Christmas at Carrington’s (5 page)

‘Don’t be daft … oh you are so hilarious,’ she chortles, eyeing me up and down. ‘And never mind, soon all the designer brand managers will be bombarding you with goodies; there’ll be red-carpet events and you’ll be getting free makeovers left, right and centre. I even had a sailor from my last series who got free sponsorship for a whole year from one of those gourmet diet delivery services. He lost six stone and scooped ten grand for a nearly nude spread in some sleb mag.’

‘
Really?
’ I say, instantly hating myself for showing an interest, but I’ve always fancied the idea of having food cooked and delivered to my door. Most of the time I’m so tired when I get home from work after being on my feet all day that I can’t be bothered to cook proper meals from scratch. And I wonder if Sam knows which sailor it was.

‘Oh yes, you wait and see. Ahh, here he is … ’ Kelly’s eyes swivel towards the door. But it isn’t Tom coming in, it’s Zara, and she’s swinging the gorgeous caramel-coloured Anya bag in her left hand.
I bloody knew it
. And Mrs Grace was right. She’s utterly stunning in real life. Oh God, even I’m doing it now.
This is real life
. I say it over and over as a mantra inside my head as a reminder. I’m convinced it’s the only way to keep a lid on this totally surreal scenario. ‘Where’s that gorgeous man, Tom? There’s somebody here to see him,’ Kelly says, flashing me a smile.

‘He won’t be long.’ Zara jumps up on the corner of Tom’s mahogany desk and tosses her cascade of honey-hued big hair around for a bit. And I’m sure her eyes narrow when she glances in my direction.

‘Nice bag.’ I can’t resist.

‘Perk of the job,’ she replies, giving the buttery soft leather a quick stroke before discarding the exquisite bag down on the floor next to a wire-mesh bin that’s overflowing with rubbish. ‘I can take a message if you like, save you hanging around. I’m guessing you need to dash back down below stairs, as it were, to dust your shelves or something,’ she giggles superficially, giving me the once-over like I’m the hired help. I ignore her and study the pattern on the wallpaper instead, wondering what her problem is.

The door opens again and Tom appears.

‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’ He flashes a polite smile around the room but there’s a flicker of apprehension when he sees me. After jumping up, Kelly dashes towards him, flings an arm around his chest and gives him a big squeeze. ‘Oooh, the things I could do to you,’ she says in a saucy voice, nestling her face into his left pec before pushing up on tiptoes and planting a big kiss on his cheek. Tom coughs discreetly and adjusts his cufflinks.

Momentarily I waver, blown away by his looks, which literally take my breath away. His eyes are the darkest velvety brown and nestle in sumptuous eyelashes that make me want to lick them right here and now. The thick curly black hair – which only two nights ago was entwined in my fingers during our mammoth lovemaking session – is now slicked back, giving him the appearance of a gorgeous Hollywood heart-throb, or how I imagine a young Jon Hamm might look in a
Mad Men
prequel.

‘Georgie. What are you doing up here?’ He breaks free from Kelly’s grasp and walks towards me, his delicious chocolatey scent teasing all around me.

‘We need to talk.’ I swallow hard.

‘Sure,’ he says, easily. ‘You OK? It’s not Mr Cheeks is it?’ He looks directly into my eyes and creases his forehead slightly.

‘No, he’s fine. Err … ’ I glance towards Kelly who is still gazing up at him like some lovestruck fan-girl.

‘Right. Of course. Would you mind if we have a minute?’ he says, turning first to Zara and then to Kelly.

‘Catch you later. I’ve got a session with my shaman in any case,’ Zara sniffs airily. She bounces down from the desk, practically canters over to Tom, plants a big smoochy kiss on his lips and runs a finger down his lapel before tossing a look over her shoulder in my direction.

‘And I mustn’t miss my call from Isabella. Can’t wait to hear all about Costa Rica.’ Kelly blows Tom a kiss as she heads towards the door.

‘Then please give her my love and say that I’ve been thinking about her a lot. I promise to take her to lunch very soon.’

I wait for them to leave and then close the door before I turn towards Tom.

