Miracle on Regent Street
Page 4
‘And now,’ I hear her say, ‘I want you all to join me in giving our congratulations to the member of staff who has been given a long-overdue promotion . . .’
I clutch Carly’s tea, partly in fear, partly in excitement. I can imagine Sharon’s eyes working the room like searchlights to find me.
‘This young woman has worked tirelessly to prove her commitment to Hardy’s, often in difficult circumstances, and over recent months she has consistently amazed me with her work ethic, her ability to transform her department and her unique vision for the store . . .’
I can feel myself blush. All my hard work has finally paid off.
‘She is a credit to the store,’ Sharon continues, ‘so I’m sure you will all join me in congratulating her on her promotion. She is an irreplaceable team member and I know that Hardy’s will be a better place with her on-board the management team. Now, where is our new assistant manager? I can’t see her?’
Oh my God, this is it, I think. This is my moment.
I peer out and see Sharon searching amongst the sea of staff. I step out into the crowd just as she says, ‘Ah, there she is! Don’t be shy, step forward!’ Blushing, I take another step, and then Sharon enthuses, ‘Everyone, please give Carly a big round of applause.’
I freeze. Discordant clapping echoes around the room and I slowly reverse back into the kitchenette and lean my head against the cool, tiled wall above the sink and close my eyes. I want to cry with frustration. How can I have got it so wrong?
Once I’ve gathered myself I wander back out into the crowd and immediately spot Carly holding court. I want to congratulate her, want to feel happy for her but I can’t help but feel like pounding my fists on the floor like Delilah’s daughter, Lola, does when she’s having a tantrum. But of course I do nothing of the kind. Instead I wait for more people to leave, take a deep breath, paint a bright smile on my face and walk over to her.
‘Congratulations, Carly. You really deserve it,’ I say warmly, but my words sound hollow, like an echo of all the congratulations that have gone before. I wonder if she’ll be sympathetic once she remembers that I was expecting to get a promotion myself. But she doesn’t seem to recall.
Once everyone leaves I slump against some shelves. I pull out my mobile and dial Sam’s number, desperately wanting the sympathy only a good friend can give. But it goes straight to voicemail. I put the phone back in my pocket and look miserably out of the small window at the plump flakes of snow still falling. Much as I wish I had someone to share my disappointment with, part of me is relieved to be left alone in my prison. Because at this precise moment that’s what it feels like. I’ve served nearly two years here, and now my sentence has just been extended; and with no parole. I groan as I think of how I boasted about my impending promotion to Sam this morning. Why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? He’s going to think I’m such a loser when I tell him what happened. And he’ll be right.
I hear a shuffling noise, peer through the shelves and see that Sharon is still here, flicking through delivery reports. For a moment I’m tempted to ask her why she’s overlooked me for promotion again but I get the feeling she doesn’t want to be disturbed.
I sigh and settle down, busying myself by colour-grouping some deerstalkers. I put a soft brown one aside for Sam as an early Christmas gift from me. It cheers me up momentarily, but as I continue sorting I gaze down at myself in my grubby white shirt, plain black trousers and then I stand up and look in the mirror above the sink at my unwashed hair hanging limply around my face, my features devoid of make-up. My eyes fill with tears and I gulp them back, not wanting Sharon to hear me. I must be deluded to think anyone would ever consider me for a job that involves being in public. I’m a complete mess. Ever since Jamie broke up with me I’ve let myself go; I’ve lost my confidence and most of all, myself. Suddenly an image of Carly – laughing, smiling, looking stylish – pops into my mind. If only I could be more like her, then maybe I wouldn’t be so . . . invisible.
I hear Sharon walk out and the stockroom door slams shut. Just then I spot something winking at me temptingly from amongst the pile of clothes. It’s the Florence Gainsbourg that came in this morning. The same top Carly is wearing. I look down again at my plain white shirt and bite my lip as my arm, unbidden, stretches towards the glittering prize. My hand shakes as it touches the plastic it’s encased in, and with a sudden movement I pull it out from the pile and find myself studying it with wonder.
