Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  I walk along Kingly Street looking at the rest of Liberty’s treacherously non-traditional windows. In their next one they have replaced the mannequins’ heads with fox heads. I shake my head and continue towards Regent Street, crossing over and bypassing it completely to head back on to Oxford Street, towards Marble Arch. I’m deeply disappointed that my detour to Liberty didn’t do anything to lift my Christmas spirit.

  I stop and buy a bag of roasted chestnuts from a friendly street seller, hoping this will help me evoke the Christmas spirit. I crunch on several at once and the sweetness explodes in my mouth. I carry on down Oxford Street, my hand delving back into the bag as I throw chestnuts into my mouth hungrily; I realize I can’t remember the last time I ate. I can’t help studying each shop window as I pass, wondering what it is about them that draws the crowds in. What is the magic formula?

  I suddenly find myself outside Selfridges, the elegant centenary-old store that beat Bloomingdale’s in New York to be named the world’s best department store, and gaze rapturously at its windows. I can immediately see that the fabulous window displays that have become synonymous with the store’s success are everything Hardy’s aren’t: bold, adventurous, artistic, they constantly attract attention and praise from the public as well as the art, fashion, media and photography worlds.

  The store itself is everything a modern department store should be: large and luxurious, slick and sexy, relevant and cutting edge. You feel its power as soon as you walk through the grand revolving doors at the front of the store. It doesn’t have the quaint appeal of Liberty or the overpowering wealth and power of Harrods, or the homeliness of John Lewis, but it has something more: it has mass appeal. I have never met anyone who doesn’t love Selfridges.

  I stand outside the store for a while, still crunching on roasted chestnuts and sipping on a latte I picked up from a cute little Italian café I know nestled behind Selfridges on Duke Street.

  I watch as vast swarms of people crowd through the doors. This, here, is the pinnacle of shopping power. It’s what Hardy’s has to tap into in order to survive. But how? I shake my head. It seems like an impossible task. Hardy’s is never going to be like Selfridges. It just can’t compete.

  I edge along the street, tilting my head as I study the store’s windows. This year, they have done a modern take on Pantomime, with each window framed by fairy-lit garlands depicting grandiose scenes from various shows. So in one window the Ugly Sisters as dressed by Matthew Williamson, another features Vivienne Westwood’s Widow Twanky, then there’s Santa Claus, who is graciously pulling Cinderella’s carriage. Each window is also festooned with flashing slogans that say things like, ‘He’s behind you!’, ‘To the ball!’ and ‘Boo Hiss’. The overall look is completely kitsch, cool and chic. Small crowds are gathered in front of each window, pointing and smiling. The whole window display is modern, smart, witty but also completely Christmassy; totally right for the store’s image.

  But what about Hardy’s? I think, biting my lip thoughtfully as I stare at the Selfridges display and then visualize our sad, stark windows. There has to be something we can do to make the store stand out, something we’re just not seeing. I stare at the windows so that they blur into a mass of whirling kaleidoscopic colour in front of my eyes, trying to picture a scene that could work for Hardy’s. But all I can see now is a rainbow snowstorm whirling in front of my eyes.

  I blink and shake my head as I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my mobile phone and look at it. Joel’s name flashes up on the screen and I feel sick as my stomach bungee jumps to my toes and then up to my mouth. He knows. I put the phone back in my pocket. I don’t want to answer it. I can’t speak to him.

  I focus on the people going in and out of the store instead, trying to ignore the incessant ringing in my pocket. Suddenly I spot a familiar figure, carrying an unmissably bright yellow bag in one hand, the other pressing a phone to his ear. He pulls it away from his ear and looks at it, frowns, then puts it back to his ear as he steps away from the door and in front of the window. I dart back against the window where I’m standing. I’m only metres away from Joel and I want to hide, but there is literally nowhere to go. I can either go in the store and risk him seeing me or keep him occupied by answering the phone. I plunge my hand into my pocket and breathlessly answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, stranger,’ Joel drawls.

