Читать книгу Christmas Cracker 3-Book Collection: Three Cosy Christmas Romances - Lindsey Kelk, Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 16

Eddie must be on his lunch break as his desk is empty when I arrive in the anteroom outside Tom’s office. I can hear voices inside, so I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. No answer. The voices stop. Silence follows. I’ve got my ear pressed to the door when it suddenly flings wide open and I end up doing a slapstick stumble over the threshold, even stepping completely out of my left New Look heel. How embarrassing. I quickly retrieve my shoe and wither a little inside.

‘You just can’t keep away, can you?’ It’s Zara. And I don’t believe it. She’s only got the dusty pink Chloé bag swinging jauntily in the crook of her elbow! It must be the one I sold this morning. Has to be. Unless it’s a pure coincidence, which is highly unlikely as Carrington’s is the only place around here to stock Chloé bags. Perhaps she already had the exact same one, I think, giving her the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe she bombed up to London at lightning speed after seeing her shaman, whatever one of those is. I make a mental note to Google it later.

‘Excuse me?’ I say, wishing I could say more, but seeing as she’s the daughter of Tom’s mother’s friend, I quickly decide against antagonising her. If Tom and I are going to have a future together, then I’ll need to get on with his friends. And I certainly don’t want to upset his mother, Isabella Rossi, of the wealthy Italian Rossi dynasty, before I’ve even met her.

‘Only joking,’ she says, giving me a frosty smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ she adds, rudely.

‘Hello, I’ve come to see Tom.’ I grin brightly, figuring I might as well make an effort to be friendly, even if she can’t – kill them with kindness, that’s what Mum used to tell me. I push a lock of hair behind my ear, and quickly smooth down my top.

‘Well you’d better come in then.’ She takes a minuscule step sideways, but keeps her free arm high on the door just above my head, so I have to duck down to enter the room, like a servile minion.

Inside, and Kelly is back on the sofa with her feet up and her eyes glued to a row of little TV monitors. There is stuff everywhere: clothes, shoes, and practically all of the cosmetic hall’s stock, by the looks of it. Plastic crates of make-up cover every surface, mingled in with several empty bottles of champagne and plates of half-eaten sandwiches and crisps.

Kelly swings her feet down, making the now familiar jingle-jangly sound, and promptly steps on a giant can of Elnett super-hold hairspray, which she instantly boots out of the way. It rolls across the floor before clattering to a halt against the side of Tom’s antique desk.

‘Bloody junk. Is there no end to it all? Milllleeeee,’ she hollers, and a few seconds later, a very striking and androgynous-looking woman who, I guess, is Millie the hair and make-up artist, comes tearing out of the bathroom. Her short dark hair is swept back to show off perfect dewy skin and shiny conker eyes. Freckles sprinkle her nose and cheekbones. She’s dressed all in black apart from silver Converse trainers on her feet and a trio of primary-coloured Perspex bangles on her left wrist. Surprisingly, she doesn’t appear to be wearing any make-up.

‘Will you please quit yelling, Kel? I’ve got one hell of a hangover from all those Dirty Martinis you poured down my neck last night.’ Millie pauses to clutch the right side of her head. ‘So, what’s up?’ she adds, in a strong Geordie accent, before placing both hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side and grinning widely.

‘When are we getting a proper space? I can’t possibly be expected to work my magic in squalor like this.’ Snorting loudly, Kelly sweeps a hand through the air to emphasise the perceived ‘squalor’ of Tom’s office. I see she’s changed her tune. What happened to the ‘funky, sweetness and light, we’ll be new besties forever’ attitude she had going on this morning? And I see now what Sam means about not being fooled by her wacky exterior. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, that’s for sure. Especially when she could insist I be sacked, just like the staff from her last series were.

‘How should I know? I just do make-up. Last I heard, that guy on the executive floor … ’ Millie pauses to ponder. ‘The preppy-looking one, could do ads for Ralph Lauren if he tanned up a bit. Works in customer relations or something.’ Millie pauses again, momentarily deep in thought. ‘James, that’s it!’ She clicks her fingers in the air, looking pleased at remembering his name. ‘He knows someone who knows someone, so they’re getting us suites at the Mulberry Grand Hotel. Not far from here. I’ve asked for a sea view,’ she states in a blasé voice, before flinging a lid off a crate and rummaging through it.