As I hold it up it occurs to me that this top embodies everything I’d like to be. It is stand-out-from-the-crowd, forget-me-not fabulous; edgy and bright and exciting. Every sequin seems to hold a promise of what life could be like if I just slip it on. I glance behind me nervously. Perhaps if I put this on, just for a moment, maybe some of that magic will rub off on me. Before I know what I’m doing I tear off my shirt and stuff it down the back of a radiator. It can burn, for all I care. I shiver as much with anticipation as cold as I pull the top tentatively over my head, closing my eyes as I relish the feel of the expensive fabric against my skin, the coarseness of the tiny, intricately sewn sequins on the outside contrasting with the smooth, satin finish of the material underneath. I panic as the expensive garment gets stuck as I try to pull it over my head. And then one of my arms won’t go through. For a moment, I stagger about like a headless one-armed zombie, banging into boxes and cursing my clumsiness, feeling the tears spring back into my eyes. At last I get the precious top on and I look in the mirror. My eyes are bright with tears, my cheeks flushed from exertion and crying, and much as I’m tempted to hide behind my long, straight hair, like I usually do, instead I pull it into a loose, messy bun at the side of my neck, the way Carly sometimes wears hers, securing it with an elastic band I find on the floor. Then I go to the beauty department’s aisle and pull out a powder compact, some mascara and a clear lip gloss and apply them using the compact’s mirror. Finally, I wander back to the cracked, full-length mirror in the corner of the stockroom, close my eyes and open them again.
It’s like looking at a different girl.
I study myself, comparing this reflection to the one I see every morning. With uncharacteristic pluck, I decide to try it out on the public, the people who brush past me on the street every single day, when I’m on my lunch break, seemingly oblivious to my presence. After one last look in the mirror I walk determinedly out of the stockroom and hurry through the empty beauty department. I reach the safety of the staff exit, where Dave, the day security guard, has taken over from Felix. His feet are propped up on the desk and he looks like he might be asleep. I turn and see the staff photo roll call in the corridor that I was studying this morning, where Carly’s beaming ‘Employee of the Month’ picture is displayed.
My gaze falls to the bottom of the board, where my picture is. My long, straight hair looks nice, I note with some surprise, like I’ve taken the time to blow-dry it properly. I had make-up on that day too. I tilt my head appraisingly. Maybe I should make the effort more often. It can actually make a difference, although no amount of lipstick, powder and paint can hide the wistful expression I am wearing.
I glance down further and see with horror that underneath my picture is printed my job title and name. Except it isn’t my name. It says ‘Sarah Evans’. Then as I gaze back at the picture it suddenly hits me. The girl in the picture isn’t me at all. It’s my predecessor. Suddenly my memory of meeting Sarah on my first day comes flooding back: a plain girl with no distinguishing features other than the palpable air of disappointment surrounding her. Now even I can’t tell the difference between us.
Clearly there’s a distinctive ‘type’ of person who’s blessed with the stockroom manager’s job, I think miserably.
With that soul-destroying thought I lurch over to the security office, open the door and grab the pen that Felix was doing Sudoku with earlier.
Dave doesn’t even look up. With unflinching determination I slash an angry line through the photo and the name below it and write ‘EVIE TA
YLOR’ in thick black capitals, vowing to get a passport photo taken at the tube station on my way home. I may not have been promoted to the shop floor, but it’s time for everyone finally to get to know the real me.
I was only going to wear the top for a while. I just wanted to have a few short minutes of feeling that I could be someone other than me. But a few minutes has crept into half an hour and then an hour, and now I’ve become so used to the soft material brushing against my skin that I’ve almost forgotten I’m wearing it at all. I glance in the mirror in the stockroom again and lift my hand up to my face tentatively. For the first time ever, I’m unable to resist looking at my reflection. Maybe it’s the gold sequins that are giving me this new glow. It must be the way they reflect against my skin that make it look creamier and less pallid than normal, and my hair less mousy. Even my irises seem to have turned from opaque chocolate pools into bright tiger eyes.
