Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  But Carly cuts me off and carries on recounting word for word her promotion monologue.

  ‘. . . They want glamour and excitement and fabulousness, not some safe, staid boring old shop that just stays the same for, like, a hundred years. I mean ya-aawn. Now,’ she claps her hands, ‘tell me what’s been going on with you. Is there any gossip from the stockroom today? Other than my promotion, of course!’ She throws her head back and laughs so that the tinkling sound reverberates around the room like wind chimes.

  I honestly think I’ll suffocate if I don’t get out in the next thirty seconds and somehow I manage to make my excuses and leave. I wander despondently out into the store.

  ‘God, where is everybody today? I am so bored.’ I turn to see Becky from Handbags slouched against one of the beauty counters, staring at her face in the mirror. She’s in her early twenties but she says she thinks that she’s starting to look leathery because she spends her days dealing with horrible old bags (I’m presuming she means her stock and not Hardy’s customers, but I can’t be sure).

  ‘Well, it’s still early, I guess,’ I reply.

  Becky puts her hand up to heart. ‘Christ . . . er, Sarah, isn’t it? You made me jump! I didn’t see you there. What are you doing creeping round the store? Shouldn’t you be in the stockroom?’ Having dismissed me she turns and continues examining her pores.

  I sigh and look out at the street beyond. Lots of people are milling around but they all walk straight past Hardy’s, utterly oblivious to its presence. I want to jump into the barely dressed windows and wave at them, do star jumps, shout, scream, anything to get their attention.

  As I walk down the staircase to the basement, I envision myself, as I always do, as a beautiful woman of the1940s, in a two-piece Chanel suit, with red lips and short, pin-curled hair, about to meet my American GI lover.

  I increase my pace as I go through Menswear and towards the tearoom, tucked away at the far end. It’s always a welcome retreat when I want some peace from the comings and goings of the stockroom. None of the staff ever comes here; they prefer the buzzy Starbucks opposite the store, or they go to Oxford Street on their breaks.

  Lily has worked here ever since I was a child, and then some. She’s a tiny slip of a woman who must be in her late seventies but looks at least ten years younger. She won’t tell me her exact age; she just tells me she’s old enough to know better and young enough not to care. She has dyed black hair, which she wears pulled back into a tight bun with wispy strands that frame her heart-shaped face. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are cobalt blue and dazzle against her pale skin (‘a tan is so ageing, darling’), and she always smells of face powder and Chanel No. 5. She used to be a professional dancer. Among many other things, she was one of the Windmill Girls at the famous theatre in Great Windmill Street, which remained open throughout the war and which was famous for its nude tableaux vivants. I’ve never really understood exactly what that means, though. Lily just says it was ‘art’. She always wears black and white (‘you can’t go wrong, darling’) and is never to be seen without a double string of real pearls around her neck. When I look at her I am reminded that real style transcends time. She tells the most wonderful stories of London in the fifties. She’s utterly fabulous and I love spending time with her.

  Her customers enter Lily’s tearoom just a few steps down from the basement shop floor where there’s a sign saying ‘Please wait to be seated’. I know Londoners hate to be kept waiting for anything, but you need this moment to take in the wonderful surroundings. The tearoom hasn’t been decorated since the 1930s; somehow it escaped Sebastian’s dire makeover back in the late 1980s. Black and white tiles cover the floor and the little round tables all have claret-coloured vintage table lamps with faded, tasselled shades that glow invitingly. It makes me think of the film Brief Encounter, even though there isn’t a railway carriage in sight. It has a warmth and intimacy I adore, and when I’m there I always imagine the hundreds of love affairs that must have played out here over the past century. The old walls are painted a deep, rich burgundy and along each side of the room brass lights glimmer merrily beneath faded gold lampshades. Vintage tea cups are laid at every place and original, framed black-and-white movie stills from the thirties and forties hang on the walls, with signatures from stars like Cary Grant, Clark Gable and Bette Davis, all of whom visited the store at some point.

