style="font-size:15px;"> Over! I say the word over and over inside my head as I huddle inside the cubicle. I’m in the staff loo and I can’t stop crying. Angry tears. Sad tears. All mingled together.
‘Hey, you OK in there?’
‘Err. Who is it?’ I ask hesitantly, quickly wiping the back of a hand across my cheeks.
‘It’s me. Annie.’ I pull open the door and she hands me a wedge of tissues. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Bullshit! Tell me or I’m going downstairs right now to mess up your merch,’ she says, flinging one hand onto her hip and twiddling her nose stud with the other.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ I manage a watery smile.
‘Try me. You know those cute gold stars and sparkly white snowman shapes you spent all last week scattering amongst the DKNY shelves to create the perfect Christmassy display?’
‘Nooo.’ My eyes widen. ‘It took me ages to stencil them, spray-paint them, cut them out and then place them artfully amongst the winter collection … ’
‘Exactly.’ Another silence follows as I ponder on what to say. Everyone knows that Tom and I had started dating, but still … instinct tells me that I need to be professional about us splitting up. Besides, I refuse to be the stereotypical girl who has a fling with the boss, ends up getting burnt and her colleagues all rally round feeling sorry for her while slagging off the guy. Tom doesn’t deserve that. He’s gorgeous, my perfect man, or so I had thought. What’s happened between us doesn’t change all that. I stick a smile on my face and take a deep breath. ‘It’s the reality TV programme, isn’t it?’ Annie says, interrupting my thoughts.
‘Well, kind of,’ I say, feeling relieved. ‘Anyway, how are you? I thought you were upset about it too,’ I say, shifting the focus away from me.
‘Me? Oh no.’ She flaps her hand and pulls a face. ‘Yeah, I was a bit hacked off when I saw myself on the telly, but after Amy, the HR manager, said I’m not getting sacked, so this bad boy is still out of here, I’m cool with it.’ And she pulls down her top to circle an index finger around the Flo Rida tattoo.
‘Err, good,’ I say, feeling increasingly like the biggest party pooper going. First Eddie, then Mrs Grace and now Annie – they’re all keen to do the show. But how do they know it won’t backfire, just like that old airport reality show with easyJet? The bit I saw was just a load of customers complaining, so what’s to say Kelly’s programme won’t do the same to us? They’ve already made out that the service in Women’s Accessories is rubbish. If they do that throughout the whole store, it could seriously damage Carrington’s reputation forever. Instead of restoring the shop to its former glory, Tom will have ruined everything by calling in favours from old family friends. Maybe those doubters in the business world are right after all, and he is out of his depth.
‘Yep, and that’s not all – guess what?’ Her eyes widen. ‘We’re getting eighty pounds per episode on top of our usual wages. Well, the ones doing the show are … Denise in Home Electricals is well jelz. But I told her, there’s no glamour in washing machines.’ She laughs.
‘Is that right?’
‘Sure is. Best news I’ve had in ages. And think of all the freebies, designer gear, goody bags, red-carpet invites, PR appearances – they all pay: big money, too! I’m thinking Sam Faiers – move over darling. I can not wait. Amy also said there’s going to be a special end-of-series Christmas wrap party with all of Kelly’s celebrity friends coming. And it’s going to be filmed live! And apparently, she actually knows Will.I.Am! Can you imagine? Faint! I’ve wanted to get close to him for like … ever since he was on The Voice.’ She clutches my arm in glee. ‘It’s going to be epic.’ Annie drops my arm to spread a hand in the air. ‘Bet we’ll get free VIP entrance to the Sugar Hut and everything now,’ she says, full of happiness as she shakes her frosted hair extensions back. ‘Anyway, better jog on, don’t want you bollicking me when I’m late back from tea break.’ She grins and nudges me gently with her elbow before leaving.
I peer in the mirror to examine my face and quickly perform a tissue repair job on my make-up, cursing myself for having already dropped off my handbag. We used to stash our bags under the counters, but when Tom took over, that all changed, so now we have to stow them in lockers in the staff room upstairs. For our own protection, he said. Shame he wasn’t bothered about that last night when my backside was being broadcast to the whole nation.
I checked YouTube from my phone when I was on the bus earlier, and my views are up to nearly five hundred now. And some guy even DM’d me on Twitter asking if I fancied joining him and Pu, his new Thai ladyboy bride-to-be, for a threesome. Hideous. Tears sting in my eyes again. I can’t believe Tom and I are over before we even really started.
After letting out a long, shaky breath, I help myself to a generous spritz of complimentary Cavalli. One of the perfume girls left a couple of bottles as an incentive for us to direct customers to her section, so she can flog more special Christmas gift sets with the matching body lotion. I dab my eyes again and think of Annie’s excitement, Eddie’s too, but I haven’t changed my mind, they’ll just have to film around me. Or put one of those blurry things over my face or something, like magazines do to Harper or Suri when they haven’t got permission to show their pictures.
After leaving the Ladies, I make my way along the narrow, winding staff corridor that’s like a time warp with its original 1920s faded floral wallpaper. I have to step around a couple of stock trollies piled high with flattened cardboard boxes, to push through the double security doors that lead out to the shop floor.
It’s lit up like a giant Santa’s grotto full of goodies.
This year’s festive theme instore is Winter Wonderland. Fake snow covers the normally black, swirly patterned carpet, and sparkly white model seals nestle inside Perspex balls suspended from a twinkly, Arctic-inspired ceiling. All of the display podiums are crammed with festive present ideas, pyjama sets tied up with scarlet satin ribbons, gloriously fragrant Jo Malone candles, glittery woollen mittens, luxury lingerie in tissue-packed boxes and every kind of perfume and aftershave gift set you can imagine. There’s even a pop-up shop selling Santa-shaped gingerbread men, striped candy canes and chocolate tree decorations covered in foil, hanging from lengths of gold thread.
The magnificent Art Deco marble pillars are swathed in garlands of holly and ivy, mingled with silver, spray-painted pine cones. And the air is filled with a warming, cinnamony-orange scent, pumped from a machine hidden underneath the enormous, ceiling-tall Norwegian Christmas tree that stands in the centre of the floor, in between the two original wooden escalators. Customers are laughing and joking as they touch the merch. Children are weaving in and out of their parents’ legs, eager to get down to the basement to see Father Christmas in his grotto, and hand over their wish list full of presents.
My mood lifts instantly. It’s really hard to suppress the swirl of excitement on glimpsing the glorious array of festive colours in such a buzzy atmosphere. The run-up to Christmas is my absolute favourite time of the year instore, and it’s not like I haven’t split up with a guy before – I have. So I’m sure I’ll survive. I’ll have to. I think of my freezer jammed with all those mince pies and make a mental note to pop into Masood’s corner shop on my way home for a carton of custard and a soppy film. He always has a stack of DVDs to choose from and you really can’t beat a mince pie or two with a warm custard drizzle. That will cheer me up a bit. I might even get ten Benson too while I’m at it.
Making
