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, I’d be happy to help you. Do you have anything in mind?’ I ask, relaxing into it. I’m in my comfort zone serving proper customers.
‘Bags. 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