panic mounting at the prospect of being forced to go head to head with James, but knowing I don’t have any choice.
‘Good, so this is all about riding the recession and revitalising Carrington’s. And trying to make money of course. You and …’ She pauses to glance at a list on the desk. ‘Annie is it?’ I nod. ‘Yes, you need to sell as much as you possibly can. The other sections will be doing the same, and then I can make a decision on what merch stays and who is best to sell it. I may even decide to scrap a lot of the smaller and less profitable lines to make way for just a couple of select high-end ones. In my experience, this always means less staff. But seeing as you’re a very good sales assistant and we have some strong in-store Valentine’s promotions going on, it shouldn’t be too difficult for you, should it?’ Standing up, she waves a dismissive hand in my direction. ‘And besides, I like winners, not losers.’ And she whips a hand up and does the actual L for loser sign against her forehead. I cringe inwardly. How embarrassing.
‘Of course,’ I mutter, glad to have my share of the Malikov sale. That’ll get my section off to a good start.
‘Oh, and you’ll report directly to me from now on. What day do you have off?’
‘Err, Monday,’ I say, praying she’s not about to make me give it up. Everyone knows it’s the best day off to make a weekend when you work every Saturday.
‘Then your weekly one-to-one meeting with me will be at seven sharp every Tuesday morning. I like to start bright and early.’ She rubs her hands together before flicking her big hair around for a bit.
‘Great,’ I say with a forced smile, feeling relieved that my day off is safe. Good for you. I bet she’s one of those crazy types that just lurrves a military-style boot camp session, preferably outdoors in the lashing rain, while normal people are still snuggled up in bed because it’s practically the middle of the night.
‘Oh, and keep the first Sunday in February free … the board thought a series of “team-building jollies” might keep spirits up, so I’ve put you down for the first session,’ she adds, pulling a face as if the whole idea is totally abhorrent to her.
10
The door at the staff exit is so heavy it seems like an eternity before I eventually step out onto the pavement. I breathe in, and the salty sea air catches in my lungs. The euphoria at not losing my job has quickly subsided, leaving an empty realisation that if my section isn’t deemed the most profitable, I’ll most likely be unemployed. I can’t seem to quell the panic that’s coursing through me at the thought of that chilling prospect. It was practically impossible to revise at Nanny Jean’s with the TV blaring out and Kimberley hollering all day long, so I know damn well I’ll struggle to find something else with my qualifications. It didn’t matter so much at the start, but these days even graduates with a degree in retail management are finding it tough to find jobs. Not that there are any other department stores in Mulberry-On-Sea, and practically none of the smaller, boutique-style shops are taking on new staff, in fact quite a few have already closed down, there are loads of empty units in the pedestrianised bit of town. Everyone is feeling the pinch.
I guess I could commute to London, but then with the huge monthly travel costs to fork out for, I’d never earn enough to cover the rest of my overheads. And James will hate me if I stay and he has to go – he took me on in the first place. And I’ll be competing against Tom and I don’t know anything about him.
Then there’s my guilty secret debt problem, I’ve got to do something about it as it’s bound to come out when HR do the checks. I feel as though I’m being backed into a corner.
I need some time alone. Time to think before I face the others. I decide to head for Gino’s, the little Italian deli tucked down a narrow cobbled lane behind Carrington’s. I haven’t been there for a while; it’s got a little seating area for espresso and tapas and it’s perfect for my current mood.
As I walk along, pounding the hard pavement, a woman on roller skates burns past me, her white shirt billowing around like a puff of smoke as she elbows me out of the way. The roller skates remind me of Dad, and of clinging on to his hand as I attempted to balance on the pair of rainbow-coloured roller skates I got for my tenth birthday. Thinking of Dad makes me wonder what it must have been like for him all of those years ago. I ponder for a moment, and then after remembering what Sam said in the club, I pull my mobile out from my bag and scroll through the address book to find his number.
‘Hello darling, what a wonderful surprise. Is everything OK?’ His voice sounds worried. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ There’s an awkward silence.
‘I am at work,’ I reply, a little too sharply. ‘Well, I just popped out and … err, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you the other day,’ I manage, trying to disguise the unease in my voice. ‘So how are you?’ I add, awkwardly.
‘I’m fine. A bit tired. Anyway, enough about me. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ he says, and for a moment it’s as though everything that’s gone on between us before has been forgotten in an instant. But then my back constricts. I start to feel as though calling him was a bad idea, and I realise that I’m just not ready to forget what he did to us … especially to Mum. ‘You know I was telling Uncle Geoffrey how well you’ve done, and he said to pass on his love.’ The thought of my dad’s brother conjures up images of when it all happened. I remember Uncle Geoffrey bringing over suitcases full of my cousin Olivia’s old cast-offs. Olivia is a couple of years older than me and has always been much taller. But ‘beggars can’t be choosers’, that’s what Uncle Geoffrey used to say when he hauled the suitcase up onto the kitchen table. Mum would thank him profusely for his generosity while I stood there shivering in my vest and knickers waiting to try on the clothes that were always too big. And all the time I was thinking I’d make sure I had nice clothes that fitted me properly when I was grown-up.
‘So how’s work?’ he asks, plugging the gap of silence.
‘Fine.’ I decide not to tell him what’s happened. I don’t want Uncle Geoffrey to know I might be unemployed soon with grim prospects. Gloating, just like he did all those years ago in the kitchen. The thought makes me panicky, it will be near on impossible to find another job if I’m let go. There are so many people getting laid off at the moment, I’ll be on the scrapheap before I’m even thirty.
‘So what’s up then?’ he asks, knowing me too well.
‘Nothing.’ I hate myself for lying.
‘You can always talk to me, darling …’ His voice trails off and I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have called him. Not now. Breaking the silence I mutter, ‘Dad … please don’t.’
‘I’m sorry darling. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
I swallow hard and feel like a fool. I should never have burdened myself with a ridiculous 125 per cent mortgage. And for what? Just to fit in? Make myself feel better? To prove a point to the girls in the playground? My mind spins and for a moment I feel as though I’m suffocating.
‘You enjoy it darling. You’ve worked extremely hard and I know it wasn’t easy for you, starting out with nothing and having to cope with what I did. And all alone too. But you did it, and long may it continue. I’m very proud of you.’
‘Thank you,’ I mumble, just about managing to mask the well of emotion that’s going to burst at any moment. I have to keep the job.
‘And Mum would be too,’
