by Ali Harris
I sit down next to her, adopting my usual sympathetic expression. ‘It’s probably because none of the customers knew about the makeover. It’s not like you’re on the ground floor, like Beauty. Perhaps you should think about advertising the new look in the window tomorrow?’ I add helpfully.
Carly looks at me, her green eyes sharpen for a second and then cloud. She shakes her head, her ponytail flopping lankly left and right, and frowns. ‘Oh, we had customers all right. The bloody blue-rinse brigade. They walked in, around and then walked out again, swinging their granny handbags and muttering that it was “much better before” as they left.’
I raise my eyebrows sympathetically but inside I’m wondering if maybe I was right after all. Mrs Fawsley, Iris, Babs Buckley, Lady Fontescue – they don’t want sculptured dresses by the hottest designers, they want wearable fashion that makes them feel comfortable but chic. Obviously we need to move on from their particular idea of style, which mostly seems to consist of flammable fabrics in pastels or in vomit-inducing patterns. But they just need to be educated gently; guided in a direction they don’t even know they want to go in until they are there. Like Rupert’s sheep back on his farm. Poor Carly, I think as I look at her now, sitting so dejectedly. It doesn’t feel good to be right. I feel like I should help her. But I don’t think she’d accept my help. Although there’s no reason not to try.
‘I think I know what the problem is,’ I muse thoughtfully.
‘You do?’ She looks at me and smirks a little as she takes a sip of tea. ‘Go on . . .’
‘It’s not that your idea isn’t good, it’s just not right for Hardy’s current clientele,’ I say breathlessly.
Carly rests her face on her hand and ponders this for a moment. ‘I can accept that,’ she says at last.
‘And the truth is,’ I continue, ‘you’re catering for a type of customer we haven’t got yet . . .’
‘Unfortunately,’ Carly adds bitterly.
‘What you need to do is straddle the old and the new. Bring in lines that our old customers will be drawn to, whilst incorporating stock that will appeal to people who have never shopped at Hardy’s before . . .’
‘Young, fashionable, cool people, you mean,’ she laughs. ‘You know what, Sarah?’ she says, sitting forward on the sofa and thrusting her empty mug into my hand. ‘I think you’re right! It’s not my fault the makeover hasn’t worked. It’s the customers!’
‘Well, I didn’t actually say that . . .’ I protest, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
Instead she stands up until she is towering over me. I can see straight up her nostrils, which are flared with excitement.
‘So what I need to do is stop worrying about the fusty old fuddy-duddies who’ve shopped here for years. I don’t care what they think anyway. Frankly, if they’d liked my shop floor I’d have been offended. No,’ she nibbles on a fingernail and then looks into the distance as if realizing something for the first time, ‘it’s not me who has to change, it’s them. And that’s exactly what I’ll tell Rupert. I’m a genius!’ She smiles beatifically at me. ‘No wonder they gave me this promotion. What would they do without me, hey?’ And she bends down, squeezes me on the shoulder so that it burns a little, and then swans out the room. ‘Thanks for listening, Sarah!’ she calls back, as an afterthought.
As the door swings shut I flop back on the sofa and close my eyes. I’ve just made things worse. I turn my head, glance at my watch and suddenly I feel better. At least there are only a couple more hours till I see Joel. Then I can forget all about this mess.
Kind of.
The evening darkness hugs the city like a blanket. I weave through the streets towards Charing Cross, where I’m due to meet Joel. I’m passing Hamleys and I pause to look at the cute carol-singing teddy bears that make up one of their windows when Sam comes out of the store.
‘Evie!’ he gasps in surprise and glances back at the store nervously. He looks really cute, all wrapped up in a big brown duffel coat and the faux-fur deerstalker hat I gave him when he came in yesterday. He’s grown some stubble and looks like a big cuddly bear. I want to put him in Hamleys’ window so everyone can walk past and admire his cuteness too.
‘Sam!’ I exclaim. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t have you down as a Hamleys kind of guy.’ He flushes and I wonder if I’ve hit a raw nerve. I nudge him playfully. ‘Expanding your Star Wars figure collection, are you? Or no, hang on, are you more of a cuddly toy boy?’
