‘Aw, so he or she could be a honeymoon baby then.’ I quickly count the weeks off in my head.
‘Sure could be. And ohmigod, Georgie, you’ve just given me a brainwave.’
‘I have?’ I ask cautiously. You never know with Sam and her madcap ideas sometimes.
‘Of course, if it’s a girl we can call her Honey … sooo romantic.’ I let out a little sigh of relief, pleased that Manhattan or Honolulu aren’t in the running as suitable baby monikers. ‘Or, no wait. Hold on!’ Sam clutches my arm as she thinks for a second before announcing, ‘Honey Moon Taylor! How perfect is that?’ she beams, stretching her hand up and wide in a semi-circle above her head, as if visualising the words emblazoned in flashing lights across a billboard. My mind boggles. Sam is a real queen of hearts, a matchmaker, a true romantic, but I’ve never seen her like this before, so animated with baby love. And we’ve never really talked about having babies before, I’m not that interested, to be honest, unlike her.
‘Very,’ I say, secretly wondering if Nathan would go for it. He’s a maritime lawyer, loaded and solid; he strikes me as a more traditional-name-type guy. ‘I’m absolutely made up for you both and this calls for a proper celebration. Dinner and fizz somewhere posh. Orange juice for you obvs.’ I laugh.
‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.’ Sam beams. ‘No more Jägerbombs for me,’ she shrugs. ‘We could try out that new restaurant down by the marina, the swanky one that’s opened up to cater for the visiting glamouratti arriving on their yachts.’
‘Good idea, but in the meantime these will have to do.’ I pull open a box of mince pies and offer them to her. Sam takes three. I give her a look.
‘Whaat?’
‘I didn’t say a word,’ I smile as she crams one of the pies into her mouth.
‘One for me and one for the baby,’ she explains, in between bites.
‘And that one?’ I point to the pie still clutched in her left hand.
‘Could be twins.’ Sam winks and collapses back into the sofa. ‘Nathan’s dad is a twin and you know what they say about twins running in families. God, I’d actually love to have twins. Double sweetness.’
Laughing and shaking my head, I flick the television on and help myself to another mince pie.
‘Sooo, talking of romance, how are things going with Tom?’ Sam makes big eyes and gives me a hopeful grin.
‘Weell … ’ I hesitate, unsure if I’m ready to share the exquisite details of his practically perfect taut chest, or his delicious chocolatey scent. Or the way he tilts his head to one side and smiles in an endearingly attentive way when I talk, or the way my thighs tingle when he gives me a cheeky surreptitious wink from across the shop floor.
‘Oooh, carry on. No need to be coy,’ Sam says, giving me a gentle nudge in the ribs with her foot. ‘How was your date last night?’
‘Oh Sam, it was perfect as always. He’s so funny. And such a gentleman. Turned up with treats for Mr Cheeks and a little box of Belgian truffles for me. We went out for tapas and chatted all evening, taking a romantic stroll along the moonlit beach – his idea, and he even carried my heels after I changed into flats to make it over the pebbles before we cuddled up by the pier, then back here an—’
‘Cor! Tell me more.’
‘We talked. Just work stuff, you know, his plans for the store, how he wants to rekindle the glory from its heyday, make Carrington’s magnificent again, maybe open more shops in other locations, that kind of thing,’ I say, keeping the rest to myself. How worried he is about pulling it off while trying to ignore the whispers and speculation in the business world over his acumen. He’s only twenty-nine, two years older than me. And Sam is my best friend, we usually tell each other everything. And Tom didn’t say any of this was a secret, but still, I guess he assumed he doesn’t need to. Anyway, I’m flattered that he trusts me, and I don’t want to do anything to break his trust.
‘Hmmm, is that all? But I want to hear about the sex. I know he’s been away for work, but your long distance flirtation has been going on for long enough now. You’ve had Mr Cheeks for well over a month and, like I said before, a shared pet is huge. Practically living together. Tell me you at least had a snog.’ Sam eyes me eagerly.
‘Of course,’ I grin, relishing the exquisite memory of his lips firm on mine and his fingers entwined in my hair as he pulled open my blouse, pushed up my skirt and swung me across the kitchen table. It was amazing. Like something out of a film, and I feel breathless just thinking about it.
