Читать книгу Christmas Cracker 3-Book Collection: Three Cosy Christmas Romances - Lindsey Kelk, Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 14

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

‘Hey, you OK in there?’

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

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

‘It’s nothing.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is that right?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thank you.’ Declan giggles and snuggles into the bear, looking really chuffed before pushing it out towards me. ‘He’s called Nice Lady Bear.’ The guy rolls his eyes and laughs, and I can’t help laughing too.

‘How much is this one?’ The man quickly composes himself, and points to a gorgeous dusty pink, top handle Chloé bag with signature gold metalwork.

‘Oh, good choice. This one is a limited edition; we only have two left and I can’t guarantee delivery again this side of Christmas Day.’

‘Is it a popular one, you know … an It bag, or whatever they call them?’ He pushes a hand through his hair as Declan simultaneously bounces Nice Lady Bear in his stomach.

‘Oh yes, it was in Elle magazine last week.’ I take the tag from the inside pocket and show it to him.

‘Blimey, that’s more than I paid for my first car.’ He shakes his head and tweaks Declan’s freckly nose.

‘We have others if this one is a little more than you wanted to spend,’ I say, discreetly. He hesitates for a moment before nodding decisively.

‘I’ll take it. Because she’s worth it.’ He shrugs.

‘Shall we go over to my counter so I can gift-wrap it for you?’ I smile.

After placing the bag in a soft white drawstring dust bag, and cocooning it in a puff of our signature powder-blue tissue, I tie it all up with an enormous navy satin ribbon and hand the guy his credit card back. I stow the bag in a giant gift box, sprinkle in a handful of silver snowflake confetti and close the lid, before carefully sliding it into one of our special Christmas-themed paper carrier bags. I twirl a length of red gingham ribbon around the handles.

‘Thanks a million.’ He takes the bag and hoists Declan up onto his shoulders.

Once they’ve headed off towards the escalator, Hannah darts in front of my face.

‘Cor! Wish I had a husband like that – talk about thoughtful, and great with kids of course. And you are soo gooood. I can see why Kelly’s earmarked you for a starring role. You’re a natural sales woman, no coaching requirements for you!’ she gushes, practically hyperventilating with sheer excitement. I stare at her, wondering if she’s for real.

‘That’s because I am actually a sales woman. It’s my job, in real life,’ I say, stating the obvious.

‘Yes, yes, of course you are, but well … you know what I mean.’ She does a little giggle. ‘Now, Leo wants to check a few things with you and then we’re good to roll. Friday afternoon, the quietest time in store I’ve been told, there’ll be a short briefing, a run-through of the “scenario”. Not too much, natch.’ She giggles again. ‘We want the show to be as authentic as possible.’

‘But I’m not in the show,’ I say, busying myself with updating my sales sheet.

‘Of course you are. You’re going to be a star,’ she says, giving me a blank face, and quite clearly unable to comprehend my reluctance. She’s obviously used to people begging for airtime.

‘Nope, not me.’ I put my sales sheet away and start stacking the ring trays on top of each other in preparation for giving the glass counter a good buffing over. I like everything to look pristine, as there’s nothing worse than a messy point-of-sale area.

‘But you have to be. Kelly wants you. And she always gets what she wants. She’s the boss, she owns the production company, KCTV.’

‘Well, not this time. And she doesn’t own me. Anyway, it’s not the law,’ I say, probably a little too petulantly as I fold my arms to underline the point.

‘It practically is.’ Pursing her lips, Hannah grips the chart tighter and tries to stare me out.

‘What do you mean?’ I cave in first and glance at the floor before looking back at her face which is now a rhubarb-red colour.

‘Check your employment contract. It’s all covered in there. I’ll be back.’ And she marches off, closely followed by Leo, who has to do a gentle jog to keep up with her as he attempts to juggle the sound paraphernalia about his body at the same time.