He blushes and just at the moment a girl – the same girl I saw him with yesterday, I think – exits the store and stands by his side. She is pretty and a little older than he, I’d say, with short, pixie-cut hair and a harried, disgruntled expression. She looks at me, then at Sam, and hitches her handbag over her shoulder
‘Ella, this is my friend Evie,’ he says, emphasizing ‘friend’. ‘Evie, this is . . . Ella.’ No emphatic use of ‘friend’ for her, I notice.
‘Hi.’ I smile warmly and hold out a gloved hand to Ella. She shakes it and looks away, distracted by something in the window, turning her back on us completely.
‘We’re just doing some Christmas shopping,’ Sam says brightly, lifting up his bulging Hamleys bag.
‘So I see! I haven’t even started mine yet.’ I pause and my eyes flicker to Ella, who still has her back to us. I wish she’d turn round so I can get another look at her. ‘Well, brrr!’ I say loudly, stamping my feet and clapping my hands like a kids’ TV presenter demonstrating the cold. ‘Can’t stand here in the cold all night. I’d, er, best be off . . .’ I flap my arms around my body and do a fake shiver, then point down the road in the direction I’m going, accidentally smacking a passer-by as I do. He tuts at me and I apologize profusely. Then I hurriedly turn, bumping into someone else, who staggers out of my way.
‘Remind me to take you sale shopping with me,’ Sam laughs. ‘Those elbows of yours are lethal!’
I stop and step closer to the store window, afraid of derailing any more shoppers. Ella’s nowhere to be seen and has clearly been lured back into the store.
‘You look great, going somewhere nice?’ Sam smiles, looking at me strangely. I realize he has never seen me in anything other than my work clothes.
‘I don’t know, actually. It’s a surprise.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘It’s a date,’ I add bashfully. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you next time you come in.’
‘Er, right. Well, I’ll look forward to it,’ Sam says, pulling his hat down over his ears and turning to look for Ella, clearly distracted by her absence.
I use this as my exit opportunity, hurrying off before I have to say goodbye to them both, slightly displaced by the strange sensation I felt at seeing them together.
I continue quickly down to Piccadilly Circus, propelled by my urge to see Joel, and am body-slammed by a riot of colour and noise. I’m pushed and shoved by the crowds who fill the streets and I jostle through determinedly. At Leicester Square there is more space but, unbelievably, even more people. The Christmas funfair is in full swing and I rush past, glancing back long enough over my shoulder to see the hundreds of happy faces illuminated by the neon lights.
I pull my coat around my body as I dash through the streets. It is a cold night; my breath frosts like cigarette smoke and I can’t help but imagine myself as a young Lily in 1950s London, having just finished a dancing shift at The Windmill and smoking a cigarette on her way to meet a suitor for late night drinks. It’s not hard to imagine in my get-up. I’ve also pinned a cute cream beret to the back of my head, being especially careful not to muss up Lily’s Victory Roll as I put it on. I’m so ensconced in my fantasy of 1950s London that I realize only just in time that I’m walking past the enormous Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. The impressive twenty-metre-high Norwegian spruce stands proudly alongside Nelson’s Column, framed by gushing fountains and back-lit by the warm apricot glow from the lights of the National Gallery. It looks wonderful and I can’t help but stop to stare at it for a moment, my hands claspe
d together as I allow the scent of fresh pine needles to tickle my nose and my imagination.
Joel is waiting in front of Charing Cross station as I dash up breathlessly. He is the most casual I’ve ever seen him, in a thick, dark grey roll-neck that cups his chin, creating a creosote shadow across his jaw. He’s also wearing jeans that are slightly too pale to be trendy, but I’ll let him off. American men are famously good at wearing bad jeans. You only have to look at Tom Cruise or George Clooney to realize that. Besides, I’m not one to talk. I’m not exactly a fashion expert. Although, I guess in my current role as a ‘personal shopper’ that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be.
‘Woah.’ He smiles as he takes me in appreciatively, his eyes waltzing across my body like it’s a dancefloor, before forming happy crescents as they gaze into mine. Then he kisses me gently on the lips. I try not to blush as I apologize for being late.
‘It’s a girl’s prerogative, isn’t it?’ he teases, and slides his arm around my back. I inhale sharply at his touch. It sends waves of pleasure coursing through me so that between the warmth of him and the chill of the December air, it feels like I’m being electrocuted.