‘
Isabella?
’ I say in an accusatory voice, and the very second the word comes out of my mouth I want to shove my fist inside and pull out my tongue. This wasn’t what I had in mind at all when I was lying in bed last night planning out the scene in my head. And I’m not usually the jealous type.

‘Yes. My mother. Kelly and she were at Cambridge together,’ he states, and I swear his Downton accent (upstairs, naturally) just got a little stronger.

‘Oh, I see. That’s nice,’ I reply, feeling relieved and trying to make it sound as if it’s really no big deal, that in fact I was merely being polite. But I realise in an instance just how little I really know about him and his family, and I didn’t have Kelly down as a Cambridge University type at all. I imagine them all to be very serious and intellectual – she seems far too wacky to me. And I bet they don’t read
OK!
magazine at Cambridge, much preferring some ancient Latin parchment or whatever, requiring the handler to wear special white gloves just to unravel it because it’s tied up with a big scarlet ribbon made from real human peasant hair dyed with their blood.

‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’ he asks casually, taking a step forward and circling an arm around my waist. I jump back. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ He sounds concerned.

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure, but I can see that you’re upset. What is it?’ He looks puzzled, as if he genuinely has no idea why.

‘
Upset?
That’s putting it mildly. Did you get my messages?’

‘Yes,’ he replies. I stare, waiting for him to elaborate.

‘And?’ My forehead creases.

‘Oh, when I say I got them, I meant just a few minutes ago. Haven’t had time to listen properly or read the text messages yet, though,’ he explains, picking up a pile of papers from his desk and flicking through them.

‘I see,’ I say tightly, wondering why he’s being so indifferent. I clear my throat. He stops flicking and places the papers back on the desk.

‘Is this about the filming?’ he smiles.

‘Oh, duh! Ten out of ten, genius.’ I fold my arms, wishing I could be cool and calm like him, instead of borderline hysterical. Tom gives me a strange look, kind of a mixture of bafflement and disappointment, and one I haven’t seen on him before.

‘Georgie, why are you being like this? It’s not like you.’ He steps towards me again, hesitates, and places a hand on my arm instead.

‘Are you wearing guyliner?’ I ask, suddenly distracted.

‘Err, I think so.’ He shrugs his shoulders and grins. ‘The production team insisted on trying out some looks for the opening credits … hence the tux.’ He opens his arms to show off the midnight blue dinner suit and crisp white shirt, making him look even more adorable than ever. ‘They’re going with a “Mr Carrington” image, whatever that means.’ His smile widens as he raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

‘That’s nice for you,’ I say, in my best breezy voice.

‘Oh come on, don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’ I ask, wishing I didn’t sound so much like a sulky teenager.

‘So emotional.’

‘Well I’m sorry if I have emotions, but why didn’t you tell me about the filming? Warn me at least?’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Of course you could. You’re the boss, you can do whatever you like.’

‘It’s not quite as … simple as that.’ He glances down at the carpet and my cheeks smart from the implication.

‘Then why don’t you explain it to me then?’

‘Look, I didn’t mean anything malicious by it, but I can’t just … do whatever I like, as you say. Yes, Aunt Camille sold her majority share to me, to keep the store in the family – and with a bit of luck and lots of hard work, we’ll manage to turn it around and keep us all employed for many more years to come. But there’s the board to consider.’ I bite my bottom lip. ‘That’s what doing the show is all about; it’s an incredible opportunity for Carrington’s and we are really lucky to be given the series,’ he says, as though he’s learnt it off by heart from an official statement that somebody prepared earlier for him.

‘So it had nothing to do with your mother and Kelly being friends from Cambridge then?’

‘A little, but Kelly will transform the business and really put us back on the map. Help us fend off this terminal decline.’

‘And make fools of us. Me in particular – did you actually see the show last night?’

‘Not yet. I got caught up on a conference call with a foreign supplier,’ he explains. And I secretly wonder if it might be a blessing in disguise. I’m not sure I want him seeing my embarrassing debut on the TV screen, despite what Eddie says – he’s my friend so he’s bound to be kind about it.

‘Was it any good?’ Tom smiles and raises his eyebrows enthusiastically.

