Miracle on Regent Street

by Ali Harris

  I walk down the street, squinting to look at the numbers on each of the doors before coming to a halt in front of number 34. I glance at my watch: eight fifteen. Joel won’t be here for at least another fifteen minutes. He might even be late. Oh God, please don’t be late, I think, staring at Carly’s flat. All the blinds are closed, which is a good sign. Hopefully my calculations were right and she’ll be in bed most of the morning recovering from a big night out.

  I sit on the wall by the front gate and wait, feeling sick with anticipation and nerves, not just because I’m seeing Joel, but because of my deception. I mean, who does this? Who goes to these kinds of lengths to pretend to a guy they’re someone they’re not in order to date them? If anyone had asked me a month ago if this is what I’d be doing then I’d have told them they were mad. But then again, these days I really don’t recognize much about myself.

  I spot Joel approaching round the corner and I jump off the wall and run up to the front door, fiddling with my keys and looking around furtively. He is walking slowly, distinctive white earphones plugged in his ears with the wires leading down to his pockets, which his hands are thrust into, his head bobbing to the tune playing on his iPod, and as I watch him, I suddenly remember why I’m going to all this trouble. I’m doing it because Joel is gorgeous and interesting and funny, and he would never be interested in a girl like me otherwise. This is the only way I can get a taste of what life is like for girls like Carly; beautiful girls with great jobs and their own flat and lots of friends. A life I can only dream of – or at best, pretend to have.

  I am still fumbling with my own house keys, pretending to use them to lock Carly’s front door when, to my horror, the front door swings open and Carly herself appears before me. Her chestnut hair is scraped back into a pony tail, she has a black baseball cap on, and gym clothes and trainers. Understandably she looks somewhat surprised and confused to see me. So much so that she appears to be struggling to work out who the hell I am.

  ‘Who the hell are y . . . ?’ she begins, peering at me from under the shadow of her baseball cap. ‘Sarah?’ she finishes incredulously, looking me up and down. In her defence I guess I do look more dressed up than normal. Today I have chosen a cute 1960s orange dress with contrasting white collar, sleeves and pockets. I curled my hair and pulled it back into a ponytail so it’s really bouncy, and I’m wearing black tights, my black brogues and a cropped black jacket, with a thick white scarf wrapped around my neck. It’s kind of quirky but I’m hoping it says ‘relaxed but stylish Sunday attire, perfect for a day spent sightseeing and snogging a gorgeous American’. Either that or it just says ‘overdressed’.

  I wave and smile slightly desperately. ‘Hiya, Carly! Er, can I come in?’

  ‘Sure. I didn’t recognize you all dressed up like that. Hey,’ she winks, ‘have you been out all night?’

  I glance back over my shoulder and see that Joel is approaching the curve in the road and if he looks up in the next five seconds he’s bound to see me on Carly’s doorstep, talking to her, and then I am going to have some serious explaining to do.

  ‘It’s complicated!’ I squeak, pushing past Carly and into her hallway without being invited. Thankfully she shuts the door behind me quickly.

  ‘Are you OK, Sarah? You seem really out of sorts,’ she says, clasping my arm in concern. ‘What are you doing here anyway? I was just on my way out for a run.’ She laughs somewhat forcefully and holds her forehead. ‘I’ve found it’s, you know, the best way to cure a hangover. I, er, had a really big night out last night too at this great new club on the King’s Road. I was out with all my girlfriends and we had this completely crazy night. You’ll never guess what happened. We, er . . .’ She pauses and bites her thumbnail. ‘Sorry, do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be great!’ I say, edging into lounge and away from the front door.

  I take a moment to glance around. The room has got a blue sofa and an old, stained white armchair covered with a throw. There is a parquet floor with an old, cappuccino-coloured rug on the floor, which I recognize as being from Ikea. In fact, it all looks entirely furnished by Ikea. White church candles and magazines are scattered on the tea-ringed coffee table. There is a single plate with some leftover pasta and a half-empty glass of wine on the table and a TV guide open tellingly at Saturday night’s pages.