We begin to walk side by side. I can feel his hand brushing accidentally against mine, as if it’s magnetically drawn to me.
Breathe, for God’s sake, Evie, breathe.
‘So, how was the baby-sitting?’ Joel asks chattily as he leads me gently down the Strand. His hand is now resting against the curve of my back. I try to focus and start telling him about Raffy and Lola, only just remembering in time that they’re meant to be ‘friends’ children’, not my niece and nephew. He laughs in all the right places when I tell him stories about them and even makes endearing ‘Awww’ noises when I describe Lola. He tells me he’d love to have a daughter one day.
Is he for real? A successful, sexy, interesting man who calls when he says he will and loves kids.
He’s now busy telling me about how much he loves Christmas and how his family celebrate it back home in Pennsylvania, and I’m lost in his description of a traditional American Christmas. It’s all eggnogg, candy canes, and cranberries and popcorn strung round the tree. I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of wanting to be there with him for the holidays.
Obviously I’m not going to admit that. I mean, I’m not a complete idiot. His eyes glisten fondly as he talks about his mum, dad and brothers back home, and suddenly it feels that the Strand may as well be Siberia; it’s like there’s no one here but us.
‘You miss them, don’t you?’ I say.
He nods. ‘We’re really close. It’s hard being away at this time of year. It’s the first time I’ve ever missed Thanksgiving.’
Without thinking I envelop him in a hug. He smells musky, like cloves and spices. My head rests on his chest and I squeeze him, then release.
He looks surprised and embarrassed by my show of affection and I wonder if I’ve done the wrong thing.
‘I feel like I’m always telling you things I shouldn’t,’ he says. ‘It’s just . . . you’re such a good listener, Carly.’ He smiles at me meaningfully, his eyes dark pools of intensity. ‘Right,’ he brightens visibly as he glances behind me and then turns me around, ‘enough of me being all sentimental. Let’s have us a good time!’ He points at the beautiful big building we’re standing in front of and gestures with his arm. ‘Your Winter Wonderland awaits, ma’am,’ he says with a lopsided smile as I slowly turn round.
We’re standing in front of Somerset House, a beautiful eighteenth-century neoclassical building set in a quadrangle. Inside, the sound of Christmas music and squeals of laughter rings out. We walk through to the courtyard and I look at Joel uncertainly as he proffers his arm and points at the ice rink, which is lit up like a Tiffany’s box and full of warmly wrapped figures whizzing joyously around the ice. It looks beautiful and festive, and is everything that I love about London at this time of year. I’d be excited, but I can’t ice-skate.
‘Can I have the first dance, m’lady?’ Joel asks in his (terrible) British accent. I really need to stop him doing that.
‘Dance? On the ice?’ I splutter incredulously. ‘Are you kidding? The only bolero you’ll be seeing from me is this jacket,’ and I gesture at my little cream cropped jacket.
He throws his head back and laughs as if I’ve just made the best joke ever. I’m mentally high-fiving my inner comedy goddess again when he stops, draws his eyebrows together and says, ‘What’s a bolero?’
Never mind, it’s just the language barrier. ‘It’s a word for a cropped jacket,’ I explain patiently, ‘but it’s also a very famous ice dance for which Torvill and Dean won a gold medal at the 1984 Olympics.’
Joel looks blankly at me. ‘The famous British ice dancers?’ I add. He shakes his head.
‘You know,’ I persist, determined to bridge our cultural divide, ‘Da DAH, da da da DUM.’ I sing the famous ending of the tune and he raises an eyebrow at me and bursts out laughing.
‘I get it now!’ he exclaims, nodding his head. ‘Great joke!’ He’s just being kind.
He grabs my hand. ‘Come on, I’m sure a couple of mulled wines will turn us into Torvill and, what, Dean?’ and he grins as he pulls me towards the ice rink.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Joel says wondrously as he stands on the side of the rink with his hands on his hips. He looks so comfortable there on the ice. Lots of pretty girls who look like they’ve stepped out of a Gap advert, in short skirts, thick tights, brightly coloured knits and winter capes, are turning their heads as they pass him, losing their balance a little as they do so.
