Me and Mr Carrington: A Short Story

by Brown, Alexandra

  After surreptitiously sliding my mobile from my trouser pocket, (we’re not really supposed to have phones on us, but everyone does and as long as we’re sensible and keep them on silent mode, then nobody knows) I read the email.

  Hi Georgie,

  I’m looking forward to picking up from where we left off too.

  Tom x

  Ps – does that mean I get to kiss you all over next time after I’ve tickled you into submission??

  Mmm. Flirty. And I like it. A lot.

  I let out a long breath before smoothing down my hair and straightening my top – one of our regular customers could appear at any moment to catch me red-cheeked, and that really wouldn’t do. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on purely for the customers’ retail shopping pleasure where everything else can be left behind the scenes. It’s all an illusion. When a customer enters Carrington’s, the store with more, as our strapline says, they want it to be about them, not the flirty goings-on of the sales assistant.

  I sneak one last quick peek at the email before slotting my phone back inside my pocket.

  ‘Hey, what are you grinning like a looper for?’ It’s Annie, my assistant, and she’s scrutinising me from behind the biggest pair of sunshine yellow geek glasses I think I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Nice frames,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t try to change the subject.’ Annie flicks her frosted hair extensions back over her shoulder. ‘Something’s going on,’ she pauses to ponder, crinkling her forehead and placing her index finger on her lip. ‘You’ve had sex!’ she bellows.

  ‘Shuuuuush,’ I mouth, swiftly dragging her behind the Marc Jacobs display, and narrowly avoiding regular customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, who never actually buy anything, they just like to come in store for a chat and share pictures of their grandchildren who live in California. But still, I don’t want them overhearing Annie – she can be very loud and animated when she gets going. Plus, I’m not sure I want the rest of the staff knowing about Tom and me just yet. And the last thing I want is him thinking I can’t be discrete. Trusted. He may want to keep things under wraps for now. He is the boss after all.

  ‘It’s Mr Carrington, isn’t it? Oh my God … It is, isn’t it!’ Annie practically screams, before slapping her hand over her mouth. ‘You are one very lucky lady. Fuuuck … what I wouldn’t do to grab hold of him.’ She smiles and shakes her head in disbelief.

  ‘Whisper-voice, Annie, someone might hear you, and no, I haven’t had sex,’ I tell her, before scanning the floor.

  ‘But why not? He’s totes gorge,’ she adds, lowering her voice now.

  Annie makes big eyes and waits for me to respond.

  ‘Err …’ I start, wondering how on earth she even knows about me and Tom, when the only Carrington’s staff in the loop are my best friends, Sam and Eddie, and I trust them both. Eddie might be the biggest drama queen going, but he’s completely reliable and Sam, well, she’s the kindest, most loyal friend ever, we’re practically sisters and we’ve known each other ages – since we started school together at five years old.

  ‘Oh, it’s OK. Everyone knows … Well, not everyone everyone.’ She shakes her head and grabs my hand reassuringly. ‘Only me and Betty, that mumsy switchboard supervisor. And Mrs Grace I think, but not the customers or anything.’ Oh that’s good. Betty is the biggest gossip going, and Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee will certainly have something to say about it. She’s a stalwart for tradition and upholding the ‘proper way to behave’; she really won’t approve of Mr Carrington carrying on with me – I can see her now, clutching her granny bag and wagging her bony finger, warning me not to dally with the likes of them upstairs on the executive floor. She’s old-fashioned and a bit of a ‘them and us’ and ‘it’s alright for them’ type.

  ‘Whaaaat?’ But how?’ I ask.

  Annie leans in to me, her eyes darting from side-to-side as if she’s a spy on a special top-secret espionage mission.

  ‘I only found out because Betty was here on the floor a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh?’ I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘That’s right. She took delivery of a massive bouquet for you … from Mr Carrington!’ Annie is beside herself now and lets out an actual squeal before clapping her hands together. ‘This is SO romantic, just like a film,’ she gushes, echoing Eddie’s sentiment from earlier and my heart lifts. Flowers. Tom sent flowers. ‘Georgie, this is real babe. You’ve landed a millionaire. A bloody buff one too – not one of those geriatric Ronseal-tanned ones that own pole-dancing clubs and want you to call them daddy.’ She flings her hands on her hips and stares me straight in the eye. My mind boggles wondering how she knows such things.