‘No, it blooming wasn’t! It was embarrassing, and they set me up. Annie too. Did you know they were going to edit the film to make us look like totally incompetent and inefficient sales assistants?’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.’ He frowns, and then quickly adds, ‘They didn’t show your faces, did they?’

‘Like that makes a difference,’ I say, resisting the urge to slap his beautiful cheek.

‘Well, they wanted to originally, but I stopped it,’ he says, looking pleased with himself. I smart from his indifference and obvious loyalty to Kelly and Zara over me.

‘You could have at least warned me.’

‘I couldn’t. The board voted in favour of signing the NDA with the production company.’ I give him a blank look, hating myself all over again for feeling so out of my depth. ‘Non-disclosure agreement,’ he says, tactfully. ‘So you see, I couldn’t tell you, even if I’d wanted to.’

‘So you wanted to then?’ I ask, my spirits lifting slightly at the prospect of redeeming something from this hideous situation.

‘I know how much you love these reality TV programmes. It was meant to be a surprise,’ he says, deftly avoiding my question. He looks away.

‘A
surprise?
Tom, you humiliated me. You kept a secret and it’s not the first time.’ I bite my lip again.

‘Hang on a minute. I thought you understood about that,’ he says, his voice dropping and his eyes flashing.

‘Oh, I understood plenty. That you didn’t trust me enough to let me know you were Tom Carrington posing as just another sales assistant.’

‘And is it any wonder when you react like this?’ he says, running a hand through his hair.

‘Like what?’ I say, glaring at him.

‘Practically hysterical.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m too hysterical for you now.’ My heart is hammering inside my chest.

‘That’s not what I said.’ Silence follows. Tom clears his throat and turns away from me. ‘I can’t deal with this now, not here.’

‘But I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. We’ve been flirting for months, and now dating. I thought we had something, or did I get it completely wrong?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘So I’m ridiculous now?’

‘Georgie, this is getting us nowhere.

‘I couldn’t agree more.’ An awkward silence follows.

‘So what do we do now?’ It’s Tom who speaks first.

‘I have no idea. Why don’t you decide … seeing as you’re the one in charge,’ I snap.

‘Fine,’ he retaliates, looking really fired up as he paces around the room, flicking his shirtsleeve back to check the time on his watch. ‘If I’m upsetting you so much, then maybe we should just call it a day … ’ He comes to a halt in front of me and stands with his hands on his hips, as if daring me to challenge his decision.

‘Good. I was thinking just the same thing,’ I say, desperately trying to keep my voice steady. I don’t want to split up. I want us to be together. Having fun. Falling in love. Just like other blissfully happy couples. But I do have some pride, and if he isn’t as into me as I thought, which is glaringly obvious given that he’s this quick to suggest we split up, then maybe it’s for the best we end it before it goes any further.

‘Look, we should talk about it … ’ he says, his voice softening as if he wants to let me down gently.

‘Sorry, I don’t have time.’ Ha! I’m busy too.

‘I’m sorry.’ He glances away.

‘Well so am I.’

It takes me less than three seconds to leave the room, my shoulders stiff and my back constricting with a whole raft of horrible emotions. I grab my bag and coat from Eddie’s desk, and quickly brush him away as he stands to reach a concerned hand out to my arm.

‘Hey Georgie! Hang on,’ Eddie calls out, but I’m gone, tears stinging my eyes as I run along the corridor and back to the safety of the staff lift. I push the cage door back and step inside before slumping against the wall and crying my heart out. And not graceful lady tears like Meryl at an Oscar acceptance speech. Oh no, these are big gulping heaving sobs that I just know are going to make my face look like a swollen blotchy balloon in about an hour or so.

Over! I say the word over and over inside my head as I huddle inside the cubicle. I’m in the staff loo and I can’t stop crying. Angry tears. Sad tears. All mingled together.

‘Hey, you OK in there?’

‘Err. Who is it?’ I ask hesitantly, quickly wiping the back of a hand across my cheeks.

‘It’s me. Annie.’ I pull open the door and she hands me a wedge of tissues. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Bullshit! Tell me or I’m going downstairs right now to mess up your merch,’ she says, flinging one hand onto her hip and twiddling her nose stud with the other.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ I manage a watery smile.

