by Ali Harris
Rupert gulps. ‘I need you to triple our sales over the Christmas period,’ he says nervously.
‘WHAT!’ Sharon exclaims, taking a step back. ‘That’s impossible!’
‘W-W-well then,’ he stutters, ‘perhaps I need to find a general manager who believes it is. Um, possible, I mean.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ she gasps. ‘You wouldn’t get rid of me. You couldn’t.’
Rupert sighs and visibly deflates. I’m pretty sure he’s wishing he was on his farm tending his cattle right now.
‘Sharon, I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. If we don’t at least double our takings by Boxing Day the store will be sold. Rumors has been trying to find a prime location for their London flagship store and they think this is it. They have made a lucrative offer and the board is seriously considering it. We have less than a month to instigate a major turnaround. If we fail, Hardy’s will be sold and my family’s business will be gone. Forever,’ he adds sadly.
There is silence.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Sharon says eventually in a subdued tone.
He shrugs wearily. ‘I was hoping you’d have one. All I know is that for now, staff cuts have to be made in the most underperforming departments. Menswear is a shambles. It hasn’t taken more than a hundred pounds a day in months. Guy has to go. Then there’s Gwen . . .’
As I walk out of the store at the end of my shift it feels like I’m leaving an old friend to its terrible fate. Poor thing, I think tearfully as I gaze up at the Edwardian façade. Suddenly I notice that there are two letters missing from the store’s sign. The Y and S that were hanging loose have fallen off completely, so the sign above the door now just reads ‘Hard’.
I choke back a tear. It truly is hard times for Hardy’s. And what’s worse is that none of my colleagues are aware of what we’re facing. I can’t help but feel the enormity of the store’s loss, not just to me but to all of them, too. This place has been a sanctuary for so many people for so long. The thought of anyone losing his or her job so close to Christmas makes me feel sick.
As does something else. Rupert wants to rebrand Hardy’s as a high-end fashion-focused store. Apparently he wants a bright, young talent to help take the store in this new designer-led direction. He wants to start showcasing the best of young, breakthrough talent hot off the catwalk so Hardy’s becomes known as a real player in the high-fashion world. This will bring in celebrities and PR, and then, he hopes, customers. But as he knows more about farming than he does fashion he needs help. And the person he is pinning all his hopes on to help him do this?
Carly.
I plunge my hands into my coat pockets. The sharp winter wind whips around me as a trickle of passers-by stagger past. Not one of them looks over at Hardy’s. I glance up at the clock at the front of the store and I can’t help but think that after nearly a century, it looks like Hardy’s time is up.
‘Vino?’ Delilah opens the enormous stainless steel fridge-freezer and pulls out a bottle of Pouilly Fumé.
I lift my head off the island unit, nod glumly and then bury my face back in my arms. It’s several hours after my stockroom eavesdropping and, to be honest, if Delilah had offered me a bottle of Tramps Pee I’d drink it.
‘What am I going to dooo?’ I whine, as Delilah pours me a large glass.
‘About what?’ she answers. ‘The Hot American Dude or the fact that Hardy’s needs a miracle to save it from closing?’
‘Both,’ I groan.
She hops up onto the barstool next to me and places the baby monitor in front of us, making a sign of a cross on her chest as she does so. She’s not religious, just desperate for a child-free evening. And so am I. Not just because of the day I’ve had, but because I’ve always loved it when it’s just me and Delilah. Maybe it’s the six-year age gap, but when I was growing up she was always more like a celebrity to me than an older sister, and I was in awe of her. She’d left home and gone to university by the time I was old enough to realize how cool she was, and when she came home for holidays she was like a beautiful breath of fresh air in a house dominated by testosterone-fuelled Alpha males. When I went to high school I became even more aware of her power. ‘Ahhh, Delilah . . .’ the teachers would sigh when they realized I was related to her. Their eyes would go all cloudy and distant, and for a moment they would imagine me to be a super-pupil just like her. Then class would begin, the realization that I wasn’t like her would hit them and I’d fade into the background again. I understood completely; I was disappointed I wasn’t like Delilah too.