‘Did you get naked?’
‘Mmmm.’ I smile. Last night was our first time, well … first, second and third times, to be fair. A glorious hat-trick medley of kitchen table, up against the wall in my hall, followed by an incredible bedroom finale, each time more thrilling than the last. Then we stayed up nearly all night, chatting and laughing together, swapping cringeworthy stories from our respective teenage years with a bit of truth or dare thrown in. But I’m not ready to share the details with Sam. I want to savour the memory to myself for just a little longer. I fantasised about sleeping with Tom from the very moment I clapped eyes on him, when he turned up in the staff canteen on his first day at work. Of course, I didn’t know he was actually Tom Carrington then; he went undercover, pretended he was just another sales assistant. All part of his plan to assess the store from the ground floor as it were, before buying it from his aunt Camille, whose grandfather was the original Mr Harry Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, on account of his philandering ways with the showgirls from the old music hall on Lovelace Road. Tom has assured me, though, that Dirty Harry’s antics are not a genetic familial trait, which is a big relief.
‘Skin on skin?’ Sam probes.
‘Stop it,’ I laugh.
‘Did he stay the night?’
‘No. Well, yes, kind of, but he had to leave in the early hours, said he had a Skype meeting first thing with a foreign supplier and needed some much overdue sleep.’
‘So how many times have you actually seen him now?’
‘Well, we’ve had three or four proper dates, but with him away so much, up to London for meetings or overseas sourcing new stock lines, you know how keen he is to be really hands-on in the business, we haven’t had that many opportunities to see as much of each other as we’d like.’
‘Sooo! Georgie, these days you can have sex on a first date if you want to. That’s what the suffragettes did for us. They gave us that choice. If you want sex then have it. I do,’ Sam says, winking before making a serious face, and I contemplate telling her everything. ‘And let’s face it, Tom is not only extremely charming, funny, kind to animals,’ she pauses to glance at Mr Cheeks who is ensconced on a cushion purring contently, ‘he’s F-I-T. Grab hold of him with both hands … one on each—’ If only she knew.
‘Bum cheek,’ we yell in unison before cracking up. ‘Yes, yes I know. You don’t have to remind me,’ I wheeze, the memory of his beautifully firm bottom beneath his tight white Calvin’s making my cheeks flush.
Settling down, I flick on the TV and search through the channels.
‘Stop! Go back a bit,’ Sam yells, kicking her shoes off and tucking her feet up under her legs. I press the remote control and swig a mouthful of wine before polishing off the rest of a mince pie. I think about retrieving another box from the freezer. Tesco are flogging them as part of a special run-up to Christmas promotion – buy one, get two free. I have eighteen boxes. ‘There, that’s it. Let’s watch this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ahh, you know, you must have seen it before. It’s that new series – undercover programme with what’s-her-name.’ I give her a blank look. ‘Kelly Cooper. She’s totally bonkers and sorts out flagging companies and stuff with her madcap, brilliantly unorthodox ideas. It’s on every week until Christmas.’
‘Oh right,’ I say, helping myself to the last mince pie. The adverts finish and an older woman with wild orange Medusa curls and funky green geek glasses is talking directly to the camera in a st
age-whisper voice, and she looks just like Ronald McDonald. She’s wearing a swirly patterned Westwood playsuit and a curly plastic earpiece, and keeps glancing at a computer surveillance screen.
‘Oooh, here she goes!’ Sam is suddenly glued to the screen. I neck another mouthful of wine and start flicking through the I Heart TV mag, wondering if it’s still too early to set up my Christmas Sky+ viewing schedule.
‘What’s she doing?’ I ask, glancing up as the camera pans to a younger woman in a car park pulling on a big floppy hat and shades.
‘She’s getting ready to go to wherever they’re filming. It’s always a secret until they arrive inside, makes it more thrilling and authentic. Last season’s show was called Kelly Cooper Come Onboard and it was on an Italian cruise ship stuffed full of lush sailors. Swoon.’ Sam makes dreamy eyes.
‘Cor! I like the sound of that.’
