Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaims, and bombs over to help a customer who is looking around for assistance.

  Sharon and Rupert appear in the corner, talking and pointing at Gwen, who is blissfully unaware of her precarious job position. Then Sharon and Rupert jump to help on the tills together, and for a moment there is a beautiful unity to the team, with everyone fighting hard to serve the customers and, ultimately, to help Hardy’s live to serve another day.

  I stand and watch on the sidelines, still grasping my armfuls of Carly’s stock as the customers swarm around me like a fog, making me more invisible than ever. A wave of excitement and pride fills my body and I allow the startling realization to wash over me completely. I did this. Me. And I’m good at it. I’m really good at it.

  Despite the bustling beauty department downstairs, Designers is a veritable graveyard when I arrive there with the stock. Carly is standing in the middle of the department, seemingly oblivious to what is happening on the floor below, whilst a grumpy-looking Elaine wheels various rails to different parts of the shop floor. There appears to be tension in the air.

  ‘But you’ve tried it over there already,’ Elaine protests when Carly points to the space near the till point, by the far wall.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ Carly says, rolling her eyes at me as if to say, ‘You can’t get the staff these days.’

  ‘You bloody well have,’ Elaine grumbles, and sits on the bottom rail stubbornly.

  ‘What did you say?’ Carly purses her lips and spins round to look at Elaine. I draw back in shock. Elaine folds her arms and sticks her chin in the air. Carly glances at me and her face softens as she turns back to Elaine. ‘I hope you didn’t swear at me, Elaine. Remember, I’m a manager. Now,’ she clasps her hands and pulls them to her lips as she ponders for a moment, ‘where was I? Oh, yes, we were going to put the rail over by the back wall, weren’t we, Elaine?’ The last part of the sentence is clearly an order, not a question.

  Elaine stands up and pushes the rail over to the required position, muttering as she passes me. I don’t think she’s even noticed I’m there.

  Carly turns to me. ‘Hi, hon, can you put all that down and go and get me another load of stock, please? How much more is there to bring?’

  I want to say, ‘Too much for one person to carry and, more importantly, too much for this shop to sell,’ but of course I don’t. The delivery of clothes this morning was massive, and that was on top of everything that arrived on Thursday. I checked the stock sheets this morning after the meeting and we didn’t sell one of the Florence Gainsbourgs over the weekend, despite Carly wearing it in the store. I have no idea how we found the money to order all this expensive new stock, or how Carly is planning to shift it.

  ‘There’s at least another three or four loads,’ I say, and I look at the stairs beseechingly. ‘We could do it in two runs if we both do it?’ I add hopefully.

  ‘Oh, no, hon.’ Carly shakes her head. ‘I can’t possibly do that. I’m in the creative moment. I need to imagine it all and work out where everything is going to go. It’s a long, difficult process; you wouldn’t understand.’ She smiles kindly at me. ‘You’ll be all right, though, won’t you?’

  I nod wearily and head back down the three flights of stairs. It’s at times like this that I wish Hardy’s was more modern and had a bloody lift.

  And that I knew how to say no.

  I’m climbing the stairs to the first floor for the last time with the last massive armload of clothes. I can barely see where I’m going but instinct and an intricate knowledge of the footprint of the entire store appears to be leading me. Suddenly I hear a distinctive voice rising over the throng and I try to peer round the precariously balanced bundle that I’m clinging to. I look down.

  There’s a guy in the beauty department talking to Jenny. I can just see the top of his head. Maybe he’s come into buy a perfume for his wife or girlfriend, drawn into the store by my beautiful bottle display? Then I hear his voice again and I know for certain it’s not just some guy. It’s Joel.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ I whisper under my breath, and press myself against the banisters in case he looks up and sees me. I hide my face behind the clothes and do my best to listen in to their conversation. I’m learning that being invisible can come in handy sometimes.

  ‘Just come in to mumble mumble check out mumble mumble unit area mumble nice displays mumble who did them mumble . . .’

