Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  Joel laughs again and shakes his head. ‘Not ironic. Honest. I like you. I’m glad you’re here, actually. I was hoping to see you this morning so I could arrange that date in person.’ He glances at his watch again and I take another sneaky peek at him whilst his eyes are averted. His thick, black eyelashes brush against his cheeks. There is the beginning of stubble on his chin which, against his American tan, looks like a heavy shadow cast over a sandstone rock. ‘Is 7.30 a.m. too early for a date, do you think?’ he says, raising his eyebrows a little.

  ‘Some of us have work to do, you know,’ I say with a hint of a smile.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he nods. ‘Your client. I forgot. So when is this polo match he’s going to?’

  ‘Oh. Um, very soon,’ I reply, nodding vigorously.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Not that soon,’ I say incredulously. ‘Obviously he needs to approve his outfit first.’

  Joel laughs and I suddenly feel like the funniest girl in the world.

  ‘No, I mean are you free to go for a drink tomorrow?’ he asks.

  I resist the urge to shout, ‘YESYESYESYEEEES!’

  ‘Yes, I think I am, actually,’ I reply coolly, suddenly very thankful for my weird working hours that led me to bump into Joel again. ‘I finish at— I mean my last appointment finishes at 3 p.m.’ I mentally praise myself for my quick thinking.

  ‘Fantastic,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll meet you outside the store tomorrow at three.’

  ‘Great, Joel, it’s a, er, date.’ I realize too late that sounds truly ridiculous.

  Thankfully he’s already wandered off.

  I have a date. Oh My God, I have a date. I have a date I have a date I have a date, is all I can think as I wander around the still silent menswear department. I pull out my notebook and draw a quick but detailed picture of Joel, his sharp suit, his crisp shirt, his nice hands. I kiss it, then I scribble a quick sketch from memory of the picture in the tearoom, of Clark Gable. They look remarkably similar, apart from the cut of their clothes.

  I’ve always loved drawing and I’m totally absorbed in sketching the sharp lines of Clark’s trilby when I suddenly have an idea. I snap my fingers.

  ‘That’s it!’ I say out loud.

  I feel a bubble of excitement expand in my belly as I turn and run up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. I have to get to the stockroom where I know there’s a box filled with exactly what I need in the fourth aisle, in the middle of the third shelf, next to the 1970s polyester kipper ties and the dual-purpose shooting-stick seat umbrellas (which you can sit on and use as umbrellas, although not at the same time, obviously).

  My idea probably won’t work, but it’s worth a shot. I can still hear Rupert’s words in my head.

  . . . 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.

  My idea may be crazy but it may just work. Guy’s never going to improve his takings with his current display. I’ve got some serious planning to do.

  Saturday 3 December

  22 Shopping Days Until Christmas

  The next day I’m relaxing on the stockroom sofa, having a much-needed cup of tea and daydreaming about my forth-coming date with Joel, when the door bursts open. I am exhausted. It isn’t even 10 a.m. yet. It’s Saturday and according to my Advent calendar (Door 3: chocolate church bells) there are exactly twenty-two shopping days left till Christmas, so we may even have a handful of customers today.

  ‘You’ll never guess what, Sarah!’ Carly exclaims as she springs into the stockroom. She has somehow managed to make impossibly tight grey skinny jeans, black Ugg boots and a black, bum-skimming puffa jacket worn open to reveal a silver satin cowl-necked top, look both seasonal and stylish. Her chestnut hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail with flicky layers framing her features and her face is shining with excitement.

  ‘What?’ I say, and sit up. Carly bounds over and sits next to me and I feel a sharp stab of guilt penetrate my stomach.

  ‘I’ve just had a phone call from some Human Resources lady from Rumors,’ she gasps. ‘They’ve heard all about me and want to invite me for an interview!’ She squeals and hugs me. Then she slips off her coat and boots and opens her soft, black slouchy handbag. ‘I mean, it’s AMAZING. It’s my dream job,’ she says, popping her Uggs in her bag and takes out a pair of gorgeous silver high heels. ‘It’s just,’ she continues, ‘I feel like I’d be really landing Rupert in it if I left before Christmas. I mean, it’s the busiest time of the year. Well,’ she adds as an afterthought, ‘maybe not here . . .’ She looks at me. ‘What would you do, Sarah? Go for something that you really want, or stay loyal to your friends?’ She tilts her head and looks at me, and it feels like her green eyes can see right into my soul.

