Louis Vuitton. The newest collection please.’
‘Certainly, if you’d like to come this way, please.’ I gesture to a cabinet housing six exquisite top handle bags in a variety of colours, nestling amongst a selection of Louis monogrammed scarfs and purses.
‘Would you like to look at one?’ I ask, reaching for the key to unlock the cabinet.
‘OK.’ The men move in closer as the woman reaches into her Chanel clutch to retrieve a diamond-encrusted iPhone. I place a signature biscuit-brown bag on the counter.
‘I buy it,’ she says, barely glancing at the bag. She takes a quick photo of it with her phone.
‘Thank you, would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I ask, wishing all of our customers were this decisive.
‘No no! I want aalll of them.’
‘All of them?’ I ask, wondering if I’ve heard her right. Perhaps she doesn’t understand about the gift-wrapping service.
‘Yes, this one and this one and this one and … ’ she says, pointing a perfectly buffed fingernail to each of the handbags in turn.
‘Six bags?’ I say, keeping my voice steady. Annie saunters over, her interest obviously piqued.
‘No no! Aalll of them,’ she says, sweeping a heavily jewelled hand in the air. A rock the size of a sugar lump clings to her wedding finger. ‘Every colour. Every style,’ she says, casting an eye over the adjacent counter housing the Louis luggage. ‘And scarves, purses and keyrings too. The whole collection.’
‘Um.’ I’m momentarily stunned. ‘Certainly,’ I quickly add, beaming from ear to ear. I discreetly flap a hand in Annie’s direction. She immediately dives into the little stock cupboard behind the counter to retrieve a pile of dust bags as I start unlocking the security ropes and emptying the Louis handbags from the cabinet. We both wrap. Fast!
Adrenalin is pumping – I’ve never had a proper VIP customer like this before. I imagine this is how the sales assistants up in the big London stores feel all the time. I’ve heard about Saudi customers coming to England in the summer to escape the heat at home, but never at Christmas and certainly not to Carrington’s, in the quant, seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. Things are really looking up – maybe Kelly’s plan to rejuvenate the store might work after all. I hope so. It’s exciting, even if I am to be single again. I’ll just have to live vicariously through my new glamorous and seriously wealthy customers while trying to avoid Tom. He’s bound to return at some stage, and it’ll be hard seeing him every day if we’re not going to be together any more, but I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. I just seriously hope Zara or Valentina or, worse still, both, don’t rock up here and start hanging around instore. I’m not sure I could bear that.
We’ve finished gift-wrapping; Annie had to get a stock trolley to house all the Louis merch. The woman has bought the whole lot, including the monogrammed luggage collection, plus every Louis item from the big secure stockroom downstairs. Annie had to leg it over to Mrs Grace to collect the key before racing downstairs (taking the customer lift for extra quickness) so we didn’t risk losing the woman’s interest by making her wait a moment longer than necessary.
The woman beckons to the men with the briefcases, who are hovering by the trolley.
‘Err, do you have ID available please?’ I ask, praying that she has, but knowing the total is way over the floor limit for one customer transaction. The woman produces her passport and I give it a polite cursory glance, not wanting to inconvenience her for a moment longer. The men flip open the briefcases and start unloading wads of cash. Annie does a little gasp before swiftly turning and burying her head in the cupboard behind us to conceal her flushed cheeks. I do a quick scan of the floor, wondering where the security guys are – I can’t have this much cash stashed in my till. Besides, from a purely practical perspective, it just won’t fit! I wonder how Harrods copes with all its big sales. Maybe it has extra large tills with safes underneath or something. Well, whatever they have, Carrington’s will need to find out and upgrade, ASAP, as our tiny old-fashioned tills just won’t do at all. Oh no! Not if we’re going to be servicing the shopping requirements of über-wealthy customers from now on.
And I don’t believe it. I blink again to be sure. Yep. It’s Melissa. The sturdy plain-clothes store detective who used to work here. But how come she’s back? She left to work at the prison. Melissa catches my eye and surreptitiously wanders over.
‘You OK, G?’ she mouths discreetly, from behind the Juicy Couture stand. I flick my eyes to the enormous pile of notes in front of me and she pulls out a mobile, presumably to call security.
A few seconds later, Kelly appears; she’s crawling on all fours as fast as she can towards the Christmas tree for cover. I make big eyes and pray that my customer doesn’t spot her. I bet they don’t have Ronald McDonald lookalikes crawling commando-style on the shop floor at Harrods. But then perhaps Kelly’s behaviour is perfectly normal in the real-but-made-up world. I bite my bottom lip and try to concentrate on counting the cash instead. It’s two hundred pounds over, which I hand back to the woman.
‘For you,’ she says, placing her hand over mine and gently pushing the wad towards me.
‘Oh no, but I can’t,’ I reply instinctively, holding up my palms.
‘I insist.’ The woman smiles. In my peripheral vision I can see Kelly flapping a hand wildly, gesturing for me to take the cash. So I do. I nudge it towards the till, unsure of what to do next. The woman says something in Arabic to the men, who fling the empty briefcases onto the stock trolley and start pushing it across the shop floor. Mick, the security guard, appears and offers to give them a hand, and they head towards the side door, which leads straight out to the directors’ car park. I make a mental note to see about us getting a proper Carrington’s concierge service. This calibre of customer will expect it. We could have a dedicated suite especially for VIP shoppers, park their limos, escort them around the store, load their merch, or we could even deliver to their super-yachts. Fabulous. I’m going to mention it to Kelly.
Annie is practically bursting with delight, and I’m bent over with both hands flat on the counter, taking a deep breath, when the woman returns. I quickly stand up straight and smooth down my jacket. Annie ducks back into the cupboard.
‘One for you, and one for your assistant,’ she says, handing me a small Carrington’s carrier bag.
‘Oh,’ I start, but on catching Kelly doing the flapping thing again, I immediately take the bag and thank the woman profusely.
‘Take me to the cosmetics hall please.’ She pulls a magazine cutting from her clutch. ‘I want to look like this,’ she adds, tapping the piece of paper. It’s Taylor Swift!
‘Of course.’ My mind boggles – never in a million years is this woman going to look like Taylor; she’s a totally different ethnic group for starters. ‘My colleague will escort you,’ I say, hoiking Annie from the cupboard. I figure it best to stay on my section – don’t want the voiceover guy saying I shouldn’t have abandoned the shop floor, with me being the supervisor and all. Annie starts bobbing from one foot to the other with glee, before quickly calming herself down and gesturing demurely as if the woman is royalty.
‘CUT!’
Kelly is up on her feet now, clapping and rushing towards me with her Ronald McDonald hair whipping around like candyfloss in a wind tunnel.
‘Bravo. Bravo!
