by Ali Harris
Anxious to get started, I hand him his Claridge’s takeaway cream tea – which to be honest hasn’t fared as well as I hoped after a day at home and the bike journey this morning – but he seems pleased. I feel bad about not stopping for a chat like normal, but I’m hoping the scones and cake will make up for it. I rush through the corridor and out through the doors that lead into the beauty department. I head straight to the central staircase where I lean over the banisters and look down into Menswear. My display of matinée idol-inspired mannequins are still there, but the shop floor looks severely depleted. Guy must have had a busy weekend. I make a mental note to start my list of replenishments there – clearly he didn’t have much time to do it himself. But first, I have other work to do.
I run to the stockroom first to grab a few essentials, then I head back through the ground-floor atrium and into the beauty department with its various counters filled with rainbow palettes of eye shadows and rows of brightly coloured lipsticks, all standing to attention like soldiers in some multicoloured army. It looks like the displays haven’t been changed since the 1980s. It strikes me again just how stuck in a time warp Hardy’s is. I can’t help but wonder if it is age that has been its downfall. Perhaps my hunch is wrong and we do need to move with the times, as Rupert thinks, and become the fashion-forward store that Carly is envisaging. Do we all need to become tougher, smarter, sexier in order to ensure our survival in a highly competitive market and a tough economic climate? I bite my lip as I imagine my entire plan backfiring.
What I’m doing could cost me my job. But then again, I counter, it’s worth the risk if there’s the smallest chance of saving Hardy’s.
I continue walking through the department, running my fingers along the counters and resisting the urge to inspect my fingers. A bit of dust is the least of Hardy’s problems and, besides, the cleaners do a sterling job. I wouldn’t want to offend them with my freakish habits. I think of Mum, who can’t cope with even a speck of dust or disorder in her house, and wonder if I am genetically predisposed to turn into her. I don’t know whether to be grateful or aghast at the thought.
It feels strange but pleasant to not be accosted by a fleet of white-coated assistants spritzing at me furiously as I walk past. I think of Gwen, with her carefully painted smile, poised to pounce on any unsuspecting customer who happens to walk past. Perhaps people would be more inclined to buy from her if she adopted a gentler sales technique. I know she’s desperate for extra commission in order to pay off all those debts her husband doesn’t know about, but her sales patter just isn’t working. And judging by their consistently low takings, I’m not the only person who wants to run a mile as soon as Gwen or Jenny waves a blusher brush in my direction.
I pause to have a look at the displays of face and body creams. They all look the same to me, in identikit sickly pastel and cream packaging, and I can’t help but yearn for the gloriously classy and decadent make-up packaging of yesteryear: the beautiful vintage gold-plated compacts that we still have boxes of in the stockroom; the fat, fragrant powder puffs and glamorous gold lipstick cases that contrasted so beautifully against the crimson, carmine and coral products within; in fact, the very same things I have with me now.
I stand there for a few minutes with my battered box full of goodies and other vintage treasures that have been gathering dust in the stockroom. Then I set to work recreating the pictures in my head, happy that this time I’ve come fully prepared. I don’t have long and there’s a lot of work to be done.
It didn’t take long for me to work out what’s needed to give Beauty a serious facelift. I’ve been thinking about what I could do to entice women into Hardy’s hundred-year-old department. I can’t help but feel that what women want is the same as we’ve always wanted: simple but effective products, packaged beautifully; no science, no promises, no endlessly confusing colour spectrums or anodyne celebrity campaigns, just a sprinkling of magic that will convince us we can be transformed by the products. Maybe I am only speaking for myself, but I don’t want to see images of naturally beautiful models with translucent skin, touching their faces reverentially and gazing up at the sky to emphasize just how effortlessly beautiful they are. I don’t want barely-there make-up advertisements. I want lipstick, powder and paint in all its glory. I want Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth and Marilyn Monroe. I want Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot and Faye Dunaway. I want Farrah Fawcett and Joan bloody Collins, for Christ’s sake. I want sweeping eyelashes and bold lips and perfectly executed eye make-up.
