Читать книгу Ice Creams at Carrington’s - Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 9

‘Shut uuup, you are.’ It’s Wednesday morning. I’m at work in the VIP shopping suite and Eddie is calling on the staff wall phone from LA.

‘Stop laughing. I really am. And it will be fun. If you hadn’t abandoned me on board the yacht, then you would have heard all about it,’ I say quietly, just in case a customer wanders in unannounced. Highly unlikely, as my assistant, Lauren, who used to work in the cash office but fancied doing something different when her little boy, Jack, started school, usually escorts them up, but you never know. And I’m guessing Lauren is already here, as the magazines have been fanned nicely on the gold marbled rococo coffee table, pink lilies placed on the matching side cabinet and the plum brocade cushions plumped and artfully arranged on the oversized chaise in the centre of the room.

‘Yes, sorry, it was a bit mean of me,’ Eddie apologises.

‘And then disappearing without even saying goodbye.’

‘Well, I tried to find you but the deck was heaving by then, and I was in serious danger of missing the flight. Carly was practically growling at me to get a move on.’

‘Hmm … Well OK, I’ll let you off. But only because she did look super-scaareeee!’

‘So, what do you know about boats?’ he sniffs.

‘Nothing. But the regatta isn’t about the boats.’ Silence. ‘Well, I guess it is a bit about the boats,’ I quickly add. ‘I’m guessing someone from the marina will be in charge of all the actual sailing stuff – the races, that kind of thing. My job is to make sure Mulberry puts on the show of its life, that Carrington’s is represented well and we utilise the opportunity to attract more high-end customers instore. The first committee meeting is tomorrow.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Whaaaat?’

‘You sound like some soulless corporate brochure.’

‘Oh, go away, don’t be calling me from exotic locations just to wind me up, what do you want?’ I pretend to be cross, but I’m well used to his teasing by now.

‘Charming!’ Eddie laughs. ‘Listen, petal, I didn’t get a chance at the yacht party to tell you I’m going to be back in Mulberry for the summer and thought it might be nice if we all do something together – the three of us: you, me and Sam. Can we pencil something in?’

‘Of course – we can hang out like we always have for years and years; it’ll be just like old times. Can’t wait. We can watch TV and eat cake, but since when did we need to “pencil something in”?’ I laugh – this summer is going to be brilliant. Even the weather is getting involved; the sun is still shining and I managed without a jacket this morning. A bit chilly, but once the clouds had cleared it was gloriously warm.

‘Since Carly lectured me on forward planning, that’s when! You know, she even had the cheek to reel me off a list on what makes an efficient PA. Like I never existed before I became famous. Honestly, she really thinks she’s the boss of me. Anyway, how’s that delicious boyfriend of yours? I didn’t even get a chance to talk to him at the soirée.’

‘Ah, Tom is brilliant as always.’

‘Although he’s hardly a boy now, is he? Oh no, all man. I clocked those beautifully built biceps.’

‘You know, he’s asked me to move in with him.’

‘Awesome. Next you’ll be getting married, sugar. Oh, promise I can be your best man. Sam will be bridesmaid, of course, but I’m in charge of your hair and makeup. And shoes! Oh yes, the shoes. How many pairs do you think you’ll need for the day?’ He pauses to let out a long sigh.

‘Err, one?’ I say, playing along with his fantasy wedding.

‘Don’t be daft. Three pairs at least!’ He sounds outraged. ‘And you’ll need a proper planner. Me, of course.’

‘Steady on. Haven’t you got a career being famous and fabulous to keep you busy?’

‘I’m deadly serious. Darling, you need to plan ahead, especially if you want a venue that’s anywhere near wonderful. You don’t want to have to settle for some draughty village hall in boring old Mulberry-On-Sea, all because you didn’t bother to get organised already. What would Queen Isabella say?’ He makes a tut-tutting sound.

‘Stop it. Anyway, Mulberry isn’t boring.’

‘Well, it is compared to Vegas, or … how about Necker? Oh my God, you could get married on Necker Island and we could film it as part of my show. I bet Her Madge could swing that for you – she’ll want the best for her son, and Tom’s bound to have the money stashed in his trust fund or whatever—’

‘Please, Eddie. When I get married, it will be here in Mulberry, with Dad giving me away and Nancy helping out with the arrangements: small and intimate and magical. You know how I hate being in the spotlight, especially when it comes to TV cameras.’