  ‘And where are the flowers?’ I ask, grinning as I peep inside the alcove in anticipation.

  ‘In the stock room. I took them from Betty, and then legged it down there to ask Mrs Grace to keep hold of them for you. Betty was going to leave them in the staff room, but you know how everyone gossips, the whole store would know they were yours within two seconds of them landing in the sink. That’s how Mrs Grace found out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.

  ‘No worries. I’m so happy for you. I’d love to find me a millionaire, get whisked away to his castle or whatever – and God knows I need the rest. I love the kids to bits but they drive me mental.’ Annie is a Traveller and the first girl in her family to ever have a paid job, but when she isn’t working at Carrington’s she ends up looking after her numerous brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews all day long. ‘Look, it’s really quiet today, sooo …’ Annie gestures across the floor, and she’s right, there’s a woman with a double buggy admiring an oversized black Belstaff tote in the long mirror. The mirror I had installed because every decent sales assistant knows those who try it buy it. Hmm, on second thoughts, scrap that, it seems it’s not love at first sight in this instance – the woman dumps the bag back on the shelf and wheels the buggy away. ‘If you want to bomb downstairs and take a peek, they are truly beautiful. Expensive-looking too. I can hold the fort and if anyone wonders where you are, I’ll just say you’ve gone for more stock.’ She nudges me conspiratorially.

  ‘Thanks doll.’ I give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and feeling full of happiness I race off towards the staff lift, fling back the cage door and bounce inside with a massive smile on my face. And wanting to cherish the moment, I instantly push away the obvious question that could tarnish it just like that … How on earth did Betty know the flowers were from Tom?

  Chapter Three

  When I open the door to the stock room down in the basement, Mrs Grace is busy unpacking a box of silk scarves.

  ‘Ooh, hello lovey, I wondered when you’d pop down. Come and have a look …’ she says, patting her big Aunt Bessie bun with one hand while holding out the other. Taking my hand, she leads me down to the back of the long narrow room, lined on either side with rails of clothes in cellophane covers, where there’s a little kitchenette area, a couple of armchairs covered in cotton dust sheets and a coffee table with an impressive-looking china tea set complete with sugar bowl and milk jug. ‘Seconds from Homeware,’ she states, when I pick up one of the delicate rose-patterned cups with fine gold detailing. ‘And such a pity. But we can’t sell faulty chinaware, not when it’s vintage Royal Albert,’ she adds, knowingly. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘Um.’ I hesitate, wondering if Annie will mind. I place the cup back on the table.

  ‘Call it an early tea-break,’ she instructs.

  ‘Sure, go on then,’ I smile, knowing it can’t be easy for Mrs Grace being stuck down here on her own all day long. She used to run Women’s Accessories and taught me everything I know about selling handbags. That was before she retired, only to have to return on a part-time basis to look after the stock room, because her husband, Stan, had spent all their savings. I glance at my watch and then at the staff phone hanging on the wall by the door. I’m pretty certain Annie will call down
if she needs me in the unlikely event of a sudden stampede of customers all wanting high-end handbags at the exact same moment.

  ‘Lovely. I’ll put the kettle on,’ she beams, bustling towards the sink while I sit in one of the armchairs and brace myself for a lecture on fraternising with ‘them upstairs’. I look around, wondering where the flowers are. Mrs Grace seems to read my mind.

  ‘In the cupboard.’ She flicks the kettle on and pulls open the doors of the unit under the sink. ‘Ta-da.’

  Mrs Grace claps her hands together with glee, and I gasp. The cupboard is bursting full of plump peach peonies mingled with cream-coloured roses, hand tied in a crystal vase with an enormous silver ribbon. Dotted in between the flowers are twinkling diamanté studs on long wire stems.

  ‘Wow!’ I jump up to lift the vase from the cupboard and place it on the coffee table, drawing in the divine scent. The flowers are truly exquisite. ‘But why the cupboard?’

