Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  ‘My apologiesk,’ she says gruffly.

  I smile at her and shake my head. ‘It’s fine, you’re angry. I would be too. Your colleagues deserved more than that and so do you. I know how hard you have to work, even with a full team. I see it, even if no one else does.’ I glance at them all, at their downcast, despondent faces. ‘Listen,’ I say as a thought occurs to me. I kick myself for not thinking of it before. ‘I’ve arranged to go for some drinks tonight with some people from the store . . .’ Justyna looks ready to spit at me so I finish quickly, ‘None of them works on the shop floor. There’s Lily from the tearoom – she’s just fabulous – then there’s Felix who you probably know from Security,’ Jan nods vigorously, ‘and a friend of mine, a delivery guy called Sam. We’re going to a pub tonight. Would you all like to come? It would be so nice for us all to have a chat out of work hours. And I think you’d really like everyone.’

  Jan beams at me. ‘Thanksk you, Evie-English-Wife, that would be very good. We shall all come, no?’

  I swear I hear Justyna growl but just then Velna sings something unrecognisable, before spinning on one foot, doing a clap, then finishing with some jazz hands. We are all looking puzzled when she announces, ‘It was the winning entry for my country, Latvia. In 2002? ‘I Wanna’ Yes?’ Justyna rolls her eyes and turns on the industrial vacuum cleaner, and we all laugh as Velna proceeds to shout-sing the rest of the song as Justyna cleans around her.

  The stockroom feels dark and lonely after the last couple of hours I spent busily transforming Jane’s department whilst singing British Eurovision songs with Velna, whom Jan had assigned to clean my floor. And she was delighted that I knew so many. I’d even been able to teach her a pointy-hand dance move to Michael Ball’s 1992 entry, ‘One Step Out of Time’, which I somehow knew all the words to. Unfortunately this meant I have spent the last half-hour listening to her singing it over and over again.

  Luckily as soon as I flick the lights on there is a knock at the back door.

  I fling open the door and Sam grins sleepily at me. He looks even more tousled and crumpled than ever this morning. He’s wearing an old, navy duffel coat with the hood flung over his head. His eyes are red-rimmed with tiredness and he still has sleep creases on his freckled cheeks. He waves a bulging Starbucks bag at me and goes and collapses on the sofa.

  ‘Blimey,’ I say, feeling my throat tighten. He must have had a late night. Probably with Ella. ‘Someone has been burning the candle at both ends. Coffee?’

  He nods at the bag. ‘I brought us some gingerbread lattes, fruit toast and – just to get into the Christmas spirit – some mince pies,’ he smiles. ‘I thought we could have a breakfast picnic!’ He lifts his rucksack onto his knee, opens it and pulls out a rug, which he lays on the floor. Then he gets out two plates, some cutlery, and lays out the food on the plates and places the takeaway coffee on the rug in front of the sofa. Out of the bag also comes some plastic cups and a bottle of fresh orange juice. Then he scrambles off the couch, sits cross-legged on the rug and beckons me to join him. He pours some juice and as he’s looking down and concentrating I notice his eyelashes sweep heavily over the generous curve of his cheeks. He butters our toast, adds a thick layer of jam and then takes a long sip of coffee.

  ‘Christ, I need caffeine this morning,’ he groans, smiling at me as he stifles a yawn, but then gives into it completely, accompanying it with a full stretch with his arms flung up over his head, which reveals a tiny patch of a pale but surprisingly taut stomach, his belly button (an innie) and a little thatch of hair crisscrossing its way down past the brown buckle of his belt. He looks adorable, like a 5-year-old in adult’s clothing.

  ‘Why are you so tired?’ I ask, kneeling down on the rug next to him.

  He rubs his eyes, then looks at me. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’

  ‘You’re a male gigolo and have been working nights all week?’ I say teasingly, taking a bite of fruit toast.

  He laughs. ‘Close.’

  I choke a little on my mouthful. ‘What? But I was kidding! Which bit? The gigolo?’

  ‘No, you fool.’ Sam taps me playfully on the arm. ‘The working nights bit. You know how I’ve always wanted to be a photographer? I’ve started assisting this really cool guy who does editorial stuff. I’ve helped him on a couple of night shoots, which is fantastic. But it also means I’ve had no sleep.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, Sam!’ I say putting down my toast and wrapping my arms around my body to warm it; it’s a little draughty sitting on the stockroom floor. Sam leans over and pulls a corner of the rug over my legs and I smile in thanks. ‘But you never said you were planning to do something like this?’