I smile inwardly at the mention of James. We had a one-night stand once, ages ago; it was just before Valentine’s Day – this was before Tom and I started going out together, obviously. It was very romantic, but James hadn’t long split from his wife, Rebecca, after she dumped him for someone else and, well, it got complicated. Turned out he wasn’t ready to have a new relationship – he was still in love with her. They’re divorced now, and word on the shop floor is that he went on a date with Vicky a few weeks ago. She works in the Carrington’s crèche and is very pretty and petite. Apparently, they were spotted in the Dog and Duck, the pub next to the cinema in the centre of town, and Vicky was all breezy and pretending to be uninterested, according to Emma, who works part-time in Stationery. But I’m pleased for him. We’re just good friends now. He deserves to find his happy-ever-after.

‘Well, if she’s having a sea view, then so am I,’ Zara says, before throwing a daggers look in Millie’s direction, which she doesn’t even notice. Millie is too busy reading the instructions on the back of an Illamasqua box of extra-length false eyelashes in intense blue. I can’t help wondering who they are for? Oh God, not me I hope. Nooo, surely not. I’ll look like a blow-up doll. And our regulars won’t like it, that’s for sure. I can just imagine Mrs Godfrey from the WI, all flaring and huffy, if I flutter long blue lashes while helping her to select a new rain bonnet. We tried to phase the bonnets out at one point, but the local WI had a word with Betty, our mumsy switchboard supervisor, who had a word with someone on the board, so the bonnets had to stay.

‘Darling, you can have whatever you want,’ Kelly says, sounding exasperated with her own daughter. Millie glances up from the crate, and on catching my eye she pulls a face before looking at Zara’s back. So Millie has the cut of Zara then, I see.

‘Well, in that case, I want to go to Paris.’ Zara kicks the point of her left Loub against the cherry-wood panelling next to the fireplace.

‘Oh not this again. Can’t you just make do with more money instead?’ Kelly sighs heavily and reaches for her handbag. ‘Anyway, don’t be ridiculous. You’re needed here to help me with the show.’

‘It’s so unfair. How come everyone else gets to do the exotic bits while I’m stuck in this provincial dump that doesn’t even have a wait list for Birkin’s.’ Zara jabs the panel again. I turn to look at Kelly, wondering what she’ll come back with. It’s like following the ball at Wimbledon.

‘Sweetie, if you want another Birkin, then you only have to say and I’ll put in a call to François. He owes me some merch, especially after all that product placement I did for him in my last series.’ Kelly plucks a black credit card from her purse and waves it in Zara’s direction to placate her. Zara ignores it.

My ears prick up at this revelation. Does this mean, then, that Annie and I will be selling Hermès bags? Oooh, I hope so. I wonder if this is one of Kelly’s ideas to boost revenue for Carrington’s and put us on a par with the famous department stores up in London. Or, better still, Annie and I could actually carry a Birkin bag in the show? They could film us arriving at work or something. You never know, we might even get to keep one, especially if it’s been used and thereby can’t be sold instore – now that would be amazing. And it would mean that I could dump the fake one I bought from a street seller in Marbs. Although, I can’t see our regular customers forking out thousands for a handbag. Who can afford to do that?

Or perhaps Kelly has ideas to attract new customers too, from out of town. Maybe down from London for a weekend, or how about a special exclusive event for the glamouratti from the boats moored up in Mulberry Marina. They all seem to be flocking here since the new casino opened, much to the annoyance of the local residence committee, I have to say. My neighbour, Frank, who does something on the parish council, ran a petition for well over a year and collected nearly nine hundred names. But anyway, I’ve seen some amazing super-yachts, and I’ve often wondered why we don’t make more of this untapped flow of high-end customers. I’ll talk to Tom about it, when we’re alone. Could be my way of showing him that, actually, there are no hard feelings, and I’m keen for Kelly to work her magic and make Carrington’s magnificent again. In just the same way he is. He could go back to confiding in me and it would become like our project, chatting and dissecting Kelly’s progress together. You never know, KCTV may even do a second series. Tom did say that he’d been thinking about opening another store, perhaps, and what better way to drum up publicity than by involving the viewers – read, potential new customers – right from the start. I make a mental note to chat to Tom about this too.

Glancing at the wall clock, I see there’s only five minutes left of my lunch break. I clear my throat.

‘Oh, didn’t see you there with all this junk in the way,’ Kelly says, and I’m sure I detect a hint of frostiness in her voice. I wonder if Tom has had a go at her for making Annie and me look like fools. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve come to see Tom.’ I smile.

‘Oh he’s gone. You just missed him,’ Kelly replies, in a very airy voice.

‘Ahh, that’s right. Totes forgot,’ Zara chips in, unconvincingly, as she gives me an up-and-down look before raising a sardonic eyebrow. What is her problem?

‘Gone where? Do you know how long he’ll be? I could come back later,’ I say, deliberately keeping my voice light and breezy. I’m not giving Zara the satisfaction of seeing me rankled.

‘To Paris, of course.’

‘Paris.’ The floor sways beneath me.