‘Spoilsport. I’ve always fancied myself as a bridal stylist. It’ll be just like dress up, but with an actual real audience. And I could be your very own David Tutera.’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, you won’t know him – he’s the dreamy host of My Fair Wedding – it’s a TV show on over here,’ he says in an extra-blasé voice.

‘Then I’ll bear you in mind should I ever need a wedding stylist,’ I laugh.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Men like Tom don’t come along twice in a lifetime.’

‘True. But don’t you think you might be getting a little bit carried away? We haven’t even talked about any of that.’

‘Well do. Talk. Try it; you might like it, instead of just having sex all the time. You must be the only couple I know who still have that all going on. Everyone else settles into twice-weekly sessions after a while – if they’re unlucky: sex is so overrated!’ I laugh, thinking: typical Eddie. ‘Not twice-nightly!’

‘Ha-ha! But we’re not like normal couples who can see each other whenever they like. You know how busy Tom is building the Carrington’s brand. I’m lucky if I get to see him twice in any one week! Besides, it’s just living together …’

‘But we all know what that really means,’ he states authoritatively.

‘We do?’

‘Of course. It’s man-speak for “I might want to marry you. Just not right now, but in a year or so when I’m really sure you’re not some kind of crazeee control freak who won’t let me leave wet towels on the bathroom floor, etc., etc.” It’s down to you to convert the offer of living together into your very own happy-ever-after. Go on, get that rock on your finger, darling – you know you want to.’

‘Eddie! Must you be so clichéd about everything? These days couples do actually discuss important things like marriage, you know – and I’m not some feeble female eagerly waiting for a man to sweep me off my feet. I make decisions.’

‘True. But you just said yourself that you don’t have time to discuss things. And there’s nothing wrong with helping things along a little, if it’s what you really want.’ Silence follows. ‘It is what you want, isn’t it?’

‘It is! Oh God, yes, it sooooo is,’ I say, suddenly realising that it actually really is – I think I’ve focused so much on the physical aspect of our relationship until now – enjoyed it, no, scrap that, adored it – that I’ve somehow forgotten about the emotional side. Tom and I have both neglected it. Well, that needs to be fixed, right away, or just as soon as we next see each other.

‘Brilliant. Then get a venue booked. Or, if you can’t decide, then at least put a selection on retainer … it’s the norm over here. My executive producer has had the Terrace Room at the New York Plaza booked since her Sweet Sixteen. It’s the only way, she said.’

‘Oh, Ed, there’s someone here.’ I can hear voices in the little anteroom outside. I pop my head around the door and see Lauren taking care of our guests. They’re enjoying a welcome glass of buck’s fizz, and so I reckon I’m OK for ten minutes or so. Give them a chance to relax – there’s nothing worse for a customer than feeling rushed.

‘OK, honeypie. But think about it. A year! Mark my words! I’ll even put a wager on it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That Tom will propose within a year of you living together.’

‘You’re on,’ I say, impulsively.

‘Well, now you’re talking – let’s go for it: a hundred quid says he proposes within six months of you officially living together. You can go for between six months and a year, seeing as you’re being Miss Evasive today, but if it’s within the first six months, then you pay me a hundred, and if it’s after six months but less than a year … then, well … you still pay me a hundred.’ He laughs.

‘But,’ I start, feeling totally confused, then quickly realise it’s pointless: Eddie has made up his mind. And besides, from what I can gather, if Tom doesn’t propose within either timescale, then I stand to win £200. Hmmm, but on second thoughts – at what cost? And I suddenly feel really disappointed. Damn you, Eddie, I now want Tom to propose to me more than anything … I realise that I actually don’t want the £200. And to think I was blissfully and obliviously happy before we started this conversation.

‘No buts! Right, I’m off to film a scene in a swim-up suite at a luxury hotel, with Carly tapping her watch every five seconds no doubt,’ he puffs, pretending to be put out.

‘Stop it!’

‘Oh, you’re just jel! But you’re welcome here any time, you know that,’ he laughs.