  He shrugs bashfully and his thick-knit cream cardigan, which is zipped up to his neck, tickles the curly hair at his nape. ‘I didn’t think I was until I did it. I mean, I didn’t expect anyone to give me a chance. I don’t have any training. Just because I like messing around with a camera doesn’t mean it’s necessarily a realistic career aspiration.’

  ‘So what changed your mind?’

  ‘You did,’ he smiles, rolling his red cup between his hands to warm them.

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘It was when you got that promotion . . .’

  ‘Didn’t get, you mean,’ I interrupt.

  Sam looks at me sympathetically. ‘But when we thought you had, it made me realize that you’re here because you’re working towards something. You love this place and want to work in this industry, even if you don’t want to be in the stockroom forever. This job might not be your dream, but at least you’re on your way. Whereas I’m stuck doing deliveries at my dad’s company because . . . well, let’s just say you made me realize that it was about time I took control of my life. I may not get anywhere with this whole photography lark, but at least I’ll have tried.’

  ‘So how did you start working with this guy?’ I ask, intrigued by Sam’s secret career.

  ‘After you told me you were leaving the other day, I wrote down the names of a load of photographers whose work I admire, googled them and phoned them up and asked if they would meet me. I caught this one guy on a good day; his assistant had just moved to New York and he said to come along and meet him. We got on well and he asked me to come to one of his shoots. I’ve been working with him for the past three nights and he’s asked me to help out next week too. There’s no money in it yet, so I’ll have to keep doing deliveries for a while. But I’ve learned so much already, it’s amazing! I know for sure this is what I want to do and it’s all thanks to you.’

  Sam is sitting up now and his eyes are gleaming. I wish I could share his excitement. But I just feel even more of a loser. The promotion-I-never-got inspired Sam to change his life, when it was meant to change mine. How ironic.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says, his face falling when he notices my glum expression. ‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’

  ‘Of COURSE I am,’ I say, chastising myself mentally for letting my emotions show and being so selfish. ‘I think what you’ve done is brilliant. I just can’t help feeling sad that one day soon there’ll be someone new delivering Hardy’s stock, and I’ll still be here, unpacking boxes . . .’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he says, throwing an arm around me and giving me a squeeze. ‘That’s just not true! Someone soon is going to see how talented you are. You’re wasted in this stockroom. I’ve seen your drawings, you know . . .’ he adds slyly.

  ‘You have?’ I say, looking at him with shock. ‘How?’

  ‘Because you throw like a girl,’ he laughs. I hit him and he yelps. ‘But you sure don’t hit like one.’ He rubs his arm and I wait for him to explain himself. ‘I keep having to clear away these screwed-up balls of paper before I can put my boxes down. They’ve been all over the place recently and I’m not afraid to say I’ve unrolled a few of them and seen amazing sketches of floor layouts and displays.’

  I blush and look away, and he bends down to my eye level and turns my face round to his.

/>   ‘They’re good, Evie. You should seriously show them to someone. Your ideas for the Christmas windows are really inspired.’

  Now it’s my turn to be bashful. ‘They’re just scribbles,’ I say modestly, taking a bit out of a deliciously crumbly mince pie and washing it down with some coffee.

  ‘Well, if they’re scribbles, I’d love to see the finished drawings,’ he laughs. ‘Honestly, Evie, you just seem to be able to capture the real essence of this place. I love the one of the shoe tree. I can see more life in your drawings than there’s ever been in this store.’

  ‘Well,’ I admit quietly, ‘actually I’ve been bringing them to life in the store recently.’

  Sam looks at me quizzically. ‘Tell me more,’ he says, folding his arms and leaning back against the sofa.

  I tell him about how I overheard Rupert saying Hardy’s was in danger of closing and that, before then, various members of staff would be laid off. Then I tell him how I’ve been coming in early every morning and making over Hardy’s department by department.

  Sam whistles. ‘You are full of surprises, you know that, Evie Taylor?’ he says, and I laugh. ‘So why don’t you tell Rupert what you’re doing?’

