eyes probing me for the answers every time he looked back up, and the fact that he’s oblivious to it – well, it just makes him so damn sexy. ‘You OK? You look tired.’ He grins, and a warm glow flickers within me. He’s the first guy I’ve felt anything for since the disastrous break-up with Brett. We had been virtually inseparable for three years and his betrayal hit me really hard.
‘Thanks a lot. Do I really look that bad?’ I say, instantly hoping he’ll disagree.
‘No. No I didn’t mean it like that,’ he replies, momentarily patting my arm by way of apology, and I take a deep breath. After Brett left I swore off men completely – I really wasn’t interested in going through that sort of pain again – but it’s reassuring to know my heart hasn’t been completely shattered, and that maybe I’m ready to start dating again.
‘So what’s with this carpet?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject. ‘And have you seen the state of these?’ Feeling flustered, I peer down at my legs.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say they were a state exactly. They look fine to me.’ His cheeks flush for a second and he clears his throat. I feel embarrassed. ‘Shame about the fluff though,’ he finishes, with a gentle laugh. ‘Somebody decided to splash out and re-carpet the entire shop. Staff canteen included.’
‘What a waste of money. Before you know it we’ll be closing down and switching to “online purchasing only”,’ I snort. The edgy feeling from earlier swirls around inside me again.
‘Trust you, always thinking about the bottom line.’ He shakes his head.
‘Well, I don’t see you complaining when I shift all of the high-end stock,’ I tease. But the truth of it is that my section of the shop-floor space does make the most money. The others say that it’s because I’m shameless and not averse to using my wily powers of persuasion when boyfriends and husbands rush in to buy a last-minute gift. But it’s not my fault if they opt for the biggest hobo bag after I let slip how the lucky woman will squeal with delight and love them forever on unwrapping such a gift. All the while discreetly nudging the small version to the far end of the counter, and therefore out of mind … as demonstrated by Mrs Grace herself on my induction day. Mrs Grace rocked Women’s Accessories for fifty years before retiring and handing the mantle to me. She now helps out part-time in the stock room, as 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