‘I’m not jel at all!’ I feign swagger, because secretly I am a bit jealous. Yes, I love my job, I love Tom, I love Mulberry-On-Sea, but it would be so nice to travel too, to see more of the world. I’ve spent my whole life here in Mulberry and it can be stifling at times. Of course I’ve been to other places – Spain, Sam surprised me once with a weekend away for my birthday, and there was Lake Como for her wedding. Oh, and I’ve been to London loads of times, it’s only an hour away on the train and great for nights out and exclusive West End shopping. Mum and Dad used to take me there too as a child to shop and see the sights. We’d make a day of it, first visiting an old-fashioned, posh little department store – it only had three floors but Mum loved it, and it sold my boarding school uniform (which I had to have before I got turfed out, of course), plus it made a change from Carrington’s. But it closed down years ago. Then on to Big Ben, Trafalgar Square to feed the pigeons, Buckingham Palace and not forgetting the museums, a boat trip along the Thames, followed by fish and chips smothered with salt and vinegar straight from the paper, sitting on a bench beside the Cutty Sark. Ah, I cherish those memories of me, Mum and Dad, all happy together – this was years before Dad got into trouble and everything changed.

There was the private jet trip to Paris as well, but that doesn’t really count as I only got to see the road through the taxi window from the airport to the hotel, and then back again. Eddie and Ciaran’s wedding in Vegas was pretty spectacular, but I’m not sure the big glitzy bubble that is Vegas really counts as ‘travelling’, not when there’s an actual escalator to perambulate you to the other side of the street. Mind you, I did manage to sit in a gondola and be serenaded along a pretend Venice waterway while I was there … hmm, on second thoughts, nope, not as good as the real thing. I’d love a proper Venetian experience. I promptly make myself a promise to travel more – take Eddie up on his offer and visit him in California, perhaps. Now that would be very exciting indeed. I’ll be thirty in August, so I don’t want to be heading for forty and to have never really travelled. And I reckon Tom could do with a holiday too. We could go to Venice for real, I could treat him just as soon as the summer regatta is over. It would certainly give us a proper opportunity to talk and move our relationship on in preparation for living together.

‘Be good. Laters,’ Eddie says to end the call.

I smooth down my duck-egg blue fit and flare dress. A signature piece – because when Carrington’s staff wear Carrington’s clothes, our customers see it, want it, buy it! True fact! And there’s a duplicate dress just like this one currently being displayed on a podium in the main Carrington’s window, which directly fronts the high street with its white colonnaded walkway of olde-worlde streetlamps and pretty hanging baskets bursting with sunny bright orange nasturtiums. It’s the most prominent spot in the store and right next to Women’s Accessories, which is where I used to work before I took over up here.

And I loved that job too – selling high-end handbags all day long: who wouldn’t? I may not have been able to afford to own one back then, even with my staff discount, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate an exquisite piece of arm candy when I saw it. And there isn’t anything I don’t know about handbags – they’re my passion – and it’s even better now that I’m up here, as my customers always want the perfect bag to complement their new outfit. You know, I even met Anya Hindmarch one time. I’m a big fan of her designs.

My counter was next to the floor-to-ceiling window display, giving me a panoramic view of the bandstand opposite. During quiet times, I used to love watching all the people milling up and down outside, or relaxing in a deckchair enjoying a musical performance on the bandstand opposite. On a clear early morning, when the town was still empty, I could see as far as the peppermint-green railings down by the harbour and out to the glistening sea beyond.

Mulberry-On-Sea is the perfect location to host a summer regatta. I bet people will come from miles around; we may even get tourists travelling down from London, not forgetting the visiting glamouratti berthing in the marina for a few days. I can’t wait to get involved, and show Isabella what a good job I can do – there’s no way I’d ever let Tom down – or Carrington’s, for that matter.

Smiling, I bouf up my hair in the mirror as I pass by and head towards the anteroom to greet my customers – mother and daughter, by the looks of it, and they’ve just finished their drinks, so perfect timing to bring them through.

‘Ohmigod, I want that dress,’ the teenage girl yells to her mother the very minute they emerge through the chrome swing doors, simultaneously giving me an up-and-down look. See, works every time.