‘Yep. To film the other half of the show. The exciting bit,’ Zara adds, pointedly. ‘The bit where the viewers will get to see him visiting high-end fashion houses – Paris, Milan, New York.’ She counts off the cities on her fingers. ‘Sourcing new stock lines, meeting suppliers, that kind of thing. And with a bit of luck I’ll get to join him.’

I feel as though I’m suffocating. Tom has gone! Gone a trillion miles away, or it might as well be, seeing as we’re over. How are we going to talk now? It just won’t be the same on the phone; no – some things just have to be sorted out face to face. Silence follows.

‘But he never said,’ I manage, instantly hating myself for sounding all ‘little girl lost’.

‘Maybe he was too busy focusing on his priorities,’ Zara offers, before inspecting her nails.

‘It was very last-minute, to be fair. The flight was only booked this morning.’ It’s Millie, and she gives me a sympathetic smile.

‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ Zara butts in, twiddling a diamond earring and flaring her nostrils.

‘He’s my … ’ I hesitate. What is he exactly? Before last night I thought he was my boyfriend, but now I have no idea. He never even mentioned Paris. I know he travels a lot, but since we started seeing each other he’s made sure to tell me when he’s going away. I’m stunned. How could I have got it so wrong? If he just wanted a good time, a casual fling, then why didn’t he say so? Why did he come all the way to Italy to surprise me at Sam’s wedding? Then appearing at my sun lounger wearing Daniel Craig-style trunks to show off his practically perfect body, teamed with an irresistibly cheeky grin. Why did he let me think we had a future? We had even chatted about spending Christmas together. I distinctly remember us laughing and saying how fab it would be to stay in one of those picturesque log cabins, with a roaring log fire, snuggled up together in red tartan blankets while sipping mugs of hot chocolate and looking out through frost-cornered windows as snow floats silently down from the sky. Just like in one of those soppy, old-fashioned Technicolor films, with Bing Crosby crooning in the background. It just doesn’t add up. I feel so confused.

‘Friend,’ I finish lamely.

‘And he’s also the boss around here, so he doesn’t have to answer to you.’ It’s Zara again. I give her a look. She throws me a sarcastic smile.

‘Girls. Girls. Come on. Play nicely,’ Kelly interrupts, before putting her arm around Zara and giving her shoulder a rub. ‘Honey, I can see why you’re sweet on him, and who can blame you? He’s diviiiine. Our very own Henry Cavill. Now, if I were ten years younger … ’ And the rest, I secretly think, feeling angry and hurt with Tom all over again. I can’t keep up with this rollercoaster of emotions. One minute I want him so much it aches, and the next I’m left feeling devastated.

I take a deep breath, inwardly wishing my feelings for Tom weren’t quite so obvious. I really wish I hadn’t been so stubborn now. I should have swallowed my pride and agreed to talk later when it was more convenient. Instinctively, I pull my mobile from my pocket and quickly glance at the screen, willing him to have been in touch. To explain everything. Make it good again. But nothing. Just a text message from Dad, all in shouty capitals with no full stops, but at least he’s trying. I bought him a mobile for his birthday a couple of months ago, and then he went on the silver-surfers’ course at the community centre to master the art of communicating effectively in the electronic age. He’s asking if I’ll come for a late lunch on Sunday, says he has a bit of news to share.

I glance up and my face immediately freezes. Kelly is looking directly at Zara. She was talking to her, not me. No wonder Zara is being frosty: she fancies Tom and wants him all to herself. And it explains why she’s so desperate to go to Paris. Probably thinks she’ll seduce him up the Eiffel Tower or whatever. Flaming cheek! My heart sinks.

Well, if she thinks I give up that easily, then she’s seriously mistaken. It’s taken me a long time to meet Tom. OK, he’s behaving a bit weirdly right now and, like Millie said, it was all very last-minute and I didn’t exactly give him time to say he was about to board a flight to Paris before I ran out of his office. And it’s early days and all couples have bumpy patches. But if Zara thinks she’s going to steal him away from me with her supermodel looks and endless supply of designer handbags, then she’s going to have a fight on her hands. If there’s one thing I learnt during my time in foster care, it was that you have to stand up to the likes of Zara.

I turn on my heel, and for the second time today, I leave the room as quickly and quietly as I can. Only this time, Eddie isn’t sitting outside to extend a consoling hand, and there aren’t any tears. Just a stunned realisation, deep down, that it might really be over between Tom and me. No chance of us making up. And no matter how much of a brave face I try to put on things with my fighting talk and bluster, if Tom doesn’t want to be with me, then, realistically, there isn’t much I can do about it. I can’t force him to want me. A shudder rattles right through me as a feeble sob catches in my throat.