into action – chatting and wandering around the store, looking at and touching the festive merch, creating an authentic busy Saturday afternoon feel. For a moment I’m transfixed at the show unfolding in front of me; it’s like being in an actual film or a modern-day episode of Mr Selfridge – the atmosphere is buzzy and electric, and very, very exciting. My pulse quickens. I think I’m going to love doing this, after all.
The music reaches the ‘gave you my heart’ bit, when a woman appears by the Marc Jacobs display. She seems just like a real customer and not how I imagine an actress to look like at all. She’s wearing a black mohair coat and even has droplets of rain on her red patent handbag. I can’t decide whether to approach her or not. Annie catches my eye and I can tell that she’s thinking the same thing. In my peripheral vision I see a camera gliding up behind the woman, who’s looking directly at me now, so I decide to go for it.
‘Good morning, were you looking for a particular bag?’ I give her a smile, and she responds with a poker face. I plough on. ‘Just give me a shout if you see anything you like,’ I add, retreating back to my counter, knowing that customers like this are best left alone until they’re ready to engage. Only she isn’t a real customer, and I have no idea what her agenda is. I busy myself with labelling up a new delivery of chunky cocktail rings to go in the display board on the counter. They arrived on Friday but we didn’t have time to unpack them then, so I might as well make use of being here on a Sunday. Besides, it will make the show look more authentic if I’m doing what I normally would at work. I’ve just placed an exquisite sunshine-yellow daisy design ring into place, when the woman beckons me over.
‘At last! I’ve been standing here for ten minutes. I want that bag,’ she says rudely, pointing to a gorgeous chocolate leather tote up on the top shelf.
‘Oh good choice,’ I say, grabbing the stepladder to retrieve the bag.
‘No. Not that one. This one.’ She wags her finger along the shelf towards the same bag, but in navy crocodile leather. I move the stepladder along and start climbing up. The camera shifts around until it’s positioned at the first rung looking up at me, and a sudden moment of panic sets in. What if they’re filming my bottom again? There’s no backing out now so I leg it up the ladder, retrieve the bag and make my descent in record time, figuring that if I keep moving then at least there won’t be too many static shot opportunities, but my left Loub catches on the carpet as I step down and I end up catapulting myself backwards across the floor. The bag does an Olympic standard high-dive somersault before landing in the real pine Christmas tree next to the Lulu Guinness display. Feeling mortified, I fling myself back into a standing position, quickly straighten my jacket and push my big hair extensions away from my face before retrieving the bag, brushing off the pine cones and handing it to the woman. I swear I can hear someone stifling a snigger in the background. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ the woman says, after inspecting the bag. ‘It has a scratch.’
‘Oh.’ I study the area near her pointed index finger.
‘Right there.’ She taps the leather a couple of times in quick succession.
‘I think that’s part of the actual crocodile skin,’ I state, diplomatically. I can’t see a scratch.
‘It isn’t.’
‘No problem, I can easily get another one from the stock cupboard. In the original packaging,’ I offer, not wanting to argue about it, especially on camera.
‘But I want this one,’ she says, taking the bag back and flinging it over her shoulder.
‘Of course.’ I smile and she stares at me for a bit.
‘How much is it?’ she asks, pulling it open to inspect the monogrammed interior. I tell her the price and she nods.
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Are you sure? I’m more than happy to get another one for you, if you prefer.’ She shakes her head before glancing at the camera.
‘This one.’
‘Great. Would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I remember to keep smiling, thinking this is a bit bizarre; one minute she’s complaining and now … but I decide to ‘go with the flow’ as Hannah instructed.
‘Yes,’ she says, and I head towards the counter. She follows. The camera too. I pull out the dustbag and place the tote inside, before selecting a suitably sized box from under the counter. Just as I place the bag inside the box she slaps her hand down, making me jump. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
I open my mouth to speak, but she turns and marches away, leaving me gaping after her. The cameraman zooms in for a close up and I realise that my mouth is actually hanging open, but before I can figure out what just happened – somebody shouts, ‘Cut’, and Kelly appears from behind a camera.
‘Bravo!’ she says, clapping enthusiastically. ‘This is TV gold, just what we like. But you must remember to stand up tall and smile, sweetie. Smile. It’s all about the tits and teeth! Say it after me. And shake your hair back too,’ Kelly commands, so I mutter ‘tits and teeth’ and flick my hair around like a performing show pony, willing my cheeks to stop burning. ‘That’s it. Tits and teeth. Hair shake.’ She makes the jingle-jangle sound as she dances from one foot to other, grinning like a loon as she thrusts her cleavage up in the air.
‘Sure. And sorry about my fall.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ She flaps a hand around for a bit.
‘Will it be edited out?’ I ask, keeping my fingers crossed behind my back.
‘Probably not.’ My heart sinks. Great. My YouTube hits are going to be stratospheric at this rate. ‘But don’t worry. The viewers will adore you even more.’ Leaning in to me, her faces changes to serious and she whispers, ‘You are wonderful. A natural. And if you keep this up you will find your life transformed. I promise you that. I’m going to help you.’ She pats my arm discreetly.
‘Um, thank you,’ I breathe, as another wave of excitement fizzes through me, even though I’m not entirely sure what she means by ‘transformed’; but if it has anything to do with me writing magazine columns, then I’m up for it. She may be bonkers and a bit scary, but I can’t help warming to her. Maybe she isn’t the enemy after all.
‘Right. Positions please,’ a guy shouts out. Kelly disappears and the camera is rolling again. The guy who bought the Chloé bag on Tuesday is striding towards me.
‘I bought this the other day,’ he says, not bothering to even say hello.
‘Oh yes, I remember. How are you? How is your wife? And Declan?’ I ask, fixing a smile on my face.
‘It’s broken so I need a refund,’ he says, ignoring my questions and dumping the Carrington’s carrier bag on the counter.
‘OK, I’ll take a look,’ I say slowly. So this must be the complaint that Zara mentioned. He’s a very good actor, because he seems genuinely ruffled, a stark contrast to the easy-going, laidback, loving husband and Dad thing he had going on before.
‘Right there. See, the zip on the inside pocket is stuck and there’s a lipstick stain on the fabric. It’s been used,’ he states, folding his arms.
‘But it can’t have been,’ I say, feeling confused. There’s no way Carrington’s would sell a used handbag. Even a return would have been