See it. Want it. Buy it.

‘Shall I whizz down to Womenswear – what do you reckon? A size twelve?’ Lauren whispers, as the girl and her mother get comfortable on the chaise.

‘No need, but thank you. The dress is already in the changing room – one in every size, so we have all options covered.’

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Because those that try it—’

‘Buy it!’ I join in. ‘You know it.’ Lauren laughs and shakes her head. ‘I’ll make a start on the refreshments in that case.’ She gives my arm a squeeze before placing a cake stand on a table and piling it high with miniature lemon drizzle cupcakes and pretty pastel-coloured fondant fancies from Sam’s café.

Two hours later and the mother/daughter duo have each selected whole new summer wardrobes – floaty sundresses, strappy sandals, maxi-dresses, linen trousers, cruise wear and party gear: they’ve got the lot. All they need now are accessories, so I’m in the rickety old and incredibly slow staff lift on my way downstairs while they enjoy complimentary beauty treatments for the next hour or so in the specially installed pedi-chairs that line one wall of the VIP shopping suite. Sally and her team from the instore spa will look after them while Lauren makes a start on cocooning their mountain of merch in a puff of our signature powder-blue tissue, parcelling it all up with navy satin ribbons and popping it into big striped Carrington’s carrier bags. The concierge will then send someone up with a stock trolley to transport the bags to their car in the designated VIP parking area in the Carrington’s car park adjacent to the store. We provide the complete shopping experience.

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

And wow!

The display team has done a brilliant job with this year’s summer interior – the shop floor has been transformed into a nostalgic, halcyon, vintage beach scene. I love it! There is real sand mixed with gold glitter scattered on the display podiums, and each one has its own theme – mini-mannequins in floral retro-style swimwear courtesy of the Cath Kidston concession, fluffy towel bales from Homeware, a candy-striped deckchair decorated with a pair of Fifties sunglasses and a tartan blanket. A glorious red Decca record player and an old-fashioned picnic hamper complete with post-war utility-style plates, cutlery and a Thermos flask are strategically placed next to a modern funky range of Orla Kiely outdoor living items – flowery patterned radios, melamine plates and divinely scented candles.

There is even a row of Neapolitan-ice-cream-coloured wooden beach huts lining one of the cherry-wood panelled walls. Strawberry. Vanilla. Chocolate. I peep inside the vanilla beach hut and immediately feel transported – there’s a speaker in the ceiling through which I can hear the sound of the seaside on a busy summer’s day. The swooshing of waves back and forward over pebbles, seagulls caw-cawing overhead and the sound of children laughing as they play in the sun. What a genius idea. It’s just like being on an actual beach. And I swear I just got a whiff of sun cream – almond and coconut. It’s so evocative of long lazy hazy summer days on holiday. It makes me want to race upstairs to the special pop-up beachwear shop in Womenswear to find the perfect bikini with matching sarong, big floppy sunhat, beach tote, flip-flops and shades, which I guess is the whole point. Ducking out, I dip into the strawberry beach hut and I’m at a fairground now, I can hear the music from the carousel and a sweet sticky aroma fills the air. Mm-mmm. Sugar doughnuts. Candy floss. It reminds me of going to Mulberry funfair in the school holidays, and I absolutely love it! This is summer right here. Brilliant.

Grinning from ear to ear, I head over to Women’s Accessories and spot Annie behind my old counter.

‘Hello stranger! What are you doing here?’ I ask, giving her a hug. Last I heard of Annie she had left to get married, the whole works – a big-fat-gypsy-type wedding. Annie is a Traveller who lives in a caravan on the permanent site up near Mulberry Common, and when she first came to work here, she was the only girl in her family to ever have a paid job.

‘Couldn’t keep away.’ She twiddles her nose stud and smiles wryly.

‘And the wedding?’ I ask, spotting her bare ring finger.

‘Oh, he turned into a complete knobber – started mouthing off about how after the wedding my place would be at home cooking and scrubbing up after him, so I dumped him. I’m nobody’s chalice.’

‘Chattel.’