  I cough and stand up. ‘Stay loyal, I guess. But that’s just me. I love Hardy’s and couldn’t imagine working anywhere else. But you, well, you have to do what’s right for you.’

  But she’s not listening, she’s busy burrowing in her gigantic bag, trying to find her ringing phone.

  ‘Hello?’ she says, resting it between her ear and her shoulder as she holds a finger up to silence me, then spends the next five minutes chatting while I wait patiently for her to finish.

  ‘Sorry about that, hon,’ she says at last. ‘It was just my flatmate organizing the guest list for tonight. We’re going for cocktails at this cool new club that’s just opened. Last time we had the most hilarious night. This super-rich guy sent over a magnum of champagne to our table. I mean, it was clear he just wanted to get into our knickers, you know how it is . . .’ I am nodding like one of those dogs people have in the back of their cars, but the truth is I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Being with Carly feels like I’m watching reruns of Sex and the City. Carly is now talking about not wanting to date anyone until she sees Mr Eye Contact Guy again. I feel a stab of guilt . . . Suddenly I realize Carly has asked me a question. Thinking about Joel had made me drift off.

  ‘Are you OK, honey? You don’t seem with it today.’ Carly says kindly. ‘You look a bit under the weather, actually. A bit pale.’ She snaps her fingers and delves into her handbag. ‘You should go to this amazing woman who does spray tans. I’ll give you her number. She does all the celebrities. She’ll even give you a discount if you mention my name.’ Carly pulls a card out from her bag and gives it to me. ‘She’s just round the corner. We all need a glow in these winter months, hey!’ She smiles at me. ‘And it’d mean you’d be able to carry off that pretty top even better. It’s gorgeous, by the way. I’ve been meaning to ask you where you got it. I haven’t seen it before.’

  I can’t help but feel a rush of pleasure that Carly is complimenting me. It must mean I’m doing something right. It took me ages to choose what to wear for my date with Joel this afternoon and I finally settled on a 1940s delicate lace, cream blouse with billowing sleeves and a round collar with a rust-coloured 1960s tunic dress over the top. It’s quite short for me, but I think the blouse, cream tights and the little string of pearls that sits just under the blouse collar makes it looks cute and chic. At least, I hope it does. I tell Carly about the little vintage shop I know in Islington but she wrinkles her nose.

  ‘Vintage? As in some old dead granny’s? No thanks. But I have to admit cemetery chic looks good on you.’ She takes a sip of the tea I’ve passed to her. ‘Now, talk me through the whole “no shoe” thing you’re sporting right now.’

  I glance down at my feet and blush. Ever since my quick transformation yesterday morning, I haven’t wanted to wear my battered old brogues; they’re like a symbol of the old me, the me I want to forget.

  ‘Are you starting a new trend with that and that granny chic top?’ She smiles at me and tilts her head comically, and I can’t help but laugh. Obviously I can’t tell her the truth. Besides, she’d never believe me.

  ‘Oh, you know, I’m just bored of my boring old brogues,’
I say, waving a hand in their direction. They have spilled out of my rucksack, which is lying in the corner of the stockroom. ‘And they didn’t seem to go with this outfit.’

  ‘You’re right there, hon. But then again they don’t really go with anything, do they?’ She giggles playfully. I should be offended, but I know she’s right. ‘You know what?’ she says thoughtfully. ‘I’ve got the perfect pair of shoes upstairs in the personal shopping department. I’d actually put them aside for me, but I need to wait till January now to get them. Shall I bring them down later? I think they’d look fierce with that outfit.’

  ‘You’d do that?’ I gasp, unable to believe my luck. ‘Would you be able to bring them down before three o’clock? It’s just I’m going out . . . um, later.’

  ‘Really?’ she says, and gives me a nudge. ‘Hot date?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I reply quietly, feeling the cold grip of my treachery.

  ‘Well, I’ll give you the shoes if you’ll be sure to tell me all about it on Monday. Every single detail. Promise?’

  I nod and cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Promise.’

