Ice Creams at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘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.

&n
bsp; ‘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 t
o 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.