When I walk into a beauty department I want to feel that I can transform myself into any of these women with a flick of a make-up brush and the right products. But more than that, I want to enjoy doing it. I may not be a make-up maven but even I want to imagine sitting at a dressing table, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, wearing marabou slippers and applying creams from pretty little glass pots, and sweeping gloriously coloured lipstick over my lips as I prepare for a date. Because that’s the point, isn’t it? Shouldn’t all this be about fantasy, about playing ‘dress-up’? I want to feel glamorous. I want to feel like a woman. I want it to be just like the old days. And I’m pretty sure that’s what other women want too.
Maybe I’m even more my mother’s daughter than I realize, I think as I fly around the shop floor, sweeping the current displays to the floor and working quickly and meticulously to recreate the vision in my head. Just like her I can have a room cleaned, tidied and perfectly organized by the time I get from one end of it to the other, and clearly, despite appearances to the contrary, I’m more of a beauty junkie than I realized. I’ve never felt the need for it before but wearing Carly’s make-up made me feel like a different person. It was like wearing a mask. I felt protected, confident, untouchable, and because of that, for the first time in a very long time, I felt good about myself. I wish I’d tried it years ago.
I glance anxiously at my watch. I don’t have much time. There are still boxes of props and products strewn all around me, the shop floor is in total chaos, but I am in heaven. I feel alive, energized. Watching the displays take shape in front of me is like putting together a jigsaw; with each piece I can see what the full picture is meant to be. It’s a painstaking process, but incredibly satisfying.
I spend the next half an hour working furiously, only taking my eyes off the displays to check my watch. I am achingly aware of the time as I can’t risk anyone seeing what I’m doing – well, apart from the cleaners, that is. They don’t mix with any of the floor staff or management and I know they are too absorbed in their own work to worry about what I’m doing. Their only concern has been to see if I need any help. Jan Baptysta saw me dragging a large, heavy box and offered to carry it for me, which was sweet of him. Mind you, he did say it meant I had to marry him so I’m not sure it was purely a charitable offer.
At last I take a long breath and, wiping my grubby hands on my trousers, I take a step back and look at my work. Even I am amazed at the transformation.
The horrible lurid plastic displays are gone. Instead, over the bare counter Jan has hung from the ceiling several ex-display vintage 1920s tiered chandeliers after I’d remembered him telling me that he is a qualified electrician. On one of the white counters I’ve recreated a theatrical dressing room, by adding a vintage triple mirror I found, complete with bulbs, in the stockroom. Then I’ve pinned photos of the most glamorous female film stars of all time onto the mirror, and underneath each picture I’ve grouped together the products from all the different beauty counters that will help customers recreate that particular star’s look. So whether you’re looking for Elizabeth Taylor’s arched beauty, Audrey Hepburn’s elegant sophistication or Marilyn Monroe’s dazzling sex appeal, there’s something for everyone. Palettes of make-up lie open invitingly on the dressing table, just waiting to be used. I’ve even found a pair of marabou slippers in the depths of the stockroom and placed them under the footstool. Forget Gwen and her hovering make-up brush, I want to encourage the customers to test the prod
ucts properly, to sit down here and play with the products themselves.
Against the back wall of the department, behind the till, I’ve made use of the wall-to-ceiling shelves that usually house endless white boxes of moisturizers, toners and cleansers. Instead, I’ve created a simple display of fifty vintage bottles that I found in boxes in the stockroom when I first started here. They are all in pristine condition with the labels still perfectly intact, if somewhat faded. Some are beautiful cut-glass perfume bottles, complete with atomizers; others are old-fashioned French bottles holding various creams and lotions. The products are all well past their sell-by date but I couldn’t bear to throw them away so I took them home one weekend, emptied them out and carefully cleaned each one, making sure not to get the labels wet. I brought them back in, knowing that the bottles alone were probably worth a fortune, and have always hoped that one day we could do something with them.
It didn’t take me long to line them up on the shelves. They look so elegant and refined standing there. The modern perfumes that customers can buy are displayed on the counters as usual. I like to think they’re basking in the reflected glow of their vintage friends, who are showing them just what they can do.
I bite my lip as I try to imagine what Gwen and, more importantly, Rupert and Sharon will think. None of this is exactly what you’d call ‘modern’. But I can’t help having a hunch that what I’m doing is right for the store and what Hardy’s customers really want. What’s left of them, anyway.