‘Whatevs. If that’s another word for slave, then that too,’ Annie says, placing her left hand on her hip, and making me smile. I’ve really missed her. ‘So, I got on the phone to HR and got my old job back. Well, your old job, to be exact.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m the supervisor now. My first day, too, and it’s going really well. I’ve already shifted two Marc Jacobs top handles and a Juicy Couture crossbody bag. And I remembered all the little tricks you taught me, like surreptitiously sweeping the cheaper bag along to the end of the counter so as to focus the customer’s attention on the more expensive piece of merch.’ Standing tall, she puffs out her impressive cleavage while flicking her frosted hair extensions back over her shoulder.

‘Good for you.’ I wink, remembering when Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee, taught me that trick on my first day as a Saturday girl all those years ago – Mrs Grace rocked Women’s Accessories for fifty years before handing the mantle to me. She’s retired from Carrington’s now, after landing a book deal for a good five-figure sum to write her autobiography on the back of being in the reality TV show. It’s going to be a trilogy, starting right from the beginning and detailing the history of Carrington’s – the underground maze of tunnels that practically run the length and breadth of Mulberry town. There’s even one that goes 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 (Tom’s grandfather on Vaughan’s side), had the tunnels 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 one time over a cream horn and a steamy hot chocolate in Sam’s café. The books are going to cover the war years, too, when the underground tunnels were opened up to the residents of Mulberry-On-Sea to use as bunkers during the Blitz. Which gives me an idea – we could do a tour as part of the regatta! Apparently it’s going to be a two-day event over the August bank holiday weekend (I got an email ahead of the first committee meeting tomorrow), so plenty of time for people to see ‘behind the scenes’ of the iconic Carrington’s building. I’ll add the idea to my list and be sure to bring it up tomorrow. Mrs Grace might even come out of retirement to be the tour guide. I bet she’d love that.

‘And I’ve positioned the long mirror right here, see,’ Annie points an index finger, ‘becaaaaaause …’

‘Those who try it, buy it,’ we both sing in unison, grinning.

Annie puts on a serious work face. ‘Sooo, what can I help you with? I take it you’re after some designer bags for your VIPs?’

‘Sure am. I need top handle day bags, evening – a clutch or two, some totes and a couple of those big stripy beach bags over there.’ I point towards the special ‘summer fun’ shelf that Annie has artfully created. A pile of bonkbusters, presumably for reading by the pool, are stacked at one end, and she’s even snaffled some of the glittery gold sand and sprinkled it in between the bags on display.

‘Blimey. Sounds as if they’re splashing the cash then … Anyone famous?’

‘I don’t think so – didn’t recognise them. A mother-and-daughter day, treating themselves,’ I say, as an image of me as a child, shopping with Mum, pops into my head.

‘Ah, that’s lovely. Right then, jump behind my counter in case a customer comes—’

‘Oh, you don’t have to pick out the bags for me,’ I say quickly.

‘Babes, it’s no trouble. Besides, I want to – this is my kingdom now,’ she pauses to gesture around the floor. ‘And I really want to make this work. I want to be amazing at something. Just like you.’ She gives me a quick hug.

‘And you already are.’ I squeeze her back, thinking how much she reminds me of myself when I first started out in Women’s Accessories, full of ideas and enthusiasm. ‘But thank you, honey.’

‘No worries, leave it to me and I’ll sort out a nice selection for you, starting with the exquisite Cambridge satchel in fluoro lime, yes? New in, and totes amazeballs!’ She gasps, fluttering her eyelids and waving a palm in the air as if experiencing her very own bag nirvana.

Once she’s come to, Annie races around the shop floor picking out the best bags, while I stand behind my old counter reminiscing – I must have only been a little girl when I first came to Carrington’s with Mum; we would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. Of course, this was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy café where the cakes are now éclairs and miniature pastel-coloured macaroons, and a good old-fashioned Victoria sponge is a magnificent six-tiered tower of rainbow-coloured layers decorated with blueberries and fresh lemon-infused cream frosting. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although meeting Tom is right up there too. And I so wish Tom could have met Mum; I think she would definitely have approved, especially with him being the majority shareholder – Mum was always a little in awe of anyone out of the ordinary. It was my thirteenth birthday not long before she died, and the nurses in the hospital organised a little party. They even invited someone from the local football team to turn up and give me a teddy bear – Mum went all fan-girl. And she would have loved the VIP suite, feeling special for a day, pampered … Such a shame she’s gone, and I would have loved treating her to a selection of gorgeous new outfits.