I jump as an order comes out of the old, noisy stockroom printer. I glance at the ticket. One peacock-feather fascinator. I head straight to aisle nine and climb up the ladder, stretching to reach the shelf where I quickly find the item. We still have three left. No need to order any more for a while. Mrs Fawsley is the only customer who buys them. She’s brought one every December for the past ten years, according to stockroom records. I wonder what she does with so many. Maybe she’s trying to put the peacock’s tail back together again.
I smile despite myself, and put one on my head. I go to look in the mirror and laugh. Combined with the glittery, showy top the headdress makes me I look like I’m about to go on stage at the Folies-Bergère. I do a high kick – well, to be honest, it’s more of a low kick – and then sigh as I hear another order noisily start to print.
Two orders in five minutes? Then the machine makes a loud grunt of protest and stops mid-print. Bloody thing, I think, and give it a whack. Like everything else in the store, the order machine is knackered. I give it another hearty smack but feel safe in the knowledge that I don’t actually need to see the ticket anyway. I look at my watch. By my calculations, an order at 10.15 a.m. on the first Thursday morning of the month can mean only one thing: Iris Jackson and her lavender soap. I glance at the ticket and nod with satisfaction as I go to the necessary aisle to retrieve a bar of Iris’s special soap.
As I crouch to dig out the order I think about Iris Jackson. Hardy’s has been stocking her soap for years, in fact I’m pretty sure we’re the only store that sells it any more. According to her, it’s handmade in Somerset by a group of WI women who started in business after the war, making and selling toiletries. They needed something to do to keep their enterprising spirits up when their husbands returned and claimed back the jobs the women had been doing in their absence. Apparently Iris grew up in the village. All these years later, she still wants to support this local enterprise, even though those women are probably long gone. I often wonder why she doesn’t just buy the soap in bulk to save her coming in, but I sense her trip to Hardy’s is the highlight of her month.
I pop a bar in my pocket and glance at my watch to see if it’s time for my break. I always go and deliver the soap personally to Iris. It’s been a ritual of mine since I met her shortly after I started at Hardy’s. Jenny, who was relatively new to the store, didn’t recognize Iris and said they didn’t sell her soap. Iris asked Jenny to check in the stockroom, but when Jenny came in she got caught up in telling me how she and her husband were trying for a baby. I spent half an hour listening to her excitedly talk about what being pregnant would be like, and the merits of religiously following Gina Ford versus the Baby Whisperer once the baby was born. She talked for so long that she forgot why she’d come to the stockroom in the first place until she suddenly recalled the old lady who was asking about some lavender soap. When I explained that Iris was the only person who actually bought it so we kept it in the stockroom for her rather than take up space on the shop floor, Jenny shrugged.
‘Well, she’s probably long gone now,’ she said, then looked at her watch and exclaimed, ‘Ooh, it’s time for my lunch break! I’m going to Topshop to look at their maternity range.’
After she’d gone I went straight to the shelves where I’d stacked hundreds of the delicate little parcels that were individually wrapped in parchment paper and tied with string. I grabbed one and decided to try to find the customer myself. It didn’t take long, to be honest; Iris was the only person wandering aimlessly round the ground floor. She looked delighted when I handed her the soap.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘I was just about to give up and go for an Earl Grey. Would you like to join me? My treat. Not many shop assistants give such a personal shopping service these days.’
I accepted her invitation and ever since then, on the first Thursday of the month, at approximately half-past ten, I’ve delivered her soap to her in Lily’s tearoom in the basement, where, without fail, she’ll be sitting at ‘her’ table, sipping Earl Grey and delicately popping pieces of Victoria sponge into her mouth.
My tummy rumbles. I’m looking forward to my monthly catch-up with Iris. I’ve just grabbed my rucksack and duffel coat and am making my way out when the stockroom door swings open and Carly appears. I immediately pull my coat up to my chest.