I turn round and my gaze falls on the display I’m most proud of. It has brought to life exactly what Hardy’s should be about: a store that is proud of its heritage, that wants more than anything to serve its people, and that truly believes that its customers – the generations of British people who have shopped here for one hundred years – are its future because they are the true shareholders of the store. It is, at its heart, a stoic survivor, a place that can be relied upon not just to get through the worst of times but to come out fighting.
Then it came to me. Make them the centrepiece of the beauty department. So in the middle of the hall I’ve stacked the pale lilac-coloured bricks of lavender soap, which are wrapped in parchment paper and tied with string, in a pyramid, just as supermarkets used to display their canned goods years ago. To one side I’ve placed a large, blown-up black-and-white photo of the WI ladies who created the product. I found it on Google Images over the weekend. It’s not the best quality; it’s a bit grainy up close. The women are all standing in a line with one arm outstretched towards my display as if presenting their product in an advert. They’re all wearing wartime Land Girls’ uniforms and looking at once proud, determined and full of hope. They are immaculately groomed, with pin curls and dark lips. Looking at it, I suddenly feel like I’ve been transported back in time. I imagine Joel dressed in a GI uniform, swirling me around a smoky dancefloor. We’re braving the blitz and ignoring the bombs that are falling outside, completely lost in each other . . .
My phone beeps and takes me out of my fantasy; I glance at it and realize to my horror that it’s nearly 8 a.m. I’m late for my real job and don’t want to risk being spotted by any early arrivals. I dash through the dimly lit ground floor, hearing the whirr of the industrial floor cleaner echoing around the empty space and make my way through Accessories and Jewellery, passing Handbags as I go. I don’t stop, as the sight of so many expensive leather totes bunched together like old women in a post office queue would just depress me. That’s a job for another day. I wave at Velna as I pass, though. She’s pushing the industrial floor cleaner around whilst practising what appear to be Brotherhood of Man-style dance steps and singing about saving ‘all your kisses’.
I wave and make an apologetic face as I dive into the stockroom before she has a chance to engage me in conversation, or song. I’m now officially out of time.
‘What time do you call this?’
Sam is leaning in the doorway as I open it, arms folded with a disgruntled expression on his face. He has cute pillow creases along his right cheek and some food stains on his shirt.
‘What happened to you?’ I say. ‘You look like me after feeding time with the Primrose Hill monkeys.’
Sam doesn’t raise a smile, despite the fact he knows all about my second job as Super-Auntie/Nanny. Instead he ignores me as he lugs some boxes in. I frown; it’s not like Sam to be in such a grump. And where’s my breakfast today?
‘Clearly you just don’t care about being on time for delivery guys now you’ve been promoted then,’ he says grumpily.
I smack my forehead. The text Sam sent asking about the promotion. I never replied to it because I was busy talking to Lily and Iris. It completely slipped my mind till now.
‘Oh, no, that, er, that didn’t happen,’ I admit, turning away to hide my embarrassment.
‘What. Do. You meeean?’ huffs Sam breathlessly as he carries more boxes in. He’s clearly in a rush this morning. I’ve made him late for his other deliveries and I feel terrible.
‘I mean I didn’t get the promotion,’ I say quietly.
‘Oh.’ I hear him take a step closer. ‘I’m sorry, Evie,’ he says at last. He doesn’t sound it. I’m slightly offended. Maybe he’s annoyed about my boasting the other day. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. ‘Did they say why?’ he asks.
I shrug dismissively and turn round. ‘I’m just not good enough, I guess.’
‘Don’t be silly, Evie, you know that’s not true. You’d be brilliant with the customers. You’re so warm and friendly, and . . .’ He coughs and I see from the corner of my eye that he’s holding his hands on the base of his back. ‘Oof, that last box was a heavy one,’ he groans.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ I offer. ‘I could make you tea . . .’
‘Sorry, not this morning. I’ve got lots to do.’ He smiles regretfully at me but I can’t help feeling mildly put out. He’s clearly punishing me for being late but I could do with his company this morning. He’s the only person who can cheer me up. An awkward silence descends.