  ‘Best place for them. It’s the dark you see, keeps them fresh. Sunlight is a killer for cut flowers. Aren’t they lovely? And expensive too.’ I nod and smile. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. This also came with the bouquet.’ Mrs Grace takes her granny bag from the worktop and snaps it open. ‘Betty said I was to make sure you knew it arrived like this. Didn’t want you thinking she had taken a sneaky peek.’ She hands me a small gift card from her bag and I instantly feel ashamed for suspecting Betty.

  Georgie,

  Thinking of you.

  Tom, aka Mr Carrington to you! x

  God he’s gorge, in a proper gentlemanly way. I don’t think any man has ever sent me flowers just because they were ‘thinking of me’. My smile widens and my heart lifts as I slip the card into my pocket. And Tom quite clearly isn’t bothered by the other staff knowing about us as there’s no way he’d send flowers to me at work, and with such an obvious card and no envelope. He even remembered our joke by the pool that day, and I think this makes me love him, L-U-V or whatever, just a teeny bit more.

  ‘The card was bouncing around on one of those wire stems, bold as brass, so I put it in here for safekeeping and away from prying eyes.’ Mrs Grace pats her bag before plonking it in an armchair. ‘None of their business if you’re carrying on with the boss.’ She purses her lips. Uh-oh, here we go. Lecture time. But it doesn’t come. Instead, she drops a teabag into each cup. ‘My Stan could learn a thing or two from your Mr Carrington. Those flowers definitely didn’t come from that new Asda superstore down on the industrial estate.’

  ‘He’s not actually my—’

  ‘Well, then hurry up and make him so,’ she says, wagging a bony index finger at me. This is a surprise. ‘Men like him don’t come along every day. Trust me, I know. If I had my time over again …’ her voice trails off as the kettle boils and she busies herself with making the tea. ‘Don’t get me wrong, my Stan will do, but I really wish he wouldn’t spend so much time and money on those filthy birds.’ I nod politely. ‘One of the so-called homing pigeons flew away last week and never came back, and you’d think his whole world had collapsed, the fuss Stan made. Wouldn’t even eat his chip shop dinner, and everyone how much he loves a chip shop dinner.’ She purses her lips and stirs more vigorously, making the spoon clatter against the inside of the cup and the tea swirl around like a mini whirlpool. ‘Sugar?’ she stops stirring.

  ‘No thank you.’ I shake my head and she hands me a cup on a saucer. I take a sip.

  ‘Fairy cake, lovey?’ Mrs Grace pulls the lid off a Kate and Wills royal wedding-embossed cake tin and offers the contents to me. ‘They’re from Sam’s café. Leftovers from yesterday, but still perfectly fresh to eat.’

  ‘Ooh, yes please,’ I say, knowing how delish Sam’s cupcakes are – she left strict instructions for her staff to make them to her exact same recipe while she was on honeymoon, and by the looks of these creamy-peaked beauties they’ve done a brilliant job. I place my teacup on the coffee table before taking a cake and carefully peeling off the case. Mm-mmm, even better, red velvet, my absolute favourite.

  ‘Here.’ Mrs Grace offers me a napkin, which I gratefully take too, because no matter how careful you are, it’s officially impossible to not get smothered when diving into a red velvet with buttercream icing.

  ‘Delicious!’ I lick the tips of my fingers having devoured the cake in approximately one minute flat. Truly scrumptious.

  ‘Take one for Annie, if you like?’

  ‘Ooh, I’m sure she’d appreciate that. Thank you.’

  Mrs Grace wraps a cupcake in a napkin and goes to hand it to me and then stops, her hand in mid-air.

  ‘I nearly forgot.’ She puts the cake in my hand and turns to the box of scarves. After rummaging around for a bit, she says, ‘Ah, here it is.’ She looks very pleased with herself. ‘Waste not, want not. You might aswell take this too.’ It’s a silk scarf. ‘It has a slight flaw in the pattern so we can’t sell it, but I’ve squared it with them upstairs and bought it for a steal,’ she explains. I hesitate. ‘Go on dear. It’s yours.’ She winks.

  ‘Thanks, but why don’t you keep it, it’s much more your thing,’ I smile diplomatically. It’s an old lady-style scarf with galloping horses on and really not my style.

  ‘Nonsense. You could wear it when you go out with Mr Carrington. Very classy. You’ll want to look your best.’ Stroking the silky fabric, she eyes me eagerly.

