Cupcakes at Carrington’s

Cupcakes at Carrington’s Alexandra Brown The first book in the hugely popular Carrington’s series from the No.1 bestselling author of The Great Christmas Knit-Off and The Secret of Orchard Cottage.Georgie Hart loves her job – running the luxury handbag concession at Carrington's Department store in the pretty seaside town of Mulberry-on-Sea, and treating herself (once too often!) to a red velvet cupcake with buttercream icing in Carrington's caf?.But Georgie is thrown into disarray when Carrington's is plunged into a recession-busting makeover, cueing the arrival of femme fatale Maxine, who wields the axe in her immaculately-manicured hands.It spells a recipe for disaster for Georgie and soon she is fighting not only for her job, but also for the attentions of her gorgeous boss, James. And when hot newcomer Tom arrives, who may or may not be the best thing since sliced bread, Georgie must decide where her loyalties really lie… ALEXANDRA BROWN Cupcakes at Carrington’s Copyright 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. Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2013 Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Source ISBN: 9780007488230 Ebook Edition © January 2013 ISBN: 9780007488247 Version: 2014-09-23 For Paul and QT Table of Contents Title Page (#u48cdf0c4-22fb-589c-9630-6c90dc77b64c) Copyright (#u82b31451-b627-59e8-93bb-23a720a39dda) Dedication (#uc28f2f65-5781-5539-a3b0-d9af56235331) Chapter 1 (#u411d6811-1c4b-5bf3-a9bb-48ad0220ab44) Chapter 2 (#uce59a520-e0a9-5179-8e80-5a664f213d04) Chapter 3 (#ud460dcab-b906-5870-bdee-1d85ee3147e5) Chapter 4 (#uf48bfeb4-ed69-5143-8ff1-2f3b9ba519f4) Chapter 5 (#u5f1db0d1-0b8d-5bde-a4a4-12148e59b701) Chapter 6 (#u3155f241-1ab0-56fd-9671-7e18280801ce) Chapter 7 (#u41400c14-8a91-5a61-aaeb-24d2af8f0071) Chapter 8 (#u8a210e9f-bd2e-5283-a555-bd3cd8b86158) Chapter 9 (#ue4ba083f-873e-5d74-b3e1-e83f74bc3320) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) In Conversation With Alexandra Brown (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) Footnotes (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) 1 It’s Tuesday morning in Mulberry-On-Sea, and Eddie is glaring with disapproval at my New Look heels as I step inside the staff lift and close the metal concertina cage door. ‘You know I just saw Sam outside. That cupcake queen totally blanked me,’ he says, preening into the mottled mirror on the lift wall. ‘Oh you know Sam. She probably had her mind on other things like giant macaroon mountains or gold glitter sprinkles.’ The mention of Sam highlights my rumbling stomach so I make a mental note to pop up to her caf? on the fifth floor, Cupcakes at Carrington’s, for a red velvet cupcake with butter cream icing. My favourite. Mm-mmm. And a good catch-up on all the gossip of course. Sam overhears all kinds of stuff. When Cynthia from the florist down on Sunray Crescent was having it away with Trevor, the town sheriff, she was the first to know. Trevor’s sister is a regular in the caf? and blabs all the juicy details to her mate over a cream horn and a steamy hot chocolate. ‘I take it you had a good weekend?’ I add, glancing at Eddie in the mirror as I bouf up my shoulder-length brunette bob. Last night, I used those giant sleep-in rollers, but after getting caught in a sudden downpour on my way to work, it now looks more floppy spaniel ears than big hair fabulous. ‘Yes, so-so … went to an impromptu Sex and the City themed party on Sunday,’ he replies, in his best diva voice. ‘And let me guess, you were channelling your inner Samantha?’ I laugh, shaking my head. Eddie adores her character. ‘Of course.’ He waves an imperious hand in the air before turning towards me. ‘And I’m so glad I took Monday off. The pornstar cocktails were divine, but there’s a limit, even for me,’ he says, clutching the side of his head. ‘Never mind the pornstars, tell me about the men.’ I’m keen to hear about another one of his scandalous weekends, if only to take my mind off the one I spent alone. ‘Oh, wall-to-wall Carries of course,’ he sniffs. ‘Aaand …?’ I smile, fishing for more information. ‘Aaand what?’ ‘You know … your “Smith” – was he there too? Come on, tell all, you know you want to.’ I give him a playful nudge of encouragement. He hesitates. ‘Nope.’ He looks away. ‘But it’ll be Valentine’s Day in six weeks or so. And … well, if he doesn’t want to spend it with me then it’s his loss,’ he adds with a flourish, before pulling a face. ‘I thought you two were totally loved-up?’ I say, steering the conversation away from the most romantic day of the year. It’s not that I don’t like being single. I do. Sometimes. And I’m only twenty-seven. But Valentine’s Day can be tricky. Especially when everyone else is bound to be whooping it up with ten-course taster menus followed by cosy strolls along the seafront under velvety moonlit skies, and I’m home alone with a bar of chocolate to keep me company. And unless my love life takes a serious upturn – I’ll be doing the same again this year. I think of the last Valentine’s Day I spent with Brett nearly two years ago, it was our third together. I’d felt happy and loved-up, blissfully unaware that I was going to be dumped within a few weeks. He left me for someone else – a tall blonde with big hair and a sylph-like figure compared to my average height and bootylicious curves, as Brett used to say. My heart constricts a little, but I’m over him. I force myself to concentrate on Eddie’s love life instead. ‘So did I.’ Eddie shrugs. ‘So what’s changed then?’ ‘Well, not returning my calls for starters.’ ‘I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. He’ll probably call you today,’ I say, knowing how sensitive Eddie can be. ‘Maybe …’ He looks away. ‘So what do you know then, Ed?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject. Eddie is the boss’s boy assistant – his BA. Unusual I know, but Walter Davenport, who’s the managing director of Carrington’s department store, where we work, didn’t earn his nickname ‘The Heff’, as in Hugh Hefner, for no reason. Whisper has it that after Walter’s wealthy heiress wife found out about his dalliance with yet another girl less than half his age, she imposed a lifelong ban on him having female PAs. This cued the arrival of Eddie, who is a voracious gossip queen. Rather fittingly he’s privy to all kinds of useful – and indeed sometimes useless but delicious anyway – snippets of information. ‘Well you know me, never one for gossip,’ he says, perking up and smoothing an already immaculate HD eyebrow with his little finger, while I try and resist the urge to smile at his blatant delusion. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Although admittedly it is a scintillating subject.’ He pauses momentarily and places a hand on his pristine fitted jacket, as if he’s pledging allegiance. ‘Oh come on Ed. Don’t be such a tease,’ I plead, now dying to know what he knows. ‘Weell.’ He pauses for dramatic effect and a naughty smile dances across his lips. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, right?’ His eyes dart from side to side. ‘Of course. My lips are sealed.’ I make a quick zipping action across my glossed mouth before throwing an imaginary key away. ‘Seems The Heff has been getting very intimate with one of those ?ber-swanky retail consultancies up in London. You know, the ones where they charge upwards of a thousand pounds per day to tell you what you already know. Twenty-seven phone calls in the last fortnight alone! Methinks he may be looking for a change of direction before winding down for retirement,’ he says triumphantly, just as the lift shudders to a halt, signifying our arrival at the next floor and stealing my moment to probe him for more details. Eddie flashes a warning look in my direction as we simultaneously turn to face the cage door. The Heff is bent over right in front of us, busy tying the lace of his left brogue. Using both hands, I slide the door open, hoping it doesn’t get stuck again. Last week I was on my tea break, travelling to the caf? to see Sam, and ended up trapped on the third floor for nearly two hours waiting for Charles, our Rastafarian handyman, to come back from visiting his sister Esther in hospital and prise the cage door open for me. ‘Good morning, or is it afternoon yet?’ Walter guffaws. He makes the same joke every day. After returning to a standing position, he strides into the lift and turns to slide the door closed. ‘Morning,’ Eddie and I both say in unison as we shuffle backwards until we’re standing side by side behind him, breathing in the spicy aftershave fumes that permanently beat around his lofty frame. ‘Georgina! You’re looking delightful today as ever.’ ‘Thank you Walter,’ I mutter, smiling to myself at his dated old-school charm. He’s like it with all the girls in the store. ‘How’s business in Women’s Accessories these days?’ ‘Very good,’ I reply enthusiastically, even though we all know sales have dwindled dramatically throughout the whole shop for at least the last year or so. And the new superstore down on the industrial estate hasn’t helped matters, either, not when you can get a whole new wardrobe, with accessories, for less than fifty quid in there. ‘The new luggage line is doing exceptionally well. We’ve sold two pieces already. The local designer has delivered a few more of her handmade exclusive silk purses in candy pink, which I’m hoping to sell as Valentine gifts. And I can’t wait for the limited edition Chiavacci Kelly bags to arrive from Italy.’ ‘Jolly good. Keep up the good work. The Chiavaccis could make all the difference. We’re lucky to be getting them – only made ten: six in the US, two in Dubai … and us.’ The Heff slides a hand through his silver hair and, puffing his chest out triumphantly, he starts rocking gently on his heels, stretching his braces out in front of him. I sneak a sideways look at Eddie, who pokes his tongue out and then quickly retracts it, just like a lizard. I try not to laugh as the ancient lift creaks through a few more floors. ‘That’s us,’ The Heff booms, slapping his hands together and making me jump. He flings the cage door open and, like an athlete off the blocks, wastes no time in setting off. I let out a little sigh of relief. Eddie dashes out behind him and then pauses momentarily to look back at me over his shoulder. ‘Not a word now,’ he says in his perfected stage-whisper voice and blows me a kiss as the lift starts moving again. I travel down to the ground floor, pondering on Eddie’s gossip, trying to fathom out how it might affect me if it were true. What does Walter know? The feeling lingers, making me edgy. These days nobody is changing jobs unless they really have to. I step out of the lift and make my way along the dimly lit staff corridor that winds the entire length of the ground level. It still has the original 1920s Tiffany glass wall lights. After pressing the security pad to release the heavy fire entrance doors, I arrive on the shop floor. My feet immediately sink down a couple of centimetres into a new plush carpet as I wade over towards my section at the front of the store. ‘Georgie Girl! How are you today?’ Ciaran hollers in his lovely Southern Irish accent. He’s a waiter in Sam’s caf?, and he’s calling me from behind two massive bundles of cellophane-wrapped napkins. ‘Not like you to be this late – it’s practically lunchtime.’ ‘Ha ha very funny,’ I laugh, glancing at my watch. ‘It’s not even opening time. Anyway, what are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs making banoffee coffees?’ ‘What happened, you get stuck in this silly new carpet?’ he says, ignoring my banter and placing the napkins down on a counter nearby. He treats me to a huge grin before shooting me with his pretend finger pistol. I like Ciaran – we’re Twitter mates and underneath the flirty swagger he’s a sweet guy, but he can be so na?ve at times, especially when it comes to women. ‘Yeah, something like that,’ I lie. The truth is I was up until nearly midnight filling in one of those income and expenditure forms for the bank. I’m hoping they’ll let me reduce the monthly payments on a personal loan. And then I spent at least an hour lying in bed trying to unwind so I could fall asleep. I must have just slept right through the alarm. Pinning my gold Carrington’s name badge into place, I reach my till point, which I think is the best one on the floor. It’s right at the front of the store, next to the floor-to-ceiling window display, giving me a panoramic view of the cobbled street with its white colonnaded walkway, pretty pansy hanging baskets and romantic olde-worlde streetlamps. During quiet times, and we’ve had a few recently, I love watching all the people milling up and down outside, or huddled in a deckchair enjoying a musical performance on the bandstand opposite. And on a clear early morning, when the town is still empty, I can see as far as the peppermint-green railings down by the harbour and out to the glistening sea beyond. Carrington’s is an Art Deco institution set in a prime location in the seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea, where everyone knows us and most of the locals have grown up coming to the store. For anything from school uniforms to wedding gift lists to baby clothes, they all turn to Carrington’s. Tourists stop to take pictures of our impressive powder-blue building with its intricate white cornicing around enormous arched windows. The store is nearly a hundred years old, and not quite as glorious as it was in its heyday, but still a landmark on the south coast. Owned by a family firm spanning three generations, Carrington’s offers old-style elegance alongside the latest merchandise. The shop floor in front of me is lit up like a Valentine’s theme park. Red and silver lights are entwined around the original ornate Art Deco marble pillars, which are dotted throughout the high-ceilinged space. Giant Perspex hearts containing merchandise hang on lengths of invisible thread, giving an illusion of floating handbags, shoes and glittery costume jewellery. Even the traditional cherrywood gilt-inlayed panelled walls have twinkly rose-shaped fairy lights draped all over them. The display guys have done an amazing job in replacing all the post-Christmas sales stuff and getting the store ready for our next big seasonal promotion, Valentine’s Day. Even though I’m single at the moment, I still love this time of year. The atmosphere in store is always so fun and flirty, and that makes me enjoy working here even more. All six of the podiums situated by the entrance doors showcase various items amidst scattered rose petals and miniature Cupid figurines, luxury scented candles, thick embossed rainbow-coloured stationery and silky lingerie, drawing customers in, showing a teaser of what’s on