  I grin as I notice that since my last visit Lily has put two real Christmas trees either side of the sign and has adorned them with gorgeous vintage decorations and fairy lights shaped like candles, as well as hanging old-fashioned paper chains around the room. She clearly disapproves of the store’s Christmas decorations as much as I do. She waves at me from behind the counter, which displays a number of china cake stands filled with the most delicious homemade cakes, pastries and desserts. None of them is baked by her, though. Lily won’t mind me saying this, but she can’t cook to save her life. She says it’s because she was too busy having dinner dates every night in her youth to learn. And I don’t doubt it.

  ‘Darling Evie,’ she calls, ‘I almost didn’t recognize you! You look like you could have been a Windmill Girl!’

  I touch my hair and realize I still have the peacock-feather fascinator on from earlier. No wonder Carly looked at me strangely when she came in. I tug it off my head and try not to blush.

  ‘Come and sit down!’ Lily ushers me into the tearoom, twirling around me with her dancer’s grace. ‘Iris, look who it is!’ she calls merrily. I turn to wave at Iris, who beams at me as she lifts a piece of Victoria sponge to her lips.

  ‘Sit down, dearheart!’ Iris says, and she dabs the corner of her mouth delicately with her napkin. ‘Lily, dear, stop gabbling at her and get this girl a cup of tea. She looks like she needs it.’

  Mrs Jackson is in her late sixties but, like Lily, she looks more like a movie star than an OAP; Jane Fonda springs to mind. Iris’s dyed and highlighted hair is perfectly straightened in a sharp, flicky style around her face, and her eyes shine brightly from within her carefully painted gold and tawny-brown powdered eyelids. Her lips are always covered in a bronze lip gloss. She always wears a polo neck – today it’s cream with a big brooch pinned at her throat – teamed this morning with high-waisted black trousers and a cream seventies-style safari jacket. She has mid-heel black pumps and a large cream leather handbag with a gold clasp. She looks fabulous in a glossy, retro kind of way.

  I sit down and hand her the bar of soap and she claps her hands and puts it straight into her handbag. ‘That’ll keep the wrinkles at bay,’ she says with a wink. ‘Now, darling girl, how’s it going in that dusty old stockroom? Any chance of them putting you on the shopfloor where you belong?’

  ‘No. The opposite, in fact. I think I’m going to be in the stockroom for a long time to come.’ I tell her briefly about this morning’s disappointment, then smile weakly at Lily as she hands me my tea and pulls out a chair. She’s clearly overheard our conversation.

  ‘Well, they’re even bigger fools than I took them for,’ Lily tuts, and throws her arms in the air, somehow creating a perfect port de bras. (‘Years of ballet training,’ she once answered when I remarked on her expressive arm movements. ‘It never leaves you.’) ‘No wonder this store is falling apart if this is how they use their best staff. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that Sebastian Hardy ripped its heart and soul out. Hardy’s has never been the same since he got his hands on it and that young upstart, Rupert, is no better.’

  She shakes her head disapprovingly as she pours me a cup of tea through a silver strainer (‘you’ll get no horrible teabags here, darling’).

  ‘Have you seen their pathetic excuse of a Christmas window? Minimal schminimal,’ she sniffs haughtily. ‘If I get my hands on that Rupert Hardy I’ll tell him what he should do with this store to make it shine again. His grandfather would be turning in his grave.’

  ‘What was he like?’ I ask, resting my elbow on the table and cupping my chin w
ith my hand towards her. Iris and Lily both remember the late Walter Hardy, junior, son of the founder, who successfully and passionately steered the store through the postwar years and ran a highly successful empire until he passed away in 1987, which is when Sebastian took over.

  ‘Walter junior was the reason most of us girls shopped here. He was one of London’s most eligible bachelors; we all held out the hope that if he spotted us shopping in the store he’d fall in love with us instantly. Imagine what a catch he was; a gorgeous man who would one day inherit his own magnificent department store! It was that age-old heady combination,’ Lily adds sagely. ‘Shopping and sex.’

  ‘Lily!’ I exclaim, and the ladies both giggle naughtily.

  ‘What?’ Lily says, holding her hands up innocently. ‘You think just because we’re old we don’t think about sex? We’re not dead yet, eh, Iris?’

  ‘Too right,’ Iris chortles, and raises her tea cup in a toast. ‘Personally I’d love to get stuck in a lift with that Brad Clooney. He reminds me of Clark Gable.’ She nods at a movie still on the wall and sighs. ‘I adored Clark, the old sexpot.’