  ‘You know,’ Carly calls, poking her head round from the galley kitchen just off the lounge, ‘I didn’t know you knew where I lived.’ She glances at the plate and then back at me. ‘Oh,’ she blusters. ‘That was the dinner I ate before I went out on my crrrazy night last night!’ She comes in and scoops up the plate and the wine glass, then scurries back out again.

  I hear the kettle boiling and water being poured into two cups. I use the opportunity to open the blinds and peer out at the street. Joel has paused in front of Carly’s front gate, his back to the flat, fumbling with his earphones, which he is stuffing into his pockets. He smooths back his hair and turns round, and I quickly close the blind just as Carly comes into the room holding two cups of steaming tea.

  I hear footsteps on the pathway and panic. Joel is about to knock on the door.

  ‘Sugar!’ I shout, thrusting my cup back at her. ‘I need sugar, please!’ Carly looks at me strangely but takes the cup and walks back into the kitchen. She pauses mid-walk as there’s a knock at the door, and turns back to me in the lounge.

  ‘Who can that be? I’m not expecting anyone.’

  ‘Oh, er, it must be the religious nuts I saw earlier when I was waiting for you,’ I say, thinking quickly. ‘They’ve been knocking on doors all down the street. Don’t worry! I’ll get rid of them for you!’

  She disappears into the kitchen and I dive into the hallway and open the front door breathlessly.

  ‘Joel!’ I whisper, and smile at him. He leans forward to kiss me but I push him away with my hand. He looks confused.

  ‘Not here,’ I hiss. ‘Er, the neighbours might see.’ I tap my finger against my nose. ‘They’re nosy, verrrry nosy.’

  ‘R-ight,’ he says, a hint of a smile forming on his lips. ‘Can I come in then?’

  ‘No!’ I say, squeezing the front door shut against my head. ‘I can’t let you in. The place is in a real state and, er, I’m embarrassed! Yep, that’s right. I’m ashamed.’

  ‘You don’t have to be . . .’

  ‘I do! It’s really awful. Listen, give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be right out. I’ll meet you at the little café at the bottom of the road. You can see my place another time.’ And I slam the door in front of Joel before he has a chance to protest. I lean back against it, breathing heavily before dashing back into the lounge just as Carly re-enters with our tea.

  ‘Who was it?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I roll my eyes, ‘just those Bible nuts, like I said. I told them we’re not interested.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarah,’ she says handing me my tea. ‘Now, is everything all ri—’

  I take a sip of tea and glance over my shoulder at the window. ‘Shi-SUGAR!’ I shout again, thrusting my cup back at Carly. ‘I need another sugar!’

  Carly looks at me and shakes her head as if I am mad, but takes the cup and walks back to the kitchen just as Joel passes by the lounge window. This time I follow her into the small galley kitchen. Dirty plates and cups line the surfaces and Carly is trying to stack them quickly into the sink. Her flat isn’t at all like she described. She always made it sound so perfect and stylish; a real haven. But it looks like she and her best friend live in very messy, rented digs. I glance at the old, white fridge that is covered with Post-it notes of scrawled messages like ‘Carly, don’t touch my milk!’, ‘Pay the leccy bill!’ and ‘Anna’s food on the left, do not touch!’ I furrow my brow as I look at them. I thought Carly shared with her best friend. She has always talked about how well they get on. But this Anna girl, whoever she is, doesn’t sound at all like a friend. A friend would share everything, surely? As much as Delilah and I aren’t getti
ng on right now, she would never leave me messages like that. It’s just disrespectful. Then again, maybe I have an unrealistically romantic vision of what flatshares are like. I’ve never had one, after all.

  Or maybe, a voice inside my head says, Carly has painted an unrealistic vision of her flatshare. I am beginning to think, having seen her home, that Carly’s life isn’t as fabulous as she’s made out. I suspect that the pasta, wine and TV guide was her actual Saturday night, not the crazy night out clubbing she was telling me about.

  I glance at her as she stirs my tea, wondering if Carly hasn’t been 100 per cent honest with me either.

  Half an hour later I manage to escape Carly’s flat. She didn’t seem to want me to leave. She started interrogating me about what had caused me to end up at her flat early on a Sunday morning. I just invented some work crisis, which meant she quickly lost interest and moved on to telling me all about her fabulous weekend, and what she is planning to do for Christmas. But right now I wouldn’t be surprised if Carly is actually going to be home alone for most of it. Her perfect life just doesn’t ring true any more.