  I want to shout, ‘Speak up, Joel!’ but realize that would be foolhardy. Mostly because if he looks up he’ll see that I am wearing the ugliest jumper you have ever seen in your life. The wool has caused an unattractive rash to work its way around my neck and up to my jaw. And I’m wearing my horrid rimmed glasses because I couldn’t face putting in contact lenses when I got up at crazy o’clock this morning. My hair is unwashed and pulled back in a ponytail, and I have on my Worst Black Work Trousers. The ones that are tight in all the wrong places. I look like a Cornish fisherman who’s been out trawling for fish all night. I can’t let him see me like this. More importantly, I can’t let me see him with Carly. I know I was going to come clean to him but I need to keep some dignity whilst doing it. Oh, why didn’t I put on that cute sixties dogtooth miniskirt and black polo neck I pulled out this morning? Damn my natural comfort-over-style reflex. I need to try harder.

  I dash up the stairs and am panting by the time I get back into Designers. Carly doesn’t appear to have moved or made any sort of headway since I left. The department is a mess, the current stock is on the floor and the rails are empty. Elaine is prowling round with a face like thunder.

  I put down the clothes and walk towards Carly but Elaine gets to me first. ‘She doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing,’ she hisses. ‘She won’t listen to me. She’s going to put all this old stock in the stockroom and hang all her new stuff up. Even though the old dear who’ll be choosing her selection of crushed velvet and tartan taffeta evening dresses for her Hogmanay celebration is due in today . . . what’s she called?”

  ‘Lady Fontescue,’ I say, glancing behind me nervously to see if Joel is going to appear at the top of the stairs at any moment.

  ‘And what about that mad woman who is obsessed with printed kaftans?’ presses Elaine.

  ‘Babs Buckley,’ I reply automatically. It is no consolation to me right now that I can still win at my ‘Match the Customer to the Random Item of Stock’ game. I have to get out of here.

  ‘That’s her. Well, she’s not going to like this either.’ Elaine folds her arms and glares at me as if it’s my problem. ‘I can’t see her swapping her kaftans for this!’ She grabs a small, shimmering sheath of a dress at the top of my pile and I can’t help but agree. These are not garments for Hardy’s current clientele. Carly risks alienating the only customers we have. I hope she knows what she’s doing. But looking at her now, her face furrowed into a frown of concentration, tongue sticking out slightly, I have a feeling she doesn’t.

  ‘Elaine, hon,’ Carly calls, ‘can you help, please? There’s a lot to be done here.’

  Elaine growls under her breath and I hastily intervene before she launches at Carly.

  ‘Carly,’ I say as I jump in between them, ‘the new stock is all up here now. I’m going to get back to the stockroom, if that’s OK? I’ve got stuff to get on wi—’

  Carly widens her eyes at me in surprise. ‘But you can’t leave now. Not with all this work still to do! Elaine and I need you, don’t we?’

  ‘But they need me more, Carly.’ I point at the department below and walk towards the grand staircase before Carly has a chance to reply. I’m not usually this assertive but I can’t risk Joel coming up and seeing me. Not dressed like this.

  I peer over the banisters to see if I can spot him. A crowd of people has clustered around the various different counters. Gwen and Jenny are flitting busily between people like butterflies in their crisp uniforms, thrusting lipsticks and soaps and moisturizers into various hands. Joel is no longer anywhere t
o be seen, which is a good sign. If I can just get down the rest of the stairs and into the sanctuary of the stockroom I’ll be all right.

  I slam the stockroom door behind me, panting from my sprint down the stairs. There are now more than a dozen orders printed on the machine and I dash over, grab the long roll of tickets and set to work. I don’t have time to breathe, let alone think.

  Nearly two hours go by and I am starving and exhausted by the time 3 p.m. rolls round. But I can’t leave for the day as I normally would. In fact, I have to phone Delilah to tell her I won’t be able to pick the kids up from nursery today. And still the orders keep coming through. It is unprecedented for a Monday – no, make that any day – and I can’t help but feel a wave of pleasure that my work has made a difference. Even if no one knows it but me.

  Gwen dashes in at one point, her face bright and flushed with exertion, rather than blusher. She garbles something about lavender soaps selling out and when I point her down the right aisle she rushes out with a whole box without saying a word. I’m going to have to order some more, which is unheard of. I’m not even sure if they’re made any more; I’ve been selling Iris’s soaps from the same order for the past two years.

  Sharon also comes in, her face crisscrossed with a mix of anxiety and hope. She grabs a box full of lipsticks and runs out. Everyone is too busy to speak today. Even Carly hasn’t been down for her usual afternoon cup of tea and chinwag.