offer within. All designed to entice customers to touch the merchandise, to place a coveted bag over a shoulder or run a finger across the shoestring strap of an exquisite La Perla negligee. After all, it’s ‘all about the merch’ as we say, and every decent retail assistant knows that customers who try it buy it. True fact. And there’s everything on offer to our customers. Handbags, shoes, cosmetics, all mingled in together with a glorious surge of euphoric optimism. A promise of reinvention, of a better life. And I just adore the look on customers’ faces when they emerge through the shiny brass revolving doors, flushed with adrenalin as they try to decide where their retail experience will begin. Savouring every moment. It’s one of the reasons I work here. But my memories of the store go back a long way. I grew up in Mulberry-On-Sea and Mum used to bring me here on Saturdays and we’d shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom with its Formica tables and white-pinnied waitresses. We always had such a good time, just being happy together. This was years before Sam turned it into Cupcakes at Carrington’s, a cosy caf? serving red velvet cupcakes and sponge cake with pinkberry-infused frosting. Plonking my handbag in the little locker secreted behind the glass-topped counter, I rummage around for my mobile. I locate it nestled inside a red payment reminder letter that arrived this morning from the gas company. After flicking the phone onto silent mode, I slip it inside my trouser pocket and quickly shove the letter back to the bottom of the bag, vowing to deal with it later. The smell of newness mingled with expensive perfume wafts over from the various cosmetics concessions. All three of the security guys are getting into position by the entrance doors. I give Annie, one of the other sales assistants, a quick smile as she plumps up a gorgeous midnight-blue Mulberry tote with rose-gold detailing. As I busy myself placing trays of rainbow-coloured chunky cocktail rings on top of a display cabinet, Betty, our mumsy switchboard supervisor, puffs her way over to me, pulling her hand-knitted cardy in tighter around her rotund frame. ‘A rather lovely-sounding man from the Fiat garage called for you,’ she just about manages, in between gasping for air and reaching for her glasses that are bobbing on the end of a chain around her neck. ‘Oh?’ I crease my forehead, wondering why he called the main number and not my mobile. ‘He said if you want to call him back he’ll be delighted to chat things through with you. I tried putting him through but your extension is engaged.’ I swivel around to the phone and see the handset hasn’t been replaced properly. ‘Sorry Betty, I didn’t realise, it won’t happen again,’ I say, knowing we’re not supposed to have personal calls come through the switchboard. ‘Don’t worry duck.’ Smiling, she hands me a pink Post-it note with the return number on before making her way back over to the staff security door. ‘So, come on then. Are you buying a new car?’ Ciaran says, placing his elbow on the counter and leaning in towards me. ‘Oh, err … just thinking about things at this stage,’ I say, fiddling with my hair. The truth is I can’t afford the monthly payments on my car any more, let alone the petrol to put in it. I’m hoping the garage will buy it back so I can clear the finance. And I just wish my last pay review hadn’t been quite so non-existent. I’d been hoping for at least a small rise, but nothing. Zilch. In fact, when I work it out, I’ve probably taken a pay cut, if I take into account the hike in tax and everything else these days. I force the worry from my mind, and resolve to keep all spending to absolute essentials only. Mortgage, food, utilities and the occasional red velvet cupcake … I shove a smile on my face. ‘Fiats aren’t very fast though, are they?’ Ciaran says, rolling his eyes. ‘Oh, I’m not bothered about all of that,’ I say, trying to sound convincing. Better make sure I shift a few more of the high-end handbags just in case the garage doesn’t go for it. Two per cent of the sales price of every ?2,000 Bottega Veneta soon adds up. And I’ve got eight of them. I do a quick commission tally in my head and hope for the best. ‘So how was your weekend?’ I ask, changing the subject. I can see that he’s desperate to tell me something, he’s swivelling his eyes around like Inspector Clouseau, but before he has a chance to answer, his girlfriend Tina appears. After placing a possessive arm around Ciaran’s waist, she flicks her high ponytail, sneaks a smug glance in my direction and turns her face towards his. ‘What was all that about?’ she pants, desperate not to miss out on a bit of gossip, and not bothering to excuse herself for having barged in on our conversation. ‘Nothing, we were just chatting about cars.’ He grins. ‘Oh,’ she says, dismissively. ‘Well, have you heard about Emma in Stationery?’ She pauses to make big eyes, but before Ciaran can answer she carries on. ‘She’s pregnant again.’ ‘But didn’t she just come back from maternity leave?’ Ciaran says, looking puzzled, and I can’t help laughing as he pulls a monkey face. Tina shoots another stare at me. ‘She’s so lucky. Just imagine all that time off. I can’t wait until it’s our turn.’ Tina tilts her head back and closes her eyes for a moment, as if imagining the whole experience as her very own nirvana before looking to Ciaran for his response. A fleeting look of panic appears on his face, which is quickly replaced with a half-smile. He opens his mouth to say something else, but she puts a finger on his lips before he can talk. In addition to being Ciaran’s girlfriend, Tina is the accounts manager, or at least that’s the title she gave herself. She adds up the sales receipts, checking the money and allocating our commission before someone from the office up on the executive floor authorises it all. But most of all, she bosses people around, especially Lauren, a nineteen-year-old first-job girl on one of those NVQ schemes. Anyway, Tina’s excelled herself by making Lauren organise the next Christmas party already. A memo was stuck on the staff-room wall requesting the ?15 payment by cheque and our dinner choices by the end of next week … and the turkey carcass is barely cold after last year’s do. ‘Oh I think it’s so romantic,’ Tina smiles. ‘Sure it is. Anyway, got to go, only came down to collect these from the delivery guy. Tweet you later,’ Ciaran says, winking at me and grabbing up the napkins before sauntering off towards the fire door. Tina scurries off after him, moaning about his Twitter addiction and how much of a flirt he is. Poor Ciaran! What’s wrong with a bit of Twitter? How else would I get to talk to famous people like Cheryl Cole or Mr I Am with his ‘boom boom and dope’ lines? 2 ‘Hello. Cupcakes at Carrington’s … how may I direct your caaall?’ This throws me for a second. It’s definitely Sam’s bubbly ‘everything is lovely in the world’ voice, but there’s an East Coast American accent attached to it now. ‘Sam, is everything OK?’ I ask, tentatively, as I duck into the little recessed vestibule behind my counter. We’re not really supposed to make personal calls during opening hours, but everyone does, and as long as the shop floor is quiet and we’re discreet, it’s all right. ‘Oh, thank God it’s only you,’ Sam says, back in her normal voice. ‘What’s going on?’ I hesitate, and then brace myself for the answer. I’ve known Sam since school and, despite my abrupt exit halfway through, catapulting our lives in totally different directions, we managed to stay in touch and be best friends ever since. But she has dragged me through some real harebrained escapades over the years. Sam’s always been a real foodie, so when Miss Sims retired and some genius here decided the Carrington’s tearoom needed an overhaul, I rang her right away. At the time, Sam had just been sacked from her personal shopper job at Harvey Nichols because she’d spent more time concentrating on the ‘personal’ part of her job title than actually trying to sell things to the customers. But her ex-boss had been so impressed with her sterling spending efforts that she’d been given a platinum store card by way of a sweetener. So, after a cash injection from her mega-wealthy dad, Sam made the move down from Chelsea to Mulberry-On-Sea and now reigns supreme over her gorgeous caf?. It has a honey-hued interior and reclaimed train seats upholstered in crimson velvet, sectioned into booths, so you feel as though you’re actually in a real vintage steam train, complete with golden glow lighting from frilly-shaded table lamps. It’s very nostalgic in an Orient Express kind ofway. And the food is to die for – salted caramel cupcakes, rainbow salads, delicious artisan breads and the most fabulous afternoon cream teas you can possibly imagine. Homemade scones piled high with strawberry jam and gooey clotted cream, surrounded by delicate finger sandwiches crammed with every filling imaginable. ‘Oh nothing. It’s just some guy called Justin. He says we met a few months ago at a club. Well, anyway he keeps calling and texting.’ ‘Hmm … why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested?’ ‘Well I tried, but he’s being very persistent. Anyway, I’m hoping the other guy calls and I can pretend to be unavailable?’ she says, dramatically. ‘Hence the screening, this way I can take orders over the phone and still make myself appear elusive and mysteriously hard to get at the same time.’ She laughs, seemingly satisfied with her elaborate plan. ‘So who’s the other guy then?’ I ask, feeling confused. The last time we spoke, just a couple of days ago, she was going on about some guy called Steve. Sam changes her men like the rest of us switch TV channels, making it near on impossible to keep up with her. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe I haven’t told you about him yet. It must be love. I’m losing my mind already. He’s only “the one”. I met him when I was having my monthly dinner date with Dad on Friday, up in London at The Ivy. He was on the next table, and well he’s a lawyer, maritime or something, and he lives here but commutes to London. And he’s a gentleman, not full of himself like all those shouty Cityboy types, but anyway, Dad knew his boss, so we got chatting and he’s absolutely drop-dead, knicker-ripping gorgeous. Not that he’s done that yet, but I’m working on it.’ I try and push the image of Sam’s knickers being ripped from her body, from my mind. ‘Are you still there?’ I say, having heard about ‘the one’ a zillion times before. ‘Yes. Err sorry,’ she sighs, no doubt having lost herself in some fantasy moment. ‘What did you want?’ she says, dreamily, followed by, ‘Oh my God, sorry that sounded so rude.’ ‘Charming,’ I say, feigning mock hurt. ‘Just wondered if you’re free later for a gossip and to ask if you can keep one of those delicious red velvet cupcakes for me please?’ ‘Oh sorry hun, none left.’ ‘Whaat? But you must have. It’s not even tea break time yet.’ I can’t believe it. ‘A guy came and bought the whole batch for his office Christmas party.’ ‘But it’s January! That’s outrageous, why couldn’t he have his party at the actual proper time in December, like everyone else?’ I say, fighting a sudden urge to hunt the guy down and beg for a cake – they’re that good. ‘Ciaran served him. You know I’d have kept one back otherwise … Talking of Ciaran, have you seen him recently?’ ‘Yes, he was down here earlier, why?’ ‘Did he seem different to you?’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘Not really, why?’ ‘He’s up to something, I’m sure of it. I reckon he’s got his eye on someone.’ ‘Don’t be daft. He’s with Tina.’ ‘Even more reason to look elsewhere,’ she snorts. ‘Why else does he keep disappearing then? And it’s not to see Tina, because she’s in here demanding to know where he is all the time.’ ‘I’ve no idea.’ ‘Never mind, maybe it’s my imagination. Anyway, what delicious delight can I tempt you with instead?’ ‘I’ll have one of those vanilla slices.’ ‘A millefeuille, do you mean?’ ‘Think so, the one with layers of puff pastry and loads of deliciously thick custardy cream-type stuff inside, topped with combed fondant icing an—’ ‘Sorry, can you hang on a sec?’ I hear the whoosh of the steam from the coffee machine as I lick my lips, willing her to have one left. I’m practically salivating at the mere thought. ‘Right, that’s all done. I’ve popped one in a box inside the fridge, what time will you be up?’ ‘Lunchtime?’ I want to use my tea break to organise the Valentine’s raffle. With the dwindling sales recently, every bit helps. ‘Oooh, can you make it later? I’ve got to pop out to the cash and carry. How about fiveish?’ It’s early as we don’t close until six today, but I can always ask Annie to cover the last hour. I covered three times for her last week. ‘Sure, look forward to it.’ ‘OK hun. Bye for now. Oh, I almost forgot, you don’t mind if “the one” comes along on Saturday, do you? I can always ask him to bring a friend. Just imagine, we could double-date on Valentine’s Day – if you like him, of course.’ ‘No. Err … yes,’ I say, thinking no more blind dates. I’ve been caught out like this before. Her man of the moment brings along a friend who usually turns out to be the beer-bellied guy with the body odour problem. ‘What’s his name?’ ‘Nathan. How sexy is that?’ she squeals. ‘Mmm. Nice. Well it’s your birthday after all, and if he really is “the one” then you’ll want him there,’ I say, wanting her to be happy. ‘But no blind dates, do you hear me?’ ‘Pardon?’ Sam giggles, before ending the call. I drop the receiver back on the phone and peer down at my trousers, only to see that I now look as though I’m wearing a pair of fluffy Ugg boots too. ‘What’s with the carpet?’ I say to no one in particular. It’s my boss, the floor supervisor, James, who replies. ‘Blame upstairs,’ he says, approaching my counter. He’s carrying two crystal weights with lengths of silver ribbon attached to crimson heart-shaped balloons. ‘Here,’ he says, handing them to me. ‘Save you having to go down to the basement to organise them.’ He’s wearing a new slim-fit shirt that nicely accentuates the V of his firm chest. I quickly look away, praying he didn’t spot me checking him out. ‘Thanks. And I’m sorry,’ I say, gesturing to the phone. He waves a hand. ‘Ahh, no problem. It’s fine if there aren’t any customers around.’ He smiles casually. I take the balloons, reflecting on how thoughtful he is. His hand brushes mine and he immediately apologises, while a little shiver of excitement pulses through me. It’s just such a shame that he’s married, and that he’s my boss, because he’s so hot. I remember when he interviewed me for the job. The sandy-blond hair that kept bobbing into his eyes as he looked down at the questions on the desk in front of him. His emerald-green eyes probing me for the answers every time he looked back up, and the fact that he’s oblivious to it – well, it just makes him so damn sexy. ‘You OK? You look tired.’ He grins, and a warm glow flickers within me. He’s the first guy I’ve felt anything for since the disastrous break-up with Brett. We had been virtually inseparable for three years and his betrayal hit me really hard. ‘Thanks a lot. Do I really look that bad?’ I say, instantly hoping he’ll disagree. ‘No. No I didn’t mean it like that,’ he replies, momentarily patting my arm by way of apology, and I take a deep breath. After Brett left I swore off men completely – I really wasn’t interested in going through that sort of pain again – but it’s reassuring to know my heart hasn’t been completely shattered, and that maybe I’m ready to start dating again. ‘So what’s with this carpet?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject. ‘And have you seen the state of these?’ Feeling flustered, I peer down at my legs. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say they were a state exactly. They look fine to me.’ His cheeks flush for a second and he clears his throat. I feel embarrassed. ‘Shame about the fluff though,’ he finishes, with a gentle laugh. ‘Somebody decided to splash out and re-carpet the entire shop. Staff canteen included.’ ‘What a waste of money. Before you know it we’ll be closing down and switching to “online purchasing only”,’ I snort. The edgy feeling from earlier swirls around inside me again. ‘Trust you, always thinking about the bottom line.’ He shakes his head. ‘Well, I don’t see you complaining when I shift all of the high-end stock,’ I tease. But the truth of it is that my section of the shop-floor space does make the most money. The others say that it’s because I’m shameless and not averse to using my wily powers of persuasion when boyfriends and husbands rush in to buy a last-minute gift. But it’s not my fault if they opt for the biggest hobo bag after I let slip how the lucky woman will squeal with delight and love them forever on unwrapping such a gift. All the while discreetly nudging the small version to the far end of the counter, and therefore out of mind … as demonstrated by Mrs Grace herself on my induction day. Mrs Grace rocked Women’s Accessories for fifty years before retiring and handing the mantle to me. She now helps out part-time in the stock room, as she had to come back to work because her husband Stan was ‘driving her round the twist’ and spanking all their pension money on his ‘filthy birds’, which she later explained were actually pigeons. ‘True. You’re really good at what you do and that’s why I need your help this afternoon.’ ‘This afternoon?’ I say, my eyes widening at the prospect of a change in routine. ‘Yep, a wealthy customer is arriving to do a spot of personal shopping and he’s expressed a particular interest in our high-end designer handbags. Malikov someone or another, I think “his people” said.’ James makes sarcastic quote signs with his fingers. ‘Six times they’ve called today demanding to speak to security ahead of his arrival. And then banging on about CCTV cameras and how we must respect his privacy.’ ‘Malikov?’ ‘That’s right, Konstantin Malikov, a Russian businessman apparently.’ James flashes his perfect white smile at me. ‘Oh yes, it just so happens that Mr and Mrs Malikov are keen to spend some time here in the south of England whilst their only daughter is settled into Dean Hall.’ The mention of Dean Hall injects a flash memory moment of the few years I spent at boarding school before everything changed and my whole world fell apart. ‘And naturally they are looking to offload some of their wealth in our fine establishment.’ The memory is instantly replaced with excitement at the thought of my share of the sales commission. James often asks me to help him with the personal shopping customers, and over the years we’ve developed a strategy, a kind of double act that has reaped some fantastic sales. James looks as though he’s about to say something else when a pumped-up version of ‘Love Is In The Air’pounds through the sound system, signifying opening time. There’s an old dear with a tartan shopper waiting by the door to come in. ‘Was there something else?’ I ask James on seeing his hesitation. ‘It’ll keep,’ he says over his shoulder as he strolls off towards the escalators. 3 After processing a card payment for a sparkly teardrop necklace, I turn towards my customer. She’s wearing a shiny green skirt that’s the same colour as a Quality Street triangle and has the biggest static hairdo I’ve ever seen. ‘There you are.’ I’ve gift-wrapped the item and popped it into one of our special Valentine jewellery bags. Crimson with silver rope handles, and a sprinkle of limited edition Cupid-shaped confetti. ‘And thank you very much.’ I smile, making sure I maintain eye contact. ‘Thank you dear. It’s for my daughter, her thirtieth. You know, she was actually born on Valentine’s Day, just after midnight, a true gift of love my husband always says. It’s so exciting … but makes me feel very old,’ she chuckles, patting her hair-helmet before stowing the receipt safely in her purse. A lump catches briefly in my throat as I remember Mum. She loved birthdays, always got excited too. I swallow hard and smile. 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 and everything else can be left behind the scenes. Safe and secure. Unlike my foster home, where Nanny Jean used to sigh whenever I walked in the room and her husband would yell ‘cup of tea’ at me all the time like I was the live-in maid. And as for their brat of a birth daughter, Kimberley, who once told me it was no wonder my real family didn’t want me, given how ugly I was … ‘Well, you must have been very young when your daughter was born,’ I say warmly, shoving the memories from my head. ‘You’re very kind. And yes, I suppose I was,’ she replies in a dreamy voice, as if casting her mind back. She pats my hand and smiles before leaving. The shop floor is really quiet, so I choose a selection of our very best bags for the Russian to browse through and take them up the back stairs to the personal shopping suite before bombing back down to my till. Carrington’s is a bit of a maze. The underground corridors down in the basement go on forever and there’s even one that runs all the way to the old music hall at the other end of Lovelace Walk, a few streets away. Rumour has it that the original Mr H. Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, had the corridor built especially as a discreet way to ‘visit’ showgirls, then pay them in kind by inviting them back for secret late-night shopping sprees. Sort of like a free trolley dash in return for sex I suppose. Mrs Grace told me all about it. Once back, I discreetly tilt the computer screen and decide to Google Malikov while indulging in some online window shopping. I tap the screen to bring up the Carrington’s Home Shopping site. As I select the home furnishings icon, Eddie sidles up to my counter. ‘God I’m bored,’ he says, pulling a sulky face. ‘The Heff has gone off somewhere, said he won’t be back until the end of the day, so I’ve got nothing to do. You know he can be so selfish sometimes.’ ‘There must be something you can find to busy yourself with,’ I say, distractedly, as I hover the cursor over the ‘Get the Look’ tab. ‘Nope. Nothing …’ Eddie pauses and stares into the middle distance for a bit before announcing, ‘I know! Let’s go to Patagonia and flirt with cowboys.’ He widens his eyes and crosses his arms. Refusing to be distracted, I click the mouse and take a look at a colonial-style bedroom. ‘What do you think of this?’ I ask, tapping the screen. ‘Boring!’ he says, dismissively. ‘And look at the price tag – more than two thousand pounds. Even with our staff discount card it’s still extortionate. Sweet Jeeeesus … I’d want my whole flat and my next-door neighbour’s refurbished for that amount.’ ‘Oh me too, this stuff is way outside my budget.’ ‘So why are you looking then?’ ‘Well there’s no harm in taking a peek.’ ‘Of course there isn’t, but tell me something – why are you up to your eyes in debt?’ he says, placing the tip of his little finger at the side of his mouth and pulling a quizzical face. ‘You know why – it was hard when I came out of care, I just wanted somewhere nice to live like everyone else and got sucked in by all those adverts dishing out 125 per cent mortgages like free newspapers at the station,’ I say, remembering the sticky cold lino and thin faded towels at Nanny Jean’s house, while Kimberley kept all the big fluffy pink ones in her bedroom. And the bank didn’t hesitate in giving me the mortgage, even though any idiot knew I really couldn’t afford the payments without achieving record sales commission every month for ever and ever and ever. Those were the days when designer handbags were a must-have and my sales commission skyrocketed as a result. I just wish I’d known back then that the boom would eventually bust. ‘OK, calm down, you know you didn’t even take a breath then. And I’m sorry, didn’t mean to upset you and bring it all back.’ I pull a face, thinking about the grubby bedsit I wound up in after I was shunted from the care system, with my whole world stuffed inside a couple of black sacks and a jaded social worker to guide me. I was on my own, and the only way to eke out my junior sales assistant’s salary and make ends meet was by living on credit cards and personal loans. ‘Now, where were we?’ I ask Eddie. ‘You were just about to buy something,’ he laughs. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, clicking to close the Internet browser. ‘Oh, I’m only joking, kiddo.’ Eddie pats my arm. ‘So, has Smith rung yet?’ I ask, swiftly sidestepping the focus away from my mountainous debt problem. Eddie’s the only one who knows about it. He was with me when my debit card got declined in Starbucks one time – it was the day before payday and I was mortified. But Eddie swiftly stepped in and defused the situation by handing the barista a fiver before giving me a hug and a bite of his skinny peach muffin. I ended up telling him everything over a scalding chai tea latte, right back from the start. ‘Not a whiff,’ Eddie says, looking despondent. He scans the shop floor and after making sure regular customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, can’t hear as they wave at me on their way over to the escalator, he leans in close and whispers, ‘Do you think I should call him? Only I don’t want to look desperate or anything.’ He nervously plucks at the skin on his neck. ‘It’s driving me mad, what do you think I should do?’ ‘Mmmm, tricky one. Maybe hold out until tomorrow, if you can. Let him know what he’s missing,’ I say, feeling sorry for him having to endure the ‘will he or won’t he call?’ agony. He doesn’t have much luck with men, and I really thought he’d met a keeper this time. ‘But what if it’s too late? All I want to know is if he still feels the same way. I’m just not sure any more.’ ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ I ask, keeping my voice low. He shrugs before answering. ‘Weell … not coming to the party for starters, when he’d promised to. And I still haven’t heard from him with an explanation. It just doesn’t look very positive for a successful Valentine’s Day, does it?’ ‘I suppose not,’ I reply, unsure of what else to say. ‘But like you said earlier in the lift, it’s his loss,’ I add, brightly. ‘Hmmm, guess I was just being ballsy.’ Eddie pulls a face. ‘But you definitely don’t want to be chasing after him. Nothing worse than hankering after unrequited love on February the fourteenth,’ I say. There’s a silence, and I can see that Eddie is pondering on what to do for the best. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. Why should I chase after him? He can put his little hoofs into gear and trot after me for a change,’ he smirks, changing tack again. ‘What are you two up to?’ Ciaran appears from behind the Lulu Guinness bag display. ‘Nothing much. Why?’ Eddie replies. ‘No reason. You just look very cosy, huddled together there, that’s all.’ ‘We were just indulging in some online window shopping therapy,’ Eddie replies, swiftly. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ ‘Well don’t be spending too much.’ Ciaran wags a finger before winking at me. ‘We’ll spend what we like, somebody has to keep the economy going,’ Eddie says, abruptly, and then turns to me. ‘Don’t they honeybunch?’ in a much nicer voice. Ciaran looks towards the ceiling before checking his watch. ‘Anyway, what are you doing down here again? Seems like you can’t keep away,’ Eddie sniffs, glancing in my direction, as if I’m the reason Ciaran’s hanging around. But that’s ridiculous. ‘Meeting Tina. And here she is.’ He glances over towards the staff door where Tina is standing with her hands on her hips. After Ciaran leaves I turn to Eddie. ‘What was that all about? You know we’re not actually buying anything. It’s just a bit of fun looking.’ ‘Oh nothing. I’m on a come-down, and him, with his fake “bad boy” thing going on and his shovel-carrying troll … well they just get on my nerves,’ he says quietly. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘It’s obvious she’s only after his inheritance, if he ever gets it! Last I heard his fabulously wealthy parents weren’t overly impressed with him working as a mere waiter in a caf?.’ He crosses his arms and pulls an old lady face. ‘But he doesn’t seem to realise it. See, there she goes again with her little shovel, digging for gold.’ I turn just in time to see Tina push her arm through Ciaran’s as they leave the shop floor. ‘Eddie, that’s a horrible thing to say …’ I begin, but suddenly Tina’s relentless pursuit of Ciaran makes more sense. James suddenly bombs over. ‘Quick, follow me.’ He drums his fingers along the front of my counter with excitement. ‘Why? What’s happening?’ I ask. ‘The Russian bear and his entourage have arrived early and they require fawning. Lots of it. Think Pretty Woman. Big mistake. Big. Huge … and all that if we don’t get up there and FAWN!’ James looks charged as he pulls a tie from his pocket and slings it around his neck. Feeding off his adrenalin, I grab the Spring/Summer catalogue and the limited edition Valentine’s brochure before hurtling over and asking Annie to cover for me. She nods and smiles before plumping up a gorgeous caramel suede tote with a tassel drawstring. ‘Can I come? Could do with a bit of Russian eye candy,’ Eddie says, jokingly, knowing really that it’s his cue to go. I blow him a kiss as I race after James who is already standing by the staff exit. ‘Come on,’ James yells. He’s holding the cage door of the lift back with one hand and beckoning with his other for me to hurry up. Feeling exuberant, I jump hard into the lift and then instantly regret it when it quivers violently. I look at James but he just grins back at me, totally oblivious to my embarrassment. ‘We can chat on the way up,’ he says, fixing his sparkly eyes onto mine as he presses the button to take us to the personal shopping suite. 