I used to miss her so much, I still do sometimes, but having Dad back in my life has made a massive difference, especially as we’ve reached the stage now where we can talk about Mum together and remember the happy times. I make a mental note to call Dad later, see how he is and suggest a trip to Mum’s grave as we haven’t been since Christmas. I’d like to take some flowers – maybe Nancy will come too. Last time she made a beautiful Christmassy arrangement of pinecones, miniature ferns and cinnamon sticks, set around a gorgeous red poinsettia plant, for me to put next to Mum’s headstone. Nancy’s kindness and generosity made me well up with emotion. She’s such a kind, warm woman – and she really knows what it feels like to lose someone so close; her daughter, Natalie, died in a motorbike accident years ago, so she wears her necklace, with a gold letter N on, to keep her close always. I run an index finger over the silver locket that Nancy gave me as a Christmas present. It’s on a chain around my neck, which I never take off. Inside is a picture of Mum (Nancy got it from Dad) when she was young and vibrant; hair fanned around her smiling face and cornflower-blue bright eyes. In the other side is a picture of me, with a brunette bob and the same blue eyes, a similar image to the one Mum would have seen of me just before she died. I love that Nancy did this; it’s as if Mum’s memory of me is crystallised for ever and ever.

‘Here!’ Annie says, catching her breath and breaking my reverie. She holds out her arms to show off the bags that are looped all the way from her wrists up to her armpits. ‘Take your pick.’

‘Can I have all of them?’ I ask, scanning the floor for a stock trolley. Reading my mind, Annie nods towards the little alcove behind the counter.

‘Yep – you will bring back any unsold merch, though, won’t you?’

‘Of course. But I plan on flogging the lot,’ I beam, wheeling out the trolley.

‘Good. And remember to scan each piece they purch,’ Annie instructs, wagging an index finger in my face as we carefully load the bags so as not to damage the leather.

‘Yes, Annie. I know,’ I say in a singsong voice over my shoulder as I head back towards the lift with my stash.

‘Just checking,’ she calls out after me. ‘I don’t do shrinkage in my section. I can account for all of the merch … just so’s you know.’ She laughs.

Cheeky! I laugh too. I’m so proud of Annie – she started at Carrington’s straight from school, just like I did. I gave her a chance, trained her, just like Mrs Grace trained me. And now she is indeed ruling her kingdom. Well, good for her … I hope she loves it as much as I did.

I wheel the trolley into the staff lift and reach the third floor when it shudders to a halt.

‘Hello, lovey. How are you?’ It’s Betty, our mumsy switchboard supervisor. She steps into the lift. Her glasses, which are swinging on a chain around her neck, narrowly miss getting caught in the metalwork as she leans across to close the cage door.

‘Very well, thank you. And how are you?’

‘Not so bad now the sweats are easing off,’ she replies, wiping her top lip with a cotton hanky while I nod sympathetically. ‘Ooh, and I heard about the regatta,’ she swiftly adds, changing topic.

‘You did?’

‘Yes. My friend, Joyce, works at the council, so she knows everything that goes on here in Mulberry.’ Blimey, news sure does travel fast. ‘You know, I organised a village fete many years ago, so if you need a hand with anything … you just let me know.’

‘Oh thanks Betty, I shall definitely bear that in mind,’ I smile politely, not wanting to offend her, but really hoping the regatta will be a much bigger event than a village fete – more like a festival. And you never know – if we pull it off, then perhaps it could become an annual thing, with camping too, or special all-inclusive packages at the exclusive Mulberry Grand Hotel. It could be huge, like Glastonbury, only without the mud!

