by Ali Harris
‘Go for your life, love,’ he replies warmly and leans back in his chair, sipping his coffee with satisfaction.
I bite the lid of the pen as I stare at the puzzle. Figures have never been my strong point, but I love the certainty of knowing that every one of the nine numbers in a Sudoku has a place, and when they’re in the right one every other number falls into place around them. I scribble a seven in the top left-hand corner of the box and then quickly fill in the rest of the missing numbers across the line.
‘There,’ I say, and hand the pen back to him. ‘That should help.’
Felix leans forward and squints at the puzzle, then back at me. ‘Whooo,’ he whistles. ‘You are on form.’
‘Pity no one else thinks so,’ I say, and before I can stop myself my chin is wobbling and I’m sitting in his office telling him about the promotion that never was. Felix shakes his head and pats my shoulder as I reel off my feelings of disappointment and failure.
‘It’s not right,’ he mutters. ‘It’s just not right. Why can’t they see what’s in front of them? Walter would never have overlooked such obvious talent, that’s for sure.’ I smile at his loyalty to me and his old boss, whom he respected enormously. Felix used to be a manager here back in the days when Hardy’s was a real destination store, and I love hearing his stories. Just like me he started in the stockroom, back in the late 1950s, working hard until Walter Hardy junior spotted his potential and moved him on to the shop floor. He’s convinced the same will happen to me.
‘It’s crazy that you’re stuck in that stockroom when you could be such an asset on the floor,’ he says, and I resist the urge to smile. ‘The customers would love you. I know,’ he adds gruffly, ‘because you’re a little ray of sunshine for me.’ I feel my eyes fill up and I can see he’s embarrassed and doesn’t know where to look. I don’t know what’s up with me today. I’m not usually this emotional.
‘Sorry, Felix,’ I say, swiping at my eyes.
He reaches out across his desk and squeezes my hand with his liver-spotted one.
‘Don’t worry about it, love. You have a good cry if you need to.’ He smiles. ‘Do you know I’ve just realized you’re the only staff member who ever calls me by my name? Everyone else just says “Hey” or “Hi” or “Excuse me, mister!” or sometimes . . .’ he shakes his head, ‘. . . they don’t acknowledge me at all. It’s like I’m invisible,’ he adds indignantly. He pulls out a Father Christmas beard and hat from under his desk. ‘I’m thinking of wearing this for the rest of the month to see if anyone notices.’
‘Maybe I should do that too,’ I laugh as Felix pulls on the beard. ‘Everyone calls me Sarah, the last stockroom girl’s name, or – worse – the Stockroom Girl. It’s like I’m not allowed a personality of my own.’ I feel my mood swing upwards like a pendulum as I share my frustrations with someone who understands. ‘The other day I even answered my landline at home: “Hello, Sarah speaking.” My mum was most confused.’
Felix roars with laughter and suddenly I feel better. It is pretty ridiculous. I keep promising myself I’ll tell everyone at work my actual name one day, but, well, it’s been two years now and I don’t see the point any more. It’s not like Sarah is a bad name, and besides, plenty of great people go by different names. Norma Jean Mortenson became Marilyn Monroe, for example, and Judy Garland was actually Frances Ethel Gumm. So I’m in good company with the whole name-change thing. I just wish I’d had a say in it.
I think back to my glorious encounter with Joel and realize that I can’t really complain. After all, pretending to be someone I’m not seems to be my new thing. First Sarah, now Carly. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have the confidence to be myself again at all. Perhaps I’ll tell him the mix-up when he phones. Not that he probably will, but I live in hope.
Felix smiles at me quizzically. ‘So who is he?’
‘Who?’ I reply innocently, wondering what it is about the elderly and their spot-on intuition. Felix and Lily always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking.
‘You’ve got the glow of a girl who’s just met someone.’
I blush and think about the pink silk pussybow blouse and tight, black fifties pencil skirt in my rucksack, and I can’t help but smile. I couldn’t bring myself to put the outfit on this morning, not for a day spent in the stockroom, but I never know when I might need it. Or, more to the point, when Joel might come into the store again.
‘So come on, who is he?’
