa now, pretending to be looking for a mate for Pussy – introducing all the dogs by name and telling the viewers about each one’s personality. Trixie the poodle loves cuddles. Albert the puppy mutt likes lots of exercise. And oh my God – Eddie is looking directly into the camera now, adopting Kelly’s pointy finger pose and asking the viewers to go online after the show to vote for their favourite friend for Pussy. He’s just like a pro.