‘Babe!’ she gasps, her face shining with excitement. She pauses, tilts her head and looks at me strangely. I self-consciously pull my coat closer around me. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she goes on. ‘You’ll never believe what just happened!’
I try to look interested but am more concerned with ensuring that my coat is covering the top. I don’t want her to think I’m some style stalker. But she’s so caught up in her own excitement that she doesn’t even notice.
‘I have just seen the hottest man EVER.’ She fans her face, panting a little as she leans against the door. ‘He’s out there,’ she hisses, and clutches her hands to her heart. ‘We made eye contact – and I mean serious eye contact – on the stairs. I was coming down, he was going up, and I’ve just seen him down here in the beauty department too. I mean,’ she laughs, ‘how obvious is that? He must have run back down to try and catch up with me! Honestly, babes, he’s so dreamy, you’ll die! He’s got dark hair and really brooding, big eyes and he’s tall and he’s got these broad shoulders and, oh, he’s just GORGEOUS.’
She turns round and presses her ear to the door, and whilst she has her back turned I quickly pull my coat on properly and do it up over the sequined top.
‘I wonder if he’s still out there?’ she says, her face still squashed to the door.
‘Why don’t you just go and have a look?’ I ask, glancing at my watch surreptitiously. I’ll be late for Iris if I’m not careful. ‘If he wants to ask you out he’s not going to do it through a closed door.’
‘I know that.’ She turns round and rolls her eyes despairingly at me. ‘I’m playing hard to get. Honestly, hon, don’t you know anything about men?’
I consider her question. The truth is I actually only know a lot about one man. Jamie. And he dumped me for being ‘too predictable’. So no, I’ve never mastered the ‘hard-to-get’ game.
‘So what are you going to do?’ I ask her, feigning interest but unable to stop thinking about my tea break. I’m desperate for caffeine, and even more desperate to get out of this stifling stockroom.
‘I’m going to wait here until I know he’s gone. If he wants me that much, he’ll find me,’ Carly says confidently. ‘Put the kettle on, will you, hon?’
‘Um, I was just about to go on my break, actually,’ I say timidly.
‘Oh.’ Her face falls for a moment, then immediately brightens. ‘Can’t you have your break here, with me? Then we can wait here together!’
It’s tempting, but Iris is waiting for me and I don’t want to let her down.
‘Can we chat later?’ I say as I head for the door. ‘I’ve got to deliver this to someone.’ I wave the bar of soap. ‘You can stay in here if you want. Make yourself a cup of tea and wait till he’s gone.’
‘You must be really thrilled,’ I say, edging towards the door as a subtle hint.
‘I guess,’ she replies, wanders over to my ‘lounge and listen’ area and throws herself onto the sofa as if preparing to embark on a lengthy conversation. I stare at her and then at the door. I really need to go.
‘Have you heard that Rumors are looking for a central London flagship store?’ she continues. I have my hand on the door but turn politely and look interested. ‘I’d kill to work there. I went to the New York store on Fifth Avenue once and it was so cool. All the staff wear couture and the whole shop façade is made of glass – even the changing rooms face on to the street and have frosted glass to cover your body up to your neck but you can see everyone’s faces as they’re getting changed!’
I shrug. I’ve never been to New York but I have heard of Rumors. It sounds like my idea of shopping hell. ‘Hardy’s isn’t so bad,’ I say, feeling defensive. ‘It just needs a bit of love and attention and some . . . direction.’
‘I know, that’s what I think too,’ she says, and crosses her impossibly long legs. I can’t help but look at the gorgeous stacked patent heels she’s wearing, then compare them unfavourably to my own sensible, scuffed brogues. ‘That’s why I spoke to Sharon and suggested we use some new designers. I think that’s what swung me the promotion, you know. I told her, I said: “Sharon, we need to be more modern, appeal to the younger clients, clients like me. They want shops to be more exclusive, more fashion forward.” ’
‘I guess,’ I say tentatively. ‘But they also want somewhere they can relax and feel at home—’