Christmas at Carrington’s

Christmas at Carrington’s Alexandra Brown A deliciously indulgent read and the follow up to Cupcakes at Carrington’s. Set in Carrington’s Department Store this is perfect for fans of Jenny Colgan.Georgie Hart loves Christmas time at Carrington’s Department store. Running the luxury handbag department, Georgie adores helping customers in the hunt for the perfect gift for the perfect someone. And this year is no exception – now she has the hunky Tom, Mr Carrington himself, to spend the special day with.But when Tom springs a surprise, Georgie’s plans are thrown into chaos. Carrington’s is getting a fresh lease of life in a hot new reality TV show, featuring formidable retail guru, Kelly Cooper.As the first show airs, Georgie is shown in a far from flattering light. Worse is to come when Kelly’s vile daughter appears to get her claws into Tom. Georgie fears this will be the worst Christmas ever, but Santa still has a little surprise for her stocking this year – she’ll just have to wait until Christmas to find out… Copyright (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013 Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2013 Cover illustration © Sarah Gibb Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013 Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. 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Source ISBN: 9780007488254 Ebook Edition © November 2013 9780007488261 Version: 2014-09-20 Contents Cover (#u4883d32f-7165-5261-b455-845a1da605b8) Title Page (#ub40cc390-09bc-5a43-b2f3-1d566ef9a52c) Copyright Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Epilogue A message from Sam … Acknowledgements Georgie Hart’s Guide to a Fabulous Festive Party Season Buy Cupcakes at Carrington’s Buy Me and Mr Carrington Keep Reading The Great Christmas Knit Off About the Author Also by Alexandra Brown About the Publisher Prologue (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) I never used to believe in lust at first sight. You know, the kind where your tummy tingles and your heart soars so high it feels as if it might just burst right out of your chest, cartoon style, and do a deliriously euphoric freeform dance around the room? But I certainly do now. Oh yes, because that’s exactly how I felt the very first time I clapped eyes on Tom. And he’s going to be here, right outside the door to my flat in approximately five minutes. I literally can not wait. I truly think he might be the one. I hope so. Now, that really would be pretty special indeed. The doorbell buzzes, sending my pulse into overdrive. He’s here. And on time – previous boyfriends could certainly learn a thing or two about timekeeping from him. I practically tear down the hallway to press the intercom before pausing to inhale hard through my nose and exhale even harder, keen to create a modicum of breeziness. ‘Hello,’ I breathe, in what I hope is a sophisticated, nonchalant-sounding voice, ? la Angelina Jolie, or someone equally poised. I can’t imagine she ever legged it down her hallway gushing to let Brad in. Oh no no no. ‘It’s me,’ Tom says. Mmm, familiar. And I like it. For a nanosecond I contemplate asking ‘Who?’, to create an airy, elusive aura, but quickly decide against it. It’s not my style to play games, even if the relationship is brand new and we’re both still learning how to ‘be’ with each other. Besides, I don’t want him thinking I’m some kind of a milly with a stack of men on the go. ‘Hi Tom.’ I glance at the screen and smile on seeing him attempt to smooth his tangle of thick dark curls. With his velvety brown eyes and year-round Mediterranean real tan, he’s utterly delicious and, to be honest, I never in my wildest dreams thought I stood a chance. He has the kind of looks and background that could bag him a supermodel, but without any trace of arrogance or sense of entitlement that the beautiful people sometimes have. And occasionally I have to pinch myself … that he wants me, ordinary Georgie Hart from Mulberry-On-Sea, a size 14 on a good day, with a brunette bob that often does a spectacular impression of a pair of floppy spaniel ears, especially if I don’t use my giant sleep-in Velcro rollers for a bit of extra bouf. ‘Georgie, can you come downstairs please?’ ‘Sure,’ I reply, wondering what he’s up to as I reach for my coat. We had planned to snuggle up and watch a film. I have popcorn and H?agen-Dazs. ‘Change of plan. It’s a surprise. Quick, you must come down right now.’ His voice is full of boyish excitement and I love this side of him – the stark contrast to his usual serious, business-like demeanour at work. Tom works at Carrington’s too, the department store where I run the Women’s Accessories section. In fact, he owns the store; he’s the managing director, the majority shareholder, so we have to be discreet. Not that the other staff mind – quite the opposite, in fact, they all really like him – but still, nobody wants to see the boss indulging in a PDA in the workplace. I’m sure it’s not the done thing for people in his position. An ‘emerging captain of industry’, as one FT reporter recently crowned him. After grabbing my key and pulling the door closed behind me, I bomb down the stairs and arrive in the little foyer area. Tom is leaning casually against the row of mailboxes with an extremely cheeky-looking smile on his beautiful face. Mm-mmm, dreamy. He’d be perfect starring in one of those rom-com films. I tiptoe up to give him a kiss and he circles my waist before pulling me in close to his left hip and treating me to a burst of his delicious chocolatey scent. I’m just about to press my tingling body against his when he takes a quick step backwards. ‘Oops, careful. Don’t want to squash this little dude.’ He winks. ‘Little dude?’ I crease my forehead. ‘That’s right. Mr Cheeks.’ Tom gives me one of his ‘butter-wouldn’t-melt’ looks. ‘Mr Cheeks?’ I repeat, my eyes flicking towards Tom’s jacket. And, oh my God. He pulls the zip down and a tiny black fluffy head pops out. ‘Georgie, meet Mr Cheeks, named on account of him being very cheeky.’ ‘A kitten! You have a kitten.’ Wow. How cute is that? Not only is he an incredibly sexy man with a fantastic sense of humour, but he loves animals too … he’s practically perfect. ‘How come you never said?’ I ask, giving Mr Cheeks a stroke. ‘And why have you brought him with you?’ ‘Err, well, he’s not actually my kitten.’ Tom gives me a sheepish look. ‘Who does he belong to, then?’ ‘You?’ His mouth twitches into a smile as he lifts one eyebrow. ‘Don’t be silly. You can’t buy me a kitten,’ I say, incredulously. I’ve never had a pet of my own before. ‘Of course I can. I can do whatever I like,’ he jokes, treating me to a huge grin. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’ And he lifts Mr Cheeks out of his jacket and snuggles him in the crook of his elbow. ‘Aw, poor thing, he’s trembling all over.’ ‘And is it any wonder?’ Sighing, Tom shakes his head. He looks really concerned. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs and I’ll tell you all about it.’ It turns out that Mr Cheeks is a stray. He arrived at Tom’s back door in the middle of the night, meowing and whimpering, trembling all over and covered in mud. Tom took him in and hand-fed him cooked chopped chicken before bathing him and letting him sleep on his bed. ‘So, you’ll let Mr Cheeks stay then?’ We’re sitting side-by-side on my sofa with the kitten still snuggled in the crook of Tom’s elbow. Mr Cheeks is really timid and seems to have latched on to Tom like a security blanket. Tom turns to me and tenderly pushes a stray chunk of hair out of my eyes, making my face tingle. ‘Weell … he is too cute for words.’ I hesitate momentarily. ‘But I can’t, really I can’t. He’ll be here on his own all day while I’m at work.’ ‘I’m sure he’ll get used to it … I bet he’ll be out swaggering around the neighbourhood, or whatever it is cats do all day, in no time. Or I’d be happy to pay for a cat-sitter if he starts to pine through loneliness,’ Tom suggests, entwining his fingers around mine. ‘Don’t be daft. Why don’t you keep him yourself? He seems to have really taken to you … ’ ‘I’d love to, but my house just isn’t practical, not with my canvases and paint everywhere, and he’s already clawed through the Venice waterway.’ ‘Ooops,’ I say, remembering the exquisite picture. Tom had just started painting it the first time I went to his house, and it’s truly magnificent. He has a real gift, even if he does nonchalantly dismiss it as ‘Justsomething I do to relax.’ ‘And you know how often I’m away from home, travelling to meet suppliers and up to board meetings in London. It really wouldn’t be fair. Anyway, I think he’d much sooner snuggle up to you of an evening – just like me.’ Tom grins as he puts an arm around my shoulders and gently pulls me in close before kissing the bridge of my nose. ‘Stop it,’ I tease, pressing my palm against his firm chest. ‘I know what you’re doing.’ ‘Whaaaat?’ Tom replies, trying to sound and look all innocent. ‘It’s the truth, isn’t it Mr Cheeks?’ And he takes the kitten’s little paws and places them on my arm. ‘Aw, look at his little face. Those soulful green eyes. And he has nobody. He’s just an orphan. And, ahh, looooook … ’ Tom pauses as the kitten leans his tiny chin on my arm. ‘See, he absolutely adores you already,’ Tom beams, after giving Mr Cheeks a quick proud-dad glance for his perfect timing. ‘No he doesn’t,’ I smile. ‘He adores you.’ ‘Hmm, I’m not so sure. Hang on a minute.’ Tom lifts the kitten up to his ear and pretends to listen to him talking. ‘What’s that, little fella?’ he asks Mr Cheeks before turning back to face me. ‘He says I should kiss you and that will make you take him in.’ ‘Oh did he?’ I try not to laugh. ‘Yep.’ Tom places Mr Cheeks down on the rug before lifting my chin and pushing me back on the sofa. But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he lifts my hands up over my head, secures them under a cushion and then tickles me all over until I can bear it no longer. ‘Stooooop. Please,’ I gasp, now desperate to feel his lips on mine. Having his face in such close proximity is divine, but such a massive tease, especially when I can’t move to touch him. Eventually, I manage to wriggle my arms out from under the cushion and slip them around Tom’s back instead. ‘So you’ll let him live with you then?’ Tom props himself up on one elbow so he’s lying next to me now, and does puppy-dog eyes. ‘I’ll cover all his expenses. Vet bills, vaccines, food, etc.,’ he pleads, and I can’t help thinking how incredible he is. Kind, funny, and he seems to really care about this stray kitten – which, let’s face it, he could have just ignored, as I’m sure lots of men would have done after being woken up in the middle of the night. But not Tom, he was giving the scrawny, bedraggled cat a bath at 4 a.m.! That’s proper tenderness right there … ‘OK, on one condition.’ I shake my head in surrender. ‘Anything. I couldn’t bear to leave him at an animal shelter. Not now. Not after everything he’s been through, and he’s already used to a certain living standard too. It would be too cruel for words. We could share him. And then at least I’d know he was safe when I’m away on business.’ Tom tickles me again. ‘OK. Don’t milk it,’ I say, trying to catch my breath as I push his hand away. ‘Ha! Nice pun. I like it.’ I give him a blank look. ‘Cat. Milk lovers.’ He winks. ‘Oh never mind,’ he adds, smiling cheekily. ‘So, what’s the condition?’ ‘That you do everything Mr Cheeks tells you to,’ I say, trying to keep a serious face. ‘Hmmm, OK,’ Tom replies slowly and suggestively, circling his index finger over the back of my hand. I lean towards Mr Cheeks, pretending to listen to him speak. ‘He says the first thing you must do is kiss me.’ And Tom does. My tummy flips over and over as I roll onto my side and melt into his arms, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy. Not ever. And now we have a kitten in common. A bona fide joint responsibility, and everyone knows what that means … I wonder if it’s too soon to say the L word? 1 (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) Eight shopping weeks until Christmas It’s Monday evening in Mulberry-On-Sea and, by the size of Sam’s smile, it’s obvious she has some exciting news to share. I close the front door to my flat behind her and she practically skips on into the shoebox-sized lounge, closely followed by a gust of crisp, wintery-cold air. Taking her swingy faux-fur cape, I bundle it onto a radiator to keep warm. ‘It’s blooming perishing out there.’ Sam whips off her gloves and rubs her hands together before pulling an exaggerated freezing face. ‘And with only fifty-four days until Christmas Day – well, I bet it snows. Just imagine, a proper, gloriously glistening white Christmas, now wouldn’t that be magical?’ ‘Sure would,’ I say, handing her the latest edition of I Heart TV magazine. Sam loves all those soaps and reality shows. Me too. And there’s a special sneak preview feature inside, of what’s on over Christmas. I was perusing the wine aisle in Tesco when she texted me to get her a copy. ‘Thanks Georgie.’ She grins and takes the magazine. ‘It’ll be like our very own giant snow globe. We could even go ice-skating. Mandy, who works at the town hall, came in the other day for a chocolate orange cupcake with banoffee coffee and said they’re building a rink in the market square in the centre of town. Apparently there’s going to be real reindeers and stalls selling hot chocolate with huge dollops of squirty cream dusted with cinnamon and mini-marshmallows, and, well, she didn’t actually go into that much detail, but you know what I mean … they’re bound to, aren’t they? And roasted chestnuts and all those handcrafted Christmassy gifts that have no use what-so-ever, but we still love them anyway.’ She pauses to catch her breath, her natural blonde corkscrew curls bouncing around her shoulders. ‘In fact, I’m going to see about getting a stall. I could sell mugs of steaming mulled wine and sticky sausage sandwiches, and what about slabs of fruity Christmas cake stacked high with velvety melt-in-the-mouth marzipan icing? Mm-mmm. Yes, everyone loves cake!’ Sam owns Cupcakes At Carrington’s, the caf? concession on the fifth floor of Carrington’s department store, and is a real foodie. She’s also privy to all kinds of tantalising gossip gleaned from her loyal customers, office workers from the firms around the market square in the centre of town, staff from the hotels down along the seafront, and just about everyone who lives or works within a ten-mile radius. When Felicity Ashbeck-Smyth, one of Carrington’s regular customers and owner of Mulberry-On-Sea’s very own temple of holistic enlightenment, was caught with a cannabis plant in her yoga studio, Sam was the first to know. And Sam’s caf? really is the best place in Mulberry if you fancy a legendary afternoon tea. Cupcakes and scones piled high with strawberry jam and clotted cream mingled with the cutest little artisan bread rolls crammed with locally sourced ham and delicious homemade chutney. You just can’t beat it after a hard day’s shopping at Carrington’s, the store with more, as our strapline says. ‘Never mind the squirty cream. I want to hear your news.’ I steer her towards the sofa before flopping down on a beanbag nearby. ‘Ohmigod. I can’t believe I’ve been here for a whole five minutes and still not told you, I’m practically bursting. I found out last night, but wanted to say face to face. Georgie, you will die when I tell you.’ Sam leans over to clutch my arm. ‘Come on then.’ I nod, encouragingly. ‘OK, after three, because you know I’ve fantasised about this moment for so long that I’m not even sure I can actually say the words out loud, just in case I’m dreaming. ‘For crying out loud. Will you please tell me?’ I laugh, now absolutely desperate to hear her news. ‘Right, deep breath. One two three … I’m pregnant!’ she screams, clapping her hands together up under her chin. Pure bliss radiates around her like an aura as I take in the news. ‘Oh Sam, that’s fantastic, I’m so happy for you. Come here.’ After hauling myself out of the beanbag, I reach across to give her an enormous hug. Sam has wanted to be part of a big family for as long as I’ve known her, and that must be fifteen years, at least. We used to go to the same boarding school, before I got kicked out after Dad gambled away everything we had. He sold secrets from the trade floor of the bank where he worked and ended up in prison for five and a half years, but that’s a whole other story. Sam and I shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. She was devastated, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned her for years now, I think she still struggles to understand why Christy left, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast. ‘Congratulations! And to Nathan too, I bet he’s delighted,’ I say, making a mental note to bomb up to Childrenswear on the fourth floor, first thing tomorrow morning when I get into work. Poppy, the sales assistant up there, said they had a delivery last week of the cutest little bunny romper suits she’d ever seen. They even have big floppy ears on the hood and a detachable fluffy rabbit tail for the bottom. I’ll get the pink and blue, to cover both eventualities. But what if Sam goes gender-neutral like Belinda? She’s another regular customer and her son and daughter are always dressed in identical green or yellow smock shirts with baggy knee-length shorts – a stand against commercial gender stereotyping, apparently. Hmmm, maybe I should get the lemon romper suit too, just in case. ‘Georgie, you know Nathan cried. Big tumbling man tears, he’s so happy,’ Sam says. ‘Of course he is, he adores you, and now you’re going to be a proper gorgeous little family. It’s the best news ever. Can I tell Dad?’ I ask, knowing how fond she is of him. Sam’s wonderful dad, Alfie Palmer, the charismatic and incredibly wealthy owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agencies in the country, died earlier this year, leaving his millions to Sam; it meant no expense was spared on their extremely emotional wedding on a picturesque hillside overlooking Lake Como. But it wasn’t the same as Alfie actually being there, so my dad stepped in to do the honours and I felt so proud of him. Nathan’s parents live in Italy, so it was the perfect location for them to marry in before travelling around Europe for the summer, followed by a magical second honeymoon in New York and Hawaii last month. ‘Of course you can. Although it’s probably best to wait a bit. It’s very early days.’ ‘So when is the baby due?’ ‘I’m not entirely sure. In about eight months’ time?’ she laughs, making big wide eyes and waving her hands in the air. ‘Aw, so he or she could be a honeymoon baby then.’ I quickly count the weeks off in my head. ‘Sure could be. And ohmigod, Georgie, you’ve just given me a brainwave.’ ‘I have?’ I ask cautiously. You never know with Sam and her madcap ideas sometimes. ‘Of course, if it’s a girl we can call her Honey … sooo romantic.’ I let out a little sigh of relief, pleased that Manhattan or Honolulu aren’t in the running as suitable baby monikers. ‘Or, no wait. Hold on!’ Sam clutches my arm as she thinks for a second before announcing, ‘Honey MoonTaylor! How perfect is that?’ she beams, stretching her hand up and wide in a semi-circle above her head, as if visualising the words emblazoned in flashing lights across a billboard. My mind boggles. Sam is a real queen of hearts, a matchmaker, a true romantic, but I’ve never seen her like this before, so animated with baby love. And we’ve never really talked about having babies before, I’m not that interested, to be honest, unlike her. ‘Very,’ I say, secretly wondering if Nathan would go for it. He’s a maritime lawyer, loaded and solid; he strikes me as a more traditional-name-type guy. ‘I’m absolutely made up for you both and this calls for a proper celebration. Dinner and fizz somewhere posh. Orange juice for you obvs.’ I laugh. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.’ Sam beams. ‘No more J?gerbombs for me,’ she shrugs. ‘We could try out that new restaurant down by the marina, the swanky one that’s opened up to cater for the visiting glamouratti arriving on their yachts.’ ‘Good idea, but in the meantime these will have to do.’ I pull open a box of mince pies and offer them to her. Sam takes three. I give her a look. ‘Whaat?’ ‘I didn’t say a word,’ I smile as she crams one of the pies into her mouth. ‘One for me and one for the baby,’ she explains, in between bites. ‘And that one?’ I point to the pie still clutched in her left hand. ‘Could be twins.’ Sam winks and collapses back into the sofa. ‘Nathan’s dad is a twin and you know what they say about twins running in families. God, I’d actually love to have twins. Double sweetness.’ Laughing and shaking my head, I flick the television on and help myself to another mince pie. ‘Sooo, talking of romance, how are things going with Tom?’ Sam makes big eyes and gives me a hopeful grin. ‘Weell … ’ I hesitate, unsure if I’m ready to share the exquisite details of his practically perfect taut chest, or his delicious chocolatey scent. Or the way he tilts his head to one side and smiles in an endearingly attentive way when I talk, or the way my thighs tingle when he gives me a cheeky surreptitious wink from across the shop floor. ‘Oooh, carry on. No need to be coy,’ Sam says, giving me a gentle nudge in the ribs with her foot. ‘How was your date last night?’ ‘Oh Sam, it was perfect as always. He’s so funny. And such a gentleman. Turned up with treats for Mr Cheeks and a little box of Belgian truffles for me. We went out for tapas and chatted all evening, taking a romantic stroll along the moonlit beach – his idea, and he even carried my heels after I changed into flats to make it over the pebbles before we cuddled up by the pier, then back here an—’ ‘Cor! Tell me more.’ ‘We talked. Just work stuff, you know, his plans for the store, how he wants to rekindle the glory from its heyday, make Carrington’s magnificent again, maybe open more shops in other locations, that kind of thing,’ I say, keeping the rest to myself. How worried he is about pulling it off while trying to ignore the whispers and speculation in the business world over his acumen. He’s only twenty-nine, two years older than me. And Sam is my best friend, we usually tell each other everything. And Tom didn’t say any of this was a secret, but still, I guess he assumed he doesn’t need to. Anyway, I’m flattered that he trusts me, and I don’t want to do anything to break his trust. ‘Hmmm, is that all? But I want to hear about the sex. I know he’s been away for work, but your long distance flirtation has been going on for long enough now. You’ve had Mr Cheeks for well over a month and, like I said before, a shared pet is huge. Practically living together. Tell me you at least had a snog.’ Sam eyes me eagerly. ‘Of course,’ I grin, relishing the exquisite memory of his lips firm on mine and his fingers entwined in my hair as he pulled open my blouse, pushed up my skirt and swung me across the kitchen table. It was amazing. Like something out of a film, and I feel breathless just thinking about it. ‘Did you get naked?’ ‘Mmmm.’ I smile. Last night was our first time, well … first, second and third times, to be fair. A glorious hat-trick medley of kitchen table, up against the wall in my hall, followed by an incredible bedroom finale, each time more thrilling than the last. Then we stayed up nearly all night, chatting and laughing together, swapping cringeworthy stories from our respective teenage years with a bit of truth or dare thrown in. But I’m not ready to share the details with Sam. I want to savour the memory to myself for just a little longer. I fantasised about sleeping with Tom from the very moment I clapped eyes on him, when he turned up in the staff canteen on his first day at work. Of course, I didn’t know he was actually Tom Carrington then; he went undercover, pretended he was just another sales assistant. All part of his plan to assess the store from the ground floor as it were, before buying it from his aunt Camille, whose grandfather was the original Mr Harry Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, on account of his philandering ways with the showgirls from the old music hall on Lovelace Road. Tom has assured me, though, that Dirty Harry’s antics are not a genetic familial trait, which is a big relief. ‘Skin on skin?’ Sam probes. ‘Stop it,’ I laugh. ‘Did he stay the night?’ ‘No. Well, yes, kind of, but he had to leave in the early hours, said he had a Skype meeting first thing with a foreign supplier and needed some much overdue sleep.’ ‘So how many times have you actually seen him now?’ ‘Well, we’ve had three or four proper dates, but with him away so much, up to London for meetings or overseas sourcing new stock lines, you know how keen he is to be really hands-on in the business, we haven’t had that many opportunities to see as much of each other as we’d like.’ ‘Sooo! Georgie, these days you can have sex on a first date if you want to. That’s what the suffragettes did for us. They gave us that choice. If you want sex then have it. I do,’ Sam says, winking before making a serious face, and I contemplate telling her everything. ‘And let’s face it, Tom is not only extremely charming, funny, kind to animals,’ she pauses to glance at Mr Cheeks who is ensconced on a cushion purring contently, ‘he’s F-I-T. Grab hold of him with both hands … one on each—’ If only she knew. ‘Bum cheek,’ we yell in unison before cracking up. ‘Yes, yes I know. You don’t have to remind me,’ I wheeze, the memory of his beautifully firm bottom beneath his tight white Calvin’s making my cheeks flush. Settling down, I flick on the TV and search through the channels. ‘Stop! Go back a bit,’ Sam yells, kicking her shoes off and tucking her feet up under her legs. I press the remote control and swig a mouthful of wine before polishing off the rest of a mince pie. I think about retrieving another box from the freezer. Tesco are flogging them as part of a special run-up to Christmas promotion – buy one, get two free. I have eighteen boxes. ‘There, that’s it. Let’s watch this.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Ahh, you know, you must have seen it before. It’s that new series – undercover programme with what’s-her-name.’ I give her a blank look. ‘Kelly Cooper. She’s totally bonkers and sorts out flagging companies and stuff with her madcap, brilliantly unorthodox ideas. It’s on every week until Christmas.’ ‘Oh right,’ I say, helping myself to the last mince pie. The adverts finish and an older woman with wild orange Medusa curls and funky green geek glasses is talking directly to the camera in a stage-whisper voice, and she looks just like Ronald McDonald. She’s wearing a swirly patterned Westwood playsuit and a curly plastic earpiece, and keeps glancing at a computer surveillance screen. ‘Oooh, here she goes!’ Sam is suddenly glued to the screen. I neck another mouthful of wine and start flicking through the I Heart TV mag, wondering if it’s still too early to set up my Christmas Sky+ viewing schedule. ‘What’s she doing?’ I ask, glancing up as the camera pans to a younger woman in a car park pulling on a big floppy hat and shades. ‘She’s getting ready to go to wherever they’re filming. It’s always a secret until they arrive inside, makes it more thrilling and authentic. Last season’s show was called Kelly Cooper Come Onboard and it was on an Italian cruise ship stuffed full of lush sailors. Swoon.’ Sam makes dreamy eyes. ‘Cor! I like the sound of that.’ ‘It was amazing. I’ve got the whole series in box set. I’ll lend it to you. Anyway, first off she’ll be seeing if the business is up to scratch. It never is. That’s the whole point of the show. And then she helps them get their act together. Come up with new ideas to increase revenue, that kind of thing. Oh God, I love this programme.’ Sam is practically hyperventilating now. ‘That’s Zara, her glamorous assistant. She’s actually her daughter in real life,’ she adds, all matter-of-factly. ‘But it is real life,’ I say, feeling confused and wondering how I completely managed to miss watching this programme before now. I’m usually right there when it comes to a decent reality show. ‘Hmmm, guess so … anyway, she’s the one who goes undercover, hence the hat and shades, Kelly is way too vibrant and recognisable.’ That’s one way of putting it. I resist the urge to smirk while Sam does the whole fan-girl thing. ‘And that guy is the cameraman, he’s there to capture Zara’s experiences, with a secret hidden camera, obviously. Don’t want to alert the staff, so they put on an act; it would ruin everything if they were on best behaviour. That’s just boring. And don’t be fooled by Kelly – she may appear all jolly and fun at first, but underneath she’s ruthless, a total ballbuster when it comes to promoting her TV shows and whipping businesses into shape. She really tells it like it is and doesn’t take any prisoners. In her last series, she made them sack five people.’ ‘What for?’ I ask, instantly feeling sorry for the ones that lost their jobs. ‘I’m not sure, just read something about it in one of those celebrity gossip magazines. Sniggering when she was talking, most likely. Wouldn’t surprise me. That’s what she’s like,’ Sam says. My mobile rings and, on seeing it’s Eddie, my other best friend and Tom’s personal assistant (well, boy assistant or BA for short), I press to answer. ‘Get your tellybox on right now!’ he shrieks, totally bypassing the introductions bit and almost perforating my eardrum in the process. ‘OK, calm down, it’s already on. Where’s the drama?’ ‘Dollface. You will not believe this. Gird your ladyballs. S-C-R-E-A-M.’ ‘What are you going on about? Eddie, have you been at the booze cabinet?’ I laugh. ‘Oh darling, purlease with the vulgarity … now is not the time to make me out to be some kind of lush. Now, will you just shut up and watch.’ Doing as I’m told, I stare at the screen. And freeze – motionless like the gold statue that stands on a box outside Mulberry-On-Sea station. I’d know that cherry-wood panelling anywhere. I can hear my own blood pumping. The camera zooms to a woman browsing through the Women’s Accessories department, and I know I’m not mistaken. Sam flings herself upright but doesn’t utter a word. She knows it too. It’s Carrington’s. My Carrington’s! It’s the actual department store where I work and I feel clammy with fear. I want to throw up. A rivulet of sweat snakes a path all the way down my back. Sam jumps up. I toss the magazine down on the sofa and Sam clutches my free hand. We stand together in silence. Our jaws hang open as Kelly’s secret camera, which must be secreted inside Zara’s hat, glides around the gloriously decadent Art Deco store before coming to a halt up near the key winter merchandise. And right next to the very display podium that I set up a few weeks ago. Annie, one of the sales assistants who works with me, comes into view. She’s lounging nonchalantly behind the counter with her back to the camera and oh my God … she’s texting on her mobile, totally oblivious to the woman who is now swinging a gorgeous, caramel-coloured, Billy-the-goatskin or whatever, ?900 Anya Hindmarch tote on her shoulder while admiring the view in the long mirror. The very mirror I had installed specifically to entice customers to try on the bags. Because every decent sales assistant knows: those who try it, buy it. Zara glances in Annie’s direction, and then raises a perfectly groomed HD eyebrow at the camera guy, as if deliberately drawing the viewer’s attention to the fact that she’s being ignored. Now the camera is panning towards the window display and oh my actual God. I want to die! Right now, in my shoebox lounge with a lump of partially chewed mince pie trapped inside my gullet. My arse is only gyrating around to that Beyonc? tune, ‘Single Ladies’. I’m even wagging my left hand in the air and pointing to my ring finger. And I swear they’ve put a wide angle on the shot. I know my bum is big, but it ain’t that flipping big. ‘Boom boom, peng ting! Yo go girlfrieeend … get jiggy with it and all that. You are magnificent,’ Eddie bellows, like he’s some sort of badass gangsta boy, and I think I might actually faint. With his voice shrieking in my ear and my wiggling bottom on the screen it’s like a total sensory overload. And my phone hand seems to have gripped itself into a spasm, so now I have the gnarled fist of an ancient old husk of a woman too, which will probably wither from inactivity and render me a cripple by the age of twenty-eight. Grreat. Big bum and club fist – not an attractive look. What on earth was I thinking? I’m usually so efficient at approaching customers, we both are. Annie and I always wait a few seconds, nobody wants to be pounced on the very minute they show an interest in the merch. OK, so we might send the odd text message when the shop floor is quiet, that’s why we keep our mobiles on silent in our pockets – we’re not supposed to, but everyone does. But we never ignore the customers. No, not ever! ‘This is so fucking ma-jor. You’re going to be a dramality star.’ Eddie sounds like he’s about to holler himself into a hernia, he’s that elated for me. ‘A whaat?’ I shout, fear and humiliation making my voice sound shrill. ‘You know … dramality. Real but made up. You’re going to be famous. You are going to be a celebrity and, let’s face it, that’s what everyone wants to be these days,’ he sniffs, as if he’s the authority on popular culture all of a sudden. ‘You’re going to be on that jungle programme, baring your teeth like a baboon when your cheeks peel back to your ears as you’re dropped from a helicopter into the Australian bush. You’re going to have your wardrobe critiqued in Now magazine. You’re going to win a BAFTA. Oh darling, I always knew you were a true star.’ He pauses momentarily and actually sounds genuinely emotional. ‘You’re going to feature in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame. You’re going to make a mint from doing your own fitness DVD. You’re going to have your own fake tan product range. Sweet Jesus … you might even get your own TV show!’ Eddie pauses to suck in a massive gasp of air before he’s off again. ‘I wonder if I’ll get to be in the show too. You must ask that delicious man of yours. In fact, call him. Right now! Tell him how much I adore Kelly. Been a fan for years, darling. Oh hang on angel.’ There’s a muffled silence for a second, and then I hear Eddie shouting out to his boyfriend, Ciaran. ‘Is my best suit back from the dry cleaners?’ More silence follows. ‘Whaat? Never mind watching Top Gear on your iPad mini. Check it! Check the wardrobe right now. I need the suit for work tomorrow. It’s vital.’ Eddie huffs. ‘Honestly, that boy has no sense of urgency. This is my moment. And I’m going to need representation. A manager! I’m going to call that blonde woman. Claire off the telly. That’s right. The one who represents Pete.’ ‘Pete?’ I mutter, racking my brains. I’ve never heard Eddie mention having a famous friend called Pete. ‘Yes, Pete! As in Peter Andre?’ Eddie says in a stagey voice, like he’s his best friend forever and I’m the only person on the whole planet who doesn’t know it. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?’ I venture, having already decided I’m having no part of this. And how come Tom never mentioned it? I’m going to call him … but not to get him to ask Kelly to include Eddie. No. To tell him that he’s bang out of order and it’s probably illegal anyway. They can’t just rock up at Carrington’s and start randomly filming Annie and me. What about our privacy? It’s stalking! That’s what it is. And what about our human rights? I’ll phone up that court in The Hague; they’re bound to know if I have the right to go to work without worrying about my backside being plastered across the TV screen of every blooming home in the country. The whole world, in fact! If you count all those ex-pat satellite viewers in places like the Costa del Sol. And not forgetting hotels and laptops. These days you can be anywhere and still get your favourite TV channels. Oh God. Now the initial shock is starting to wear off, I’m devastated. And really hurt if I’m totally honest. I feel like a fool. A fool for thinking that Tom trusted me. Obviously not enough to share this monumental revelation, and it can’t have happened overnight. He must have been ‘in talks’, as he likes to say, with the TV channel for absolutely ages, but he didn’t even think to utter a word about it. And like a fool I fell for his smouldering looks and fun-loving attitude. And I took in Mr Cheeks for him. I even read up on Renaissance art just so I could appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. It just goes to show that you can’t trust anyone these days. And those big hardback arty books don’t come cheap either. I glance back at the screen in time to hear Kelly talking directly into the camera. ‘Seems these shop girls are more interested in having a good time than serving you.’ And to emphasise her point, she sticks her index finger out, just like Lord Kitchener in that wartime poster. All she needs is the leather queen moustache. ‘Awks!’ Eddie sniggers like a smartarse, making me wish I could reach inside the phone to slap him. ‘Stop it.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetcheeks, really I am. Ignore her. It’s probably all for the cameras. You know how these TV personalities like to mix things up a bit. Honestly, it’s not that bad. Quite exciting, in fact … just think, you’re going to be an actual star – nothing less than you deserve, of course,’ he states. ‘The camera obviously loves you, petal, and one day you’ll look back and laugh too. Promise. It’s just the shock of the surprise, that’s all. I’m your best friend, and as such it’s my job to tell you if you look ridic … but you don’t, you honestly don’t. Quite the opposite. Sassy and magnificent.’ I ignore him. ‘But how dare she?’ Something isn’t right, because we never neglect customers. I don’t understand how they’ve managed to make it look as though we do. Sam squeezes my free hand tightly and gives me a reassuring but tentative grin. ‘And who says, “shop girls” anyway, these days? Talk about old-fashioned!’ ‘Don’t worry, lover, I bet you know much more than she does about retail sales. Just focus on the fabulous perks that are going to be surging your way,’ Eddie says. ‘Yep. It’s move over TOWIE and Made In Chelsea and Hello Carringtonnnnn’s!’ he sings, like he’s about to star in the next West End musical theatre smash hit. Well, we’ll see about that. ‘I have to go,’ I say in a trance-like state to end the call, and I drop my phone down onto the carpet. I really thought Tom and I had something. Something really special. I had even started to think he might be the real deal. Everyone says you just know when you meet your one, and that’s exactly how I felt right from the very first moment I saw him. I was standing by the help-yourself salad bar in the staff canteen with my cheeks flushing and my mouth actually hanging open. He’s the quintessential tall dark gorgeous guy. Kind. Especially to animals. Calm. Impeccably mannered. Generous. Intelligent. Artistic. Gentle. Sometimes cheeky. Fantastic in bed. But how wrong was I? If he doesn’t even trust me enough to mention something as epic as Carrington’s starring in a reality TV show, then what does that say about our relationship? He obviously doesn’t feel the same way. And I’m so glad I held back on mentioning the L word. I grab my phone back up and punch out his number. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say for himself. 2 (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) I’m on the bus making my way to work and I’m still devastated. After Kelly’s show last night, I spent the rest of the evening going over and over the sequence of events for the last month or so, until a trickle of realisation dawned in the early hours of this morning. The film footage was doctored! Edited to look as if Annie ignored Zara, the customer, when in actual fact she hadn’t. It’s the only explanation. Especially as we only had one of those Anya bags in stock and I distinctly remember Annie’s elation when she sold it. To Zara. Must have been. Annie was whooping about adding the commission from the sale to her savings so she’d have nearly enough money to get the Flo Rida tatt removed from the spot just above her left boob. She’d had it done in a moment of madness on a crazeee hen weekend along the coast in Brighton, after hooking up with a guy called Vince who had gold teeth and seriously intricate sleeve tattoos. She’s regretted it ever since. I even remember saying she could have next Thursday off because it was the only appointment available at the laser clinic this side of Christmas. And we never normally allow it, not with Thursdays being late-night shopping, especially as the run-up to Christmas is our busiest time of year. But what I’m absolutely gutted about is that Tom must have allowed Kelly to fix the sequence of events. He must have known she was going to portray us like that … Surely he would have investigated, done his ‘due diligence’, as I’ve heard him say, before putting Carrington’s, the business Dirty Harry started over a hundred years ago, in this ridiculous position. We’ll be a laughing stock. Well, I already am. I’ve had seventeen tweets this morning from people wondering if I’ve seen the YouTube clip of my bottom. Somebody posted it up with the title Carrington’sChristmas Cracker! Like I’m some sort of novelty joke. I couldn’t even bring myself to look, but apparently it’s had three hundred and eighteen hits already. Cringe. Hardly viral, but that’s not the point. And what about our loyal customers? They won’t like being filmed. Some of them have been coming to the store since childhood, just like I did. Mum used to bring me to Carrington’s, before she passed away when I was thirteen years old. She had multiple sclerosis, which had worn her down so much that when she caught pneumonia she just couldn’t fight any more, so I ended up in foster care because Dad was still in prison and my only other relative, Uncle Geoffrey, couldn’t – or wouldn’t – take me in. But before it all happened, Mum and I would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. This was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy caf? where the cakes are now cupcakes and a Victoria sandwich is a layer cake with elderberry infused jam and gold glitter frosting decorated with delicate edible butterflies made from hand-spun Valrhona chocolate. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although, thinking about it, my hat trick with Tom does come a pretty good second … hmmm, but putting that aside, it’s as if all those glorious memories have been tarnished now. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, I jump off at the bus stop beside the bandstand to look across the road and up at the Carrington’s frontage. Even after all this time it still excites me. An impressive, powder-blue Edwardian building with intricate white cornicing around enormous arched windows housing this year’s Christmas display – a real wooden sleigh, piled high with wrapped presents, pulled by four life-size reindeer figurines. They even have faux brown fur, enormous antlers and jingle bells nestling on crimson collars at their necks. Shimmery fake snow is scattered on the floor and all around the edges of the windows. The display lights create a magical, almost Narnia-esque image within the white colonnaded walkway of olde worlde streetlamps and pretty hanging baskets, bursting with seasonal purple cyclamen swaying gently in the wintery-cold breeze. Set in a prime location in the centre of Mulberry-On-Sea, Carrington’s department store is a family firm spanning three generations, offering old-style elegance with a strong sense of tradition; that special something, where loyal customers are addressed by name and the staff are treated like personal friends. No matter what’s going on in the outside world, you know that when you step inside Carrington’s you’re entering a bubble of sparkly optimism where nothing bad ever happens. Well, until last night, that is. Thanks to Tom and his new best friend ‘Ronald McDonald’, everything’s changed in an instance. Carrington’s is a tradition, a landmark synonymous with Mulberry-On-Sea, and not some gaudy sideshow that relishes making fools of people. