style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Nooo way,’ I cut in. ‘If it’s the Chloé bag guy, then definitely not.’
‘OK, OK, don’t shoot the messenger. Hannah did mention another guy – the sound bloke, big hair with big matching microphone apparently. Oo-err, wonder if that’s some kind of euphemism.’ Eddie smoothes an eyebrow and does kissy lips in my direction.
‘Leo?’
‘Yep, that’s him.’ I shake my head emphatically and Eddie’s shoulders droop, his bottom lip too. ‘Georgie, flower, why not? It’s not like Tom’s here to mind.’ I give him a look. ‘Sorry, only joking kiddo. Oh purlease do it. All you have to do is walk into a bar with him, to make the scene look more authentic. Kelly said it would be dull for the viewer if I’m just sitting there with Ciaran, when he’s not even part of the show. And this is my chance to be really famous – get a free, fabulous wedding to the love of my life. Kelly might not go for it otherwise, you know how she rates you as the real star of the show. And you never know, it could spark something off. Maybe Leo’s your one … ’ I flash him another look. ‘Your other one!’ he quickly adds, before nodding and smiling enthusiastically, almost maniacally.
‘It won’t spark something off, as you say. Anyway, Leo’s not my type.’ I wonder if I would have been better off flogging washing machines down in the basement after all. I make a mental note to check with Amy. On second thoughts, I don’t want to annoy Kelly and end up getting sacked or something, like those sailors did. Probably best to suck it up. I’ll just make sure I steer clear of ladders from now on and do everything I can to not look like an idiot during filming. Plus, I’m really looking forward to doing the magazine column. I went through the goody bag and there must have been over thirty items inside. And Hannah cornered me in the staff canteen earlier to say that one of Kelly’s VIP friends has invited me to a red carpet event in London – the opening of a new cocktail bar. I just have to turn up and make sure the paparazzi snap me. Then share a few cocktails with the owners inside and give a short glowing review to a journalist. I’ll be paid four thousand pounds – I nearly passed out by the help-yourself salad bar when she told me that. Anyway, it’s all very exciting – but if I don’t do what Kelly wants, then that would all disappear in an instance.
‘Might make Tom wake up … ’ Eddie adds slowly, in a perky, persuasive voice, and changing tack now. ‘Nothing like another man on the scene to make you want someone and, trust me, honey, I should know.’ Eddie folds his arms and tilts his head to one side.
‘Hmm, let me ponder,’ I say, taking it all in. I think of the betting shop over the road. Valentina or Zara! And with only six weeks until the wrap party on Christmas Eve, I need to find a date – if only to save face. I couldn’t bear it if Tom walked in with Zara all over him, or Valentina or, worst still, both. Or all three of them crammed onto a horse with Bonnie belting out a power ballad in the background. And nothing would surprise me any more in this crazy, real-but-made-up world, I’ve found myself living in.
Six shopping weeks until Christmas
‘OK everyone, listen up. Change of plan. For today’s filming, we’ve got some real customers spending their own money, hopefully – Kelly’s friends down from London, special VIP guests mingled in with the actors – to liven things up a bit. Viewers love a bit of glitz. So be nice, and remember … keep it real.’
We’re in the staff canteen waiting to start filming, and one of the production assistants is shouting out instructions from over by the soup urn. Everyone is here. Mrs Grace is sitting next to me, wearing a Wedgewood-blue trouser suit with a jaunty chiffon scarf knotted at the side of her neck. Millie has made her up with flattering, youthful pastels and her beehive has been replaced with a feathered crop. She looks just like Julie Andrews.
Someone shouts out ‘tits and teeth’ and we all laugh, even me – I’ve decided to make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of goody bags, red-carpet events and magazine columns, and nobody likes a misery. And I might meet someone else; I don’t want to be like I was after the split from Brett, single for nearly two years, not when everyone else is settling down. And I certainly don’t want to end up an old spinster – alone, with a feline family and a motorised scooter to look forward to. Plus Eddie and Sam have a point: what will Tom think if he sees me with another man? He’s not the only one in demand now – I’ve had seven Facebook PMs from guys wanting to date me after seeing the show. Besides, I’ve got nothing to lose, especially as I haven’t had a reply to the text message I sent him after watching last week’s show for the trillionth time. It was late, I was home alone and I’d been at the buck’s fizz. I caved in and sent a message saying:
I miss you so so so sooo sooooooooooooo much, but see that you’ve moved on. I hope you’re very happy Dirty Harry
I shrivel every time I look at it. What was I thinking? It sounds desperate, and sarcastic and ridiculous, and why-oh-why did I have to mention his great grandfather, Dirty Harry? Everyone in Mulberry-On-Sea knows what a philanderer he was, I may as well have just come out with it and called Tom a two-timing snake, even though I don’t have concrete proof as such, like an actual televised snog or whatever. And it’s hardly the way to win back his heart, by insulting him and stalking him like an infatuated schoolgirl. I sent the message seven times. Epic cringe!
‘Don’t worry lovey, everything will be all right,’ Mrs Grace whispers, as if reading my thoughts. ‘You’ll see. Push him out of your head and enjoy the moment. Adventures like this are a rare treat. I’ve been asked to go on Alan Titchmarsh – fancy that. At my age.’ She chuckles and pulls a powder compact from her granny bag before checking her hair in the little mirror. ‘And my Stan says it’s just like having a new dolly bird on his arm.’
I’m in the usual place at my counter, wrapping a length of silver tinsel around the ring display, when ‘Deck the Halls’ starts playing and the actors move around, suddenly animated and enthralled in the merch. The spotlights are shining bright as before, making the spiced cinnamon scent from the pump under the Christmas tree even more intoxicating. I’m wearing an exquisitely cut black Donna Karan dress, with matching faux fur collared jacket, new instore this week. The girls in Womenswear were thrilled when the stock trolley turned up. Libby, the supervisor, said the suit comes in mink and aubergine too, and Kelly’s new rule about staff wearing Carrington’s clothes is an absolute must for them, which they’re all delighted by.
We’ve reached the ‘fa la la la laaa’ line when a very attractive, petite woman, dressed in a navy abaya with Swarovski trim at the wrists, approaches my counter flanked by two men in dark suits carrying briefcases. The woman has a headscarf on with a discreet Gucci logo, and a puff of ultra-expensive Oud perfume floats around her. I immediately sense that it’s the high-end bags they’ll be interested in. They could be from the marina. Taking a break from their super-yacht, perhaps. Excitement rushes through me.
‘I come to buy gifts please,’ the woman says politely with a Middle Eastern accent. She fixes her heavily kohl-lined brown eyes on me. I do a quick scan of the floor, but the production team aren’t here, so I instantly assume she must be one of Kelly’s friends. Last week the actors made absolutely certain a camera was on them before they started performing.
‘Of course,