  ‘Well, if you put it like that …’ I soften, not wanting to offend her, and figuring I can just stow it under my counter or something in any case. I don’t have to actually wear it, and she looks so pleased – like she’s really getting into the romance of it all.

  ‘Good girl. Let me show you how to tie it.’ Mrs Grace deftly flips my hair aside and sweeps the scarf around my neck, tying it in a jaunty side knot. ‘Ooh, very Parisian chic. Mr Carrington won’t know what’s hit him when he gets an eyeful of you in this.’ She pats the back of my hand. ‘But you will be careful, won’t you dear?’ Ah, I knew it. I brace myself. ‘They’re not like us, them upstairs. Have your fun by all means, but just remember to watch your back …’

  ‘I will. And thank you for the scarf.’ I lean in to kiss her cheek. ‘I better go.’

  ‘Right you are dear, and don’t worry about taking the flowers up with you now. Pop down just after closing time – I’ll wait on a bit for you.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ I grin.

  ‘Of course. I’ve nothing to rush home for …’

  Chapter Four

  Hi Mr Carrington (see what you’ve done to me),

  Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers, what a brilliant surprise! I LOVE them.

  And to answer your question in the last email … I SURE HOPE SO!

  And I sign off with this, seeing as he obviously didn’t mind the hugs and kisses last time.

  Luv,

  Georgie xoxoxo

  A few minutes later, he replies.

  Hi Georgie,

  You’re very welcome. I thought the flowers might cheer you up seeing as you had to return to rainy Mulberry-On-Sea, not that I’m enjoying the sun here at all. Definitely not; in fact, please think of me stuck indoors toiling away for the greater good of Carrington’s …

  Are you around tonight? Wondered if you fancy a chat? I could call you.

  Mr Carrington, to you xx

  Oh yes please. I fancy that, Mr Carrington. A lot!

  So here I am in my flat having polished off two large glasses of pink wine and half a pizza, and I still haven’t heard from Tom. I even had a blissful bubble bath, figuring the phone would ring the very minute I submerged myself into the water – that’s usually what happens when I’m waiting on a call, but nope, nothing.

  And then it dawns on me. Does Tom actually have my number? You know, I’m not entirely sure he does. Whenever we’ve spoken on the phone before it’s been at work, usually with him in his office upstairs and me ducked in the alcove talking quietly into the staff phone on the wall. Crap! I can’t exactly email him to ask, which would just be like say
ing ‘why haven’t you called me yet?’ And that won’t do … Oh no, no, no! Sooo uncool to be that woman who waits by the phone. Desperate. I can’t imagine that the type of women he’s used to carry on like that, but then they’re probably way too busy with hectic and extremely glamorous social calendars to be bothered by a mere phone call from one of their many ‘to-die-for’ gorge admirers. I flick on the DVD player and settle down for a Mad Men boxset-fest instead. I can always rely on Don to distract me.

  I’m two episodes in when my mobile buzzes and I practically skyrocket myself off the sofa, only to feel instantly crushed on seeing that it’s Eddie calling, and not Tom.

  ‘Tom just rang asking for your mobile number. I gave it to him, and then realised I should have checked with you first. Is that OK?’ Eddie says really fast and I’m sure my stomach does an actual backflip.

  ‘Of course it bloody is!’ I bellow, and for some ludicrous reason, I leg it into the hall to check my hair in the mirror above the side cabinet before grabbing my bag and turfing all the junk out to locate my new MAC lipstick in Chatterbox pink.

  ‘OK, calm down lover, only I thought it best to check, seeing as you went bonkers the last time I slipped up and gave that hot guy in the club your number.’

  ‘That was different. He wasn’t hot. And he looked like a bell end.’

  ‘Hmm, well, not one I’ve ever seen before, sugar pie.’ Eddie laughs at his own joke. ‘Anyway, what are you doing? You sound distracted.’

  ‘Nothing. Got to go.’ I toss the lipstick down, end the call and run back to the sofa. Tom could be trying to get through. Right now!

  It’s nearly midnight when my mobile eventually rings and I must have nodded off to sleep. I force myself awake and lean up on one elbow eagerly.

  ‘Georgie, it’s Tom.’

  ‘Hello. This is a nice surprise,’ I say, trying to sound breezy.