‘Oh, no one,’ I reply bashfully, and take a sip of coffee. I pause and look up at Felix, suddenly wanting to share my news with him. ‘OK, he’s just someone who came into the store yesterday . . .’
‘Ah, good ol’ Hardy’s playing Cupid again,’ Felix laughs gruffly. ‘She’s always been good at that.’
‘You sound just like my mum,’ I laugh. ‘She met my dad when she worked here and has always told me I’d fall in love with someone at the store. I’ve never believed her, though.’
‘Well, maybe you should,’ Felix says. ‘Hang on, you said she used to work here, would I know her?’
It suddenly occurs to me that he might. As Felix worked here when Walter junior managed the place, he would have been here at the same time as Mum. I can’t believe I’ve never thought of it before.
‘Maybe. Her name’s Grace Taylor, but she worked here as Grace Samson,’ I say, referring to my mother’s maiden name. ‘She worked in the salon from about 1971 till she met my da—’
Felix snaps his fingers. ‘Bleedin’ hell, of course!’ he exclaims. ‘I knew you reminded me of someone! How is she? She was such a wonderful stylist, you know. The best Hardy’s ever had. Everyone thought so. We were all devastated when that posh bloke came and took her away from us. Charles, wasn’t it?’
I nod. Everyone always remembers my father. He’s hard to forget. He’s got what people call a dominating personality. But I’m far more interested in hearing about my mum. I had no idea she was so well respected at Hardy’s. She’s always told us she was just a simple junior stylist who no one ever took any notice of until Dad came along and swept her off her feet. I genuinely had no idea that Mum had been considered a talent.
‘She was really that good?’ I say, slightly bewildered that Felix is a fount of knowledge on my mother.
He raises his eyebrows at me, clearly surprised by my lack of knowledge. ‘Yeah, love. I mean, Princess Anne once requested that your mother style her hair for a big royal occasion. It don’t get bigger than that.’
‘Wow!’ I rest my head on my hands, wanting Felix to tell me more. My mother’s clearly been way too modest. ‘Did Mum do it?’
‘Grace turned the offer down. Said she wasn’t confident enough. Everyone thought she was mad.’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘It’s like hearing about a woman I don’t know. God, I wish I’d been here back in those days.’
I stare at the monitor in front of Felix, which is flicking through all the different departments. They all look so sad and desolate and I suddenly remember Rupert and Sharon’s conversation. I get up to go; I don’t want to burden Felix with the store’s problems. He’s got enough on his plate. Besides, I know how much this job means to Felix and I can’t bear to think of him losing it. Who else would employ a security guard in his seventies? I think of him sitting day in, day out at home, doing his puzzles, with no one to talk to, and it makes me feel awfully sad. I make my excuses, leave him to his Sudoku and head for the stockroom.
I walk down the corridor, past the staff noticeboards and suddenly remember the passport photo lurking in my rucksack. I had it taken yesterday at the tube station, after I picked Lola and Raffy up from nursery. I unzip my rucksack, extract the photo, then I put a bit of Blu-Tack on the back and, with a hearty thump, stick it over Sarah’s old picture. I stand back and study it. I look awful and I’m tempted to pull it back down but then I remember it doesn’t matter any more. None of us will be here for much longer anyway.
The lights are on and the cleaners a
re still here as I walk into the ground-floor hall.
‘Hi, guys,’ I call, and various heads pop up from different parts of the store. The cleaners wave at me, ‘Hi, Evie,’ they say in discordant unison, and then immediately get back to work. They’re always so busy and have such a strong work ethic. The other staff could learn a lot from them. I am reminded of Guy, Gwen and Jenny, whose jobs are on the line, and wonder if I can somehow warn them about their fate, but I don’t know how.
I decide to do a quick round of the shop floor before I head to the stockroom, making notes of the stock that needs to be replenished. I’ve always found it really easy to recall where everything is meant to go better than anyone else – even the department managers. And it gives me a chance to feel, for a short part of the day, that the shop floor is my territory. It’s around this time that I play the game in which I remerchandise the whole place in my head, imagining how I’d make each department look, how I’d display the stock and what props I’d use to best enhance the shop-floor displays. It sounds weird but I know I’m good at it.