  By five o’clock I am about to faint. When the stockroom door opens again I’m ready to pounce on whoever it might be to get them to cover for me whilst I go and grab a sandwich. It’s Carly.

  ‘Guess who I’ve just seen,’ she squeals as she sashays into the room, and I know from the expression on her face that it can be only one person. ‘Cute Eye Contact Guy!’ she exclaims, confirming my fears.

  Oh God. Joel. He’s still here. She’s met him. Well, that’s it then. It’s time to own up.

  ‘God, he’s gorgeous,’ she breathes. ‘Don’t you think?’ I gasp as she swings open the stockroom door and I see Joel standing just feet away from us, hovering around the beauty department, which is still full of customers. I jump behind Carly but I can just see his profile. He takes out an iPad and appears to be making notes. He looks up again, but luckily it’s in the opposite direction. I jump over to the door and slam it shut.

  ‘Hey, why did you do that?’ she exclaims. ‘You’ve spoiled my view! And what a view!’

  I shrug and she turns back to open the door a crack and peer out. This is the moment that I should come clean. If Joel is working for Rupert he’s clearly going to keep coming into Hardy’s so he’s bound to bump into the real Carly at some point, and I don’t have the energy to keep up this stupid pretence any longer.

  I take a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Carly—’ I begin.

  ‘He totally checked me out on the way in here, you know,’ she says, talking over me. ‘I don’t understand why he doesn’t just come on over and ask me out. He clearly wants to. Why does he keep coming back to this shithole otherwise?’

  I bristle at her words. Doesn’t she have any sense of loyalty? I let it pass, though, as I’m determined to say what I need to say.

  ‘Well,’ I try again, lowering my eyes and taking a deep breath, ‘the truth is . . . he’s actually here to see me.’

  ‘What!’ She stares at me, her expression one of true disbelief, and the silence fills the room. Then she breaks into a broad smile and then a high-pitched laugh. ‘Oh, heee heeee, oh, you are hilarious, hon, really.’ She puts her hands on my shoulder. ‘That was a good one. You really had me going there.’

  Her words hit me in the chest like darts. Each one hurts more than the last because I know Carly doesn’t mean it cruelly. It’s just the thought of me and Joel is too laughable to be true. ‘Now, do you fancy taking a break? You can be my wingwoman whilst I go and speak to the hottie out there. He’s obviously just shy . . .’

  I look away as another set of orders come through on the printer. Suddenly, I feel nauseous. The last thing I want to do now is eat. If she wants Joel she can go and get him. I’m not stupid enough to compete with her.

  I busy myself with another order as I reply, not wanting to give her the benefit of my attention. ‘No,’ I say tightly. The word feels strange on my lips, alien almost. ‘You go. I’m far too busy here.’ I turn round to gauge her reaction, but the door is already swinging shut behind her.

  I stay in the stockroom for another hour, even though it is long past my clocking-off time. All normal rules that apply to my life seem to be going out of the window these days. I know I wanted things to change, but now everything is so different I genuinely don’t know what I’m doing any more. I don’t feel like me and I don’t know how to be myself with anyone.

  Part of me feels relieved that Joel is soon going to know the truth. Carly might have already introduced herself to him. And he’ll realize that of course she’s the personal shopper he’s been told so much about. He’ll only need to look at her to see that. And me? He’ll just see me as a desperate girl willing to do anything for a bit of romance and excitement in her life. And he’ll be right.

  I pack up my rucksack slowly. Once I’m certain that Joel and Carly are long gone I head out of the stockroom, flicking off the lights behind me.

  The beauty department is still heaving as I walk towards the front doors, and no one gives me a second glance.

  I stumble out of the store and onto the pavement, shivering as I wrap my big coat around my body. I take a step forward and turn and glance up at Hardy’s clock. It is nearly 6.30 p.m. and pitch-black. A disgruntled passer-by swears and shunts me on the shoulder as he walks past me, as if I have inconvenienced him hugely simply by standing there. Then someone else coming in the opposite direction does the same. I mutter an apology and start walking, pulling my hood up, digging my hands deep into my pockets and nestling my chin into my coat. I’ll come back for my bike after I’ve made a little detour.