4 ‘So what will you spend your share of the commission on, Georgie?’ James asks, turning to face me. ‘Not sure,’ I say, knowing it’ll go towards the gas bill. ‘What about you?’ ‘Oh, it’s got to be a weekend away. I was thinking a few days lazing in the sun. What do you think?’ He flashes a smile at me, and I allow myself a momentary fantasy that he’s actually inviting me to join him. ‘Mmm, I could do with a break. A nice hotel with a pool.’ I grin, enjoying the relief the fantasy brings and forgetting my cash-flow problems for a moment. ‘Yes. Now you’re talking. When shall we go?’ he jokes, and we both laugh. ‘Now, getting back to Malikov, from what his “people” said, he’s prepared to buy a lot of merch, but only if he gets a “super deal”, as he calls it.’ ‘In other words he wants to feel as though he’s got a bargain?’ I say. James nods. ‘Indeed. But, as you know, we only have a very small margin for manoeuvre on the sales price.’ ‘Leave him to me. I’m sure I can make him see what a bargain he’ll be getting.’ I smile, relishing the prospect. James shakes his head. He looks amused. ‘So what have you managed to find out about him?’ he asks, flipping his cricket club tie over and under until it’s knotted perfectly. James has a passion for the sport, which is handy given that he runs Men’s Accessories incorporating a little Sportswear section too. And as bowler for the Mulberry-On-Sea First XI team, he spends every Sunday up on the grassy common being admired by the WI ladies who ply him with cucumber sandwiches and cream teas. I remember seeing him in his cricket whites once when he changed into them before leaving work, and it was true he looked pretty adorable. ‘Well, obviously Malikov’s wealthy. Loves to take a risk; he supposedly sustained a gunshot wound to his right leg during military service, but there’s speculation about the authenticity of that claim, according to his Wikipedia profile. He’s just returned from his first voyage aboard his yacht, named He Who Dares, complete with Baccarat crystal bar and splash-proof karaoke platform, I might add.’ I pause to catch my breath. ‘Oh, and according to one particularly scathing Wall Street Journal article, he’s desperate to gain recognition and respect here in the UK, apparently. Trying to join just about every private members’ club there is.’ ‘Is he? But seriously, karaoke?’ James says, shaking his head. ‘Not sure that’s the way to go.’ ‘Apparently his third wife, Natalya, is the karaoke queen, or is she one of his girlfriends? Mmm … I can’t remember now,’ I say. He smiles at me again. Feeling awkward, I busy myself by fiddling with my name badge and straightening my top down. He clears his throat just as we reach our floor and simultaneously my phone vibrates. Without thinking, I grab it from my pocket and answer, not even bothering to look at the screen, just grateful for the perfect timing. ‘Hello?’ I glance at James and pull a sorry face, but as soon as I hear the voice on the other end of the phone, my heart plummets like a bungee jumper from a crane. ‘Hi darling.’ It’s Dad. My head spins. I should have known better than to answer it. I’m usually so careful with withheld numbers. I turn away, desperate to create some privacy. I contemplate hanging up, when thankfully James nods his head towards the Gents loo to indicate a pit stop and disappears inside. ‘I told you not to call me at work,’ I say, in a low voice, feeling my cheeks warming again as I huddle into the corridor wall. ‘I just wanted to know how you are. It’s been such a long time …’ I swallow hard, remembering when I last spoke to him. The strained conversation and the falseness, just because it was his birthday and I felt sorry for him being all alone. But then it’s his own fault, I quickly remind myself. ‘Dad, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk now.’ I snap the phone shut, vowing to be more careful next time it rings. ‘You OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ James says softly, when he reappears. ‘Oh, yes I’m fine,’ I mutter, doing my best to recover. ‘You know if you don’t feel up to this I can always do the fawning by myself. You work twice as hard as the other sales assistants.’ The way he talks, so kindly, makes tears prick at my eyes. I study the pattern on the carpet and swallow hard before glancing back at him. ‘I’m fine. But thanks for your consideration.’ The shock of Dad’s voice perforating my work day slowly subsides. ‘If you’re sure?’ ‘I’m sure,’ I say, managing a weak smile. ‘OK, so we know that Malikov likes his toys then,’ he says in a low voice, thoughtfully bringing us back on topic. We reach the personal shopping suite and James pushes through the creamy white padded door into the little anteroom that smells of lilies and expensive perfume. ‘OK, you ready for this?’ he whispers while checking his cufflinks. I nod. ‘Great – knew I could count on you,’ he says, enthusiastically, and I smile at his praise. Inside, and standing by the floor-to-ceiling chiffon-covered window is a sturdy-looking man yelling Russian into a hands-free mobile phone. As we walk towards him he snatches the earpiece away and tosses it towards the three enormous men wedged on a cream leather sofa, all wearing identical black suits. The one on the end performs a sudden pincer movement to successfully catch the earpiece. James dashes over to greet our customer. ‘Mr Malikov, welcome to Carrington’s.’ Ignoring James’s outstretched hand, he commands, ‘Let’s shop,’ in a gravelly voice that has an American-English accent. He’s dressed casually in chinos with a navy blazer over a canary-yellow polo shirt with a ridiculous paisley cravat. He limps towards the enormous overstuffed circular sofa in the centre of the room, slumps down and rests both hands on a carved, tiger-headed cane that has a ruby the size of a plum wedged inside the tiger’s roaring mouth. Lifting his wrist, he squints at a platinum jewelled watch. ‘I have twenty minutes before I leave for the opera. Do you like opera?’ he barks. James and I exchange glances. Twenty minutes! We better get on with it if we’re to stand any chance of securing a big sale and earning some much-needed commission. ‘Well, sailing is my thing,’ James replies, calmly, as though he has all the time in the world. I smile inwardly, knowing how he hates water, preferring his beloved cricket to anything that might involve getting wet. ‘A man after my own heart.’ Malikov hauls himself up, grabs James’s hand up from his side and pumps his arm vigorously. We’re all smiling. So far so good. I feel relaxed. ‘And what, Miss, do you like?’ Malikov says, suddenly and suggestively. He wets his lips before slowly turning a pair of shark-like eyes towards me. I wither under his scrutiny as I rack my brains, searching for a suitable response. It’s as if time has stood still. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the heavies holding out a glass of champagne. Malikov is distracted. He turns to take the flute and gulps it down in one. The feeling of relief is overwhelming. ‘So how was your maiden voyage aboard He Who Dares?’ I ask, steering the conversation away from me and James’s faux love of the sea. Malikov’s hand is the size of a shovel and with a vice-like grip. ‘I see you’ve done your homework.’ Looking impressed, he nods his head slowly. ‘Kon. You must call me Kon. It’s what the people I like call me.’ His gaze lingers for a moment, sending a chill right through me. His power fills the room, practically overpowering the glorious scent from the three Jo Malone candles flickering on a white lacquered table nearby. Eventually Malikov drops my hand and I feel the blood rushing back into my aching palm as I wonder what the people he doesn’t like get to call him … if anything at all. ‘OK Kon, if you’re sure you don’t mind,’ I smile, and he tilts his glass up towards me like a tick of approval. ‘And how are you settling in to your new home here in England?’ I add, trying to relax and get into the swing of things. ‘It’s adequate,’ he shrugs, waving a hand in the air. ‘A kennel compared to my home in Moscow.’ He juts his head up. ‘There I have a house as big as your Queen Elizabeth’s Buckingham Palace,’ he adds with all the attitude of a movie Mafioso. ‘Oh, how wonderful,’ I simper, being careful not to overdo it, but knowing the fawning process is the most crucial part of the personal shopping experience. Private customers want to feel special and taken care of. And why not? They’re just like any other customer at the end of the day – only with stacks more money, obviously. ‘You must come and see it sometime.’ He fixes his eyes on me again and I glance towards James. ‘Well, I’d have to see what the boss says of course …’ I venture, playing along with his flirtation. He studies me for a moment, as if peeling my clothes off with his eyes. Then he tugs at the side of his jacket, making it flap open momentarily, and I catch a glimpse of a handgun inside a tan leather shoulder holster. His eyes meet mine. ‘I am a businessman, business is dangerous in Russia,’ he says by way of explanation. I quickly tear my eyes away. ‘Who’s your best customer?’ Malikov asks suddenly. ‘Mr Malikov, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that it would be totally unprofessional of me to break any customer confidentialities,’ James says smoothly, knowing it’s more than his job’s worth to name any names. The Heff is very particular about discretion. Only a few weeks ago he had a go at one of the boys in Menswear for sniggering in the canteen after catching a glimpse of a well-known MP in one of the changing rooms. Under his rotund belly, the MP was working skimpy leopard-print Speedo-style budgie smugglers while admiring himself doing a pretend dive in the mirror. Thinking of the gas bill that needs paying urgently, I launch in. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this …’ I hesitate, before lowering my voice. James flashes me a warning look but he doesn’t need to worry. ‘One of the Queen’s relatives was a virtual fashion recluse before we kitted him out in the finest menswear, so please be assured you’ll be joining an elite group within British high society,’ I say, amazed at my own nerve. ‘What club does he belong to?’ Malikov interrupts, rudely. ‘Mr Malikov, I’m not sur—’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘Sorry. Kon,’ I correct myself. ‘I’ve said far too much already. But let’s just say he’s definitely back on the society circuit now, according to last week’s …’ I hesitate momentarily and flick my eyes over to the pile of glossy magazines artfully fanned on a coffee table for inspiration. ‘… Hello! magazine,’ I quickly add. Malikov’s eyes widen and he nods his head slowly. ‘And I could always investigate the possibility of a discreet introduction to him … say on the polo field.’ His nodding head speeds up at the prospect of mixing in such elite circles. ‘What did he buy?’ He stares directly at James, who doesn’t flinch. ‘Well, I’m sure you will appreciate that Carrington’s prides itself on offering a very personal serv—’ ‘Yes, yes, I know all of that. I’ve done my checks so you can cut the flimflam. What’s the most expensive thing you have?’ he asks, waving a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Well I know you’ve mentioned an interest in jewellery …’ James takes a step towards a glass display cabinet housing Carrington’s fine jewellery collection, before he’s cut off again. Malikov juts his head forward. ‘That’s because I own a platinum mine. Won it on a hand of roulette last month. Uranium too,’ he chortles. Raising a hand, he bats the air around in front of him before continuing, ‘So let’s hope there’s another war somewhere so demand for uranium from the arms manufacturers increases.’ He snorts at his own sick joke, while James and I drag smiles onto our faces. After showing him each of the bags I brought up earlier and talking him through the quality of craftsmanship, I bide my time as James tells him about the new Spring/Summer collection, prices, styles, and even manages to squeeze in a mention of the Chiavacci bags. A short silence follows. ‘No, that is not acceptable. I can go to any shop and get the same prices, so you will need to do better than that.’ His chubby paw tightens around the tiger’s head. James gives me a look and I’m off again. ‘Kon. Of course you’re absolutely right. Some of the big stores up in London do have the same items for the same price … but I think you’ll find this bag here,’ I pause to retrieve an exquisite ?1,950 buttery leather under-shoulder bag from the display stand, ‘is exclusive to Carrington’s. The brand manager told me herself when she last visited.’ I pause for a moment, give the bag a quick stroke with the back of my index finger so as not to mark it, and lean forward slightly, squeezing my boobs together as I hold the bag out to him. I murmur a silent prayer for forgiveness to the women who chained themselves up so we wouldn’t have to resort to this kind of thing. But I can’t help wondering if they had to pay their own gas bills too. Licking his fleshy lips, Malikov’s eyes flick to my cleavage and I know I’ve got his attention. ‘And, well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Catherine … our very own new royal princess,’ I discreetly cross my fingers to cover the fib I’m about to tell. But needs must and all that. ‘Yes, Kate is the only other person to have this particular handbag. The designer sent it personally as a wedding present, and you know I’m almost certain I spotted it tucked under Kate’s arm when she was on the telly the other day.’ Malikov’s eyes widen. ‘And she was standing next to Her Majesty … the actual Queen!’ I add for good measure, making big eyes and willing my cheeks to stop burning. ‘So, I’m sure we can agree on a super deal especially for you.’ I glance at James, pleased with myself for having mentioned Malikov’s specific requirement. Behind me, the gentle swing of the wall clock pendulum ticks away the excruciatingly long silence as Malikov ponders on what I’ve just said. ‘No. I don’t think we have a sale here.’ It’s as if somebody has slammed on the emergency brake. My heart skips a beat. This has never happened before. ‘Is that the best you can do for cash?’ He fixes a pair of now sinister-looking eyes on me, and then I get it. ‘Kon, I can understand your hesitation. This is a very expensive bag.’ I swallow hard. ‘With certain … more exclusive customers –’ I rack my brains for a suitable sweetener before deciding to wing it again – ‘we could offer a selection of special promotional gifts.’ Pausing to clear my throat, I spot James in my peripheral vision and he looks panicky. ‘A purse or two to complement your handbag choices. And a selection of fashion jewellery,’ I add, remembering the flashy costume jewellery hidden in the cupboard behind my counter, too garish for our usual customers. The Brazilian jewellery supplier refused to take the items back and, even with the half-price markdown in the Christmas sale, we weren’t able to shift any of it. Malikov’s monobrow creases. His eyes dart greedily towards James for confirmation, who nods. ‘I’ll just pop downstairs and get you a selection of our best purses and bring the tray with the jewellery collection, if I may.’ When I make it back to the personal shopping suite, Malikov and his entourage aren’t there. ‘What happened? Where’s he gone?’ My heart sinks. ‘I’ve just got back from escorting him to his car.’ James is grinning from ear to ear. ‘But what about these gifts?’ I say, glancing at the stash in my arms. ‘Oh, he said he’d collect them next time.’ ‘Next time? I take it you got a sale then?’ I nod hopefully. ‘Damn right,’ he replies. ‘And?’ I prompt, putting the purses and jewellery on the circular sofa before crossing my fingers. ‘A Louis, two Balenciaga and –’ he pauses to pull a face and make quote signs – ‘the exclusive under-shoulder bag that our very own Princess Kate was carrying on the telly.’ James laughs and I grin with excitement. This must be more than we’ve sold in months – it’s almost like the boom days. ‘Oh, and a pair of Union Jack cufflinks,’ James rolls his eyes. ‘And get this …’ James leans into me with a hushed voice, the electricity between us is almost tangible. ‘He was hinting at both Chiavacci Kelly bags. And he wants to be treated like royalty.’ James and I both smirk at the same time. ‘Yes, really sorry about that, it won’t happen again,’ I say, knowing I overstepped the mark. ‘Well, I think we can overlook it this time. Your royal innuendo sure got him hooked, and just imagine if he buys the Chiavaccis?’ My pulse races. ‘Oh my God … well done,’ I whisper back, my mind working overtime to try and calculate my share of the commission. The Balenciagas alone cost well over ?1,000 each! ‘And it’s all down to you.’ There’s a moment of silence between us. ‘Hardly. I didn’t do anything,’ I say, loving his modesty. ‘You were the one who organised everything.’ ‘Yes, but you were the one who reeled him in,’ he says seriously, as a whiff of his delicious citrusy aftershave teases my nostrils. ‘Our dream holiday is definitely on now,’ he grins. Then James realises that his hand is still on my arm, and he blushes before taking it off. ‘Sorry,’ he says awkwardly, and turns to go. ‘Don’t be,’ I mutter, but he’s already striding off towards the door. 5 ‘Three cheers for Ciaran, and Tina of course.’ I’m in the canteen and Tina has just announced her engagement. After an initial stunned silence – they’ve only been seeing each other for a few months – we’re all necking plastic cups of Asda buck’s fizz, even though it’s only lunchtime. The radio has been switched off and Ciaran is standing in the middle of the floor. ‘Guys, I’m overwhelmed. Not only because she said yes …’ he pauses momentarily to glance at Tina, who’s grinning like the cat that’s got the whole damn dairy. And it’s no wonder. Ciaran hired a suite at a posh hotel in London and they spent the weekend there so he could propose, so Lauren told me. I guess this is what Ciaran’s been up to, then, planning the proposal. Sam will be thrilled. As queen of hearts, she loves a good wedding, even if the bride is not her most favourite person. As we all smile at Tina, and the girls from Lingerie start cooing over the rock that’s clinging to her finger like a fridge magnet, someone shouts, ‘Yeah, only because the diamond is the size of a sugar lump,’ at which everybody except Tina laughs. James is standing next to me. His cup is empty so I make my way over to the bench table at the far end of the canteen to find another bottle. As I turn I almost bump straight into him. ‘Looks like we had the same idea,’ he says, holding up his plastic cup. I quickly turn back to the table to wrestle the cork from the bottle. Seeing me struggling, he reaches his hand over mine and effortlessly eases the cork free. A froth of white bubbles cascades down the rim of the bottle and I suddenly feel the effects of the daytime alcohol. ‘Georgie, stay for a moment,’ James says. But our names are being called from over by the salad bar and the moment changes. For a brief second I’m not sure if I imagined the last few seconds, but when I turn around James has gone off to join the others. ‘And you will all come to my hen do, won’t you girls? It’s going to be a-mazing. Ciaran said I can have whatever I want,’ Tina smiles, gazing up at him. ‘I’ve opted for a day in the Carrington’s spa. I’ve already spoken to Caroline, the manager, and she said if the board are OK with it, then she’s happy to open up on a Sunday.’ ‘Cor. Can I come?’ shouts Gareth, one of the security guys. ‘No you can’t,’ Tina snaps. ‘I’m off to get the engagement cake.’ She tilts her cheek out at Ciaran for a kiss, and he duly obliges before heading over towards me. We’re all chatting and laughing when Tina starts descending the staircase at the end of the floor. Her spray-tanned face, which I can’t help thinking makes her look like she’s just run naked through a Ronseal factory, has a smile spread across it, but as her eyes meet mine, the smile fades ever so slightly and her eyes narrow. I quickly nudge Ciaran, who has my upturned hand in his, pretending to have inherited a palmistry gift from his old Irish granny. There’s a huge crashing sound. Everybody turns in unison to see Tina tumbling down the last step of the staircase to land in a heap at the bottom. Victoria sponge cake is splattered all over the banisters and splodges of strawberry jam are everywhere. It’s even ricocheted up the walls so the whole area looks like a scene from Casualty. I run over to help her in case she’s seriously hurt herself, but just as I crouch down and reach my hand out to her she hisses in a tight voice. ‘Get off me. I’ve won. He’s mine now.’ She yanks her arm away. Her words hit me like a hard slap. I don’t believe it. She really thinks we’re in some kind of competition and Ciaran is the prize. I open my mouth to protest but the words won’t come out. Then she quickly follows with a much softer, ‘Oh I’m fine, silly me. I just slipped on the stairs. If you could just help me up, darling,’ and I realise that Ciaran is standing right behind me. ‘God Tina. Are you OK?’ Ciaran asks, the concern catching in his voice. I stand up. ‘It’s this new carpet – not only a waste of money but a damn liability as well,’ I offer. ‘Thanks Georgie,’ Ciaran says, as he helps Tina up to her feet. She looks at me over his shoulder. ‘Actually, I think the carpet was a very good idea. I could have seriously damaged myself if the landing hadn’t been so soft,’ she sniffs self-righteously. And with that she leans into Ciaran and starts off towards her Lingerie friends, hobbling as though her life depended on it. ‘Oh! I almost forgot,’ she stops short. ‘You’ll need to call the in-store cleaners and get them to come and deal with this mess,’ she barks in my direction, as if I’m the hired help. ‘Sorry,’ Ciaran mouths over his shoulder. I shake my head, wondering what he sees in her, when James reappears at my side. He hands me a drink. ‘You OK?’ ‘Sure. I’m fine,’ I reply, shrugging my shoulders. We both lean back against the table and his fingertips brush mine as our hands touch the surface, and I suddenly feel distracted and self-conscious, as if everybody is watching us. Mrs Grace catches my eye and gives me a discreet knowing look before smiling kindly. And I know I didn’t imagine it this time. Somebody pops open another bottle of buck’s fizz and the cork performs a spectacular arc that just misses the light above, but lands bang on target. The doors at the end of the canteen spring open and The Heff appears just as the cork makes its descent to land slap on top of his head. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ The Heff booms as he bats the cork away. Everybody stops talking. Eddie appears at his side; he has a black clipboard pressed to his chest. And he’s doing his best to look efficient but he keeps staring at his shoes. ‘Good. Because, before you all rush off I have some very important news to share. Then you can all return to your sections and send up whoever is on the rota for the next lunch session … without telling them what I’m about to say. Is that clear?’ We all mutter, ‘yes’ in reply. Like that’s really going to happen. One of the Footwear girls is already surreptitiously fingering her phone, poised to send a text. ‘Right. As you all know, Carrington’s has seen a decline in sales of late and I think it is fair to say that unless something is done pronto’ – ‘Like buy more carpet,’ someone mutters behind me – ‘we’re in serious danger of entering a terminal decline. So to help us revitalise the store, it is my pleasure to announce that Carrington’s has today, at twelve noon, secured the services of the country’s finest retail guru.’ The Heff puffs his chest out, as if he’s just, single-handedly, negotiated peace in the Middle East. A collective gasp circuits the canteen. ‘She will be assessing the viability of each department with a view to rationalisation. Of course this may alter our staffing requirements.’ There’s another sharp intake of breath as the news sinks in and we realise what his announcement means. ‘Eddie here has all the details,’ The Heff continues, and my mind is working overtime. Everyone knows rationalising really means downsizing, which means fewer staff. I guess in the current climate it was inevitable, with so many shops going to the wall. Tension starts to creep down from my shoulders, slowly trickling around to clutch my heart. If I lose my job then I might as well kiss goodbye to everything. Everyone knows how hard it is to find a new job these days. And besides, I love working for Carrington’s. My happy memories with Mum are here. ‘Make a note of your meeting time, and it goes without saying that you will all extend a warm welcome to Maxine who will be working here as of tomorrow.’ My head feels as if it’s bobbing around under water, I can’t think straight. I turn towards James and see that his face has paled. He doesn’t look back at me. Instead he bows his head slightly and mumbles something that I can’t quite hear. Eddie is handing out pieces of paper to us all as The Heff turns around and strides back towards the glass doors. Immediately, there’s a noise. Everyone is talking, and Eddie is surrounded by people all asking him why he didn’t say something. ‘I didn’t know. Jesus, I only found out myself an hour ago and I’ve been working my fingers to stumps typing out these meeting times at breakneck speed, thanks to that Burberry-clad tapeworm host, Maxine.’ He spits the word ‘Burberry’ like it’s a rancid piece of cheese that he’s just been force-fed. ‘Honestly, if she thinks I’m doubling up as her BA as well, then she can dream on up into her own skinny arse.’ Eddie grabs a plastic cup from one of the tables and downs it in one, before crushing it in the palm of his hand and letting out a dramatic gasp. So much for The Heff leaving then. This is worse – much worse. Eddie’s face has suddenly turned a violent rhubarb-red colour and there’s a hunted look in his eyes, the line of which I follow and immediately see why. The Heff has returned back through the doors and standing next to him is a very tall, absolutely stunning and exceedingly skinny woman. I’m pretty certain my hands could span her waist. She’s wearing a clinging crimson dress that wouldn’t look out of place on Joan Holloway in an episode of Mad Men, carrying a matching real Herm?s Birkin and standing on five-inch blush patent Loubs to balance out her silicone-enhanced super-bust. And if that wasn’t enough, she has perfect, big, flame-red hair. I manage to stick a smile across my face as I surreptitiously push a lock of my own limp spaniel’s ear hair back into place before folding my arms across my B-cup boobs. She spreads her red pencil-lined mouth into a dazzling beauty pageant-style smile that I notice doesn’t reach her eyes that are bulging like a pair of Buddhas’ bellies. No, instead, they are fixed firmly on Eddie, who has now adopted a strange facial contortion that he attempts to hide by busying himself inside his clipboard. ‘For those of you who haven’t met her before, this is Maxine,’ The Heff booms, and attempts a little clap that he quickly halts on realising that nobody else is joining in. We all mutter words of welcome that sound distinctly hollow. I wonder what her surname is. Or maybe she’s too important to have one. ‘And this is Tom Rossi …’ and we all glance towards the doors again. For a glimmer of a second my heart feels as though it might have stopped beating. I feel light-headed. I steady myself against the table and realise my mouth is actually hanging open. I quickly close it and pray none of the others noticed. I see what can only be described as pure unadulterated sex striding towards us. Oh my actual God. This man is a vision. He’s wearing a gorgeous suit that I’d say has been stitched lovingly by hand in Italy or somewhere equally seductive. It’s the perfect shade of ink-blue and frames a crisp white shirt, the collar of which is undone to reveal a teaser of his black curly-haired and very firm tanned chest that has just the right hint of sheen. His eyes are the darkest brown and nestling in sumptuous eyelashes that make me want to lick them right here and now. I can feel my cheeks warming and my stomach flipping. The last time I felt like this was when I first clapped eyes on Henry Cavill when he turned towards the camera in TheCount of Monte Cristo. Every woman in the cinema, and some men too, let out a little gasp of pleasure. I was only a teenager at the time, and raging with hormones that feel as though they’ve just made a very sudden and momentous return. ‘He’s joining us from next Monday,’ The Heff continues. I quickly pull myself together, remembering I’m at work and that this man probably dates the likes of supermodels and Made in Chelsea girls, and only then if they are really lucky. ‘Pleased to meet you all,’ Tom says, with the hint of a Downton accent (upstairs, naturally) and the sensual precision of a Ferrari. I glance over and notice that Eddie is positively drooling. He’s actually licking his lips lasciviously. But there’s no way this man, sorry, this delicious Adonis is gay, because if he is then I think I might quite possibly die. Right here next to the help-yourself salad bar. 6 The glorious smell of cakey-sweet loveliness engulfs the air as soon as I push open the door to Sam’s caf?. Instantly I feel my body starting to relax. Every time I come in here it’s as though I’ve entered an oasis of calm, a stark contrast to the bustling atmosphere just a few floors below. The cosy lounge area has been swathed in decadent plum and rich emerald-green colours, offset with opulent rose-gold cushions scattered all over the huge squishy sofas. Sultry Burlesque-style music is playing and tea lights flicker all around. A projector is displaying a montage of iconic beautiful men across the ceiling. Collapsing into a sofa by the faux fire, I exhale a long breath and look around while I wait for Sam. She’s not behind the counter, so I’m guessing she must be busy in the kitchen. I feel myself relaxing – in through the nose, and exhale out through my mouth. In for six … out for six … or maybe it’s four. I speed up a bit. A pair of small cold hands appear from behind my head and cover my eyes. ‘What are you doing, Miss Hart?’ I instantly recognise the voice as Sam’s. ‘Trying to relax. Seeing as I’m early for a change.’ ‘Relax?’ she gasps. ‘I thought you were channelling childbirth or something. Did you know that you were practically panting?’ She pauses, and then adds, ‘Hard?’ ‘I was not. I was merely trying to invoke a sense of calm,’ I reply, trying not to laugh. ‘Well, next time you want to relax, pop up here for a camomile tea. Very soothing.’ Sam shakes her head. ‘Come on.’ She helps me out of the sofa. ‘Soo, what do you think of my Valentine theme?’ she says, letting go of me and running a hand over the back of the sofa. ‘I love it. And it’s different.’ ‘Good. My idea of a decent Valentine’s Day is sex. S-E-X. And plenty of it. I want decadence. I want tease. And a bit of debauchery thrown in for good measure,’ she says, grinning naughtily as she loops her arm through mine. ‘Ooh, hang on.’ She stops still and beckons upwards with her eyes. ‘My favourite is coming up next. Tom Ford. Yes, yes I know he’s gay … but will you just look at him?’ We both stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Utter perfection.’ Sam steers me towards one of the train seat booths. ‘Ta dah!’ she says, gesturing towards a three-tiered cake stand crammed with all kinds of delicious gooey-looking cakes next to a big green spotty teapot. ‘Wow,’ I say, giving her a quick hug. ‘You didn’t have to do all this. A vanilla slice would have sufficed.’ She gives me a look. ‘Sorry. Millefeuiiiille,’ I attempt and end up sounding like an extra from a dodgy French film. ‘How do you even say it?’ I laugh. ‘That’ll do.’ She grins, picking up the cake stand and offering it to me. ‘So, what’s been going on with you?’ she asks, pouring me a cup of tea. ‘And who’s the man?’ She stops fiddling with the teapot and gives me an inquisitive look. ‘What do you mean, man?’ I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Oh come on. I know that look a mile off. It’s the same Ready Brek glow you used to get after the end-of-term disco when one of the boys from St Patrick’s had asked you to slow dance. And we must have only been about twelve at the time.’ ‘Sam, you won’t believe the day I’ve had! The Heff appeared and dropped a bombshell and in the next breath he introduces a second bombshell, only this time it’s of the pure sex variety.’ ‘Whoa. Hang on a minute. What do you mean bombshells, and pure sex? God, I can’t believe this has all been going on right below me. How exciting. So, come on, tell all. I want details,’ Sam squeals, and stirs her tea. Even faster now. Her natural blonde corkscrew curls are bobbing around furiously. ‘Well. The Heff announced it this afternoon, during Ciaran and Tina’s engagement toast.’ ‘Engagement. Whaat? You’re telling me Ciaran got engaged? Ohmigod. FAINTS. A girl can’t handle so many details all in one go. And why didn’t he tell me?’ she huffs. ‘You mean you don’t know?’ ‘No. He bunked off straight after his lunch break, said he had important business to attend to and would I mind? Of course I said it was fine, but he never said a word. Told you so, deffo up to something … and now we know. What’s the ring like? Did you see it? How could you deny me this for a whole afternoon? It’s bad enough he didn’t tell me himself.’ Sam’s puffing for air, she’s practically hyperventilating. Always the romantic. ‘Well, I just assumed he would have mentioned it. Anyway, I’m telling you now. And yes, the ring is huge. Mega.’ ‘Oh I bet it is. I can’t imagine she would have settled for a Carrington’s chip.’ I pull a face. ‘No offence,’ Sam adds, holding her teacup in mid-air. ‘Every time she comes in here she manages to find a way to mention Ciaran’s inheritance.’ This makes me smile. I can just imagine Tina trying to impress Sam, whose dad is Alfie Palmer, owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agents in the country. Sam told me Tina practically did a running bodyslam at Alfie when he turned up at the caf? one lunchtime. It took fifteen minutes for Sam to prise Tina away from him. ‘What does Ciaran see in her?’ I ask, running a finger across the top of my vanilla slice and popping it into my mouth, savouring the exquisite taste of the almond-flavoured icing. Heaven. ‘Oh I don’t know. I’ve tried probing him and he reckons they have a lot in common.’ ‘Like what? I mean, he’s lovely, with the Irish accent and all that … apart from that finger-gun thing he does.’ We both laugh again. ‘Oh that’s just a front,’ Sam says. ‘Underneath it all he’s a kind, sweet guy.’ ‘I know, I’m only joking. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s nice and … well … she isn’t.’ I shrug. ‘I know, but he says she’s old-fashioned and wants to be married as soon as possible. And you know how keen he is to be hitched; in fact at one point I thought he might fancy you – he seems to spend an awful lot of time hanging around on your floor,’ Sam says, draining her tea before pouring more. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, brushing the notion aside. ‘But it doesn’t make sense to me. Most men, or certainly the ones I meet, would run a mile at the mere glimmer of a bridezilla.’ ‘I think he feels left out. His family are all married with kids, so I suppose he just wants to fit in. He said every time he goes home his parents get excited, thinking an announcement is coming or, better still, he’ll have a bride in tow. Remember, he comes from a tiny village on the southern coast of Ireland. Things are different there. More traditional. Men have wives and children, that’s how it is. Anyway, enough of all that, I’ll quiz him in the morning. Tell me more about the announcement. No tell me about the pure sex bombshell first. That sounds far more exciting.’ ‘Well, he’s called Tom Rossi,’ I say, lingering on his name. ‘Mmm … dreamy sounding,’ Sam interrupts. ‘He’s dark, tall, and – well, I know it sounds like a clich? – but he is to die for,Sam. He’s very charming, in a proper gentlemanly Colin Firth way, but I’d say he’s probably part Italian or maybe Spanish even. Either way he’s got that raunchy Mediterranean thing going on too.’ I feel breathless and giddy just thinking about him. ‘Cor! He sounds lush. I can’t wait to get a peek of him. Maybe he’ll come up for a coffee and a nice messy cream bun.’ We both sit for a moment and imagine watching him lick his fingers clean, or better still … doing it for him. ‘Who is he then?’ ‘I’m not sure. He starts on Monday, that’s all I know so far.’ ‘What about James?’ ‘Shush,’ I whisper, quickly, glancing around the caf?. ‘Somebody might hear you.’ ‘Sorry, but it’s obvious he’s keen,’ she replies in a hushed voice, even though there’s nobody else here. ‘Hmm, you know he’s been acting very strange recently.’ ‘Really! What kind of strange?’ Sam asks, eagerly. ‘I’m not sure … just, kind of extra-attentive, you know, more so than he usually is.’ ‘Ohmigod, I knew it. He wants you big time,’ she squeals, banging her cup down on the saucer. ‘Will you stop it,’ I reply, trying not to smile. ‘Oh you’re such a spoilsport.’ ‘Please.’ I pull a face. ‘OK. If you insist.’ She sticks her tongue out. ‘So, tell me about the other bombshell instead then?’ ‘Well that’s the bad news I’ve had today. The Heff came charging into the staff canteen, slap bang in the middle of the engagement announcement, and said we’re entering a terminal decline and as of today everything changes.’ ‘So what does that mean then? Your job’s safe though, isn’t it? I mean, they’re not going to get rid of you. You’re a fantastic sales assistant. Everyone knows that, and all the regulars love you. I’m always overhearing them saying how helpful and kind you are.’ Sam stops licking cake from her fingers and looks me in the eye. ‘Ahh, that’s nice to hear, but I don’t know, Sam. All I know is that a retail expert, Maxine somebody or another, has been brought in to conduct some kind of review. I’ve got a meeting with her on Tuesday, so I’ll guess I’ll find out more then.’ A trickle of panic starts. I try and shake the feeling off, desperate to keep an open mind. ‘Maybe you’ll get a promotion, you never know,’ she says gently, and I know that she’s only trying to make me feel better. ‘Perhaps,’ I say wryly. The feeling of panic lurches up again. What if I really do lose my job? Everything I’ve worked so hard for could disappear overnight. I don’t even have any savings – nothing to fall back on – and my credit cards are all maxed out. And then there are the loans … ‘Well, let’s not worry about it until it happens, and I don’t for a minute think it will. Now, will you tell me if you like this please?’ she says, handing me a miniature heart-shaped sparkly pinkberry cake. ‘It’s a new recipe I’m trying out for Valentine’s Day.’ ‘Mmm, it’s divine,’ I say, after taking a bite. I manage to put a smile on my face, although I can’t help thinking that it’s OK for Sam – she’s never been poor, or even had to struggle, how can she ever know what it really feels like? ‘Will we still be friends if I lose my job and end up in some dingy dump surviving on Super Noodles?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood, but remembering the early days when I left care, I relied so heavily on overdrafts, even paying by cheque for groceries, just to buy me an extra few days until payday when the same horrible cycle would start all over again. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. You know that’s never going to happen. People don’t just lose their job, you know, unless the company they work for goes bust or they’ve done something really bad, and then it’s usually their own fault …’ Sam’s face drops when she realises what she’s said. ‘Oh Georgie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’ She tries to grab my hand, but I quickly pull it away. ‘Like what?’ is all I can muster. I lean back in the seat. My mind leaps back to the hideous day at school when I was summoned to Miss Braintree’s office and ordered to pack up my things. I was on the next train home and in the local school playground the following morning in my ill-fitting second-hand uniform, being slapped around for ‘talking posh’. ‘Well, you know. That business with your dad,’ Sam whispers the word ‘dad’. ‘But I’m not my dad, I’m me. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’ I know I’m shouting, but the feeling is mounting. I’ve worked twice as hard to prove I’m not like him. ‘No. Of course not. Georgie, honestly, everything will be OK, really it will. You’re my best friend and always will be because you’re funny, kind, really brave given what you’ve been through, smart … even if you do have a tendency to put two and two together and come up with five on occasion.’ She smiles kindly. ‘Look, try not to panic. You’re going to be fine.’ Sam leans forward to stroke my arm and I feel tears stinging my eyes. I swallow hard and silently pray that she’s right. ‘But if you’re really worried then you must cover every eventuality. Why don’t you look for another job, just in case?’ There’s silence while I take in what Sam has said. ‘The thought has crossed my mind, but what if Maxine finds out? I don’t want her thinking I’m disloyal to Carrington’s or lacking in confidence over my position here.’ ‘She won’t. Not if I talk to Dad, discreetly,’ Sam suggests. I think of Alfie, her lovely father. During those lonely years at Nanny Jean’s I would fantasise that Alfie would come and rescue me. He had even contacted social services and said I could live with him and Sam, but they had not allowed me to as he travels too much and Sam was looked after by a nanny in the school holidays after her interior designer mum ran off to LA with a rock-star client when Sam was just a baby. Said I needed stability. ‘Oh Sam, but isn’t that cheating?’ ‘Don’t be daft. You’ve already proved yourself. It’s not like you’re looking for something you haven’t already worked hard for. Let me call him, it can’t do any harm,’ she pleads. ‘I’m not sure. Anyway, I’m a sales assistant not an estate agent.’ ‘Oh, everybody does it. It’s not just what you know these days, but who you know as well. And besides, you’ll just be selling houses instead of handbags. Is simples,’ she grins. ‘Weell, I guess it won’t do any harm to ask him, to have a backup just in case, but promise me you’ll be discreet,’ I say, reluctantly. I can’t imagine working anywhere else. 7 It’s been ages since I’ve had a good night out, so after the rollercoaster of emotions I’ve had this week, I intend to make the most of tonight, Sam’s birthday. After The Heff’s announcement, the mood at work has been subdued. I managed to find out that we all have meetings with Maxine next week, but nobody knows more than that, not even James, and we still don’t know anything about Tom, or what he’s going to be doing. Even Eddie has been very down, although he’s the only one who knows for definite that his job is safe. Mind you, he’s in a major strop now that his workload has doubled since Maxine got The Heff to agree to him working for her as well. Apparently, her old PA left to work somewhere else, the day before Maxine came to Carrington’s, and they haven’t managed to find a replacement yet. Cost cutting, she calls it, but Eddie reckons it’s his punishment for calling her a ‘tapeworm host’. So after enduring the sweaty huddle on the bus journey from work to Sam’s palatial clifftop house, where I cursed every second for economising on the cost of a taxi fare, I press the intercom on her sunshine-yellow front door. As the buzzer sounds I push the door open and a delicious aroma tempts my nostrils. I’m starving, in a way that feels like my stomach has given up expecting food and actually started eating itself from the inside out. ‘Ceeeelebration time, come on,’ Sam sings, as she comes dancing down the hallway to meet me. She’s got a cocktail sloshing precariously around in her left hand, whilst her right hand is busy keeping an enormous turbaned white towel about her head. ‘Oh, are you OK? You look a bit frazzled.’ She stops singing. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Packed bus with the windows jammed shut and the fan heaters pumped up to max … it was like being in a sauna with all your clothes on,’ I say, dumping my bag on the floor. ‘Ew.’ Sam places the cocktail on the hall table and gives me a hug. ‘Well, you’re here now. Come in and say hello to Dad, he’s just leaving.’ Alfie appears, wearing a soft grey cashmere V-neck over a pale pink shirt. He smells of his usual Aramis and has the same blond hair and twinkly blue eyes as Sam. ‘Georgie! How are you, sweetheart?’ he says, stepping forward and enveloping me in a huge bear hug. ‘Dad, be careful,’ Sam yells. ‘You’re practically crushing her.’ ‘Don’t be silly. Everyone loves a big hug now and again.’ Alfie releases me and takes a step back. ‘I’m good thanks,’ I say, not wanting to get into what’s happening at work and spoil the evening before it’s even started. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, and I have to say you’re looking mighty fine these days, young lady.’ Alfie looks me up and down before smiling appreciatively. ‘Daaad, stop flirting.’ Sam gives Alfie a gentle nudge and we all laugh. ‘Well, I better be off. Leave you two girls to it. Samantha’s such a bore when she gets going,’ he winks at me. ‘Love you too, Daddy,’ Sam teases. ‘Here, have a good night.’ Alfie pulls a roll of ?20 notes from his pocket. ‘And make sure you take taxis. No walking the streets.’ ‘Oh Dad, put it away,’ Sam says, waving a hand. ‘I insist.’ He splits the notes in two. ‘Here.’ He hands half to me and half to Sam. ‘And no arguments. From either of you,’ he says, pretending to be stern as he wags his index finger between us both. I glance at Sam, feeling a bit awkward and waiting for her cue as Alfie presses the notes into my hand. ‘OK. If you insist.’ Sam grins at me as she reaches up to give Alfie a kiss. ‘Thank you,’ I say, knowing from previous experience there’s absolutely no point in arguing with Alfie. I was sixteen when he first tried to give me money one Christmas. I refused, of course, only to find it inside my coat pocket when it was time to return to Nanny Jean’s. I hid it inside a book in my locker at school, and later used it to buy a duvet when I moved to the bedsit. ‘My pleasure. Have fun girls,’ Alfie says, pulling the door open. Once we’ve finished waving goodbye and Alfie’s roared off in his Aston Martin, I reach inside my handbag, pull out a little gift bag and swing it in front of Sam. Her eyes light up like a child’s. I’m so pleased I could get it for her. ‘Happy Birthday lovely.’ I lean forward, and give her a big birthday kiss on each cheek. She peers into the bag. ‘Thank you honey.’ She lifts out the box. As she opens it she lets out a little squeal. ‘It’s gorgeous, how did you know that I’ve always wanted one of these?’ she says, holding the rainbow crystal Shamballa bracelet against her wrist. ‘Lucky guess. Or maybe it was the trillion hints you’ve been dropping.’ I can’t help teasing her. She’s like a big kid when it comes to birthdays, and not just her own. On my last birthday, she thoroughly spoilt me with a weekend in Barcelona that she had meant to be a surprise, but that she just couldn’t resist telling me about beforehand. ‘Was it really that many times? I’m so sorry, how boring,’ she says, handing me the cocktail. I take the mini rose-pink macaroon from the side of the glass and take a bite before quickly slurping a big mouthful of liquid through the silver bendy straw as we walk along the hallway and into the kitchen. ‘Mmm, what’s in this? It’s heavenly,’ I say, my mouth full of the luscious concoction. ‘It’s a secret recipe. Do you like it?’ ‘Like it? I love it.’ I laugh, letting the liquid linger in my mouth. ‘I’m ravenous. I’ve only had a Wispa since breakfast time.’ ‘There’s a lasagne in the oven if you want some, with no garlic in it of course. Just in case you pull. I’m determined to find you a Valentine’s date,’ Sam says, with a cheeky grin as I swing myself up onto the granite-topped breakfast bar and kick off my wedges. ‘Oh go on then, just a little bit though, not one of your monster helpings,’ I reply, hoping she ignores my half-hearted instruction. Sam is a fantastic cook. The year she spent at the culinary school in Paris was definitely worth it, even if she didn’t think so at the time. She spent months begging Alfie to let her go on a round-the-world cruise instead, but he was having none of it; said if she was serious about cooking then she needed to learn properly, luckily for me and my rumbling tummy. ‘Don’t tell me, another diet. Georgie, why do you bother? You know they don’t work. And I bet Wispas aren’t allowed.’ She snorts at me with disapproval. It’s OK for her, she’s one of those lucky people who really can eat whatever they want and stay slim. ‘Well, I lost six pounds doing No Carbs Before Marbs,’ I say, swinging my legs and flexing my crumpled toes. ‘So why are you doing another diet then? It’s not like you even need to lose weight. I’d love to have your gorgeous hourglass figure. Very Marilyn Monroe. Oooh, it’s the bombshell, isn’t it?’ ‘Maybe,’ I smile coyly. ‘Well I hope so. And are you are all set for tonight? Nathan said he’ll see us there … with a few friends,’ Sam says, quickly changing the subject. ‘What did I say about trying to fix me up?’ I ask, pretending to be cross. ‘I don’t know, couldn’t hear … remember?’ Sam replies, flippantly. ‘Well I hope his friends are an improvement on the last batch of that – whatever his name was – guy you were seeing before Nathan.’ ‘Trust me, if they have a fraction of the hotness that Nathan exudes, then you’ll have no complaint, that’s for sure.’ ‘Cor, I’m not sure I can wait.’ We both laugh. I already feel more cheerful, looking forward to a good evening out. ‘And thanks for picking up my dress for tonight. I can’t believe I forgot to bring it with me this morning.’ I’d been in such a mad rush when I got up that I dashed out with only my shoes, make-up and Velcro rollers, so I had to make a mercy call to Sam and plead with her to bomb over to my flat on the other side of town. ‘No problem. That’s what BFFs are for. Follow me.’ I grab the bowl of lasagne from the worktop and take a forkful – it tastes divine. I then follow Sam as she runs off into her baby-blue-coloured dressing room with Sylvester, her chubby cat named after his striking resemblance to the cartoon version, springing along behind her. As I enter the room I see Sam standing by one of her wardrobes. She’s beaming. ‘This is your gown for this evening, madam,’ she says, sounding like a camp fashion stylist. My gaze follows her outstretched arm towards the wardrobe door as she flings it open to reveal a vintage halter-neck investment dress hanging on the inside of the door. ‘Where did you find this?’ I ask, running my hand down the silky material. ‘In the back of your wardrobe, screwed up in a ball. It still had the price tag on it. Honestly, this dress is gorgeous,’ Sam says, indignantly. ‘Oh Sam, you shouldn’t have. I can’t wear it, I’ll never get into it,’ I whine, with trepidation, as the memory of trying to squeeze into it comes flooding back. ‘Besides, it’ll smell all musty, won’t it, having been scrunched up in the wardrobe for years,’ I add, panic mounting at the thought of wedging my curvy bits into the ultra-clingy dress. ‘I got it cleaned for you. So don’t worry about that.’ Sam waves her hand dismissively. ‘But where’s my dress? The one I planned to wear tonight? It was hanging on the back of the bathroom door,’ I say. ‘So I wouldn’t forget it,’ I then add, lamely. ‘Oh, that old rag. Trust me, this dress is reeeem,’ she says, in her best TOWIE voice, as she gestures her hand in a circular movement over the front of the dress. ‘Just try it … with this miracle suit thing.’ And she pulls a surgical-looking square of Lycra from behind her back and dangles it in front of me. Grabbing the pork-chop-coloured monstrosity from her, I scrutinise it. I think it is what is laughably called a ‘body-shaper’. It’s minuscule but I decide to give it a go. I don’t have much choice, unless I want to go clubbing in my black top and trouser work combo, complete with Carrington’s name badge, the pin of which has bent somehow, making it impossible to remove. ‘Right, out of the room, I want to see if I can wedge myself into this. Which I imagine is going to be some feat, which I’d rather not attempt with you standing there.’ ‘Fantastic,’ Sam shrieks, and claps her hands together. ‘Just shout if you need a hand,’ she adds. ‘No thank you, now shoo,’ I say, flapping my hand at her. ‘OK, OK, I’m going.’ Sam backs out of the room and closes the dressing room door behind her. After managing to shoehorn myself into the dress, I call Sam back into the room. ‘Bloody hell Georgie! You look fantastic, very curvaceous and sexy. And that dress really brings out your blue eyes and glowing complexion,’ she shrieks. I feel a bit constricted, though, as the suit is an underwired all-in-one corset that vacuums everything in. ‘Do you really think so?’ ‘Absolutely.’ Sam grins. ‘Thanks, honey. Just need to get my shoes now.’ I head off to the hallway. ‘Hang on. Try these. They’ll be perfect with that dress.’ From underneath the scarlet chaise longue, Sam brings out her new Gina sandals. They are absolutely exquisite, with little diamant? stones running across the strappy ankle and toe parts of the delicate shoes. ‘Oh Sam I can’t. They’re your new ones, you haven’t even worn them yet,’ I say, instantly touched by her generosity. ‘Please, have them, I’ve got loads … and besides, I’m not really sure they’re me,’ she says, crossing her slim legs and leaning back on the chaise longue. ‘But I can’t,’ I say, desperately trying not to eye up the sandals. ‘I insist.’ ‘Sam, I can’t. Really. You could always take them back if you don’t like them.’ They must have cost a fortune. ‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t like them. I just think they’d suit you better. And I’ll be offended if you don’t take them,’ she laughs. I look again. ‘Are you definitely sure? They really are beautiful,’ I say, not wanting to offend her but secretly wondering if she ever had any intention of keeping them for herself. ‘Yes.’ I give her a huge hug. ‘In that case, thank you my GBF.’ Sam raises an eyebrow. ‘Gorgeous best friend of course,’ I explain, smiling and making a mental note to send her a proper thank-you card. I slip my foot into the right sandal. Twiddling my ankle in the mirror I feel a little shiver of excitement. Not bad at all – my stomach is almost flat and my best feature, my arms with their light sprinkling of freckles on the shoulders, can be seen quite nicely. Always highlight your best asset, isn’t that what Gok says? Sam has certainly come up trumps this time. ‘Right, so are we ready then?’ I grab my clutch bag and Sam stands up and smooths down her Herv? L?ger bandage dress in nude. She’s teamed it with a pair of blush patent Kate Kuba wedges and fuchsia-framed geek glasses that almost cover her tiny elfin face. Her curly hair is bobbing around her shoulders and the Shamballa bracelet is sparkling on her wrist. She looks stunning. ‘Come on, we’d better go before we spontaneously combust with the glamour of it all.’ I slip my arm through hers. We’re both chatting and giggling as we head off into the night. 8 After paying the taxi driver, we pass through a red rope that’s unclipped by a doorman who looks as if he’s just stepped out of a Calvin Klein photo shoot, and emerge into the club. I feel as though I’ve walked into a Moroccan wonderland – there are orange and gold glittery soft furnishings draped between mosaic fountains. There are even olive trees dotted in amongst the leather ottomans. We’re both handed one of those cute mini Mo?t bottles with the drinking spouts. Complimentary to the first fifty clubbers as it’s opening night. ‘Mmm, I must say the view is scorching in here,’ Sam says, lifting my hair to talk straight into my ear. The pulse of the uplifting Happy House beat thuds against my chest. Everywhere I look there are male models, smiling when they catch my eye, as if telepathically telling me I’m their dream woman. Whoever’s come up with this marketing idea must be a genius, because it’s working. Oh yes, it’s working all right. I can almost feel a physical tingle of hedonism on my bare shoulders. Scrutinising the drinking spout more closely, I see that it has Bushka Launch Party inscribed in rose-gold lettering on the side. Nudging Sam, I raise an eyebrow and she nods back. Simultaneously we both whip the little spouts off and stash them in our bags. Sam yells, ‘Over here,’ before waving wildly. With her left hand above her head, her dress rides up and briefly flashes the side of her diamant?-topped stocking. A group of guys standing nearby nudge each other with appreciation. I glance in the direction of her yell, and striding towards us is a group of men. All of them are stunning, and a tall, athletic and seriously handsome blond one, who I guess must be Nathan, is carrying a giant heart-shaped helium balloon. He steps towards Sam, grabs her up in the air and spins her around. ‘So how is the sexy birthday girl?’ Sam screams with delight, trying to keep the back of her dress from riding up too high. The pair of them lock lips. ‘Ahh, and here are the others,’ Nathan says, prising himself away from Sam. ‘You don’t mind, do you, only I invited some guys from the squash club.’ Looking to where Nathan’s waving, I see a couple of tall men coming towards us. For a moment I don’t believe it. I blink again to be sure, and yes, it’s definitely him. Tom is heading straight towards us. My heart races. He looks even more incredible than he did in the staff canteen. I see a couple of girls eyeing him up and down as he strides past, but before I can get myself together he’s standing right in front of me. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Tom says, fixing his chocolate-brown eyes on mine as I fidget nervously from one foot to the other. ‘Oh I’m not sure,’ I reply in a breezy voice, wondering if he can tell that the memory of him appearing through the canteen doors has made its way into my dreams several times already this week. Only in the dream he’s naked, drenched in massage oil accentuating a rock-hard muscular chest, and begging to take me there and then across the help-yourself salad bar. Naturally the canteen of my dreams is festooned with tea lights creating a sexy shimmery glow. And I look like a siren with really big hair. ‘Yes, I’m definitely sure. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. Where do you work?’ he says, seemingly oblivious to the effect he’s having on me. ‘At Carrington’s. And you?’ I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘That’s it.’ He looks pleased with himself at having worked it out. ‘I was there for the announcement. Must have seen you then.’ He beams a beautiful smile and my heart immediately melts. The feeling is incredible. ‘Of course. Silly me, I didn’t recognise you,’ I say nervously, twiddling the silver stud in my right earlobe and feeling my neck tingling with the first creep of a flush from the blatant lie. ‘Nice to meet you, again.’ Still smiling, he puts his hand out to mine and the sensation is like an electric charge as his warm fingers touch mine. He leans down to my hot cheek and plants a kiss. Momentarily distracted by the faint but delicious chocolatey scent of his aftershave, I giggle in a way that I haven’t since I was about five years old and instantly regret it. I’m conscious that Sam and Nathan are looking at us. ‘Do you two know each other?’ Sam asks, but before either of us can answer, Nathan butts in. ‘See you in a sec, honey.’ He makes off in search of the loo, accidentally bumping into Tom who quickly sidesteps and ends up standing adjacent to me. ‘Err, no not really. Sam, this is Tom,’ I say. Sam’s face goes all airy as she cottons on immediately. I make big warning eyes at her not to let on that I’ve mentioned him and luckily our telepathic powers connect in an instant. ‘Oh, how lovely to meet you.’ She extends her hand without so much as a glimmer of knowing. ‘Shall I get some drinks while you two find seats?’ Tom offers, sounding like the perfect gentleman. ‘Thank you,’ I say. And without hesitation, Sam and I nod at each other before heading off. ‘Ohmigod Georgie, he’s hot, hot and more hot.’ Sam clutches my arm. ‘Bloody hell, I can see what you mean,’ she squeals, performing a little skip the minute Tom is out of earshot. ‘He looks like he’s just stepped out of a Hollywood movie.’ ‘I know, but I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you tell me Nathan knew him?’ ‘I didn’t know. I’ve not heard him mention him before, but I can get the lowdown on him now,’ Sam says, triumphantly. ‘No! Yes! Oh I don’t know. He’s way out of my league.’ ‘No he’s not. Yes he’s bloody gorgeous, but no man is out of your league, do you hear me?’ Sam hisses, pretending to be cross. ‘I hear you. But be discreet. Just find out if he’s attached … a girl can dream after all, can’t she?’ Finding a Moroccan mini-sofa thing, Sam sits and I carefully perform a small Houdini contortion act to get down low enough to sit next to her. As I wriggle around trying to get comfortable, the miracle suit presses on my bladder, so I have no option but to haul myself into a standing position to go in search of the Ladies. ‘Where are you off to? They’re going to be back soon.’ Sam clutches my arm. ‘Sam, it’s no good, I’m busting for the loo,’ I groan. ‘I’ll come with you, I could do with a lippy touch-up,’ she replies, even though her cerise gloss is still immaculate. ‘Let’s wait for them and then we’ll go.’ She smiles. ‘I’m not sure I can.’ Wincing, I lean forward and put the bottle down on a low table. Sam has the same idea and leans over too. The sudden shift in the weight on the cushion propels me forward and I’m launched mercilessly onto the little dance floor. The drink flies out of my hand, shoots up and splatters all over my face. I attempt to get up but just can’t bend enough. The floor is really slippery so I end up writhing around like an amateur contortionist. I try again to scrabble up onto my feet. Sam meanwhile has managed to get up and is now bent over in hysterics as she tries to pull me up. Her laughter is infectious, which just makes it worse as I beg her to stop. Within seconds, one of the models appears. He’s towering over me with a look of utter disgust on his pinched face. ‘Would you like some assistance?’ he drawls in an effeminate Aussie voice that completely belies his physical appearance. Feeling mortified, I shoo him away and manage to control myself a bit, but then start panicking. Tom is going to come back any second. ‘This is all your fault, plying me with cocktails. Get me up before I pee all over the place,’ I bellow over the music in Sam’s direction. I reach up to grab Sam’s hand and instantly feel like dying. Tom is standing right behind her. A quizzical grin smoulders across his chiselled face, and tucked in the crook of his beautiful elbow is an ice bucket. Four glasses are clutched in his left hand, and I wish I could just crawl away and evaporate somewhere quietly. It’s Nathan who moves forward from behind Tom, Sam, and the small crowd that’s now gathered around me. Bending down he scoops me up into a fireman’s lift over his shoulder and carries me over to the Ladies. I can see everybody staring and I feel hot with embarrassment. ‘There you go.’ Nathan lets me down. ‘Oh my God. Are you OK?’ Sam says. Her face is covered in concern as she elbows her way through from behind Nathan’s broad back. We push through the chrome door into the Ladies. ‘What’s that on your back?’ Sam asks worriedly, as she spins me around to inspect the bulge. ‘The bloody suit; the poppers have ripped off.’ ‘Thank God it’s only that,’ she breathes. ‘For a moment I thought you’d broken something or an organ had popped out even,’ she says, dramatically. ‘Here.’ She rifles in her gold clutch and pulls out a massive safety pin. ‘For emergency purposes. It’ll have to do,’ she adds, after I look back at her with horror. Quickly realising that she’s right, I rush into a cubicle and sort myself out. Back out by the washbasins, I survey the damage. Mostly superficial, fortunately, despite my impromptu shimmy across the dance floor. With a wet hand towel, I dab the mascara lines away and then reapply some face powder, carefully blending as I go. Another coat of mascara and fresh lipstick and I’m ready. I take a deep breath, push my hair behind my ears and turn to Sam. ‘Come here,’ she says kindly, and I step forward. She puts her arms around me. ‘Will you be OK?’ ‘I think so. Did you see the look on his face?’ I reply, cringing at the memory. ‘Yes, but you just hold your head up high and work it, baby. He’s reeeem,’ she says in her TOWIE accent to make me smile. ‘Go grab him.’ ‘Hardly, after that pantomime performance.’ ‘Oh so what.’ Sam shakes her hair back. ‘Men love a girl with a sense of humour, so just laugh it off. You look a billion dollars.’ ‘Thanks, Sam. You’re a true friend, do you know that?’ I say, perking up and giving her a quick hug. ‘Well, I do my best. When I haven’t got my foot in my mouth of course,’ she grins, and then adds, ‘Georgie, look I’m really sorry about the other day, your dad and all. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ ‘I know you didn’t,’ I say, patting her arm. ‘It’s forgotten,’ I finish, magnanimously, glad that we’ve cleared the air. ‘Actually, I was wondering …’ She peers at me. ‘What is it?’ ‘Err, I just wondered whether you’d spoken to him recently?’ she adds, nervously. I hesitate for a second. ‘Strange you should ask, because I slipped up and answered the phone …’ I reply, feeling uncomfortable. Sam gives me a look as though she’s unsure whether to say anything else. ‘Tell me?’ I prompt. ‘Oh nothing, I …’ ‘Come on, please just say it.’ ‘If you’re sure?’ she says warily. ‘Yes I’m sure. Now will you please just get on with it?’ I smile encouragingly. ‘Well, I was just thinking that it’s such a shame that you two can’t sort things out. Alfie means the world to me, he’s all I have, and I couldn’t bear it if he and I fell out,’ she says, sounding panicky. She looks away. ‘It’s OK, you’ve got me too, and Nathan … he seems really smitten, maybe he really is your “one”,’ I say, gently touching her arm, knowing how upset she gets about the prospect of being all alone. She looks back and manages a little smile. ‘But what if something happened to your dad? And you hadn’t resolved this? He made mistakes, I know, and you helped him out, there’s no denying that, but do you really want to punish him forever?’ I ponder on what she’s said, and for a moment I waver – maybe she has a point. ‘But it’s not that simple,’ I tell her. ‘What do you mean?’ Sam’s eyes widen. ‘What do you think it did to Mum? She was devastated. It was the stress of it all that made the multiple sclerosis develop so rapidly and cause complications. That’s why she died prematurely and I ended up in care …’ I say, in a wobbly voice, an image of Mum in the hospital bed flashing inside my head. Sam steps forward and gives me another hug. ‘Georgie I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you still felt that way.’ She gives me a weak smile. ‘It’s OK. That’s just the way it is,’ I say, putting on a brave face to cover the hollow feeling inside. ‘But it doesn’t have to be. You could forgive him and set yourself free from hating him. It wasn’t your dad’s fault she died.’ ‘Maybe.’ Silence follows. ‘Anyway, let’s go and enjoy ourselves,’ I say quickly, with a half-smile, desperate to shift the conversational focus. ‘OK, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.’ Sam gives my arm a little squeeze and turns to leave. I take a big deep breath, bracing myself to face Tom again. Nathan and Tom are sitting at the bar. They’ve already polished off half the bottle of wine. Nathan leaps down from his stool. ‘Here you are, lovely lady. Saving it especially for you,’ he says to Sam, and she bounces up, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Tom pulls out another stool for me. My tummy flips. I sit down and cross my legs and promptly let out a little yelp. The safety pin must have popped open. ‘Hey, are you OK?’ Tom leaps off his stool and places a hand on my arm. His face is full of concern. ‘Yes, yes I’m fine,’ I manage to squeak, wincing with agony. I quickly uncross my legs and let out a discreet sigh of relief. ‘That was quite some floor show,’ he says, sitting back down and leaning towards me. I grin in an attempt to hide my embarrassment. ‘Well, I aim to please,’ I say, remembering Sam’s advice to laugh it off. His presence, so close to me, is totally intoxicating, and I’m aware that I feel tingly all over. ‘So how long have you been working at Carrington’s?’ he asks, thoughtfully changing the subject. I take a sip of the cold wine and let the taste linger in my mouth. Waiting for me to answer, he smiles attentively – his impeccable manners are very appealing, I must say. ‘Since school.’ I swallow, relieved that we’re talking about something else now. ‘I started doing Saturdays and now I work full time in Women’s Accessories and sometimes deputise for James. He’s the floor supervisor and is also in charge of Men’s Accessories and Sportswear.’ ‘For now.’ Tom says the words quietly, but I know I’m not mistaken. He takes a large swig of his drink and looks away. ‘What do you mean?’ I say, a little too quickly. ‘Nothing. Look, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ He looks a bit panicky as his eyes drop downwards. ‘No, come on. You can’t say something like that and then not expand,’ I say, wanting to know what he knows. I shove my bag down on the bar, cringing at the slapping noise it makes. I don’t want him thinking I’m hysterical. ‘It’s nothing, honestly,’ he replies, not giving anything away. His mobile flashes on the bar, signifying the arrival of a text. ‘Sorry,’ he says, tapping out a reply. Irritated by the break in conversation I fiddle with the sequins on my bag, wanting to get back to his comment. If it meant what I think it does, then I have to warn James – at least then he can find another job before he’s pushed out. He places the phone back on the bar. ‘Anyway, no wriggling out of it,’ I say, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Come on. Tell me what you meant by that comment. What do you know?’ Tom scans my face, and for a second his overwhelming beauty distracts me, but I manage to hold the stare, trying not to let his charm get the better of me. ‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ he says, a flash of concern on his face. ‘No. Not when it comes to my friends.’ ‘OK. I’m sorry, it was insensitive of me, but seeing as it’s you,’ he starts, momentarily making me feel like I’m the only woman in the world, but then I spot a glimmer of something in his eyes before he looks away … like embarrassment, or shame almost, that he’s resorted to schmooze. He clears his throat before continuing. ‘What I meant was that we don’t know what’s going to happen now that Maxine’s arrived. Obviously there’re going to be changes and people might move around. That’s all I meant.’ ‘So how come you just started working at Carrington’s then? I mean, it seems odd to have someone joining on the same day a consultant is brought in to help us fend off a terminal decline?’ I say, almost thinking aloud – surely he must have done some homework before his interview. Anyone could find out that Carrington’s is struggling. ‘Fair point.’ He nods. ‘I was headhunted,’ he says, slowly. ‘What for exactly?’ I’m conscious that I’m now practically interrogating him, but I have to find out more. ‘Weell,’ he starts slowly, as though he’s buying time to make it up as he goes along. ‘Look, please don’t take this the wrong way,’ he eventually adds, tracing his finger around the rim of a glass. ‘I was recruited a month ago by Walter to sell jewellery.’ His mobile flashes again and he’s saved from saying any more. ‘Sorry,’ he mouths, taking the call and heading towards the Gents, leaving me puzzled. My mind races through the options. Why would Walter have brought Tom in? And why did Tom imply that James’s job isn’t safe? What does he know? I decide to call it a night and grab my bag from the bar. I don’t fancy sitting here while Tom shows more interest in his phone than talking to me. After making my excuses to Sam, I go in search of a taxi to take me home. I need some time alone to think this all through. 9 I’m at the counter of Sam’s caf? when I feel an arm around my shoulders. ‘Mine’s a black coffee and one of those Valentine cakes.’ It’s Eddie, and he’s pointing to a luscious lemon cupcake with an enormous sparkly silver meringue peak on top, and he looks exactly how I feel. ‘God, I feel terrible,’ he moans as I add his order to mine (tea and my fave, the delicious red velvet) before handing over my staff discount card. ‘And so would you if you’d been beavering away for that old hag, Maxine,’ Eddie snorts. ‘I reckon she must be at least forty.’ He pulls a face and I laugh. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/alexandra-brown/cupcakes-at-carrington-s/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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