  I push open the café door and immediately spot Joel, sitting in the middle of the room, nursing a coffee and reading the Sunday papers.

  ‘Joel,’ I say, standing in front of him. He doesn’t look up. I pull out a chair and sit down. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I’m a bit OCD when it comes to tidiness; my sister calls me OCD-Evie, actually,’ I babble and Joel frowns.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why does she call you OCD-Evie? That’s not your name,’ Joel points out.

  My heart actually properly stops beating for a moment and I think I might just throw up.

  ‘Oh, pff,’ I say, waving my hand dismissively, ‘you know, it’s just a stupid pet name. She thinks it’s funny. Obviously, it’s not. Sisters, eh, who’d have ’em?’

  Joel smiles weakly and takes a sip of his espresso.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he asks politely, all intimacy gone between us.

  I gulp, thinking about the fact that Carly may soon leave her flat to go to the gym and I stand up again. ‘No, thanks,’ I say with a big, fake smile. ‘Shall we just go? I’ve had a good idea for what we can do today.’

  I walk towards the door eagerly and open it, glancing out covertly first to check that Carly isn’t jogging down the street.

  Joel looks up at me, frowns and shrugs as he drains the rest of his coffee.

  ‘OK, you’re the boss,’ he says, and he throws some money on the table and walks past me, his hands plunged into his pockets, eyes averted.

  You could literally drive a bus between us, I think as we wait at the bus stop for the double-decker that will take us to Waterloo. Joel is standing two feet away from me, staring ahead, his hands still in his pockets as if to ensure that they don’t roam anywhere near mine. I don’t blame him, though. For one thing, it is very cold, and for the other I’ve been acting so strangely this morning I’m clearly going to have to work really hard to build up his trust again. He hasn’t accepted my excuses in the same way that Carly did. It’s as if he knows me better than that.

  We hop on the bus and Joel takes the seat in front of me.

  ‘So where are we going then?’ he says, turning round to face me without much enthusiasm. I swallow, desperate to win back his affection. I hate him being so distant from me. Not when we’ve shared so much already.

  ‘Um, well, I thought you probably haven’t had a chance to see much of London and I figured there was one brilliant way to do it. Especially on a day like today.’ I glance out of the window just as a burst of bright sunshine beams through. I delve into my handbag and pull out two tickets and present them shyly. ‘We’re going on the London Eye!’

  His face breaks into a welcome smile and he takes the tickets and looks at them.

  ‘For real? I’ve wanted to do that since I got here!’

  I exhale in relief. ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ I say, beaming back at him. ‘I thought maybe you’d done the whole tourist thing here already. After all, you are American,’ I add playfully, slightly nervous about teasing him when he is clearly so confused by my behaviour. There is a moment of silence and I wonder if my gamble has backfired.

  ‘Will I be able to see Li-che-ster Square?’ Joel drawls loudly, deliberately using the wrong pronunciation so that the other passengers on the bus overhear him and roll their eyes. ‘What about Buckingham Palace?’ he adds. Then his eyes crinkle and he laughs loudly. I join him, mostly out of relief that the Joel I know and, well, like a lot, is back with me. For now.

  The queue for the London Eye is long, winding back and forth along the Southbank. The traditional German-style Christmas market is just opening; there are little log cabins dotted along the river’s edge, selling all sorts of festive goodies, including hot cider. After the morning I’ve had, I’m tempted to buy one, but acknowledge it’s a little early. We grab a couple of lattes instead and join the end of the queue, chatting animatedly about our week. Joel seems to have thawed considerably and is back to his friendly self, but he has still made no effort to kiss me or even hold my hand. I try not to worry as I stand next to him and focus on being myself.