  Ahead of me I see a familiar figure rushing down the street. It looks just like Sam. I quicken my pace to catch up with him but then he stops, embraces someone, and starts walking slowly next to her. I’m not sure who it is, they’re not holding hands or anything, but their heads are close together, it’s like they’re discussing something important. And he looks dressed up. Not in his usual checked shirts or hooded top, but in smart dark jeans and a tailored coat. He’s not even wearing his cute beanie. They disappear around a corner and I shrug to myself, sad not to have been able to chat to him. I could’ve done with a friendly ear. I make a note to ask him who the girl was. He never mentioned that he’s seeing anyone. Not that it’s any of my business, but he usually fills me in on what’s new in his life. Although weirdly, he doesn’t talk about girlfriends much. I’ve always presumed he was single.

  I sigh as I walk down the street. I can’t help but think of the last time I took this route with Joel. I’d stepped into Carly’s shoes – quite literally – and we were off on our date. I was so happy, so excited. But even then I knew that it couldn’t last long. Girls like me don’t date men like Joel, or get kissed like that. Well, maybe once in a lifetime.

  And that should be enough, I tell myself sternly. I should count myself lucky.

  Because my life may not be glamorous or exciting, but my shoes are way comfier than Carly’s. And this jumper I’m wearing? It may look like something an old man would wear, but it’s warm. It’s me. And I like it. Just as I think Hardy’s shouldn’t try to be something it isn’t, perhaps I should apply the same rules to myself.

  That thought makes me feel a little better and as I turn on to Oxford Street, I stand and gaze at the glittering display around me: everywhere is lit up like a gigantic circuit board, with bright, brash, gawdy Christmas lights and decorations that sparkle magnificently over London’s most famous shopping thoroughfare. Lola and Raffy would love them, I think, then wonder guiltily if I should phone Delilah to check she was OK picking the kids up from nursery. She knows
that it’s not often that I haven’t managed to make it on time and I think she liked having an excuse to leave work early. But I do feel bad. Just then my phone buzzes and I open a text from Delilah.

  ‘Got kids. Need you home by 7.30 as I have a client dinner. OK?’

  I reply swiftly with a yes, pushing through a crowd of excitable, chattering Japanese tourists, taking photos with their fancy cameras. They look so happy to be here. And I know I should be too. I love London, particularly at this time of year. I honestly don’t think there’s anywhere I’d rather be. I love watching people, gazing in the store windows, pointing at the Christmas displays and gasping at the lights above them. I just wished I shared their enthusiasm for them. Don’t get me wrong, I adore the decorations on Bond Street; the twinkling fairy lights, the elegant trees and the beautiful, delicate canopy cobweb lights that illuminate Regent Street. But the big Disney-film-inspired display over Oxford Circus all feels a bit . . . fake. Like Christmas is about marketing and the magic of making money, not the magic of making people happy, which is, surely, what it should be about?

  Call me old-fashioned, but personally I don’t want my city’s main Christmas display to be a glorified advertisement. I want to see hundreds of old-fashioned lights and traditional decorations. I want a Christmas shopping experience in which people wear bright coats and smiles, hold each other’s hands as they sip hot chocolate and carry armloads of perfectly wrapped parcels. I want candles and lanterns, cranberries, popcorn and eggnog, and crepe-paper crackers.

  Maybe I’m alone in this, I think as I walk past department store after department store that have windows full of fancifully designed displays. I turn my back on Topshop, which still has customers streaming greedily in and out of it, and cross over at the Oxford Circus traffic lights. I walk down Argyll Street – past the London Palladium where I spent many a happy afternoon as a child with my parents – before coming to a standstill in front of Liberty. It’s always been my favourite London store (after Hardy’s, of course). But tonight I am left disappointed by what I see. Even this wonderful old store has gone with a ‘modern’ take of Christmas this year. In the window I’m standing in front of is a mannequin leaning against a brick wall that is spray-painted with Banksy-inspired graffiti, a load of fake snow and a plain park bench. I can’t help but curl my lip in disgust. This is Liberty! With its exquisite Elizabethan aspect, Tudor beams and hand-carved mahogany staircase, it’s a symbol of traditional old-fashioned English luxury in the heart of the West End. What is everyone’s obsession with being modern?