Delilah and I have been looking forward to this night in for ages. Even though we live together, it’s rare we get time on our own. She is either working on pitches for new business, out at client dinners, trying to spend quality time with Will, or seeing to Lola and Raffy. And I’m often . . . well, to be honest I’m always here. But most of the time I hang out upstairs as I like to give them as much family time together as possible. Which isn’t much, given the long hours both she and Will work.
Tonight, though, I’m going to enjoy the one-on-one time with my big sister. More than anything, I really need her advice. She steered me through my break-up with Jamie, took me under her wing and helped piece me back together after the split. I guess I’ve relied on her ever since.
‘So,’ I press impatiently, ‘what do you think I should do?’
‘It’s a no brainer!’ Delilah replies. ‘Date the Hot American Dude, what’s his name – Joel.’ She pauses and then grins. ‘Hey there, Joel,’ she drawls in a bad American accent, and I can’t help but laugh. Then her face falls. ‘God, what I wouldn’t give for a hot date,’ she sighs dramatically.
I stare at her quizzically and wonder if this is the beginning of the seven-year itch. It’s how long she and Will have been together but they’ve always seemed so happy. Or maybe it’s the beginning of a mid-life crisis. She is thirty-four, after all. I study her intensely as if doing so will highlight other signs. No, it’s just a silly throwaway comment; she and Will are the perfect couple. Everybody knows that.
‘Seriously, sis,’ I continue, ‘you don’t think I’m a terrible person for pretending to be Carly?’
‘Not terrible, nooo,’ she says carefully, and takes another sip of wine. ‘Just a bit . . . desperate.’ She catches my shocked expression. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that nastily,’ she says as she goes to check on the pizza. A glorious waft of rich tomato, creamy mozzarella and fragrant basil wafts out of the oven as she opens it and my stomach rumbles. I realize I haven’t eaten since this morning, apart from a couple of mouthfuls of the children’s organic lentil stew to try to encourage them to put the food in their mouths instead of flinging it at the walls. To be honest, I felt like doing the same after tasting it. ‘I just mean that if anyone had waited as long as you have for a date, they’d have done exactly the same.’
She smiles and takes a sip of wine, happy to have placated me, not realizing that she’s failed miserably. She’s usually much more sensitive than this. She knows how hurt I was after Jamie and I split up.
I met him in the Michelin-starred hotel in Norfolk I was working in while I finished my art degree. He was an ambitious trainee commis chef; I was doing bar and waitressing shifts to earn money before starting my graduate course at the London College of Fashion that September. Jamie was everything you’d expect a talented young chef to be: brooding, passionate, creative and wildly exciting, I’d never met anyone like him before. The attraction between us sizzled over the hotplate and during long, late post-shift drinks. Within a matter of weeks we were inseparable, so when August rolled around and my date to move to London drew ever closer we tried to come up with ways that we could make a long-distance relationship work. After all, I reasoned, we’d only be a couple of hours away. But Jamie was adamant it wouldn’t work. I loved his intensity; it was all or nothing for him. It made me feel needed, but I also wanted to go to London.
Two weeks before I was due to leave he turned up late
at my house and begged me not to go. He told me he couldn’t live without me, and why couldn’t I see the distance would ruin us? He told me he loved me and couldn’t be away from me, and that if I left that would be it for us. I told him I loved him too. He grasped my hand and said if I’d just stay and support him while he finished his training he’d do the same for me and move to London with me so I could do my course. We’d both be following our dreams and, better yet, we’d be doing it together. Tearfully, I agreed. I loved that he loved me so much he couldn’t let me go. It reminded me of my parents’ relationship, the benchmark from which I’d always measured True Love. And look at them, I reasoned to myself. They’re still happily married after twenty-eight years. So I decided my career could wait and I’d throw myself into supporting Jamie’s, knowing that one day that support would be returned. It was a compromise, not a sacrifice, and it was one I was willing to make to have my happily-ever-after.
But a year turned into two years, which turned into three, and just as Jamie became a fully-fledged head chef and agreed to move to London, I was offered a place on that year’s graduate scheme. It was perfect. But then out of the blue Jamie got the chance of the job of a lifetime at a restaurant in Paris. What could be better, he said. I could study out there instead. I was thrilled at the thought. It appealed to all my romantic sensibilities. I imagined us living in some pretty little studio apartment in Montmartre, wandering down the Seine, drinking strong coffee at bijou little pavement cafés. Jamie would work and pay the rent, and I’d study and maybe get some experience in fashion merchandising. And where better than the fashion capital of the world?