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell him, and her, if I get the chance. Pushing through the door of the staff entrance at the side of the building, I say hello to a couple of the Clarins concession girls and head towards the rickety old gilt-caged staff lift. I unwind my super-chunky long knitted scarf as I go – I made it myself from a kit that came free with a magazine, all part of me doing my bit for the austerity drive. I’ve made a few maxi dresses, too, and a pair of curtains, with Mum’s old sewing machine, some patterns I found in amongst Dad’s stuff and a bit of help from Iris in Haberdashery. ‘Hello lovey.’ It’s Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee. She used to run my department, Women’s Accessories, before retiring at the grand old age of seventy-one, but after her husband spanked all their savings on his pigeons, she had to come back to work. So she now looks after the stockrooms on a part-time basis and, if I’m not mistaken, she’s changed her lipstick to movie-star red. Her Garnier blonde hair, which is usually bouffed up into a big Aunty Bessie bun, is now styled into an elegant beehive with a super sparkly diamant? clip holding it all altogether. And she’s smoothing down a smart, two-piece skirt suit instead of her usual hand-crocheted waistcoat and easy-fit trousers. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she says, crinkling the corners of her eyes. ‘Exciting?’ I say, not quite sure what she means as I press the call button for the lift. My heart is thumping with anticipation of the showdown that’s about to unfold with Tom. I wonder if he’s bracing himself too. He must know I’m on the warpath. When he didn’t answer his phone last night, I left a very terse voicemail followed by a text. Well, four to be exact. Just to be on the safe side. He needs to know how seriously upset I am. ‘With the film crew being here, dear. Did you see the show last night?’ she asks, and I nod. ‘Such innovation, your Tom is very clever. My Stan would never have come up with such an idea, but then he’s far too busy messing around with those filthy birds.’ I can’t believe it. Mrs Grace is the last person I thought would approve of Tom’s actions. She’s not even keen on TV, much preferring her bingo. And being such a stalwart for tradition, a self-appointed protector of the Carrington’s good old days, she really wasn’t happy when we got a memo saying not to address customers as Sir or Madam any more. Tom said research showed it sounded old-fashioned, that some women get offended by it, it makes them feel old – and, as much as it pains me to say, given how I feel about him at this precise moment in time, I do think he had a very good point. ‘Oh dear, what is it love? You don’t look very happy. Here … ’ Mrs Grace snaps open her granny bag and pulls out a crumpled pink-and-white striped paper bag full of pick ’n’ mix sweets. ‘These will cheer you up.’ ‘Thanks,’ I say, helping myself to a slightly fluffy foam banana. I take a bite and relish the sugary taste. ‘Take two, one is never enough,’ she chuckles, rustling the bag enticingly, so I take a green pear drop to be polite and pop it in my pocket. ‘I thought you youngsters loved the telly. It’s the only reason I voted in favour of doing the show.’ ‘Voted? What do you mean?’ I ask, creasing my forehead and racking my brains as I try to work out what’s going on. She’s standing directly underneath one of the original 1920s Tiffany wall lamps, which is casting an eerie glow on her face, and I can’t help thinking that it makes her look like one of those spooky old china dolls. ‘At the special staff meeting in the canteen after work one night. Ooh, it must have been a good few weeks ago now, may even have been a few months. My memory’s not so good these days,’ she chuckles as the lift arrives and I crank the cage door back. We step inside and I pull the door closed before pressing the gold button. ‘Was everyone at this meeting?’ I must be going mad. I definitely wasn’t invited to a meeting, and surely Sam and Eddie would have mentioned it last night if they already knew about the TV show. Fair enough, Sam might not have known, given that she’s not technically a Carrington’s employee – her caf? business leases the space. But anyway, if she knew, maybe overheard one of the other sales assistants talking over a coffee perhaps, then she would definitely have told me, there’s no way she would have kept a secret this massive. No, Sam was as shocked as I was. She was actually speechless, and it takes a lot for that to happen to Sam. Eddie, on the other hand, may have held out on me, but then he is Tom’s BA so I suppose he’s kind of conflicted, a bit. On second thoughts, no! There’s no way Eddie would have managed to contain himself for a nanosecond, let alone weeks or even months – he was way too excited about me becoming a star. ‘Oh no, just the board and a handful of senior staff,’ Mrs Grace continues. ‘I was invited because I used to be a manager. Confidentiality they said. On a “need-to-know” basis only.’ She pushes her granny bag into the crook of her elbow before making little quotes signs with her bony fingers. ‘But between you and me, I think I was only invited as a courtesy, probably to get me on side so I didn’t form a protest.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Oldest trick in the book – get the potential troublemaker on board first.’ She chuckles. ‘We even had to sign a form to say we wouldn’t blab any of the details as it would spoil the surprise element of the show. Very Hollywood and hush-hush, it was. They gave us free pizza,’ she says, pronouncing it peeeza, ‘although I didn’t have any as all that cheese gives me heartburn something rotten.’ Mrs Grace pauses to pat her chest. ‘And they paid for a cab home. Kelly wasn’t actually in the meeting, just the production team, but her glamorous assistant was and she’s a real beauty up close. All milky skin and bee-sting lips.’ Incredible. So some of the staff were allowed to know beforehand, but not me – girlfriend of the majority shareholder! Tom obviously deemed I didn’t ‘need to know’. Why would he do that? And I’m a supervisor. What on earth is going on? This just makes it a billion times worse. And what was I thinking by sleeping with him? I knew I should have waited until I’d worked out what a sneaky snake he is. I even confided in him about my ‘trust issues with men’, as the social worker neatly noted in my file when I left the care system. But then, is it any wonder, when my own Dad forged my signature, lumbering me with a stack of massive loans he’d taken out in my name to fund his gambling debts? I know Dad and I are putting it all behind us now and he’s doing his best to win back my trust – but still, Tom could have at least kept it in mind. And then there was Brett, my last serious boyfriend. We were together for three years, totally loved-up, or so I thought, until he dumped me for a tall, gloriously beautiful woman with super-big blonde hair. A total contrast to my average height, freckly complexion and flyaway brunette bob. I saw them together not long after the split, holding hands and laughing over an intimate joke as they sauntered along the towpath down by the canal. By the time I’ve said goodbye to Mrs Grace and slammed through the door to the executive floor, I’m almost in tears. I stride down the corridor and into the anteroom outside Tom’s office. Inhaling hard through my nose, I blow out through O-shaped lips and brace myself. 3 (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) Hey dollface. What’s up?’ Eddie sprints around from behind his desk before smoothing down an immaculately cut charcoal grey suit with a cornflower blue open-neck shirt. His blond hair has been styled into a ridiculously dapper side-parting do with lashings of gel. ‘So what happened to your twist-cut chinos and espadrille combo then? Take it Ciaran found your best suit,’ I snap, thinking: so much for solidarity in the face of adversity. Eddie’s wasted no time in reinventing himself to look like a slick TV star. ‘Oh, those old rags?’ He waves an imperious hand in the air. I glare at him. ‘Why are you being so sulky?’ ‘Sulky?’ I huff, making big eyes. ‘Wouldn’t you be if your boyfriend had sold you out to some TV company without even bothering to mention it?’ ‘But you were amazing on screen,’ he says, enthusiastically. ‘Hmmm,’ I mutter as Eddie gives me a hug. He ponders for a moment before changing the subject. ‘Come and see my Pussy!’ And, suddenly, I feel as though I’ve slipped inside a parallel universe. Grabbing my hand, Eddie pulls me over to his desk and scoops up a fluffy white bichon frise from a Burberry print dog basket nestled underneath. Around the dog’s neck is a pink crystal collar, and all four of its spindly little legs are sporting lime- green knitted legwarmers. ‘She’s channelling her Eighties workout vibe, aren’t you Pussy?’ he explains. I stare for a bit before managing to drag myself back to reality. ‘Eddie! Are you insane? You can’t bring a dog into the store. And what kind of name is Pussy for a dog anyway?’ I say in an incredulous whisper-voice, while resisting the urge to pet the cute puppy that’s now licking the back of my hand with her tiny pink velvety tongue. ‘Of course I can, everyone has a furchild these days – they’re an essential accessory. And isn’t she a darling? Anyway, Kelly adores her and has already said she can be in the show,’ he says, pursing his lips and stroking the dog’s head. ‘And I’ll have you know that Pussy is a very apt name for a department store pet.’ ‘Whaat?’ ‘As in Mrs Slocombe’s cat, she called it Pussy.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Are You Being Served … ring any bells?’ he says, pulling an exasperated face. ‘What are you going on about?’ ‘Oh never mind. Before your time, obvs. Although, of course, I only have an extremely vague memory of catching a glimpse of it once as a newborn peering up from my cradle,’ he quickly adds. ‘But this is Carrington’s. A department store, in case you’d forgotten. People don’t bring pets to work. And besides, since when did you have a dog?’ I ask, desperately trying to keep up with it all. ‘From about seven o’clock this morning when I arrived at work,’ he pauses, and a faint glimmer of shame darts across his face. Eddie never ever exerts himself by doing extra hours. ‘I thought it best to put in an early appearance, what with everything going on … Tom might need me,’ he explains, fiddling with Pussy’s collar to avoid eye contact. ‘I rescued her. Poor thing,’ he adds, kissing the top of Pussy’s head before settling her back down in the basket. ‘Rescued her?’ ‘That’s right. From the Carrington’s pet spa,’ he says. ‘Pet spa?’ ‘Yes! Angel, why do you keep repeating everything I say?’ Eddie tilts his head to one side and pulls an exaggerated curious face. ‘Hazard a guess. Maybe it’s because … I have no bloody idea what you’re going on about,’ I say, flinching as my voice jumps up several octaves. ‘It’s like I’ve stumbled into some weird dream sequence. A nightmare even.’ ‘Oh don’t be so dramatic. I know you have a tendency to put two and two together and come up with five billion, but honestly darling … ’ He shrugs. ‘Ha! You’re a fine one to talk.’ ‘Shush. I’m a queen. It’s my job.’ Eddie does kissy lips and tweaks my cheek. ‘Besides, it’s your most adorable foible.’ ‘What do you mean? I don’t have foibles.’ I shake my head and pull a face. ‘Yes you do.’ ‘No I don’t.’ Eddie puts his arm around my shoulders and gives them a quick squeeze. ‘Oh, you look so indignant. But that’s why I love you,’ he says. I stick my tongue out and Eddie laughs. ‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes … about the spa, apparently it was one of Kelly’s genius ideas to boost revenue. That dingy hairdressing salon next door has been cleared out and transformed into Carrington’s very own pet boudoir … just like at Harrods.’ He drops his arm and makes impressive eyes. ‘There’s an adorable doggy exercise area, cute wardrobe accessories section and even an assortment of puppies and kittens to actually buy. I took one look at Pussy and thought enough!’ He flings up a palm. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of her cooped up in a pokey little cage all day long waiting for some RHONY wannabe with a penchant for baby-pink marabou puff mules to buy her and call her Viennetta or something equally ludicrous.’ He clenches his jaw in horror and I raise an eyebrow. ‘You should see it in there, the transformation is incredible; must have been like one of those interior design programmes where Melinda turns up with a flash mob of decorators and practically does out a whole house in like … under three minutes,’ he gasps in a very stagey voice, having obviously elevated himself to first-name terms with all the celebrities now. ‘Slight exaggeration.’ ‘Whatevs! But I’m surprised you didn’t spot the difference on your way into work.’ ‘I guess I had other things on my mind,’ I mutter, wondering how they managed the makeover in such record time. It was still a hairdresser’s when I left work on Saturday evening. ‘Look, I have to see Tom before this whole place goes nuts.’ Pulling my coat off and dumping my bag down on Eddie’s desk, I step around the enormous silver and purple themed Christmas tree, narrowly missing the mountainous pile of fake wrapped presents underneath, and head towards Tom’s office. ‘But you can’t go in there.’ Eddie does a running bodyslam at the door before pinning a hand on each side of the frame. ‘Try and stop me,’ I say, attempting to fling him out of my way by prising free the fingers of his right hand. He quickly caves in and turns around to face me. ‘Really. Georgie, please, you don’t want to go in there. Trust me. Not like this. Calm down first. Here. Open.’ Performing a spectacular pincer move, Eddie grabs my jaw between his thumb and index finger, and without thinking I open my mouth just as he squirts two puffs of Bach Flower Remedy onto my tongue. In a desperate attempt to get rid of the flowery perfume taste that’s swirling around my mouth, I quickly retrieve Mrs Grace’s pear drop from my pocket, shove it in my mouth and crunch it up furiously, almost biting my tongue in the process. ‘Oh dear. Here … ’ And Eddie grabs up a canary yellow paper fan from his desk and starts batting it around in front of my face. ‘For stress, sweetie. For stress.’ ‘Will you just stop it?’ I say, pushing the fan away and almost choking as the remainder of the pear drop propels down my throat. I cough really hard. Eddie jumps behind me and slings his arms around my boobs. ‘Get off me,’ I say, untangling myself from his clutch. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ I turn around to face him. ‘Spoilsport!’ He sticks his bottom lip out. ‘I’ve been dying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre ever since I went on that course. There’s just no fun in being a Carrington’s designated first-aider if all I’m doing is dishing out plasters for boring old paper cuts.’ ‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint,’ I say, straightening my uniform of V-neck black top, trousers and gold Carrington’s name badge. ‘Oh please don’t make a fuss. It’s sooo not a good vibe. And Kelly is adorable. I think you’re going to love her.’ I raise my eyebrows. He must be having a laugh. ‘Yes, I took the liberty of tactfully mentioning the … ’ he pauses, does a furtive left-then-right look before mouthing, ‘“shop girl” comment. And you know what, she just threw her head back and roared. Actually roared with laughter. She didn’t mean anything by it. She said it’s all part of the show, set up purely to entertain the audience, and she knows that you’re a fabulous sales person in real life,’ he gushes, like some deluded groupie. ‘Eddie, are you totally bonkers? That Ronald McDonald lookalike made a complete fool of Annie and me,’ I bellow. ‘And why does everyone keep on implying that the show isn’t real life? We’re real people with real lives working in a traditional department store. Get over it.’ I let out a big puff of air before smoothing down my hair. ‘Oooh. Harsh,’ Eddie whispers into my face, giving me a daggers look. ‘No. Reality. So stick that in your dramality pipe and smoke it,’ I say, suddenly desperate for a cigarette, even though I gave up smoking years ago. I only ever had a few on a Saturday night out anyway, not what I’d class as being a proper smoker, but I could really really do with a full-tar Benson right now. ‘OK. Calm down. Of course we are, but who wants to plod on with their real life when they can have a much more fabulous pretend one crammed full of staged spontaneity?’ Eddie says, clapping his hands together. And I give up. Pushing past him into Tom’s office, I stop short and instantly want to die. Kelly is standing right in front of me with her Lord Kitchener pointy finger sticking out and a massive grin spread across her face. And I bet she’s heard everything. ‘Hi, I’m Ronald McDonald,’ she says, immediately confirming my fear and not missing a beat. ‘And you must be Georgie, the star of the show! Oh oh oh, oh oh ohhhh …’ she sings, whipping up her other hand and flicking it backwards and forwards, just like Beyonc? does in the ‘Single Ladies’ video. I stare goggle-eyed and speechless as she then turns to the side, tilts her body forward slightly, bends her elbows and starts pumping her arms up and down, left then right, in sequence with her alternating legs.’ Cuckoo! And she must know the whole dance routine. Sam was right, this woman is an utter fruit loop. Her big curls are flailing around. I jump back, suddenly conscious that she could whip my eye out without a moment’s notice if I’m not careful. ‘Err, yes. Um, sorry about that,’ I eventually manage to speak. ‘I, err … came to see Tom.’ I do a desperate scan of the room, but he’s not here. Kelly throws her arms around me, almost winding me in the process, before pulling back to study me. ‘Chillaaax,’ she says, in a kind of ‘far-out’, dreamy voice on seeing my tense face. She makes a peace sign with her fingers to emphasise her point. Whaaaat? Who even says that anyway? I resist the sudden urge to roll on the floor in hysterics and swivel my eyes around the room again instead. ‘You and I are going to be besties,’ Kelly ploughs on. ‘Calling me Ronald McDonald is hilarious and those Beyonc? moves of yours were TV gold. Priceless. But we’ll need to get Millie to sort you out before we can actually turn you towards the camera,’ she says, leaning in to scrutinise me while I wonder what’s wrong with my face. ‘Who’s Millie?’ I manage, desperately trying to get a grip. ‘The hair and make-up girl, of course. Will you want hair extensions?’ she fires. ‘Oh you’re bound to. Hang on.’ Looking back over her shoulder, she bellows towards Tom’s private bathroom. ‘Zara, call Xavier at Hair Fairies in Mayfair and tell him to bring the Balmain bag. Now, where were we?’ she turns back to face me. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude but where is Tom?’ I say, backing away from her. I wasn’t planning on having an audience when I confronted him. ‘Getting styled,’ she replies, as if it’s the most obvious answer ever. ‘Won’t be long. Come and sit with me and we can talk about my new show. Kelly Cooper Come Instore. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?’ She flounces around flamboyantly before flinging herself down on one of Tom’s leather sofas, kicking her pumps off and making a loud jangling noise when she swings her feet up onto a couple of raw silk Santa Claus motif cushions, which only last Friday were on display in Homeware. I know, because I helped Mrs Grace unpack them from their special cashmere dust bags. She said we were lucky to get them as Selfridges were still waiting, according to her friend’s granddaughter who works up there. Kelly crosses her legs, setting off the jingle-jangle sound again. She must have at least ten of those silver bohemian ankle bracelets on each leg. Hmmm, on closer inspection, a slight exaggeration maybe, but there’s definitely a lot. ‘I’d rather stand, thanks.’ ‘Fair enough.’ She grabs a copy of OK! magazine and starts thumbing through it. Silence follows. I check my watch and see that it’s nearly eight thirty, opening time. I think of Annie. I hope she’s made it into work. She called me last night in tears. She’s mortified too. And convinced she’s going to be sacked and have to go back to cleaning and looking after her numerous brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews all day long. Annie is a Traveller and the first girl in her family ever to have a paid job. She said she’ll never get another one because jobs are like gold dust in these double-dip times. And people are reluctant to employ her when they find out that she lives on the Traveller site on the outskirts of Mulberry, so she’s worried she’ll end up with the Flo Rida tatt and the memory of Vince with the gold teeth for ever more. I make a mental note to tell Tom about that too. Maybe he can get her some flowers or something to apologise. He can’t just go around upsetting the sales assistants. ‘Ooh, will you look at them?’ Kelly pipes up, and thrusts the magazine out to show me a pic of Kate and Wills. You know, you have a look of her about you.’ ‘Mmm, if I lose about two stone and hand out beer goggles to everyone who glances my way,’ I say, reluctantly. I don’t really want to get into a conversation with Kelly when there’s no point. The sooner this is over, the better, and I can go back to my normal life. Once Tom sees sense he’s bound to have second thoughts and send her on her way. Kelly snorts with laughter. ‘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. 