Today I decide to go first to Menswear, which seems to consist mainly of a wall of denim. Row upon row of pairs of jeans in blue, dark blue, faded blue, navy, indigo, black, faded black, dark grey. In the centre of the department is a display of socks. Then belts. Then a row of suits. Then come the endless racks of green, black and beige Barbour jackets, rain macs, and other drab outerwear. It’s the most uninspiring shop floor I’ve ever seen.
Guy is continuing to be the most miserable-looking department manager since his boyfriend left him. They’d just bought a flat together, too. And now Guy is heading for the milestone birthday that, in gay years, is akin to death. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since I heard Rupert say that he’s going to let him go. I just don’t know what that would do to him. I feel particularly protective towards Guy because I understand what he’s going through. He was besotted with Paul and when they broke up Paul told Guy that he felt ‘indifferent’ to him. After three years. I mean, what the hell is it with men and their ability to not just break your heart but to trample on your confidence and smash your spirit too? Since it happened I’ve noticed Guy disappearing within himself. His clothes have become plainer, his voice quieter, his demeanour apologetic. And this from the brightest, funniest, most extroverted person I know.
Boyfriend or no boyfriend, it’s no wonder Guy always looks so miserable, staring at that uninspiring view of denim every day. There is no colour, no life, no energy here. Sometimes I wonder where all the glamour went in the world. Then I gaze down at my own drab black trousers and white shirt, my open coat over them, and feel the urge to laugh. Who am I to talk?
Across the dark shopfloor, the sparkle of the old-fashioned lights from the Christmas trees in Lily’s tearoom catch my eye and I find myself drawn like a magpie towards them. I half expect to see Humphrey Bogart sitting in the corner, his legs stretched out in front of him, wearing his trademark trilby and trench coat and pulling lazily on a cigarette. Why don’t men dress like that any more? Surely they want suave and sophisticated as much as I want sparkle?
Suddenly I hear a male voice and I dart into the tearoom. I’ve only met him once before but I’d recognize that accent anywhere. I’m completely panicked by Joel’s presence, but also excited. What the hell is he doing here at this time of the morning? It’s barely seven o’clock. I know he said he knows Rupert, but I’ve never seen a Hardy here at this hour. Things must be really bad.
I tentatively peer back out. He’s wearing a sharp-tailored suit that hangs off his lean body perfectly. God, he’s gorgeous. A smile hovers over my lips as I recall our conversation, which was right up there in the Best Flirt Of My Life scale.
Then I lean back against the wall as a thought hits me. What if Joel’s come back especially to find me? I mean, we never actually set a date – he took my number, sure, but he hasn’t called. I’ve been religiously checking my phone since yesterday. What if he came back to ask me out in person? Wow, I – I mean Carly – must really have made an impression.
He’s murmuring to someone on the phone and I strain to hear him.
‘Hello? Ah, Rupert,’ he drawls. ‘Hi . . . uh huh. I’m here. Just looking around. What time are you coming in? . . . OK, well, yeah I guess I’ll see you then.’
Right. He’s here to see Rupert. That makes much more sense.
Joel rings off and continues browsing, making notes as he does so. I am intrigued. Is he trying to work out a way to save Hardy’s, just like I am? Could he be the hero Hardy’s is waiting for? Rupert obviously thinks so. Joel couldn’t look more like a store Superman if he tried. Oh God, I’m actually salivating.
I press my body up against the wall and hold my breath as I hear his footsteps approaching. On the opposite wall, Clark Gable appears to be smirking at me from inside the picture frame, as if to say, ‘You are so busted, lady.’ And he’s right. I’m standing in the dark, still wearing my coat, crappy clothes and rucksack, looking the exact opposite of a sexy, stylish personal shopper. Joel can’t see me like this, he just can’t. There’s only one thing for it.
‘Carly?’ Joel raises his eyebrows in surprise as I saunter out from behind a display. ‘We must stop meeting like this!’
‘Mr Parker?’ As I say his name I realize that my top lip has attached itself to my teeth. I run my tongue around my mouth and swallow. I’m holding an armful of men’s clothes, which I grabbed from the changing-room rail next to the tearoom. I clutch them to my body and wait expectantly for his response.