  ‘You mean George . . .’ I offer helpfully.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘George Clooney, not Brad.’

  ‘George, Brad, whatever. Who the hell cares what they’re called when the lights are off?’

  ‘Iris!’ I splutter through a mouthful of tea. ‘Honestly, you two are worse than teenagers.’

  ‘Teenagers, hmpfff,’ Lily says derisively. ‘They know nothing about love and romance. None of you young folk do. Speaking of love, young lady, what’s going on with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say as I shrug off my coat, extracting my mobile phone from my pocket and putting it on the table. It’s reached Sahara temperatures in the tearoom. Lily will never admit it, but she feels the cold.

  ‘Well, clearly you’re trying to impress someone . . .’

  Lily and Iris look at each other knowingly, then back at me. I follow their eyeline and realize they’re looking at my Florence Gainsbourg top. Instantly I feel self-conscious. I shouldn’t be wearing it in public. If Sharon sees me I’ll be in big trouble.

  My phone buzzes and I welcome the distraction. ‘Sorry, I’d better just get this,’ I say, and open my message.

  ‘How did it go SG?’

  It’s from Sam. He calls me SG, short for ‘Stockroom Girl’, as a joke. He knows my name but he’s aware that none of the shop-floor staff does. In return I call him DG (‘Delivery Guy’). I close the message down; I don’t want to deal with the embarrassment of telling him right now.

  ‘Sooo?’ Lily says, raising one perfectly pencilled eyebrow at me and nodding at my phone. ‘Was that him?’

  ‘Who?’ I ask, utterly lost.

  ‘The one you’re trying to impress?’ She points at my sparkly top then winks at me.

  ‘What? No,’ I splutter defensively. ‘That was just Sam, and this?’ I look down at the Florence Gainsbourg and feel faintly ridiculous. ‘This is just an . . . experiment.’

  ‘In what?’ Lily sniffs. ‘Wearing clothes that look like they belong on an astronaut?’ She sees my face fall. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, darling, I just find these modern clothes so . . . baffling. Coco Chanel would turn in her grave if she saw that.’

  Reluctantly I concede Lily is right. This top is for a person far more glamorous and daring than I’ll ever be. It’s for someone like . . . well, like Carly.

  ‘So who is it for, then?’ Lily asks impatiently.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I’ve drifted off again.

  ‘That!’ She gestures at my top. ‘Keep up, darling!’

  ‘Oh,’ I shrug, feeling bashful all of a sudden, ‘I . . . I don’t know really. I just wondered what it’d look like. I guess I’m a bit fed up of looking like me.’ I note their concerned faces and I know I can always tell them how I really feel and that, most importantly, they’ll listen to me. ‘The truth is, I don’t want to be invisible any longer. I’m sick of being overlooked and fed up of waiting for things to change, because they never ever do.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ Lily exclaims. ‘So what if you didn’t get that promotion? Something else will come up. You just need to put some positive energy out there. And as for the way you usually dress, well,’ she nudges me and winks, ‘you’re a beautiful girl but you could do with a leetle sprucing. Have you ever thought of trying a rouge lippy?’

  I giggle as I imagine myself as a mini-Lily, fifty years younger but nowhere near as fabulous. ‘I would if I thought I could look as wonderful as you,’ I laugh.

  ‘You know, darling,’ she says conspiratorially, ‘the best thing to do if you want to impress someone is be yourself.’

  ‘But, Lily, I told you I’ve got no one I need to impress.’ I drain my tea, grab my coat and stand up.

  ‘Aha!’ She waggles a finger at me. ‘Then for the time being just focus on being happy with yourself. You’re perfect just the way you are.’

  I smile at them both gratefully. ‘You have cheered me up enormously, much more than this silly top ever could. Thank you, ladies.’

  ‘Bye-bye, dear girl,’ Iris says, and waves regally. ‘See you next month!’