‘It was amazing. I’ve got the whole series in box set. I’ll lend it to you. Anyway, first off she’ll be seeing if the business is up to scratch. It never is. That’s the whole point of the show. And then she helps them get their act together. Come up with new ideas to increase revenue, that kind of thing. Oh God, I love this programme.’ Sam is practically hyperventilating now. ‘That’s Zara, her glamorous assistant. She’s actually her daughter in real life,’ she adds, all matter-of-factly.
‘But it is real life,’ I say, feeling confused and wondering how I completely managed to miss watching this programme before now. I’m usually right there when it comes to a decent reality show.
‘Hmmm, guess so … anyway, she’s the one who goes undercover, hence the hat and shades, Kelly is way too vibrant and recognisable.’ That’s one way of putting it. I resist the urge to smirk while Sam does the whole fan-girl thing. ‘And that guy is the cameraman, he’s there to capture Zara’s experiences, with a secret hidden camera, obviously. Don’t want to alert the staff, so they put on an act; it would ruin everything if they were on best behaviour. That’s just boring. And don’t be fooled by Kelly – she may appear all jolly and fun at first, but underneath she’s ruthless, a total ballbuster when it comes to promoting her TV shows and whipping businesses into shape. She really tells it like it is and doesn’t take any prisoners. In her last series, she made them sack five people.’
‘What for?’ I ask, instantly feeling sorry for the ones that lost their jobs.
‘I’m not sure, just read something about it in one of those celebrity gossip magazines. Sniggering when she was talking, most likely. Wouldn’t surprise me. That’s what she’s like,’ Sam says.
My mobile rings and, on seeing it’s Eddie, my other best friend and Tom’s personal assistant (well, boy assistant or BA for short), I press to answer.
‘Get your tellybox on right now!’ he shrieks, totally bypassing the introductions bit and almost perforating my eardrum in the process.
‘OK, calm down, it’s already on. Where’s the drama?’
‘Dollface. You will not believe this. Gird your ladyballs. S-C-R-E-A-M.’
‘What are you going on about? Eddie, have you been at the booze cabinet?’ I laugh.
‘Oh darling, purlease with the vulgarity … now is not the time to make me out to be some kind of lush. Now, will you just shut up and watch.’
Doing as I’m told, I stare at the screen. And freeze – motionless like the gold statue that stands on a box outside Mulberry-On-Sea station. I’d know that cherry-wood panelling anywhere.
I can hear my own blood pumping. The camera zooms to a woman browsing through the Women’s Accessories department, and I know I’m not mistaken. Sam flings herself upright but doesn’t utter a word. She knows it too. It’s Carrington’s. My Carrington’s!
It’s the actual department store where I work and I feel clammy with fear. I want to throw up. A rivulet of sweat snakes a path all the way down my back. Sam jumps up. I toss the magazine down on the sofa and Sam clutches my free hand. We stand together in silence. Our jaws hang open as Kelly’s secret camera, which must be secreted inside Zara’s hat, glides around the gloriously decadent Art Deco store before coming to a halt up near the key winter merchandise. And right next to the very display podium that I set up a few weeks ago.
Annie, one of the sales assistants who works with me, comes into view. She’s lounging nonchalantly behind the counter with her back to the camera and oh my God … she’s texting on her mobile, totally oblivious to the woman who is now swinging a gorgeous, caramel-coloured, Billy-the-goatskin or whatever, £900 Anya Hindmarch tote on her shoulder while admiring the view in the long mirror. The very mirror I had installed specifically to entice customers to try on the bags. Because every decent sales assistant knows: those who try it, buy it.
Zara glances in Annie’s direction, and then raises a perfectly groomed HD eyebrow at the camera guy, as if deliberately drawing the viewer’s attention to the fact that she’s being ignored. Now the camera is panning towards the window display and oh my actual God. I want to die! Right now, in my shoebox lounge with a lump of partially chewed mince pie trapped inside my gullet. My arse is only gyrating around to that Beyoncé tune, ‘Single Ladies’. I’m even wagging my left hand in the air and pointing to my ring finger. And I swear they’ve put a wide angle on the shot. I know my bum is big, but it ain’t that flipping big.