‘Well,’ we both say at once.
‘You first,’ I add.
‘I was just going to say we should still do that thing we talked about,’ he says, pulling at a rogue strand on his cosy Nordic jumper.
‘Oh, yes, definitely,’ I reply quickly, just to continue the conversation but then I realize I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘Um, what thing?’
Sam shuffles on his feet. ‘You know, go for that drink,’ he mumbles. “To cheer you up. We can celebrate your non-leaving the stockroom.’
‘Ohh!’ I realize he’s talking about the promotion party he suggested last time he was here. Part of me thinks there’s no point, but then I reconsider. Maybe a night out is just what I need right now. Maybe it’s what we all need. ‘You know, that isn’t such a bad idea. For a Delivery Guy you’re pretty clever, you know, Sam.’
He grins and his cheeks go all chipmunky for a moment. ‘Same goes, SG,’ he retorts. ‘So when are you free and where do you fancy—’
I hold my hand up to stop him. ‘Leave it with me,’ I say briskly. ‘I’ll sort it all out.’
‘Oh, well, OK,’ he replies dubiously. ‘I’m usually old-fashioned about these sorts of things, but if that’s what you want, fine. Just let me know where to be and when. I’ll be there. Now, I’ve got to . . .’ he stabs his thumb over his shoulder to the open door where his van is waiting.
‘No worries. See you!’ I say brightly.
I’m already busy planning our big night out. It’s going to be great.
Nine o’clock comes around all too quickly and the floor staff soon start trooping into the stockroom for our weekly Monday morning meeting, yawning and clasping their takeaway teas and coffees for dear life as they mumble incoherently to each other. Most of them have still got their coats on so they’ve clearly come straight through the staff entrance to here, which means they won’t have seen the shop floor yet.
I finish putting away the delivery quietly
while everyone chats amongst themselves.
‘Urgh, I can’t believe it’s Monday again,’ moans Becky to no one in particular as she launches herself towards the sofa in my lounge area. I whip away a pile of new stock that I’d put there before she squashes it all. She doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Can someone wake me up when Sharon’s finished talking figures? I really don’t need to have a lecture about how many bags I didn’t sell last week.’
‘At least you don’t have to put up with her and Carly interfering with your department,’ grumbles Elaine from Designers. ‘I couldn’t get rid of them over the weekend. They were constantly prowling round, sizing it up and scribbling things down on a clipboard. I didn’t get to sit down and read my Grazia once. It was so annoying.’
‘Can you believe what happened in Guy’s department, though?’ pipes up Becky. ‘It’s amazing what he’s done; he’s like a changed man. Suddenly he’s all preeny and keeps saying things like, “My vision” and, “I know what customers want . . . ” instead of moping around the place with a face like a slapped arse.’
I can’t help but smile to myself. I knew Guy would throw himself into the success. And I’m happy for him. If it continues maybe he won’t lose his job.
‘And he didn’t talk about the loneliness of being homosexual once,’ adds Jenny. ‘Or wonder if his ex was going to be out cruising along Old Compton Street on Saturday night. He was just . . . happy.’
‘It was weird seeing new customers in the store, though,’ adds Becky. ‘I mean, the place felt kind of buzzy for the first time in ages. I liked it.’
‘I hope my department doesn’t end up like that,’ grumbles Elaine. ‘I’ll never be able to read my mags if I’m as busy as Guy. Looks way too much like hard work for my liking.’
I laugh at this. Elaine is notoriously lazy. She thinks working at Hardy’s is the best gig ever. She used to work at Selfridges and says Saturdays were hell. She took the job here for a quieter life. She likes the fact that she gets paid to do nothing. Although she does always moan that it feels like time stands still in Hardy’s. And she’s right. One hour can feel like ten in here sometimes. Half the time the staff don’t know what to do with themselves. There’s only so many times they can tidy shelves and adjust the way things look before their only option is to stand in their departments, gazing vacantly out, hoping for someone – anyone – to come and pass some time with them. I do feel sorry for them. Half of them have forgotten how to do their jobs and I’m not sure they’d know what to do if they were inundated with customers. But Guy really rose to the occasion and I’m so glad. Of course, he had no idea that his job depended on it.