  Stranger. Someone you don’t know. A definite dig. I don’t reply, I just watch as he tucks his phone under his ear, puts his bag between his legs and folds his arms. ‘I thought you were never gonna answer. How are you?’

  I press myself against the window and edge away from him, thankful for the constant stream of people walking by, blocking me from Joel’s view.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I reply quietly.

  Joel laughs. ‘You don’t sound so sure. I missed you today at Hardy’s.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Carly? Are you still there?’

  I freeze. Carly? That means . . . Suddenly the street seems devoid of people and I can just see Joel, leaning against the window, one foot crossed in front of the other. His dark hair has been whipped up into a quiff by the wind and his expression is sweet, vulnerable almost.

  He doesn’t know.

  I feel elated, my stomach has been whipped like cake mix into a frenzy of excitement and my head feels sparkly. Then reality hits. Perhaps this is the moment for me to own up. All I have to say is, ‘I’m not Carly.’ Three simple words.

  ‘I’m still here,’ I reply instead as I feel the guilt stab at my stomach. The irony is lost on Joel. If he were just to look over his right shoulder now he couldn’t fail to miss me.

  ‘Sooo,’ he says playfully, ‘guess where I am right now?’

  I am giddy with adrenalin and lies. ‘Ooh I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘How many guesses do I get?’

  ‘As many as you want,’ he replies with a sexy laugh.

  ‘OK,’ I say as I edge back along the window and then dive through the revolving doors. I step away from the entrance and turn round so I can still see him. This game is fun all of a sudden. It’s nice to feel in control for a change. ‘Completely random guess number one. Selfridges?’ I peer out of a gap in the window and stifle a laugh as I see Joel look to the left and right and then shake his head.

  ‘How did you know that?’ he exclaims.

  ‘Just a lucky guess.’

  ‘Well, you’re right.’ He’s still looking up and down the street. He turns slightly and I catch sight of his handsome profile. He turns even more so he is facing the doors and I dart further into the shop.

  I hold up a big designer handbag to my face, pretending to study it closely, peering out after a minute to see if Joel’s still looking. He’s turned back to the street, thank goodness. I don’t want him to think I’m a stalker as well as a fake.

  ‘I’ve just bought you a present,’ he murmurs in my ear, and I jump a little. I’ve been so focused on looking at him that I almost forgot we were on the phone.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I reply, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘I wanted to,’ he says. ‘It is nearly Christmas, after all. And I probably won’t be here for the holidays. I’ll be going home to Pennsylvania on Boxing Day.’

  I feel my heart plummet to my toes.

  ‘I wanted to give you a gift, not for Christmas, but just because . . .’

  I am gobsmacked. I lower the handbag and gaze at the back of Joel’s head through the window.

  ‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say quietly.

  ‘So can I see you again tonight? We could go for a drink or something?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t,’ I say remorsefully. ‘I’m baby-sitting tonight.’ Much as I’d love to, I’ve been up since 5 a.m. and look like shit. It will have to wait. Besides, it’s true. It’s quarter to seven now so I have to hurry in order to be home in time for Delilah to get to her client dinner.

  ‘Oh,’ Joel says, the disappointment clear in
his voice. ‘Well, never mind. It’ll just have to wait. How about tomorrow? Are you free then?’

  I smile and nod, and then remember he can’t see me so I murmur an affirmative into the phone instead and feel myself blush as Joel replies, ‘Till tomorrow, Carly.’

  I press the End Call button and hug the phone to my chest. Then, as I’m barged in all directions by customers coming in and out the store, I creep back to the revolving doors and sneak outside. I peer out of the entrance just in time to see Joel put his phone in his pocket and then punch the air.

  I feel like doing the same because suddenly I don’t care about anything other than seeing him again. At whatever cost.

  It is nearly midnight by the time Delilah comes home from her client dinner and I have spent the past few hours floating blissfully around the house, dreaming about my next date with Joel.