‘Yes, do. Hashtag Team Carrington’s!’ she says, cheerfully. ‘Isn’t that what they say on the Twitters?’ Betty looks at me for confirmation and I nod. ‘My Luke is on there all the time. I reckon he’s addicted – that, or he’s got himself a girl at last. Good thing, too, she can take him off my hands. He really should have left home by now – thirty-five is no age to be still sleeping in a box room with me doing his ironing and washing up after him. He has it too good, that’s what my husband says. Georgie, do yourself a favour, lovey, and bypass the whole kid thing. I love my Luke, but he’s so damn lazy. I suppose it serves me right in a way, I’ve spoilt him.’ She stashes the hanky inside the sleeve of her hand-knitted cardy. ‘And that MP’s assistant certainly needs taking down a peg or two. Apparently she’s got herself on the regatta committee, and Joyce was telling me that she’s forever calling the council to lodge complaints – she’s just a secretary, for crying out loud. Not a flaming Secretary of State, the way she carries on. You know, she was instrumental in campaigning against the new marina, so it’s a bit rich that she now wants to muscle in on the regatta, the one to be held at the very marina that she tried to block!’

‘Really?’ I ask, shocked. The new marina has made a massive difference to Carrington’s turnover, and to the whole of Mulberry, in fact, it’s helped attract loads more customers to the area, especially those with money to spend after mooring their yachts. Who knows where Carrington’s would be without the marina. Not so long ago, before the reality TV show instore, there was a very real possibility of Carrington’s spiralling into a terminal decline, but things are on the up now. Carrington’s is in the pink!

‘Yes, that’s right. But then she’s never been a fan of the store. Well, not since she was asked to leave, that is …’

‘Oh?’

‘She used to work here … Years ago! She was secretary for a time to your Tom’s predecessor, old Walter, aka the Heff, as in Hugh Heffner, on account of his numerous dalliances with women half his age,’ she huffs. ‘Anyway, she and Walter were caught at it in the boardroom, which was all hushed up at the time, but then Walter’s wife, Camille, your Tom’s aunty …’ Betty looks for confirmation that she’s got the Carrington family tree correct. I nod. ‘Well, Camille found out and insisted she be sacked. So watch your back with her … I reckon she’d love nothing more than to exact a bit of revenge by ruining things for Carrington’s if she can.’

Oh great. So not only do I have Isabella waiting for me to mess up, but also now it seems the scowly-woman-with-no-name could be out to sabotage things. Well, in that case, I’ll just have to make sure I pull out all the stops because I’m determined to make this the best regatta Mulberry has ever seen. There’s no way I’m letting the scowly-woman-with-no-name ruin it, and I’m definitely, definitely not showing Tom up in front of his mother, or jeopardising his chances to open another store. It means the world to him to demonstrate his business acumen. He really wants to take Carrington’s to the next level, grow the business, and I don’t want anything to spoil that, especially if we really are to have a proper future together. Isabella would be my mother-in-law, which means as her daughter-in-law I would want to be the best one she ever did have. I love Tom, I adore him, so I’d want Isabella to adore me, for us to get on brilliantly, have shopping days and spa weekends together, that kind of thing – be the daughter she never had. I could even call her mum, if she liked. Not that she’d ever replace Mum, but you know what I mean. It could be lovely. Mmm, I mull it all over. I’d be a part of something magical, a proper family, an Italian dynasty – Tom has loads of aunts, uncles and cousins. And family friends, too, who he’s known for years. I’ve never really had that – when Dad went to prison, everyone faded away, apart from Sam and her dad Alfie.

Georgie Carrington! Mrs Georgina Carrington. Oooh, it has a nice ring to it, or would I keep my own name? Lots of women do, so how about Georgina Hart-Carrington? Hmm, or perhaps Tom could change his name – some men do. Mr Tom Hart … anyway, whatever happens, I have to say the thought of actually being Tom’s wife is a pretty spectacular prospect, something wonderful to look forward to. I just need to show Isabella what a brilliant match I am for her son because, let’s face it, having a mother-in-law who has ‘issues’ with you is bound to ruin things in the long term. And it’s not like I could ever talk to Tom about it, I’m not even sure I’d want to put him in that position, stuck in the middle, and from what I’ve seen so far, they’re very close – they chat on the phone practically every day. I couldn’t expect him to choose between us, or anything silly like that. No, the sooner Isabella gets to know me properly and see what I’m capable of, the better. And where better to start than by organising a magnificent regatta, which in turn will show my support, not only to the Carrington business, but to the Carrington family too.