  ‘He doesn’t even know my name. Why would he believe me?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ shrugs Sam. ‘You’ll never know unless you try.’

  ‘Maybe not everyone is as brave as you,’ I say, brushing some rogue crumbs off my lap. ‘Besides, if he knew who it really is he might lay off those other members of staff and I can’t risk that happening. Anyway, it suits me this way. I don’t want attention and I’ve realized that I’m too scared to do anything else other than work in this stockroom.’ I stop flicking crumbs and look up at him. ‘Whereas you, you’ve gone for what you really want and have grabbed your dream with both hands.’

  ‘Not quite, I haven’t,’ Sam says, half under his breath.

  I raise my eyebrows but he doesn’t elaborate. ‘Anyway,’ I say, wanting to shift the conversation back onto him, ‘I’m really impressed by what you’ve done Sam, truly.’ I pause then add, ‘Ella must be too.’

  ‘Ella?’ Sam shrugs and takes a bite of a mince pie. ‘Yes, I guess so. She’s not said anything, though. It’s not the sort of thing we talk about. Besides, she’s happy with me doing deliveries – at least it brings in the money.’

  I wonder how any girlfriend could want her partner to stay a delivery guy forever if he’s not happy. Whatever happened to supporting each other’s dreams? Then I think of Jamie, and remember that it didn’t get me anywhere. Perhaps she has got the right idea after all. Besides, it’s none of my business.

  ‘So,’ I say brightly, ‘now tonight can be a celebration of your new career instead of mine!’

  ‘Tonight?’ Sam says, a perplexed expression on his face.

  ‘Our night out?’ I say, clocking Sam’s blank expression. ‘Oh ho, now I get it,’ I add playfully, ‘a stockroom girl not good enough for you now you’re going to be a famous photographer.’

  ‘No! Don’t be silly,’ Sam says quickly. ‘I just didn’t realize . . . you didn’t specify a day . . .’

  ‘I didn’t? Shit! Sorry, Sam!’ I shake my head at my idiocy. I’m so wrapped up in these makeovers lately I seem to be forgetting everything else. ‘Is tonight any good for you?’ I ask hopefully, whilst thinking, please say yes, please say yes.

  He nods and smiles. ‘I don’t have a shoot tonight . . .’

  ‘Ooh, get you,’ I tease and mimic him playfully. ‘“I don’t have a shoot tonight.”’

  ‘Hey, stop that,’ he smiles as he stretches and yawns. ‘I’m too tired for sarcasm right now, but I’m planning on having an afternoon nap after my last delivery so you’d better watch out later.’ He smiles at me so little dimples appear in his cheeks. ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘The Lamb in Lambs Conduit Street, Bloomsbury. Eight o’clock.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ he says, then we both make a dive for the last mince pie.

  ‘Got it!’ he says, laughing and brandishing it jubilantly over his head.

  I scramble over to him and clamber on his lap, reaching up to grab it from him, which I manage to do, but he tickles me and I collapse on the floor giggling as he tries to get it back. Laughing, I stuff it greedily into my mouth, half of it crumbling back out. He hovers over me for a moment, but then sits back on his haunches and puts his hands up in an admission of defeat. ‘You win. I should know to never come between a girl and a snack.’ He pulls me to my feet. ‘Now, I reckon it’s about time I got that delivery in.’

  The morning passes in a blur as staff buzz in and out of the stockroom with armfuls of stock to replenish their shelves, as well as grabbing orders on their way. I can’t keep up with the endless orders on the printer and I’m actually starting to think that I may need an assistant. Perhaps I’ll speak to Sharon about it. I could suggest that we hire one of the cleaners who got laid off this morning. Although I can just imagine what she’ll say: ‘An assistant? To do your job for you? I don’t think so.’

  Jane pops in and grabs an armful of satin slips, lace garters and all-in-ones, and then shoots out again. She is totally working her new look, sashaying around like she was born to be a beacon for women with an hourglass-and-a-half figure. It’s fab. She even brings in her husband at lunchtime who just looks at me long enough to splutter, ‘Thank you,’ before Jane drags him back out. By his belt.