  I’m up in my room when I hear the front door slam shut. I pause for a moment, then continue rummaging through The Wardrobe, trying to find another appropriate outfit from my treasure trove. I can’t decide between two different outfits: a soft angora blush-beaded sweater that hugs my curves perfectly, with a short floaty black 1960s georgette miniskirt; or a gorgeous 1940s red belted shirtdress with short sleeves and a collar, and with cream horses printed all over it. It’s very Stella McCartney, apparently. Well, according to Delilah, anyway. Or did she say Chloé? I can’t remember, all I know is that I love it.

  I pull it out of the wardrobe and hold it up against me just as Delilah bursts into the room. Without knocking. She has clearly had a drink or several hundred. She is swaying, her choppy blond bobbed hair is standing up on end and her make-up is smeared.

  ‘Hisssis . . .’ she hisses and flops on my bed. ‘Hesnoherethen,’ she slurs, and a bit of her spittle lands on my hand. I wipe my hand on my trousers surreptitiously as I try to decipher what she’s saying. Luckily I’m well practised in this art form, having seen Delilah drunk many times over the years. She’s usually pretty funny, but tonight she appears to be harbouring a darker mood.

  ‘No, Will’s not here,’ I say gently.

  ‘Asstard.’

  Delilah sits up suddenly and puts her hand over her mouth. Oh, Jesus, she’s not, is she . . . ?

  I sidestep quickly as Delilah pushes past me and dives into my ensuite, and just in time, judging by the grotesque sounds coming from in there.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I say, peering round the door.

  She is hugging the toilet bowl and looks back at me pathetically. I go over and hold her hair back, smoothing it gently into a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck as she continues to retch.

  ‘Eurgh,’ she says, wiping her mouth. She sits up, groans and then lies on the floor, her face pressed against the tiles. ‘Mmm, tha’ feels nice,’ she murmurs as her eyes roll back and her lids flutter to a close. ‘I’ll just lie here for a lil’ minute.’

  ‘No, Lila,’ I say firmly, pulling her up. ‘Go to bed. You’ll feel much better for it.’

  ‘Won’t feel better,’ she says petulantly. I am alarmed to see her eyes are brimming with tears. She leans against the wall. ‘I don’t wanna to go to bed becaush I think . . . no, I know.’ she shakes her head vehemently. ‘My hushband doesntlovemeanymoooore.’ She looks at me, shakes her head and begins to cry.

  I bend down and put my arms around her, rubbing her back as she sobs into my chest. I’m shocked and don’t really know what to do. I have never ever seen her like this.

  ‘What makes you think that, Lila? Will idolizes you,’ I say reassuringly.

  ‘He’s never here,’ she wails. ‘He’s always “working late”, he never notices me any more, and a-a-a and . . .’ She inhales and hiccups at the same time. ‘I read today in a magazine that more affairs happen at this time of year than any other because there are so many feezble . . .’ she pauses and tuts, trying to get her words out, ‘fea-feasible alibis.’ She pulls the magazine out of her designer handbag and immediately flicks to the offending article, stabbing her fingers at it to emphasize her point. ‘Work Christmas parties, client dinners, working late to pull ahead before the Christmas break . . . it all makes sense. Will wasn’t home on time all last week, Evie!’ She shakes her head as a fresh round of sobs rack her body.

  ‘But you’re late tonight, Lila,’ I say reasonably whilst secretly wondering if she’s right. Will’s a good-looking guy, he works in the City and he’s always ‘working late’. I mean, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility. Then I rationalize that it’s unfair to jump to conclusions without any solid evidence. He’s also a great dad and husband, and has always been utterly besotted with my sister.

  ‘You haven’t got any proof that Will is having an affair so why get yourself in such a state? He loves you, Lila. And you know how hard he works. You both do,’ I add quickly, knowing how sensitive Delilah is about her job being considered equal to his.

  ‘But this is different,’ she says doggedly, staring at the opposite wall. She shakes her head. ‘I s’pose you’re right, though. I don’t have any proof.’