  As the hands inch closer to three o’clock I feel the nerves and excitement building. I can’t keep still. I feel like I’ve got motion sickness and my stomach is in knots. I’m wearing the shoes Carly kindly brought down for me. I can’t stop looking at the gorgeous black stacked heels and peep-toes. They’re taking some getting used to, mind. But admittedly they make my legs look ridiculously long. I’ve spent the last hour practising walking in them up and down the stockroom as I went to collect orders. There were quite a few this afternoon, which was strange.

  I glance down again as I pick up the vintage chequered cape I’ve borrowed from the stockroom knowing that no one will notice. I throw it round my shoulders and pick up the soft black clutch handbag Carly lent me to go with the shoes. And thank God she did. I can’t exactly turn up all dolled up and carrying a rucksack.

  I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and walk out of the stockroom. I stumble a little, glance down and make a face. These shoes are nothing like anything I usually wear. But then again, I suppose that’s the point. And this is what Joel is expecting. A stylish, sexy, high-heel-wearing personal shopper to swoosh out of the store. So that’s what he’s going to get.

  As I walk out onto the shop floor I hope that my colleagues notice me for once. My hair has been brushed and is hanging loosely around my shoulders; I even have make-up on! Sam would be in fits if he saw me. He knows how much I scoff at girls who trowel on the cosmetics. This is way more make-up than I’m entirely comfortable with, to be honest, but Carly insisted on giving me a masterclass when she bought down the shoes and bag.

  ‘You can’t go on a date tonight looking like that,’ she said, waving her finger at my face. Then she pushed me in front of the mirror. My face was blotchy and shiny, my hair was its usual dull, lacklustre self.

  I muttered, ‘I can’t do this,’ and tried to move away, but she begged and pleaded for me to let her help, which made me feel even more like going home. If I hadn’t been doing such a terrible, unsisterly thing by stealing her date, I would have been overjoyed at the attention she was paying me. As it was, I felt horribly guilty. But in the end, her cajoling worked and she got to work on my face.

  After what felt like a lifetime of pulling funny expressions so she could prod me in the eyes, pull at my cheeks and hair and lips, she pushed me in front of the mirror and clapped her hands excitedly.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said expectantly.

  I gazed at myself with my mouth agape, hardly recognizing my reflection. She had done my make-up exactly like hers, using the same golden, honey-hued shades on my eyes. Then she’d applied a thick layer of black mascara and a delicate Bardot-esque sweep of liquid eyeliner over the top of my lids. I’d also been furiously bronzed with the biggest make-up brush I’ve ever seen, and attacked with a shimmering, toffee-coloured lip gloss, which makes my lips feel as if they have got glue on them. But unlike Carly, who always seems to look effortlessly glossy and beautiful, I thought I just looked, well, a bit . . . overdone.

  ‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to,’ she said confidently, noticing my uncertain expression. ‘But this is exactly what you need for a night out. Just imagine it in low candlelight at a restaurant, or in a cool, trendy bar.’

  Obviously I couldn’t tell her my rendezvous is now. I didn’t want her to risk trying to sneak a peek at my date. Her date. But then, I rationalized, the whole point is that I’m meant to be glamorous and shimmering and glowing. And that’s exactly what I am. I’m just not used to it, that’s all.

  So with all this work I am hoping that someone in the store will turn round and say, ‘Hey, look at Sarah!’ (I’m not expecting them to use my actual name or anything. I mean, let’s not hope for miracles.) I’ve even left my cape open so they can get the full effect of my ‘look’ (that’s what personal shoppers call ‘outfits’, I think). But as I walk out I realize that most of the staff are all huddled by the stairs, gazing down into the menswear department and chattering excitedly. I tentatively take a few steps closer and a big, resounding ‘Ooh’ makes me jump, quickly followed by several ‘Aaahs’.

  Then I hear someone bellow: ‘What’s happening now? I can’t see!’

  It sounds as though there’s some big, dramatic scene unfolding. And that’s what worries me. My heart pounds as I take my place behind Gwen, who is herself straining to see over someone else’s head. I don’t want to get any closer. I’m terrified of what is happening down there. What if Guy is having some awful tantrum, or worse, is being fired by Rupert? I try to peer down into the basement to see what the hell is happening. What was I thinking earlier? I should’ve just left well alone.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to Gwen, who doesn’t even look round at me.

  ‘Guy’s got customers down there,’ she whispers with glee. ‘Lots of them! He’s running around his department like a lunatic! Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  I squeeze into a small space by the banisters and peer down. I’m amazed to see that there is a huddle of male customers surrounding Guy, all holding up items of clothing that they want to try on or buy. He is holding court like he’s Sir Philip Green, and is clearly in his element.

