he do that? And I’m a supervisor. What on earth is going on? This just makes it a billion times worse. And what was I thinking by sleeping with him? I knew I should have waited until I’d worked out what a sneaky snake he is. I even confided in him about my ‘trust issues with men’, as the social worker neatly noted in my file when I left the care system. But then, is it any wonder, when my own Dad forged my signature, lumbering me with a stack of massive loans he’d taken out in my name to fund his gambling debts? I know Dad and I are putting it all behind us now and he’s doing his best to win back my trust – but still, Tom could have at least kept it in mind. And then there was Brett, my last serious boyfriend. We were together for three years, totally loved-up, or so I thought, until he dumped me for a tall, gloriously beautiful woman with super-big blonde hair. A total contrast to my average height, freckly complexion and flyaway brunette bob. I saw them together not long after the split, holding hands and laughing over an intimate joke as they sauntered along the towpath down by the canal.
By the time I’ve said goodbye to Mrs Grace and slammed through the door to the executive floor, I’m almost in tears. I stride down the corridor and into the anteroom outside Tom’s office. Inhaling hard through my nose, I blow out through O-shaped lips and brace myself.
‘Hey dollface. What’s up?’ Eddie sprints around from behind his desk before smoothing down an immaculately cut charcoal grey suit with a cornflower blue open-neck shirt. His blond hair has been styled into a ridiculously dapper side-parting do with lashings of gel.
‘So what happened to your twist-cut chinos and espadrille combo then? Take it Ciaran found your best suit,’ I snap, thinking: so much for solidarity in the face of adversity. Eddie’s wasted no time in reinventing himself to look like a slick TV star.
‘Oh, those old rags?’ He waves an imperious hand in the air. I glare at him. ‘Why are you being so sulky?’
‘Sulky?’ I huff, making big eyes. ‘Wouldn’t you be if your boyfriend had sold you out to some TV company without even bothering to mention it?’
‘But you were amazing on screen,’ he says, enthusiastically.
‘Hmmm,’ I mutter as Eddie gives me a hug. He ponders for a moment before changing the subject.
‘Come and see my Pussy!’
And, suddenly, I feel as though I’ve slipped inside a parallel universe. Grabbing my hand, Eddie pulls me over to his desk and scoops up a fluffy white bichon frise from a Burberry print dog basket nestled underneath. Around the dog’s neck is a pink crystal collar, and all four of its spindly little legs are sporting lime- green knitted legwarmers. ‘She’s channelling her Eighties workout vibe, aren’t you Pussy?’ he explains. I stare for a bit before managing to drag myself back to reality.
‘Eddie! Are you insane? You can’t bring a dog into the store. And what kind of name is Pussy for a dog anyway?’ I say in an incredulous whisper-voice, while resisting the urge to pet the cute puppy that’s now licking the back of my hand with her tiny pink velvety tongue.
‘Of course I can, everyone has a furchild these days – they’re an essential accessory. And isn’t she a darling? Anyway, Kelly adores her and has already said she can be in the show,’ he says, pursing his lips and stroking the dog’s head. ‘And I’ll have you know that Pussy is a very apt name for a department store pet.’
‘Whaat?’
‘As in Mrs Slocombe’s cat, she called it Pussy.’
‘Who?’
‘Are You Being Served … ring any bells?’ he says, pulling an exasperated face.
‘What are you going on about?’
‘Oh never mind. Before your time, obvs. Although, of course, I only have an extremely vague memory of catching a glimpse of it once as a newborn peering up from my cradle,’ he quickly adds.
‘But this is Carrington’s. A department store, in case you’d forgotten. People don’t bring pets to work. And besides, since when did you have a dog?’ I ask, desperately trying to keep up with it all.
‘From about seven o’clock this morning when I arrived at work,’ he pauses, and a faint glimmer of shame darts across his face. Eddie never ever exerts himself by doing extra hours. ‘I thought it best to put in an early appearance, what with everything going on … Tom might need me,’ he explains, fiddling with Pussy’s collar to avoid eye contact. ‘I rescued her. Poor thing,’ he adds, kissing the top of Pussy’s head before settling her back down in the basket.
‘Rescued her?’
‘That’s right. From the Carrington’s pet spa,’ he says.
‘Pet spa?’
‘Yes! Angel, why do you keep repeating everything I say?’ Eddie tilts his head to one side and pulls an exaggerated curious face.
‘Hazard a guess. Maybe it’s because … I have no bloody idea what you’re going on about,’ I say, flinching as my voice jumps up several octaves. ‘It’s like I’ve stumbled into some weird dream sequence. A nightmare even.’
‘Oh don’t be so dramatic. I know you have a tendency to put two and two together and come up with five billion, but honestly darling … ’ He shrugs.
‘Ha! You’re a fine one to talk.’
‘Shush. I’m a queen. It’s my job.’ Eddie does kissy lips and tweaks my cheek. ‘Besides, it’s your most adorable foible.’
‘What do you mean? I don’t have foibles.’ I shake my head and pull a face.
‘Yes you do.’
‘No I don’t.’ Eddie puts his arm around my shoulders and gives them a quick squeeze.
‘Oh, you look so indignant. But that’s why I love you,’ he says. I stick my tongue out and Eddie laughs. ‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes … about the spa, apparently it was one of Kelly’s genius ideas to boost revenue. That dingy hairdressing salon next door has been cleared out and transformed into Carrington’s very own pet boudoir … just like at Harrods.’ He drops his arm and makes impressive eyes. ‘There’s an adorable doggy exercise area, cute wardrobe accessories section and even an assortment of puppies and kittens to actually buy. I took one look at Pussy and thought enough!’ He flings up a palm. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of her cooped up in a pokey little cage all day long waiting for some RHONY wannabe with a penchant for baby-pink marabou puff mules to buy her and call her Viennetta or something equally ludicrous.’ He clenches his jaw in horror and I raise an eyebrow. ‘You should see it in there, the transformation is incredible; must have been like one of those interior design programmes where Melinda turns up with a flash mob of decorators and practically does out a whole house in like … under three minutes,’ he gasps in a very stagey voice, having obviously elevated himself to first-name terms with all the celebrities now.
‘Slight exaggeration.’
‘Whatevs! But I’m surprised you didn’t spot the difference on your way into work.’
‘I