‘Try me. You know those cute gold stars and sparkly white snowman shapes you spent all last week scattering amongst the DKNY shelves to create the perfect Christmassy display?’

‘
Nooo
.’ My eyes widen. ‘It took me ages to stencil them, spray-paint them, cut them out and then place them artfully amongst the winter collection … ’

‘Exactly.’ Another silence follows as I ponder on what to say. Everyone knows that Tom and I had started dating, but still … instinct tells me that I need to be professional about us splitting up. Besides, I refuse to be the stereotypical girl who has a fling with the boss, ends up getting burnt and her colleagues all rally round feeling sorry for her while slagging off the guy. Tom doesn’t deserve that. He’s gorgeous, my perfect man, or so I had thought. What’s happened between us doesn’t change all that. I stick a smile on my face and take a deep breath. ‘It’s the reality TV programme, isn’t it?’ Annie says, interrupting my thoughts.

‘Well, kind of,’ I say, feeling relieved. ‘Anyway, how are you? I thought you were upset about it too,’ I say, shifting the focus away from me.

‘Me? Oh no.’ She flaps her hand and pulls a face. ‘Yeah, I was a bit hacked off when I saw myself on the telly, but after Amy, the HR manager, said I’m not getting sacked, so this bad boy is still out of here, I’m cool with it.’ And she pulls down her top to circle an index finger around the Flo Rida tattoo.

‘Err, good,’ I say, feeling increasingly like the biggest party pooper going. First Eddie, then Mrs Grace and now Annie – they’re all keen to do the show. But how do they know it won’t backfire, just like that old airport reality show with easyJet? The bit I saw was just a load of customers complaining, so what’s to say Kelly’s programme won’t do the same to us? They’ve already made out that the service in Women’s Accessories is rubbish. If they do that throughout the whole store, it could seriously damage Carrington’s reputation forever. Instead of restoring the shop to its former glory, Tom will have ruined everything by calling in favours from old family friends. Maybe those doubters in the business world are right after all, and he is out of his depth.

‘Yep, and that’s not all – guess what?’ Her eyes widen. ‘We’re getting eighty pounds per episode on top of our usual wages. Well, the ones doing the show are … Denise in Home Electricals is well jelz. But I told her, there’s no glamour in washing machines.’ She laughs.

‘Is that right?’

‘Sure is. Best news I’ve had in ages. And think of all the freebies, designer gear, goody bags, red-carpet invites, PR appearances – they all pay: big money, too! I’m thinking Sam Faiers – move over darling. I
can not
wait. Amy also said there’s going to be a special end-of-series Christmas wrap party with all of Kelly’s celebrity friends coming. And it’s going to be filmed
live!
And apparently, she actually knows Will.I.Am! Can you imagine?
Faint!
I’ve wanted to get close to him for like …
ever
since he was on
The Voice.’ She clutches my arm in glee.
‘
It’s going to be epic.’ Annie drops my arm to spread a hand in the air. ‘Bet we’ll get free VIP entrance to the Sugar Hut and everything now,’ she says, full of happiness as she shakes her frosted hair extensions back. ‘Anyway, better jog on, don’t want you bollicking me when I’m late back from tea break.’ She grins and nudges me gently with her elbow before leaving.

I peer in the mirror to examine my face and quickly perform a tissue repair job on my make-up, cursing myself for having already dropped off my handbag. We used to stash our bags under the counters, but when Tom took over, that all changed, so now we have to stow them in lockers in the staff room upstairs. For our own protection, he said. Shame he wasn’t bothered about that last night when my backside was being broadcast to the whole nation.

I checked YouTube from my phone when I was on the bus earlier, and my views are up to nearly five hundred now. And some guy even DM’d me on Twitter asking if I fancied joining him and Pu, his new Thai ladyboy bride-to-be, for a threesome. Hideous. Tears sting in my eyes again. I can’t believe Tom and I are over before we even really started.