So I turned down my place again and Jamie and I began talking about the big move. Jamie was due to start in May, so I applied for graduate fashion courses beginning in September and said I’d spend the summer waitressing to help pay the rent. But Jamie argued that it made more sense for me to stay working at the hotel, wait for him to get settled in, find an apartment, then for me to move at the end of the summer. He said the time would fly by. That summer was interminably long. He was working seventy-hour weeks and there was never a good time to visit him. It wasn’t until August that we finally co-ordinated a weekend together and I hopped on the Eurostar to visit him and to see the city that I would soon call home. We spent a wonderful weekend together, sight-seeing, drinking coffee and shopping in cute Parisienne brocantes, only for Jamie to tell me at the end of the weekend, while we were waiting at the Gare du Nord for my train, that it was over. He said there was no one else, he still loved me and he always would. I was his best friend, first love, blah blah blah. He just wanted to feel that there was more to life than what we’d planned. He said that being in Paris had made him realize that he wanted to enjoy life while he was young and everything in the future could still be a question mark. And then came the real killer. He told me that life had been too predictable with me. I was devastated. It felt like my entire future had been pulled from under me. I didn’t know who I was without him and I was too scared to find out. I just wanted to hide from the world and be invisible.
Which is what I’ve been doing ever since.
Delilah turns round now, and I deliberately stare in another direction. ‘OK, what’s up?’ she says, and tilts her head to look at me.
‘Nothing,’ I mumble, and try not to look at her as she tries to get my attention. She bobs down in front of me and her golden hair floats up and falls perfectly back into place, bouncing around above her shoulders. I pull self-consciously at my own brown locks. That pretty much defines the differences between us. Delilah is an exquisitely wrapped present tied with gold ribbon, whereas I’m a brown package tied with string.
‘Ee-vie,’ she pleads. ‘What is it? Have I upset you? I have, haven’t I?’ She rushes over and covers my forehead with kisses. She always used to do this when I was little and mid-tantrum. It never failed to make me laugh and it has the same effect on me now. I giggle despite myself, and wipe my face.
‘You just made me feel like a right loser,’ I say petulantly.
Delilah’s face drops. ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean to,’ she murmurs. She puts her perfectly manicured hands on my knees. Her engagement ring and platinum wedding band glint magnificently as they catch the light and she’s pulled me so that my stool has twisted round towards her. She looks at me intensely and her blue eyes darken for a moment. ‘Evie, I have never, nor will I ever, think you’re a loser. I’m so sorry if what I said came across the wrong way. I’m just a bit . . . I don’t know . . .’ she trails off. She seems to be struggling to express herself, ‘. . . disappointed with my own lot,’ she admits shamefacedly.
‘You?’ I gape, and Delilah nods miserably. I’m shocked because whilst I feel like that most days, I have honestly never thought my big sister felt the same. Not with everything she has. I mean, her life’s perfect. I focus back on Delilah, who is still apologizing profusely.
‘. . . But I shouldn’t take it out on you, Evie. You, more than anyone, deserve some excitement.’ She cups my face with her hands. ‘Date Joel, have fun, you deserve it. And don’t worry about this Carly girl. It sounds like she’s got more than enough to occupy her trying to save Hardy’s from closure in the next few weeks, without a gorgeous man to distract her. In fact . . .’ Delilah snaps her fingers and grins at me, ‘. . . what you are doing is positively charitable. You’re probably saving Hardy’s by dating him. Here . . .’ She lifts her wine glass and motions at me to do the same. I cradle my wine glass protectively to my chest and look at her like she’s a madwoman. She continues regardless. ‘Here’s to you and the Hot American Dude! A match made in retail heaven.’
We clink glasses but I eye her suspiciously. She must be drunk she’s acting so weirdly.