‘It’s lovely,’ I reply, glancing up long enough from the rail I’m gripping onto for dear life to get a view of the sparkling lights, the flushed, half-happy, half-terrified faces speeding past me, and the Christmas trees dotted around the quadrangle. I look back down as my feet involuntarily do scissor splits and Joel laughs and skates towards me as I try to scramble back to a standing position.
‘You’re going to have to let go of the rail at some point, you know,’ he says and holds out his hands.
‘Not on your life,’ I say stubbornly. ‘I’m staying right here.’
‘Come on, Carly!’ he laughs. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’
I glance up from the handrail and look into his azure-blue eyes and shiver as I realize that, actually, I do. He nods encouragingly and I tentatively put one foot in front of the other away from the rail until I am safely in his arms.
He holds me tightly and then he murmurs, ‘So, are you ready to be swept off your feet?’
Yes, I think, I really am.
An hour later, giggling with exhaustion and delight, feet throbbing from being on ice skates, we collapse onto the benches and put our shoes back on.
‘That was brilliant!’ I gasp. ‘You didn’t tell me how good you are at that!’
‘A gentleman never boasts about his talents,’ Joel laughs as he leans forward and slips his feet into his trainers, then sits back up. ‘I used to play ice hockey back in Pennsylvania. It’s practically a national sport.’
‘Well, you’re a brilliant teacher. I never thought I’d be able to stand upright, let alone go backwards! And that bit where everyone stopped and watched us as we sped around the ice was AMAZING! I felt like Cinderella!’
‘Not Jane Torvill?’ Joel says teasingly.
‘No, not quite . . . Hey!’ I pause from doing up the buckle on my shoes. ‘How do you know her first name?’ I prod him in the stomach. ‘You said you’d never heard of Torvill and Dean.’
He holds his hands up. ‘Oops. Busted. Sure I know who they are. I just wanted to hear you sing the Bolero for me.’ He winks cheekily at me.
‘I can’t believe you did that!’ I gasp. ‘That was so mean!’ I pummel my hands against his chest.
He grabs my wrists with one big capable hand and pulls me towards him and we gaze at each other, our lips hovering inches apart. ‘Shall we get out of here?’ he whispers, and I nod silently. ‘To my hotel?’ he as
ks, his eyebrows lifting hopefully, and I feel a shiver of longing shoot through my body. I nod, mentally making a note to ring Delilah to let her know I won’t be home tonight. Then he takes me silently by my hand.
It is credit to his kissing skills that I barely notice Joel’s suite at Claridge’s as we tumble through the door and onto the bed, kissing each other until my lips feel numb. His hands slide down my body, over my waist and hips, lightly squeezing my bum, his fingers brushing up my spine until they reach the zip on my dress. I am excited and terrified all at once, but mainly I’m thanking God that I had the foresight to put on the only good underwear I own. It’s a pretty black satin all-in-one with a balconette bra that simultaneously holds up my boobs and holds in my stomach. I bought it in Paris the weekend that Jamie dumped me. I’ve never had the opportunity to wear it and even though it’s giving me a little bit of extra confidence I’m still petrified at the thought of unveiling my body. It has been a long, long time. Too long, I realize now as Joel’s lips brush my neck gently. I have been living like some kind of spinster for the past two years.
Joel lifts me up so I am straddling his lap, and he kisses my neck. I hold my breath as he stands, lifting us both off the bed and pulls me up to a standing position so I’m leaning right against his body. He moves his hands across my shoulders and cups my face as he kisses me along my jaw and round the back of my neck until he is standing behind me. I can feel the length of his body pressed against mine and I throw my head back so it is resting on the nape of his neck. I gasp as his tongue flickers like hot, hungry flames caressing my ears and throat. He murmurs my name as he unzips my red dress and slowly slides it down my body, kissing my skin as it is exposed, before letting the dress drop to the floor. I step out of it and close my eyes as he turns me round to face him, trying to make myself invisible as he takes in my semi-naked body.
‘You’re delectable,’ he murmurs. ‘How on earth did I find you?’ I smile and step towards him, tugging at his jumper as he lifts up his arms and I pull it over his body. His torso is smooth, tanned and ripped. He has pecs and a six pack. I have never seen a body like this. I actually don’t believe they make men’s bodies like this in England. At least, none that I’ve seen. I am trying my best not to gawp like some sort of desperate virgin. Which to be honest, I almost am.