  Joel takes a sip of his coffee and wraps his other arm around his body. It is bitterly cold and the only thing saving us from frostbite is the bright sunshine. I’m sure we’d both be warmer if we were snuggled closer together, but clearly I’ve messed up that oppor tunity for today. And Joel looks so cosy, too. He always looks great in his suits (not to mention out of them) but I’m really loving his off-duty casual look: soft, cashmere jumper and big, navy military-style coat thrown over the top. There is a shadow of stubble over his chin, and his lips and his cheeks are flushed with the cold. He’s wearing dark jeans with big leather boots and a red and brown scarf looped around his neck. He’s even wearing a cute red skater-style beanie hat pulled over his ears. It would look ridiculous on anyone else other than him. Or Sam, come to think of it.

  ‘So how’s business at Hardy’s?’ he enquires, folding his arms and leaning towards me intently. I love the interest he always shows in my job. For so many years I was working at crappy jobs, following Jamie around whilst he pursued his career as a chef, that I could never imagine what it’d be like to do something that people were actually interested in. And since I’ve been working at Hardy’s no one has been impressed by my stockroom status. Quite understandably, really. But Joel? He loves to hear all about Hardy’s and seems genuinely interested in what’s happening at the store.

  I tell him about the makeovers and he nods thoughtfully.

  ‘It does seem to be making a difference, doesn’t it?’ he replies, staring into the distance. ‘And no one knows who’s doing it?’ I shake my head. He leans in a little closer to me so his lips are deliciously close to mine and for a moment, I honestly think I might faint. ‘Not even you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I reply defensively.

  He laughs and puts his arm round me and draws me in to him. He smells of cinnamon and musk and, God, just of man, really. I glance at his hand, which is squeezing my arm. His fingernails are filed to perfection and seem to shimmer with health, and I fleetingly wonder if he has regular manicures. It wouldn’t surprise me. He puts his head on my neck so that his mouth is right by my ear and I pray that my knicker elastic is strong enough not to ping right off and my knickers fall on the floor there and then.

  ‘Sometimes you’re too modest. Everyone thinks it’s you. Rupert always talks about how good you are at your job.’

  ‘He does?’ I’m overcome with pleasure, then realize that Joel is talking about Carly. ‘What does he say?’ I ask, slightly less enthusiastically.

  ‘Just how visionary you are, and that he loves your ideas for the future of Hardy’s. He thinks you’re a great personal shopper, obviously, but that you have great management potential too and he’s convinced that together you and he can turn the store’s fortunes around.’

>   ‘Wow,’ I say, thinking that Rupert couldn’t be more wrong. Carly’s vision is entirely misplaced and none of the staff is responding well to her so called ‘management skills’. ‘That’s nice. How do you know Rupert, again?’

  ‘Oh, we go way back,’ Joel says. ‘We did our MBAs at Harvard Business School together.’

  ‘Clever and cute,’ I say without thinking.

  ‘Me or Rupert?’ grins Joel.

  ‘Oh God, not Rupert,’ I say a little too vehemently. ‘Shit, that didn’t come out right. I mean . . .’

  Joel laughs. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to explain. Rupert’s a good guy. And so passionate about his family business. That was part of the reason we hit it off. We each have a family legacy we wanted to save.’

  ‘How is Parker’s doing?’ I ask, realizing that I haven’t asked Joel much about his own store.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he sighs. ‘Pretty goddamn awful, given that it’s meant to be the busiest shopping month of the year. It’s like the whole town has forgotten that we exist. And now they’re building this big new shopping mall, which is sure to be the final nail in Parker’s coffin. I just wish I knew what to do. Parker’s could do with a makeover like Hardy’s.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’ I say.

  Joel furrows his brow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Giving the place a makeover. It seems to be working for Hardy’s, why couldn’t it work for Parker’s, too?’

  Joel looks uncertain. ‘It’s just not my area of expertise,’ he says, shaking his head defeatedly. ‘I’m a money man through and through. I can balance books, look at costs, do business plans and think of financial ways to improve the store, but the whole aesthetic thing? I’m just not good at that.’

  ‘So find someone who is,’ I shrug. ‘Or at the very least take some inspiration from Hardy’s. You said that it reminds you a lot of Parker’s, right?’

  Joel nods. ‘Yeah, I mean, obviously we don’t have the whole traditional British thing going on and we haven’t been around for quite as long as Hardy’s has, but it’s an old-fashioned family store in a gorgeous old building and in a prime location . . .’