‘Boom boom, peng ting! Yo go girlfrieeend … get jiggy with it and all that. You are magnificent,’ Eddie bellows, like he’s some sort of badass gangsta boy, and I think I might actually faint. With his voice shrieking in my ear and my wiggling bottom on the screen it’s like a total sensory overload. And my phone hand seems to have gripped itself into a spasm, so now I have the gnarled fist of an ancient old husk of a woman too, which will probably wither from inactivity and render me a cripple by the age of twenty-eight. Grreat. Big bum and club fist – not an attractive look. What on earth was I thinking?
I’m usually so efficient at approaching customers, we both are. Annie and I always wait a few seconds, nobody wants to be pounced on the very minute they show an interest in the merch. OK, so we might send the odd text message when the shop floor is quiet, that’s why we keep our mobiles on silent in our pockets – we’re not supposed to, but everyone does. But we never ignore the customers. No, not ever!
‘This is so fucking ma-jor. You’re going to be a dramality star.’ Eddie sounds like he’s about to holler himself into a hernia, he’s that elated for me.
‘A whaat?’ I shout, fear and humiliation making my voice sound shrill.
‘You know … dramality. Real but made up. You’re going to be famous. You are going to be a celebrity and, let’s face it, that’s what everyone wants to be these days,’ he sniffs, as if he’s the authority on popular culture all of a sudden. ‘You’re going to be on that jungle programme, baring your teeth like a baboon when your cheeks peel back to your ears as you’re dropped from a helicopter into the Australian bush. You’re going to have your wardrobe critiqued in Now magazine. You’re going to win a BAFTA. Oh darling, I always knew you were a true star.’ He pauses momentarily and actually sounds genuinely emotional. ‘You’re going to feature in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame. You’re going to make a mint from doing your own fitness DVD. You’re going to have your own fake tan product range. Sweet Jesus … you might even get your own TV show!’ Eddie pauses to suck in a massive gasp of air before he’s off again. ‘I wonder if I’ll get to be in the show too. You must ask that delicious man of yours. In fact, call him. Right now! Tell him how much I adore Kelly. Been a fan for years, darling. Oh hang on angel.’ There’s a muffled silence for a second, and then I hear Eddie shouting out to his boyfriend, Ciaran. ‘Is my best suit back from the dry cleaners?’ More silence follows. ‘Whaat? Never mind watching Top Gear on your iPad mini. Check it! Check the wardrobe right now. I need the suit for work tomorrow. It’s vital.’ Eddie huffs. ‘Honestly, that boy has no sense of urgency. This is my moment. And I’m going to need representation. A manager! I’m going to call that blonde woman. Claire
off the telly. That’s right. The one who represents Pete.’
‘Pete?’ I mutter, racking my brains. I’ve never heard Eddie mention having a famous friend called Pete.
‘Yes, Pete! As in Peter Andre?’ Eddie says in a stagey voice, like he’s his best friend forever and I’m the only person on the whole planet who doesn’t know it.
‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?’ I venture, having already decided I’m having no part of this. And how come Tom never mentioned it? I’m going to call him … but not to get him to ask Kelly to include Eddie. No. To tell him that he’s bang out of order and it’s probably illegal anyway. They can’t just rock up at Carrington’s and start randomly filming Annie and me. What about our privacy? It’s stalking! That’s what it is. And what about our human rights? I’ll phone up that court in The Hague; they’re bound to know if I have the right to go to work without worrying about my backside being plastered across the TV screen of every blooming home in the country. The whole world, in fact! If you count all those ex-pat satellite viewers in places like the Costa del Sol. And not forgetting hotels and laptops. These days you can be anywhere and still get your favourite TV channels. Oh God.
Now the initial shock is starting to wear off, I’m devastated. And really hurt if I’m totally honest. I feel like a fool. A fool for thinking that Tom trusted me. Obviously not enough to share this monumental revelation, and it can’t have happened overnight. He must have been ‘in talks’, as he likes to say, with the TV channel for absolutely ages, but he didn’t even think to utter a word about it. And like a fool I fell for his smouldering looks and fun-loving attitude. And I took in Mr Cheeks for him. I even read up on Renaissance art just so I could appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. It just goes to show that you can’t trust anyone these days. And those big hardback arty books don’t come cheap either.
I glance back at the screen in time to hear Kelly talking directly into the camera.
Christmas at Carrington’s Page 2