‘Oh, Evie!’ she exclaims wildly. ‘All I’m saying is maybe this is karma. Carly got your promotion – you got her man.’ She nudges me. ‘This is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it, Evie? A bit of romance and sparkle in your life?’
Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I nod and smile, feeling excitement bubble in my chest, despite myself. Whatever Delilah’s got must be catching.
Maybe my meeting Joel was meant to be. And if that’s the case I have to do everything I can to make him believe that he’s dating Carly. Because if I’m being Carly, she can concentrate on saving the store and I can concentrate on saving my love life. Everyone’s a winner. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
It feels a lot better than admitting I’m just a fraud.
I suddenly know just what I have to do to help me become Carly. I slip off my stool.
‘Will you come and help me choose an outfit for my date?’ I ask breathlessly. I look at her meaningfully. ‘I think it’s time I opened The Wardrobe.’
Delilah’s mouth forms an oval shape and she claps her hands excitedly. ‘Let me just grab the wine bottle,’ she says, and dashes to the fridge. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.’
Me too, I think. Me too.
‘You are such a freak, OCD-Evie,’ Delilah says, using her old nickname for me as I swing open my bedroom door. I was the only child of my parents who inherited my mum’s neat-freak gene. Delilah, Jonah and Noah are all self-confessed slobs. Delilah puts the plate of pizza on the floor, grabs a slice and leans against the doorframe, alternating little bites with large sips of wine. ‘How are we related again?’ she laughs. ‘It looks like Mary Poppins lives here!’
I glance around the room, trying to see it through Delilah’s eyes. I guess it is pretty tidy. At the far end under the eaves there’s my bed covered with a silvery-white flocked quilt folded back carefully to reveal a cloud of plumped pillows underneath. I can’t help being annoyed to notice that there is a large crease over the left-hand side of the bed. I resist the urge to go and smooth it. My white bedside tables are devoid of anything other than matching white lamps and a copy of Charles Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop, which I am rereading for about the zillionth time. The pale, blond floorboard
s practically squeak underfoot they have been so well polished, and in the middle of the floor is a soft cream sheepskin rug that Delilah bought for me when I moved in.
At the opposite end of the room, on the left-hand wall underneath one of the three large dormer windows, is a squishy cream sofa, and a flat screen TV in the corner, which sits in front of the white fitted wardrobes. But these aren’t The Wardrobe; they just house my everyday clothes as well as Delilah’s out-of-season clothes and piles of things Lola and Raffy have grown out of. I have only half a rail and two shelves and a drawer in here. But I don’t need much space, just room for my four pairs of black work trousers (Topshop) four white shirts (Gap) and a drawer for my white, black and nude underwear (all M&S). Then there’s a collection of hooded jumpers, T-shirts, long-sleeved tops and jeans (also Gap), which I wear when I’m looking after the kids. All are perfectly folded and either carefully hung or stacked on the shelves in the wardrobe, as if they’re displayed on a shop floor. Force of habit, I guess.
But The Wardrobe is what Delilah and I are drawn to now. We pad across the room and perch on the side of the bed, clutching our wine glasses, munching on pizza and staring at the beautiful distressed white Provençal double armoire that stands grandly against the wall to the right of my bed. It looks almost regal with its distinguished hand-carved body sitting on its ornate feet. It seems to gaze down at me imperiously as if it’s annoyed that its mistress is such a plain, dowdy character. I bought it from Porte de Clignancourt in Paris, the weekend that Jamie dumped me. It was our five-year anniversary and it was meant to be my first piece of grown-up furniture for our Parisienne flat together. I remember thinking when I bought it that the armoire would have the power to change my life, I just didn’t realize it was about to change for the worse.
Despite my love of fashion, after Jamie and I broke up I couldn’t face trying to look nice. I comfort ate and cried and lay around in my jogging bottoms, feeling unloved. So when I got the job at Hardy’s and moved to Delilah’s, the empty wardrobe became a reminder of the person I was before: a happy, positive, loved but horribly impressionable young woman. And I realized that it was time to fill it with a new me: the person I wanted to be. Independent, ambitious, unpredictable, unforgettable even. But I didn’t have the confidence to be that person. So instead I filled it with the clothes of my dreams, waiting for the day when I’d feel ready to wear them.