  I pop my head out of the stockroom several times during the morning to marvel at the change that is occurring within Hardy’s. Word of mouth, and my little additions to the window displays, mean that customers are weaving through the store, chattering gaily with the staff and to each other, picking up various items from the shelves or simply browsing amongst the different departments. The atmosphere is lighter, the shop floor brighter, even the staff are happier. I keep seeing clusters of them huddled together, brainstorming ways to make their departments better. Those people whose departments haven’t yet changed are happily pitching in with their colleagues, helping to replenish shelves, or serving customers.

  If a building could sigh with happiness, I think that’s what Hardy’s would be doing right now. Which makes knowing what I do about its future even harder.

  Because even though I am excited by the surge in custom I know that to save Hardy’s we’ll have to sell thousands of trilbies and bottles of perfume. A few more people stopping to browse and purchase goods from us aren’t going to be enough. Hardy’s doesn’t need just to double, or triple its takings this month, it needs its takings to rise by at least 500 per cent. And Rupert made it quite clear that if we can’t do this then the store has no hope of survival.

  I close the stockroom door, the noise and bustle of the store dissipates and I’m left with silence. Now I’ve seen what Hardy’s can become, I’m even more determined to do something to make a difference, especially as I can see how important it is to the rest of the staff.

  As Hardy’s is metamorphosing, so are they. And, more than anything, I’ve realized that my colleagues don’t just rely on this place for their salaries; it goes much deeper than that. Their friends, their confidence, their self-worth all live under this roof. The truth is they need this place as much as I do.

  There must be something more I can do, something I’m just not seeing? I look around my stockroom, desperately searching for answers. People love department stores at Christmas, so what is it about Hardy’s that sets us apart from the rest? I can’t help but think of the sad, soulless Oxford Street Christmas lights I looked at earlier in the week, and the futuristic store windows that people were flocking around, and wonder, not for the first time, where the true spirit of Christmas has gone.

  What will bring the customers flooding back through the doors of Hardy’s like they did in the old days?

  ‘The Old Days!’ I exclaim, and clap my hands as my brain zips through my internal map of the stockroom. I dive right down aisle number seven and skid onto my knees at the far corner w
here I pull out an old, battered box that is weak with age and covered with dust. I trail my finger down it and leave a long track like a sled in the snow.

  It is one of the two dozen or so boxes of vintage Christmas decorations I discovered when I first started working here. My hands are shaking as they tug at the box and I’m suddenly bombarded with images and ideas of what Christmas is and should be. I think of the colours: gloriously merry reds, lush greens, biscuit browns and, of course, white, powdery snow. I think of the sights and smells of Christmas, cinnamon and spices, gingerbread, eggnog, mulled wine and pine needles crunching underfoot. I think of the bare trees in Primrose Hill, covered with a light frosting of snow, I think of snowglobes, and Joel and I ice-skating at Somerset House and how festive and traditional it felt. I think of all the old Christmas movies I’ve loved since I was a child, and which always made me want to go to New York and wander down Fifth Avenue, gazing in windows as I took my beautifully wrapped gifts for my loved ones at home. I think of the Christmas cookies my mum makes every year, and the building of the German gingerbread house, which became an annual tradition in my family and which Jonah, Noah and I fought over when we were kids because they had always eaten the perfect little sugared windows and doors and accessories by the time we went to construct it. And then Mum and I would make our own home-made frosted icing replacements that somehow made the whole thing even more authentic. Then I think of Christmas and what it means: family, love, dreams and magic and, most importantly, childhood.

  I gaze back down at the box in front of me and I suddenly remember how I wondered all those months ago when I first discovered them how anyone could possibly forget about such incredibly beautiful and nostalgic things; but forget they had and – shamefully – so had I.

  I open the box carefully, coughing and covering my mouth as a cloud of dust fills my nostrils, and gasp as I pull out some vintage Pifco fairy lights from the 1950s. The box itself is bright red and blue and has a picture of a little boy and a little girl gazing in wonderment at the pretty Chinese lantern-style lights hanging above their heads. I put them to one side and look back inside. There are endless tangled strings of fairy lights, some clearly from the 1980s, with gaudy plastic Cinderella carriages covering multicoloured bulbs. I ignore them and pull out a long string of lights in the shape of little candles. And there’s lots more beautiful Christmas tree lights too. Some, like these, have clearly been used in the store’s own displays; others, still in their boxes, were obviously leftover stock from the store.