After letting out a long, shaky breath, I help myself to a generous spritz of complimentary Cavalli. One of the perfume girls left a couple of bottles as an incentive for us to direct customers to her section, so she can flog more special Christmas gift sets with the matching body lotion. I dab my eyes again and think of Annie’s excitement, Eddie’s too, but I haven’t changed my mind, they’ll just have to film around me. Or put one of those blurry things over my face or something, like magazines do to Harper or Suri when they haven’t got permission to show their pictures.

After leaving the Ladies, I make my way along the narrow, winding staff corridor that’s like a time warp with its original 1920s faded floral wallpaper. I have to step around a couple of stock trollies piled high with flattened cardboard boxes, to push through the double security doors that lead out to the shop floor.

It’s lit up like a giant Santa’s grotto full of goodies.

This year’s festive theme instore is Winter Wonderland. Fake snow covers the normally black, swirly patterned carpet, and sparkly white model seals nestle inside Perspex balls suspended from a twinkly, Arctic-inspired ceiling. All of the display podiums are crammed with festive present ideas, pyjama sets tied up with scarlet satin ribbons, gloriously fragrant Jo Malone candles, glittery woollen mittens, luxury lingerie in tissue-packed boxes and every kind of perfume and aftershave gift set you can imagine. There’s even a pop-up shop selling Santa-shaped gingerbread men, striped candy canes and chocolate tree decorations covered in foil, hanging from lengths of gold thread.

The magnificent Art Deco marble pillars are swathed in garlands of holly and ivy, mingled with silver, spray-painted pine cones. And the air is filled with a warming, cinnamony-orange scent, pumped from a machine hidden underneath the enormous, ceiling-tall Norwegian Christmas tree that stands in the centre of the floor, in between the two original wooden escalators. Customers are laughing and joking as they touch the merch. Children are weaving in and out of their parents’ legs, eager to get down to the basement to see Father Christmas in his grotto, and hand over their wish list full of presents.

My mood lifts instantly. It’s really hard to suppress the swirl of excitement on glimpsing the glorious array of festive colours in such a buzzy atmosphere. The run-up to Christmas is my absolute favourite time of the year instore, and it’s not like I haven’t split up with a guy before – I have. So I’m sure I’ll survive. I’ll have to. I think of my freezer jammed with all those mince pies and make a mental note to pop into Masood’s corner shop on my way home for a carton of custard and a soppy film. He always has a stack of DVDs to choose from and you really can’t beat a mince pie or two with a warm custard drizzle. That will cheer me up a bit. I might even get ten Benson too while I’m at it.

Making my way over to my counter, the best one on the floor, right opposite the main customer entrance and next to the giant, floor-to-ceiling Christmas window display, I make a conscious effort to pull myself together and put on a brave face. It wouldn’t do to crumble in front of a customer. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on where everything else must be left behind the scenes, upstairs in the staff canteen or in the sanctuary of my cosy flat. Besides, for all I know, Zara, Kelly – or worse still, Tom – could be spying on me via the CCTV. Maybe that’s how they doctored the film footage of Annie, supposedly texting and ignoring Zara. Hmmm.

I sneak a look around and my pulse speeds up. There! I knew it. Right there on the wall above the Marc Jacobs stand, glaring directly at the counter, is what looks suspiciously like a camera to me. A small, black, domed piece of plastic, and it definitely wasn’t there last week. I know, because I was up there with my feather duster. I make a mental note to climb back up the long ladder and strategically place a weekender bag right in front of it. That should block the view. I could even put one of the miniature Christmas trees on the very top shelf. That will definitely do the trick.

I’m crouched down behind my counter, sorting through a box full of old Olympic merch from last year – sequinned Union Jack clutches and sparkly London 2012 key rings, couldn’t even shift it during a BOGOF campaign – when a guy, wearing denim board shorts and the biggest funky Afro I’ve ever seen, waves one of those huge grey fluffy microphones in my face. Next to him is an arty-looking woman wearing leopard-print skinnies with blush patent wedges and a floaty vest top. She’s got a red leather folder pressed inside her crossed arms.

‘Can I help you?’ I say, shoving the box under the counter with my foot.

‘Perfect!’ The woman ignores me and whips out what looks like a paint chart from her folder, and holds it up near my shoulder.

‘What are you doing?’ I pull a face and push the chart away.

‘This is her. The girl. The one Kelly wants heavily featured,’ the woman says to the guy.