  He glances up and gestures grandly at us. ‘Well, don’t just stand there you lot,’ he trills. ‘Someone come and help me. I’ve got customers waiting to be served!’

  Becky from Handbags rushes down the stairs to assist him, leaving the rest of us up here admiring the view.

  ‘It looks like a scene from a 1940s movie,’ sighs Gwen, and I feel a swell of pride as I look down and see that my little idea has worked.

  Yesterday morning I spent a couple of hours designing a whole new display for the department. I wanted to show the best of Hardy’s stock in a cool, classic way. So I imagined how Hardy’s might have displayed the stock back in its heyday. I wanted to recreate that old image of London businessmen in sharp suits, trench coats, hats and umbrellas. I knew I could make a display of mannequins look cool and modern in Hardy’s old-fashioned Menswear stock if I just presented them in the right way. Drawing the picture of Clark Gable made me think about the pictures of classic film stars on the walls in Lily’s tearoom and suddenly I knew just how to make it all come to life.

  This morning I came in extra early, dragged the box of trilbies down to menswear, then collected all the other props I’d dug out of the stockroom. I stripped four mannequins of their denim, pulled them into a line in the middle of the department, put them in sharp suits and gave each of them a cool, tilted trilby. For some reason I just knew it would look good. As a final touch, I gave one an umbrella, another one was holding last night’s copy of the Evening Standard, which I nipped out to get from Brian, the friendly newsagent across the road, the next one was holding a vintage briefcase, and the final one had his hand up as if hailing a cab. I was pleased with the first stage of my idea. But I had more work to
do.

  ‘Those trilbies looks so cool,’ breathes Jenny.

  ‘Why don’t you see blokes dressed like that any more?’ Paula from Personal Shopping says. ‘It’s all baggy jeans and bums out, these days. So not classy.’

  ‘It’s very old-fashioned,’ ponders Carly, who is right at the front. ‘I’m not sure the men I meet would ever want to wear a hat like that.’

  I can’t help but disagree. An image of Sam in a trilby pops into my head and I think, actually he could really pull it off, in a trendy pop star kind of way. And Joel, ooh, he’d look just like an old-fashioned matinée idol. And my dad would look just like a 1960s businessman, all sharply tailored suit, smart overcoat and umbrella.

  ‘Well, they clearly do!’ Paula exclaims, and points at the queue of customers forming round the paying point. More men are picking up trench coats and trilbies and heading to the changing rooms. I smile as I listen to my colleagues. The mannequins do look good, even if I say so myself. I’ve always felt it was a travesty that those vintage hats were hidden away in the stockroom. I watch as Guy rings through another one on the till for a young guy, who immediately puts it on. It feels nice to be proved right.

  I’ve also created mini tableaux in the rest of the department. Over in the far corner, near Lily’s tearoom, I’ve placed a mannequin in front of a table, sitting with one leg crossed over his thigh, leaning over as if talking to someone. He’s wearing a crisp suit with dark-rimmed spectacles, and there’s a packet of Lucky Strikes (also purchased from the newsagent) and a cocktail glass (which I found in the stockroom) in front of him.

  In the other far corner, where rails of tracksuits and fishing gear used to hang, there’s two mannequins dressed as golfers. One is wearing checked trousers, a polo shirt, a cool, jaunty cap and the red braces I picked up yesterday when I was talking to Joel. I’ve positioned him so he looks like he’s just teed off. He was inspired by a picture of a popstar I saw looking super-cool in a celebrity magazine. The mannequin next to him is wearing the pastel lemon chinos I showed Joel, which I’ve teamed with a grey Pringle of Scotland diamond-patterned tank top over a white polo shirt, with a sharp, grey skinny tie underneath. I decided against the pink braces. I’ve re-merchandised the whole sportswear bit of the department by forward facing what I think is the coolest, most stylish of the old stock on the rails, and making it all look like outfits guys could wear, even if you weren’t planning on playing golf, or going hunting, shooting and fishing. I’ve even done a display that is a homage to Guy Ritchie, with cool tweed jackets and trousers, and I’ve put out on display the deerstalkers I was sorting through yesterday. I suddenly realized they’re perfect for a cold, snowy December and should be properly displayed.