‘Please, Carly, call me Joel,’ he says, and I feel myself blush. I have a desperate urge to tell him my real name but I don’t know how to do it without sounding crazy. And what is he doing here anyway?
Did I just say that out loud?
‘Oh, you know,’ he laughs, and dimples swing from his cheeks like anchors. ‘I’m just doing some shopping.’
‘It’s 7 a.m.,’ I reply evenly. ‘We’re not even open yet.’
‘Is it?’ He looks sheepish, but only for a second. ‘Well, Rupert is an old friend. He said I could browse before the store opens. I think I’m still on Pacific time.’
He glances at his watch. He has good hands, I can’t help but note. Our hands would be the perfect match. Mine would definitely like to be held by his. They could make sweet hand love. People would say how good our hands look together. I’m just not sure about the rest of us.
Seeing him again has made me realize he is way out of my league. Even with the mini-makeover I gave myself in the tearoom just now I know I’m still batting way below par on the looks front compared to him. I’m just glad I had the pale pink silk blouse and pencil skirt in my bag this morning. When I saw Joel was coming my way and I had no chance of escaping, I knew I had to change fast. So I did a superhero act of my own and quickly stripped off my grubby trousers and shirt and slipped on my ‘Wardrobe’ clothes. Then I hastily pinned my hair up, pinched my cheeks to make them rosy and pressed my eyelashes back with my fingers to make them curl, before rubbing on some lip balm that I found lurking in the bottom of my rucksack. The only thing I didn’t have with me was tights or high heels. I completely panicked as I heard Joel coming closer, and quickly decided that my battered old brogues were a no-no for a personal shopper so I whipped off my socks and shoes and put them behind Lily’s counter, thanking God that I’d had the foresight to shave my legs in the shower and that Delilah had painted my toenails cranberry red last night after I’d paraded around in my Larry Aldrich dress. Then, when Joel’s back was turned, I nipped out of the darkened tearoom and hid behind a display. I decided Joel wouldn’t notice my bare feet as men never look beneath chest level when talking to women. Everyone knows that.
‘Um, why aren’t you wearing any shoes?’ he asks as he glances at my bare feet.
Oh. Damn.
‘We-ell,’ I begin, trying quickly to think of a valid reason when it’s approximately minus two degrees outside. And about the same in here. Hardy�
�s old heating system is a tad temperamental. ‘You know, Joel, I just find I . . . work better like this,’ I say, prancing on my toes to demonstrate the freedom of being barefoot. ‘I like to be free to dash around the store, you know, collecting clothes for people. I find I’m more in tune with what is comfortable and, um, chic . . .’ I have no idea what I’m talking about. ‘Um, so, anyway, is there anything I can help you with? I am a personal shopper, you know,’ I add grandly. Just in case he was doubting me. I proffer my armful of clothes by way of example. ‘These are for a client.’ Is ‘client’ the right word? Or is that just a term prostitutes use? Shit, it’s customer. Of course it’s customer. Oh well, maybe he won’t notice my slip-up.
‘A client,’ Joel replies, his mouth twitching a little. ‘Is that what you call them over here? And how would an experienced personal shopper dress the average Hardy’s male . . . client?’ He raises an eyebrow at me.
I glance at the clothes, racking my brain for something suitably insightful to say. ‘Well, of course they are a high-class and very choosy type of person. They like style . . .’ I pull out at disgusting pale pink long-sleeve gingham shirt with a white collar. It’s vile. I gulp. ‘But they are not afraid to push the boundaries of taste. They like casual, too. For when they’re, you know, going to the polo or something.’ I hold up a pair of pale lemon chinos the colour of cupcake icing and realize that they are also vile. ‘But,’ I add hurriedly, ‘they do not want to fade into the crowd.’
I put my hand into my armful of clothes and pull out some bright pink braces. Joel bursts out laughing and I try to appear offended. ‘Are you laughing at my client’s outfit?’ I ask pompously.
He shakes his head and he touches my arm gently and a shot of adrenalin courses through my body. ‘No, I’m laughing at you. You’re very funny. I love the British sense of humour.’
‘But being American you’re not supposed to have one,’ I reply quickly. ‘Everyone always says you don’t get irony . . . which is ironic.’ I pause and smile. ‘Are you being ironic?’