‘
Hellooo
. I am here, you know,’ I say, feeling irked at the mention of Kelly’s name. It’s her fault Tom and I have split up. Everything was wonderful before she came on the scene. I wave my hand in an attempt to get their attention.

‘Oh, sorry. How do you feel about cerise?’ the woman says, scrutinising me now.

‘
Cerise?’ I repeat, thinking it’s a bit random.
‘
Err, can’t say I’ve given it much thought of late.’

‘
Or how about a rich chocolate or silky cream, with, wait for it – ’ she does a massive, almost manic grin, and waves her hand around before glancing at the guy, who nods enthusiastically – ‘a dash of delicate mint green? Oh yes, that would suit you far better. Bring out the gorgeous turquoise of your eyes.’ She fiddles with the chart again. ‘It’s very important that we get the right palette for you.’

‘Palette?’ I say, conscious of sounding like a parrot now.

‘For your clothes! Hence the light chart.’ She gives the card a quick wave for emphasis. ‘Sorry.’ She puts the chart back inside the folder and stuffs it under her arm before pushing the pen into her messy ballerina bun for safekeeping. ‘Hannah Lock. Production assistant.’ She sticks a hand out to greet me and I notice her gorgeous French navy gel nails.

‘Leo Aguda. Sound technician. Or Leo Afro, as they call me.’ The guy with the microphone grins and raises a clenched fist for me to thump. Awkwardly, I duly oblige.

‘Georgie Hart. Women’s Accessories,’ I say, sounding like a bit of a plum, but I’m not used to people announcing their name, surname and job description all in one go. ‘And don’t worry about a palette for me, I won’t be needing one. Besides, I have a uniform,’ I smile apologetically, having spotted a man with a little boy hovering near the Chloé display.

‘Don’t be silly. Kelly will want all of you sales assistants to be dressed in Carrington’s clothes. How else can customers see what the store’s merchandise will look like on them? She’s already given Womenswear a makeover, replaced the entire stock with catwalk couture, all the latest fashions, instead of that dowdy, middle-of-the-road merch thing they had going on up there.’ She rolls her eyes up towards the first floor while I wonder if I should mention that our regular customers obviously like the ‘dowdy, middle-of-the-road look’, as we’ve never had any complaints. ‘And you might as well make the most of a free fabulous wardrobe opportunity,’ she says, doing the manic grin again. ‘You’ll probably get to keep most of the clothes, and Kelly’s already told the board about the new rule – Carrington’s staff wear Carrington’s clothes. End of.’

‘I’m sorry, Hannah, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have a customer to serve.’ I gesture in the man’s direction before heading over to greet him.

‘Are you looking for a particular bag?’ I ask, giving the guy a big smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hannah nudge a little closer.

‘Yes please. Something expensive for my wife. A Christmas present. Thought I’d get organised for a change,’ he says in a lovely lilting Irish accent before ruffling the little boy’s jet-black curly hair.

‘Excuse me. Do you know where Father Christmas is?’ The boy looks up at me, his big green eyes all sparkly with anticipation. ‘I’ve got a list. Daddy said I can give it to him.’

‘Well, I think he might be downstairs in his grotto.’ I crouch down so I’m head height with the boy. ‘And a list is a very good idea, how else will he know what you like best?’ I smile. After studying my face for a bit, the boy flings his arms around my neck and gives me an enormous squeeze, practically winding me in the process. I pat his back tentatively, relishing the spontaneous moment of comfort.

‘Hey, Declan, come on now.’ I stand up and the man goes to scoop the boy up into his arms, but he’s too quick and ducks behind the display. ‘Sorry. My wife’s just had a new baby and he’s feeling a little bit left out,’ the man whispers when the boy is out of earshot.

‘Aw, would he like one of these little teddies?’ I ask.

I take one of the fluffy white miniature bears down from the DKNY shelf and give it to the boy when he reappears. One of the brand managers brought in a batch for us to give away free with the purchase of every bag, but I’m sure they can spare one for a cute little boy.

‘Thanks so much,’ the guy says to me before turning to Declan and taking his hand. ‘What do you say to the nice lady?’