  Just then we hear the front door open and shut quietly. Delilah stares at me but doesn’t say anything, her plump bottom lip still quivering though her green eyes seem relieved.

  ‘See? He’s home, there’s nothing to worry about,’ I say, stroking her back soothingly. ‘Are you going to go and see him?’

  She shakes her head and wipes her mouth. ‘No, let him come to me.’ She pauses and listens for a moment. ‘Shhh,’ she hisses. We can hear Will climbing the stairs. He opens a door on the first floor, Raffy’s or Lola’s. Then the other. He closes each one quietly then climbs more stairs. Then he opens his and Delilah’sbedroom door and shuts it firmly behind him. There is silence.

  ‘SEE!’ Delilah bursts into fresh tears and scrambles to her feet.

  ‘See what?’ I’m confused and, to be honest, a bit concerned about her sudden paranoia.

  ‘Proof that he’s having an affair!’ she wails, and a little more spit lands on my arm. ‘If he wasn’t,’ she continues, ‘he’d come and find me. But clearly he wants to just go to sleep so I don’t smell perfume on him, or . . . or question him about what he’s really been doing this evening or . . .’

  ‘Oh, Delilah,’ I say wearily, playing with her hair, ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Why don’t you just go and talk to him about it?’

  ‘I’m going to do better than that . . .’ she says ominously quietly.

  She is still talking as I walk out of the ensuite and back into my bedroom. I pick up the red print dress and hold it against my body, turning from side to side as I imagine me wearing it tomorrow night.

  ‘. . . give you proof,’ Delilah mumbles as she walks through my room towards the door.

  But I’m no longer listening to her. I’m already wrapped up in the early Christmas gift I’ve been given: my next date with Joel.

  Tuesday 6 December

  19 Shopping Days Until Christmas

  Felix glances up from his Sudoku as I walk towards his office and raises a thick, untamed eyebrow at me.

  ‘Morning, Evie. You’re in early again,’ he says pointedly.

  ‘You know me,’ I reply quickly, averting my eyes so as not so betray their guilt. ‘Diligent as always.’ He tilts his head slightly and studies me, as if I might reveal something more. Instead I cough, lean over and hand him his coffee, glancing at his puzzle as I do so. ‘You’re doing well today, Felix! You’re becoming quite the expert.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he snorts. ‘It’s the same one I was doing yesterday. Drive me up the bloody wall, they do. But they pass the time. Although,’ he sighs, ‘it feels like that’s all I’m doing these days. Ever since Maisie . . .’ He clears his throat, sits up and tries to pull himself together, which makes me want to cuddle him and cry all at once. I go for the cuddle.

  ‘Thanks, love. Sorry for being maudlin.’

  ‘You never have to apologize to me, Felix.’ I pause. ‘You know what?’ I say, thinking about the party that Sam ha
d suggested, ‘I think I’ve got something that will cheer you up. I’m working on having a little night out with a few people from here. I want to introduce you to a couple of people, like my friends Sam and Lily . . .’

  Felix’s face visibly brightens. ‘Lily? I haven’t spoken to her in ages. She’s a wonderful lady . . .’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I employed her!’ he says proudly.

  I’m desperate to know more about the old days, but I glance at my watch and realize I’ve run out of time. I make an apologetic face. ‘Hold that bit of information!’ I exclaim. ‘I have to go now. Got lots to do this morning, you know, er, deliveries to unpack for Christmas and everything . . . but we’ll pick up on this chat tomorrow! Bye, Felix!’

  I turn and flee, desperate to get to work. Part of me really wants to tell Felix what I’ve been doing with the shop floor – I know he’d support me but I don’t want to implicate him in my deception. I have no idea if what I’m doing is right, or even if it’ll really work. My last couple of makeovers could’ve been complete flukes for all I know.

  That’s why I’ve decided not to do another one for a day or two as I want to see how Menswear and Beauty get on first, and besides, I don’t want to arouse too much suspicion that it isn’t the departmental managers themselves doing the work. I’ve only come in early today to spend some time in other departments so I can plan the next big makeover properly.