she had to come back to work because her husband Stan was ‘driving her round the twist’ and spanking all their pension money on his ‘filthy birds’, which she later explained were actually pigeons.
‘True. You’re really good at what you do and that’s why I need your help this afternoon.’
‘This afternoon?’ I say, my eyes widening at the prospect of a change in routine.
‘Yep, a wealthy customer is arriving to do a spot of personal shopping and he’s expressed a particular interest in our high-end designer handbags. Malikov someone or another, I think “his people” said.’ James makes sarcastic quote signs with his fingers. ‘Six times they’ve called today demanding to speak to security ahead of his arrival. And then banging on about CCTV cameras and how we must respect his privacy.’
‘Malikov?’
‘That’s right, Konstantin Malikov, a Russian businessman apparently.’ James flashes his perfect white smile at me. ‘Oh yes, it just so happens that Mr and Mrs Malikov are keen to spend some time here in the south of England whilst their only daughter is settled into Dean Hall.’ The mention of Dean Hall injects a flash memory moment of the few years I spent at boarding school before everything changed and my whole world fell apart. ‘And naturally they are looking to offload some of their wealth in our fine establishment.’
The memory is instantly replaced with excitement at the thought of my share of the sales commission. James often asks me to help him with the personal shopping customers, and over the years we’ve developed a strategy, a kind of double act that has reaped some fantastic sales. James looks as though he’s about to say something else when a pumped-up version of ‘Love Is In The Air’ pounds through the sound system, signifying opening time. There’s an old dear with a tartan shopper waiting by the door to come in.
‘Was there something else?’ I ask James on seeing his hesitation.
‘It’ll keep,’ he says over his shoulder as he strolls off towards the escalators.
3
After processing a card payment for a sparkly teardrop necklace, I turn towards my customer. She’s wearing a shiny green skirt that’s the same colour as a Quality Street triangle and has the biggest static hairdo I’ve ever seen.
‘There you are.’ I’ve gift-wrapped the item and popped it into one of our special Valentine jewellery bags. Crimson with silver rope handles, and a sprinkle of limited edition Cupid-shaped confetti. ‘And thank you very much.’ I smile, making sure I maintain eye contact.
‘Thank you dear. It’s for my daughter, her thirtieth. You know, she was actually born on Valentine’s Day, just after midnight, a true gift of love my husband always says. It’s so exciting … but makes me feel very old,’ she chuckles, patting her hair-helmet before stowing the receipt safely in her purse. A lump catches briefly in my throat as I remember Mum. She loved birthdays, always got excited too. I swallow hard and smile. It wouldn’t do to crumble in front of a customer. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on and everything else can be left behind the scenes. Safe and secure. Unlike my foster home, where Nanny Jean used to sigh whenever I walked in the room and her husband would yell ‘cup of tea’ at me all the time like I was the live-in maid. And as for their brat of a birth daughter, Kimberley, who once told me it was no wonder my real family didn’t want me, given how ugly I was …
‘Well, you must have been very young when your daughter was born,’ I say warmly, shoving the memories from my head.
‘You’re very kind. And yes, I suppose I was,’ she replies in a dreamy voice, as if casting her mind back. She pats my hand and smiles before leaving.
The shop floor is really quiet, so I choose a selection of our very best bags for the Russian to browse through and take them up the back stairs to the personal shopping suite before bombing back down to my till. Carrington’s is a bit of a maze. The underground corridors down in the basement go on forever and there’s even one that runs all the way to the old music hall at the other end of Lovelace Walk, a few streets away. Rumour has it that the original Mr H. Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, had the corridor built especially as a discreet way to ‘visit’ showgirls, then pay them in kind by inviting them back for secret late-night shopping sprees. Sort of like a free trolley dash in return for sex I suppose. Mrs Grace told me all about it.
Once back, I discreetly tilt the computer screen and decide to Google Malikov while indulging in some online window shopping. I tap the screen to bring up the Carrington’s Home Shopping site. As I select the home furnishings icon, Eddie sidles up to my counter.
‘God I’m bored,’ he says, pulling a sulky face. ‘The Heff has gone off somewhere, said he won’t be back until the end of the day, so I’ve got nothing to do. You know he can be so selfish sometimes.’
‘There must be something you can find to busy yourself with,’ I say, distractedly, as I hover the cursor over the ‘Get the Look’ tab.
‘Nope. Nothing …’ Eddie pauses and stares into the middle distance for a bit before announcing, ‘I know! Let’s go to Patagonia and flirt with cowboys.’ He widens his eyes and crosses his arms.
Refusing to be distracted, I click the mouse and take a look at a colonial-style bedroom.
‘What do you think of this?’ I ask, tapping the screen.
‘Boring!’ he says, dismissively. ‘And look at the price tag – more than two thousand pounds. Even with our staff discount card it’s still extortionate. Sweet Jeeeesus … I’d want my whole flat and my next-door neighbour’s refurbished for that amount.’
‘Oh me too, this stuff is way outside my budget.’
‘So why are you looking then?’
‘Well there’s no harm in taking a peek.’
‘Of course there isn’t, but tell me something – why are you up to your eyes in debt?’ he says, placing the tip of his little finger at the side of his mouth and pulling a quizzical face.
‘You know why – it was hard when I came out of care, I just wanted somewhere nice to live like everyone else and got sucked in by all those adverts dishing out 125 per cent mortgages like free newspapers at the station,’ I say, remembering the sticky cold lino and thin faded towels at Nanny Jean’s house, while Kimberley kept all the big fluffy pink ones in her bedroom. And the bank didn’t hesitate in giving me the mortgage, even though any idiot knew I really couldn’t afford the payments without achieving record sales commission every month for ever and ever and ever. Those were the days when designer handbags were a must-have and my sales commission skyrocketed as a result. I just wish I’d known back then that the boom would eventually bust.
‘OK, calm down, you know you didn’t even take a breath then. And I’m sorry, didn’t mean to upset you and bring it all back.’ I pull a face, thinking about the grubby bedsit I wound up in after I was shunted from the care system, with my whole world stuffed inside a couple of black sacks and a jaded social worker to guide me. I was on my own, and the only way to eke out my junior sales assistant’s salary and make ends meet was by living on credit cards and personal loans.
‘Now, where were we?’ I ask Eddie.
‘You were just about to buy something,’ he laughs.
‘Don’t