4 (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) 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 … eversince 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 Chlo? 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?’ ‘Thank you.’ Declan giggles and snuggles into the bear, looking really chuffed before pushing it out towards me. ‘He’s called Nice Lady Bear.’ The guy rolls his eyes and laughs, and I can’t help laughing too. ‘How much is this one?’ The man quickly composes himself, and points to a gorgeous dusty pink, top handle Chlo? bag with signature gold metalwork. ‘Oh, good choice. This one is a limited edition; we only have two left and I can’t guarantee delivery again this side of Christmas Day.’ ‘Is it a popular one, you know … an It bag, or whatever they call them?’ He pushes a hand through his hair as Declan simultaneously bounces Nice Lady Bear in his stomach. ‘Oh yes, it was in Elle magazine last week.’ I take the tag from the inside pocket and show it to him. ‘Blimey, that’s more than I paid for my first car.’ He shakes his head and tweaks Declan’s freckly nose. ‘We have others if this one is a little more than you wanted to spend,’ I say, discreetly. He hesitates for a moment before nodding decisively. ‘I’ll take it. Because she’s worth it.’ He shrugs. ‘Shall we go over to my counter so I can gift-wrap it for you?’ I smile. After placing the bag in a soft white drawstring dust bag, and cocooning it in a puff of our signature powder-blue tissue, I tie it all up with an enormous navy satin ribbon and hand the guy his credit card back. I stow the bag in a giant gift box, sprinkle in a handful of silver snowflake confetti and close the lid, before carefully sliding it into one of our special Christmas-themed paper carrier bags. I twirl a length of red gingham ribbon around the handles. ‘Thanks a million.’ He takes the bag and hoists Declan up onto his shoulders. Once they’ve headed off towards the escalator, Hannah darts in front of my face. ‘Cor! Wish I had a husband like that – talk about thoughtful, and great with kids of course. And you are soogooood. I can see why Kelly’s earmarked you for a starring role. You’re a natural sales woman, no coaching requirements for you!’ she gushes, practically hyperventilating with sheer excitement. I stare at her, wondering if she’s for real. ‘That’s because I am actually a sales woman. It’s my job, in real life,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘Yes, yes, of course you are, but well … you know what I mean.’ She does a little giggle. ‘Now, Leo wants to check a few things with you and then we’re good to roll. Friday afternoon, the quietest time in store I’ve been told, there’ll be a short briefing, a run-through of the “scenario”. Not too much, natch.’ She giggles again. ‘We want the show to be as authentic as possible.’ ‘But I’m not in the show,’ I say, busying myself with updating my sales sheet. ‘Of course you are. You’re going to be a star,’ she says, giving me a blank face, and quite clearly unable to comprehend my reluctance. She’s obviously used to people begging for airtime. ‘Nope, not me.’ I put my sales sheet away and start stacking the ring trays on top of each other in preparation for giving the glass counter a good buffing over. I like everything to look pristine, as there’s nothing worse than a messy point-of-sale area. ‘But you have to be. Kelly wants you. And she always gets what she wants. She’s the boss, she owns the production company, KCTV.’ ‘Well, not this time. And she doesn’t own me. Anyway, it’s not the law,’ I say, probably a little too petulantly as I fold my arms to underline the point. ‘It practically is.’ Pursing her lips, Hannah grips the chart tighter and tries to stare me out. ‘What do you mean?’ I cave in first and glance at the floor before looking back at her face which is now a rhubarb-red colour. ‘Check your employment contract. It’s all covered in there. I’ll be back.’ And she marches off, closely followed by Leo, who has to do a gentle jog to keep up with her as he attempts to juggle the sound paraphernalia about his body at the same time. 5 (#ubc4739f4-4bfd-56f5-9692-ff083266eb3b) So it’s true. Hannah was right. I managed to hold out until my lunch break to check. And after waving off regular customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, who never actually buy anything, they just like to come instore for a chat and to share pictures of their grandchildren who live in California, I’m in Amy’s office with a copy of my employment contract on the desk in front of me. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity for Carrington’s,’ Amy says, diplomatically. She’s standing next to me, wearing a taupe Ted Baker trouser suit and pointing to sub-section nineteen, clause a hundred trillion, or whatever. It says Carrington’s can use promotional material made within the store, read: FILM ME! And do what they like with it, or words to that effect. I stopped reading after a while. But it’s right there on the back page, just above my signature, glaring like it’s giving me the finger and yelling out ‘hahahaha sucker!’ But who reads every single line of an employment contract? Not me, obviously. I was only fifteen when I got it and just thrilled to have a Saturday job paying me actual money to work in my favourite place. I still remember signing the contract, attempting a proper grown-up swirl with my new fountain pen. A gift from Alfie, he had sent it for my birthday. The pen came in a black velvet box, nestling inside on a bed of lilac satin, and I thought it was the best present I’d ever had. I glance again at my now girlish-looking signature. Georgina Hart. All twirly and written with a flourish. I even drew a little heart motif above my surname. Getting the Saturday job was like a dream come true, somewhere I belonged. A welcome escape from my foster carer, Nanny Jean’s house, and her bullying birth daughter, Kimberley. A year older than me, Kimberley would parade around the sitting room in a multitude of new outfits complete with mismatched accessories, bought from Topshop with a generous monthly allowance. I wanted the same. And if Nanny Jean wasn’t going to be fair, then a Saturday job was the perfect solution. My own money. To do with what I liked. And Carrington’s was a place where I could remember being with Mum. Kind of like a spiritual connection. Comforting. It was as if she was there standing right in front of me, oohing and ahhing as she admired a handbag spotted in a glossy magazine that she had flicked through whilst waiting to see her consultant at the hospital. I would be standing next to her, egging her on to buy it. Of course, I’ve learnt now that I don’t have to be inside Carrington’s to remember Mum – she’s all around me, wherever I am – but still … Carrington’s on TV, broadcast to the whole world, potentially. Well, it changes everything. Everything I grew up with. It’s as though it won’t be my special place any more. ‘So I have no choice then? And I can’t have one of those blurry things to block out my face?’ I say, cringing slightly. I feel foolish now after making such a fuss and being sniffy with Hannah, saying I wasn’t doing it, when in actual fact I have no choice. I agreed to it, albeit without actually knowing. But there is an upside if I have to be part of the show – I guess a free new wardrobe, and the other perks that Annie was so excited about, aren’t to be sniffed at. ‘Not really. But if you’re adamant about being excluded from this exciting initiative, then I could organise a transfer for you to another department. Home Electricals, for example?’ she says, sounding corporate and robotic. ‘They won’t be featuring in Kelly Cooper Come Instore.’ My heart sinks. Relegated to the basement. Like Annie said, there’s no glamour down there – and, besides, I love working in Women’s Accessories. ‘Have a think about it. I’m sure I could find someone to cover for you with the amount of staff I’ve had in here already today, all of them begging to be in the show.’ ‘Oh right.’ ‘But I do understand if you’re reluctant. The board were very specific that staff shouldn’t be put under pressure to take part, if they really don’t want to. We’re not in the nature of forcing employees to do things against their will.’ ‘So why did they let Annie and me be portrayed as useless then?’ ‘Err, yes. Good point.’ Her cheeks flush as she points an index finger in the air. ‘And I’m very sorry about that. It won’t happen again,’ she says, giving me the impression that somebody more senior than her has asked this exact same question, and more than likely had a word with Kelly and KCTV. Well good! So they should. Carrington’s prides itself on providing an exceptional service. Yes, sales have dwindled recently, but there’s a recession on, so it’s to be expected. And it’s not as if we’re the only shop suffering. And of course, a high-profile, prime-time TV show with a retail guru to help us turn things around will be good for business, but still, there’s no need to make us look like complete Muppets. ‘Definitely?’ I say, an idea hatching inside my head. ‘Yes, definitely. You have my word. You’re very good at what you do, so it really would be a shame if we didn’t show you off.’ She tilts her head to the side and smiles sweetly. ‘Hmm, well in that case, I suppose it might be OK,’ I say, letting the idea grow some more. This could actually be an amazing opportunity to show the whole world how wonderful Carrington’s is. How brilliant our customer service is. Coach-loads of tourists could come for special Christmas shopping sprees, just like they used to. Annie and I can show the viewers how we were misrepresented. I might even get a chance to prove that Annie didn’t ignore Zara. In fact, Zara bought the creamy caramel Anya bag and was given a perfect customer service. Ha! See how she likes being set up. ‘Great. See it as an opportunity. A chance to do your bit for Carrington’s. We all know that business has dipped of late, and you really are one of our best sales supervisors. That’s why you were chosen to be in the pilot.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes really.’ She nods and smiles. ‘So how will it work then?’ I ask, feeling flattered. ‘Well, my involvement was purely from a personnel perspective, but I’ve been told the show will be aired every Wednesday until Christmas. I think filming starts in a week or so and it will all be very spontaneous. You just turn up and get on with it, apparently.’ ‘I see. And I heard something about a live wrap party?’ ‘Yes, that’s right, for KCTV and Carrington’s staff, if they want to attend.’ ‘Even those that aren’t part of the show?’ I ask, figuring it’s only fair if they are. ‘Of course.’ ‘And what about the actual filming of the shows?’ ‘That will be on Sundays when the store is closed. Although Kelly has already suggested we revisit our opening times schedule. Sunday closing is archaic, she says.’ And I’m sure I spot a fleeting look of weariness on Amy’s face, making me wonder if Kelly has been giving her a hard time. But I guess it was inevitable – nowadays all of the big department stores are open on Sundays. ‘KCTV did investigate filming every day, but their lawyers advised against it – apparently it’s a legal minefield to film with so many members of the general public wandering around, and the board were worried about it putting our regular customers off from coming instore. You know how “traditional” some of them are.’ And I certainly do. We nearly had a boycott on our hands when we tried to introduce an Ann Summers concession last year. Mrs Godfrey wrote a stern letter to the local trading standards office stating that Rampant Rabbits had no place in Mulberry-On-Sea. ‘But how will it work if there aren’t any actual customers instore?’ ‘Oh, well, not all of the scenes will involve customers. Other parts of the retail operation will be featured on the show too. This initiative isn’t just about KCTV helping us up our game, it’s about opening our doors to viewers, potential new customers, and letting them see what goes on behind the scenes, as it were. Rather like a “docu-soap”, I think was how one of the production team explained it to me.’ ‘Oh I see.’ A reality show, in other words. ‘Apparently KCTV are well renowned for their documentary work and feel that our show could be an award contender,’ she says, sounding as if she’s been brainwashed. ‘Wow.’ I make big eyes. ‘Yes, Kelly says everyone, the world over, is fascinated with department stores, so she wants to show people how other things work, such as supplier contact, stock control, merchandising and what goes on in the cash office – that kind of thing.’ I think of Lauren, Doris and Suzanne who all work in the cash office, and wonder how they feel about being featured on Kelly CooperCome Instore. ‘Besides, they’re not using real customers for the selling scenes,’ Amy adds. ‘Will they be pretend ones then?’ I resist the urge to laugh out loud as I wonder how this is all going to work. ‘That’s right. KCTV are going to use actors for the actual customer interaction sequences,’ she says, with a totally deadpan face. My smile quickly fades. ‘They’ve already done a couple of trial runs this morning, and they were very successful apparently.’ ‘Trial runs?’ They seem to have it all figured out. And I’m instantly reminded that this must have taken months to plan. I think of Tom again, keeping it a secret, and my heart sinks. ‘That’s right. I met one of the actors earlier, with his son – a really cute little boy with a gorgeous head of dark curls. He brought the boy along to make the performance seem more authentic. ’ Whaat? Nooo, it can’t be. ‘Was the little boy called Declan by any chance?’ I ask, mentally kicking myself for not having guessed that his dad was an actor. ‘Oh yes, I think so, how do you know? Have you met him too?’ Amy gives me a wide-eyed look. ‘Err, yes. This morning. He bought a Chlo? bag.’ And there was me thinking reality TV shows were, in fact, real. I can’t believe I didn’t cotton on. I should have guessed, with their gorgeous accents and picture-perfect shopping scenario, like something straight out of a Hallmark film. And with Hannah practically breathing down my neck as I served the guy, and then pretending it was authentic with her ‘wish I had a husband like that’ comment. I make a mental note to scrutinise every customer more thoroughly in future. Just because I’m doing the show – under protest, for the record – doesn’t mean Kelly can make a fool of me a second time. Besides, I’m only doing Kelly Cooper Come Instore to avoid having to flog boring washing machines downstairs, and because my swirly signatured fifteen-year-old self didn’t know any better than to check for sneaky ‘filming for worldwide TV broadcasting’ clauses. I do a big, satisfying harrumph inside my head. ‘Well, there you go. Nothing to it, just like any other day in Women’s Accessories,’ Amy says, attempting a bright smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I guess so.’ I shrug. ‘But it means losing a day off,’ I add, wondering if anyone has thought about that – and it’s not just me, all the staff have Sunday off. It might even be illegal to work six days per week. Ha! I don’t remember seeing that covered anywhere in the contract. ‘That’s why all staff who choose to take part will be paid extra for their time, their normal salary plus an additional payment, and also benefit from other perks. Guest appearances, interviews … Apparently it’s not uncommon for the people who appear in Kelly’s shows to go on and command considerable sums for doing all sorts of things – read bedtime stories to shoppers, I think was one suggestion, attend openings, magazine interviews; even appear on daytime TV, if they want to. And the board saw a whole stack of figures from KCTV showing how previous programmes boosted revenue for the businesses featured – by fifty per cent in some cases. So it really will be worth it, I’m sure, if Carrington’s is revived and we all get to keep our jobs.’ ‘Wow. Fifty per cent! That’s pretty impressive. It’ll be like the boom days again.’ Thinking back to that time, I remembered our sales figures were fantastic – Annie and I were almost doubling our salaries some months, with the amount of commission we made. And Carrington’s could certainly do with a boost, the way sales had been flagging recently. ‘Exactly. But you’ll need to be here early, for make-up and stuff. They want to start shooting, as it were, at around 10 a.m. Is that OK for you?’ ‘Sure,’ I say, thinking it will be worth losing my lazy Sunday mornings in bed and catching up on my Sky+ recordings to see Carrington’s back on top. I couldn’t bear it if the store went into a terminal decline and we all lost our jobs. And before Tom took over, that was a very real possibility. I can’t even contemplate Carrington’s going to the wall and having to close down. What would we do? We’re like a big happy family that looks out for each other. Laughing and working together – with a bit of gossiping too, of course. Someone even did a tally once and worked out that there had been eleven Carrington’s weddings over the years, where employees had married after meeting on the shop floor. Years ago, the staff actually used to board in the maze of rooms up in the attic and, during the Second World War, the underground tunnels, one of which meanders as far as Lovelace Street, a good mile away, were used as shelters during the blitz. The whole town, practically, took cover down there. Mrs Grace told me all about it. She remembers it clearly and she was only a little girl at the time. So, if Carrington’s were to close, then it would be like ripping the heart out of Mulberry-On-Sea, and I don’t think I could bear that. I decide to suck it up and get on with the show. I have to. For Carrington’s. And then it dawns on me, I’ll need to add the Kelly Cooper Come Instore series to my recording schedule. The actual show that I’m going to be in – and, despite everything that’s happened, a little shiver of excitement swirls through me. And hair extensions! I’m sure Kelly said something about hair extensions. I was so wound up this morning that I didn’t really take it all in. I’m going to have big hair. I wonder if I’ll get to have my teeth whitened too? Bound to! All the reality stars have perfect gleaming teeth. It’s a basic. And maybe I’ll get to go to film premi?res and stuff. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all. ‘Well, thanks for explaining it all. Just wish I’d known before – maybe then it wouldn’t have been such a massive shock, seeing myself on primetime TV like that, without any warning,’ I explain, realising that I actually feel OK about it now. It was the shock, that’s all. I panicked. If only Tom had told me, and sworn me to secrecy or something, not a single word would have passed my lips. And I could even have signed the NDA form too, and everything would still be perfect between us. I know how to keep a secret. I had plenty of practice when Dad was in prison – I hated people knowing and I even changed my surname to Mum’s maiden name as a way of burying my past, but I’m over that now and refuse to make Dad my guilty secret any more. But as Sam said, the surprise element for the viewers would have been ruined. Well, they wouldn’t have seen my jigging bottom, that’s for sure. I would have made damn sure of it. I vow never to shake my booty ever again. Just in case there’s a hidden camera lurking nearby. ‘You’re welcome to pop back any time if there’s anything else you want to chat about,’ she says, her voice softening now. ‘Thank you.’ I turn to leave. ‘And Georgie?’ she adds. ‘Yes?’ I stop and hold the door open with my foot. Amy hesitates and clears her throat. ‘I know it’s none of my business … ’ She pauses and fiddles with the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Go on.’ I smile encouragingly. ‘Well, I just wanted to say that I know you and Tom were, err … dating.’ A blotchy rash appears on her neck. She’s the first person up here on the executive floor to actually talk to me about our relationship … well, if you can call it that now. ‘Don’t be too hard on him … he really did want to tell you,’ she adds. ‘Oh?’ My forehead creases and I motion for her to carry on. ‘Yes, at first he was quite insistent on not signing the confidentiality agreement, and only caved in because the board were in danger of losing the show. He desperately wants Carrington’s to benefit from the publicity, to turn the store around and secure the future for all of us.’ ‘I see.’ She nods and I smile back. ‘Thank you.’ On leaving Amy’s office, I ponder on this insight as I make my way along the corridor. Maybe I was a little hasty in confronting Tom. I didn’t exactly give him much time to explain, and maybe he was reluctant to sign the agreement because he really did want to tell me, but just couldn’t, it was a business decision, nothing personal. Or maybe he genuinely did think it would be a wonderful surprise and that I’d love it, actually being in a reality TV show, instead of just lounging on the sofa necking wine and scoffing mince pies while watching one. I would probably have whooped for joy if I’d been shown in a positive light – after all, I love a good reality show as much as everyone else. And I guess we both just want the same thing at the end of the day: to make Carrington’s glorious again. I’ve got twenty minutes left of my lunch break so I decide to head to Tom’s office, figuring everyone deserves a second chance. It was just an argument that got out of hand. A misunderstanding. People say stuff they don’t really mean in the heat of the moment all the time. I know Sam ‘dumped’ Nathan at least three times in the run-up to their wedding. Bridezilla hormones, Sam called it, but, whatever it was, Nathan always forgave her, and Sam said that some of the best sex she ever had was after a bust-up. It got so passionate one time that she ended up with a row of little carpet burns all the way down her spine after they got carried away on the hall stairs. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/alexandra-brown/christmas-at-carrington-s/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.