from a local about the high-end bags being too expensive.
After doing more air kisses with Eddie, Zara sashays off with her mobile pressed up to her ear, and the first thing that pops into my head is – I wonder if it’s Tom she’s whispering to? I quickly shove the thought away and turn to face Eddie.
‘Whaaaat?’ he says, shrugging his shoulders and sticking his bottom lip out.
‘Nothing.’ I pull a face and roll my eyes.
‘Honey-pie, I’ve got to keep her sweet. She could hold the key to my new career,’ he says in a stagey voice, by way of explanation.
‘Pardon?’
‘As a dramality star, of course. I have to keep her on side. Besides, she actually knows Claire, Pete’s manager, and if I play my cards right then she’ll put a good word in for me. I’m convinced of it.’
‘Well, five minutes ago you didn’t trust her – talk about fickle,’ I say, gratefully taking the Loubs from a wardrobe woman. I run an index finger over the buttery soft black leather. It takes me less than two seconds to kick off my New Look heels.
‘And I still don’t. But I’m not letting that stop me from lifting up a BAFTA at the telly awards next year. I’ve already rehearsed my speech,’ he says, with a totally serious look on his face. My pulse quickens as I slip my feet inside the exquisite shoes and nod to confirm that they fit perfectly, and even if they didn’t I’m not sure I’d admit it. I don’t care if I end up crippled like a geisha – these shoes are lush. And they’re staying on my feet.
After thanking the wardrobe woman profusely, I shake off the black hairdresser’s cape that I’ve been wearing to protect my clothes – a beautifully cut cream DVF trouser suit over a shimmery green butterfly-patterned silk shirt. I feel so glamorous. Eddie stares at me open-mouthed before letting out a long wolf whistle.
‘Err … wowdotcom. This just got a whole lot more exciting.’ He loops his left arm though mine. ‘Darling Georgina Hart, let’s go and meet our public!’ he announces, regally sweeping an arm out wide as if to clear a path for us.
We make it on to the shop floor that is lit up like a film set. There are four enormous light bulbs positioned either side of my counter, next to two white paper screens on metal poles, and it feels as though there are people everywhere. Some are obviously from the production company, KCTV; they’re wearing funky outfits and flitting around clutching clipboards and various gadgets. The others must be the actors – men, women, a few children; but they all have coats, hats and scarfs on, and a few are even holding Carrington’s Christmas carrier bags.
Mrs Grace is hovering by the DKNY display and her beehive has grown a good inch or two higher since I last saw her. And I’m sure her lipstick is more luminescent. Annie comes over to meet me.
‘Blimey, you look stunning babe.’ She takes my hands in hers and holds them out wide to get a proper look at me.
‘And so do you,’ I say, smiling at her black fitted maxi dress with Audrey Hepburn style hairdo – the high bun is perfect and the expertly applied smoky eyes with flicky eyeliner make her look stunning.
‘God, I’m so excited. But that Zara said we’re getting a complaint. You know I hate dealing with complaints,’ she whispers, leaning into me.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll just do what we always do. I’ll deal with it. If they come to you, then call me over as you normally would. I think it’s important that we keep this as real as possible, even if we are dressed up like movie stars.’ I smile and give her hands a quick squeeze for reassurance.
‘Is it a real complaint then, do you think?’ She raises her eyebrows.
‘I have no idea, but let’s treat it as such. That way we can’t go wrong and get portrayed as inefficient like we were in the pilot show.’
‘Good thinking,’ Annie grins, before being shepherded away by a production assistant.
I take up my position by the counter, wishing I could wear sunglasses as the lights are so bright. I can already feel a trickle of sweat snaking a path down my back, it’s that hot in here. I’m contemplating plumping up a few bags as I normally would before we open up, when Hannah appears in front of my counter, bouncing around like an overexcited puppy.
‘OK Georgie, as we said on Friday at the rehearsal …’ I try not to smile. ‘Rehearsal’ is stretching it a bit, more like five minutes in the staff canteen in between bites of her tuna melt panini; she said to ‘keep it real’ and to ‘go with the flow’, whatever that means. I nod instead. ‘If you screw up then just carry on, we can always edit out any gaffs. You’ll be fab, but most of all – be yourself! Like I said before, you’re a natural and the viewers are going to lurrrrrve you. We’ve already had enquiries about your status,’ she adds enthusiastically, and the bouncing intensifies.
‘Status? What do you mean?’
‘Single. Married. That kind of thing. You never know, we might be able to get you filmed out on a few dates. Viewers love all that. And we’d foot the bill, of course.’ She elbows me affectionately as if we’re best friends chatting over coffee and cake.
‘But I’m not single.’ I bite my lip.
‘Oh!’ She frowns. ‘Are you sure?’ She stops bouncing, tilts her head to one side and wrinkles her nose instead. ‘I thought you were. I’m sure Kelly mentioned it.’
‘Well … not exactly. Maybe. Sort of … err, well it’s complicated,’ I mutter before glancing away, feeling like an absolute idiot.
‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll chat to Kelly and see what she has in mind,’ she says, lifting her eyebrows suggestively.
‘But I thought the show was abou—’ She dashes off, so I end up mumbling ‘helping Carrington’s to up its game’ to myself. My heart sinks. I feel duped all over again. I only agreed to be in the show because I thought it was about Carrington’s. Not my love life. Maybe I should have kept out of the spotlight and gone downstairs to sell washing machines instead. I suck in a big gulp of air. Well, they can’t make me be filmed on dates – I know there definitely wasn’t a clause about that in my employment contract. Hannah stops and dashes back to me.
‘And, ooh, I nearly forgot, what’s your writing like?’ she puffs.
‘My writing?’ I ask, momentarily stunned by the randomness of her question.
‘Not that it really matters, we can write it for you. A celebrity gossip mag, I forget which one, wants you to do a guest column, write about accessory tips, that kind of thing, tell their readers which bag goes with which outfit. You up for it?’
‘Err, yes please! Thank you.’ Wow, my own column. My mood instantly lifts as I try to take in this exciting new development. Maybe I was a bit hasty in dismissing my involvement in the show after all. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. ‘I’d love to.’ I grin.
‘Good. They’ll pay of course. Won’t be much, two grand-ish if you agree to a photoshoot too.’
Whaaaat?