  I’m lost in thought as I head back towards the stairs. I decide to go up to Personal Shopping on the first floor to see Carly and find out what happened with the dashing bloke she saw earlier. The store is, as usual, totally empty. I pass through the ground floor and spot Gwen and Jenny standing at opposite ends of their department, bored-but-desperate smiles painted on their faces, atomizers in hand ready to spritz the first person that comes along. I glance over at Handbags and see that Becky is still examining her pores. Up on the first floor I can just see poor Jane in Lingerie, slumped against the balcony, eating a cake whilst sorting beige bras into piles, and Barbara in Shoes is sitting on her little measuring stool, staring into the distance. I pop my head into Personal Shopping, but there is no one on the desk. I call out, but no one answers. Maybe Carly is still waiting for me in the stockroom.

  I’m so busy trying to imagine the place back in Walter Hardy, junior’s day that I don’t notice that there’s someone behind me until I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. My heart races as I glance down and realize I haven’t put my coat back on. I close my eyes and turn round slowly, waiting to be berated by Sharon.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to take the top off now. I was only going to wear if for a while anywa . . .’ I open my eyes, expecting to see Sharon’s disapproving face, but what I see instead is a tall, movie-star-handsome, dark-haired man with broad shoulders, a jaw you could crack brazil nuts on, and bright, searching blue eyes that are looking at me in amusement.

  ‘Shit!’ I splutter, and attempt to cover my body with my hands as though I were actually naked. ‘I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he says flirtatiously, his unmistakable American accent ringing out around the first floor. That’s the best offer I’ve had for ages . . .’

  Feeling uncharacteristically brave, I fix my eyes on his and allow a half-smile to hover over my lips. ‘Do you mean to say the department stores you usually frequent don’t train their staff immediately to offer to strip off for you? How strange. It’s the done thing here in Hardy’s, you know. We find it’s the best way to get our customers to spend money.’

  ‘It’s certainly the best sales technique I’ve come across,’ he drawls sexily. His accent is as smooth and delicious as golden syrup being poured over freshly baked scones.

  ‘Well, we aim to . . . tease,’ I shoot back, and he laughs, a great, infectious booming sound that echoes round the department. I’d be embarrassed, but I feel like I’m in this weird vortex and no one else can see or hear us.

  ‘You’re funny! Carly, right?’ he says with a knowing smile. I blink at him, noticing how his mouth tilts deliciously in the corners causing two lines like punctuation marks to appear either side of his lips. His thick eyebrows lift expectantly, which makes
another two lines appear in his forehead, like old-fashioned tramlines. I don’t understand how he can possibly mistake me for Carly and I’m just about to point out his mistake when it suddenly hits me. The top. It’s because I’m wearing this blasted top. Now it all makes sense. This is the guy Carly was talking about. Somehow, he’s mistaken me for her. Well, I have just walked out of Carly’s personal shopping department. But even so, he should know with one glance that I am not her. Perhaps there’s something wrong with his eyesight. I look at him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, and I realize I’m still peering at him.

  ‘Oh, yes . . . yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking that you need glasses.’

  He laughs and nudges me. A crackle of electricity shoots down my arm and straight between my legs. He leans in and I blush as he murmurs, ‘Is that a style tip?’

  ‘That depends . . .’ I answer, trying to rack my brain for another, more clever response. He raises his eyebrows questioningly and tilts his head as he waits for me to continue. My mind goes blank. I can’t stop looking into his eyes; they’re utterly hypnotic. I blink and shake my head. ‘. . . Er, that depends on whether you value fashion over flirtation. After all,’ I add flippantly, ‘girls don’t make passes at boys who wear glasses.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting.’ He looks amused, then puts his hand into his jacket pocket, pulls out a pair of black-rimmed spectacles and puts them on.

  My mouth goes dry and I swallow quickly. Jesus, he looks even hotter, if that were possible.

  ‘I’ve always wondered why I’ve been single for so long,’ he laughs, and I swear I hear church bells ringing in my head.

  ‘Well,’ I squeak, then clear my throat and try again. ‘Now you know.’ I point at his frames then pull an agonized face, feeling terrible for lying to him.

  Still laughing, he shakes his head as he slips them back into his pocket. ‘So that’s where I’ve been going wrong. I’ve always thought they made me look more intelligent.’

  ‘You’re American; it’ll take more than that, love,’ I blurt out, wondering why I suddenly sound like a character from Coronation Street and why I’m intent on insulting him.