Sam closes her eyes and tells me really quickly without even pausing for air.
‘Zarawastalkingaboutheirengagement.’ She gasps. ‘To Tom!’
Sam flings her eyes open and rubs the back of my hand.
‘It’s going to be fine, Georgie. You’re going to be fine. I promise you. Who needs Tom? Let him get engaged to Zara. It’s his loss, he’s just … ’ But I can’t hear her voice any more, only a buzzing sensation all around me.
Tears sting in my eyes. I gasp and then swallow hard. It’s as if time has stood still. My instinct is to run away as fast as I can. But instead, it’s as if somebody has flicked on an autopilot switch. Slow motion. I down the rest of the wine in one huge gulp. I pull out my purse, place some notes on the table, push my chair back and apologise to Sam. She grabs her bags and follows me out of the restaurant.
Five shopping weeks until Christmas
I’m standing on the balcony of the town hall overlooking the market square, with a gloved hand poised over the big red plastic button, and a massive smile stuck firmly in place. I feel far from happy inside, but this is proper celebrity stuff. It’s meant to be exciting. Fun. Plus, it helps take my mind off wondering how Tom managed to move on so quickly. It still hasn’t sunk in. I have to deliberately force myself to stop analysing – in fact, I’ve given myself a rule: I can have five minutes per hour max, to work out when and how he could have got engaged so soon after we split up. It’s the only way. I’m in danger of driving myself crazy otherwise. But it explains why he wouldn’t take my calls, or reply to my Facebook messages.
Everyone’s here from Carrington’s including Annie, Mrs Grace, Doris, Suzanne, Lauren and Melissa. Kelly is telling Eddie how wonderful he is, just inside the door behind me. Three KCTV cameras are positioned, ready to capture it all for Kelly Cooper Come Instore, and the mayor of Mulberry-On-Sea is making her way towards the front of the balcony. As the mayor starts the countdown, I scan the crowd below – groups of teenagers, families with young children, pensioners, Carrington’s customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, I give them a quick wave and they both wave back enthusiastically. Everyone’s happy and smiley and getting in the mood for Christmas; even Mrs Godfrey from the WI is here, wearing her rain bonnet.
Around the square are several Christmas trees covered in sparkly baubles. On my right is a Santa’s grotto, with real reindeers in a straw-lined pen next to a sleigh swathed in tartan blankets and crimson sacks stuffed full of presents. Students from the local college are dressed up as elves, helping to supervise the lengthy queue of children, handing out balloons and offering photo opportunities. An assortment of delicious aromas waft up from the many wooden food cabins dotted around – selling roasted chestnuts, hot chocolate with swirly peaks of whipped cream, roast turkey and cranberry rolls and mulled wine. It’s all here. I spot Sam’s cabin decked out in garlands of twinkling fairy lights with boxed panettone and slabs of Christmas cake piled up high on the counter. The whole place is like a picture-perfect Christmas card, or a scene from a Hollywood movie. The music stops. The crowd cheers before counting down the numbers being displayed on a massive electronic billboard.
‘Five. Four. Three. Two. One … ’
The mayor starts clapping and I press the button. And, as if by magic, Mulberry-On-Sea is illuminated from one side of the town to the other in a rainbow of colour linking each streetlight to the next. It’s incredible. It’s amazing. And it literally takes my breath away. The crowd goes wild – whooping, cheering and clapping. Kelly is standing next to me now. She swings my left hand up in the air before grabbing the microphone and bellowing out to the crowd.
‘Happy Christmas everyone, from Carriiiiiingtons.’ Kelly leans in to me, and whispers, ‘Tits and teeth, darling. Tits and teeth. Hair shake. Look at them all down there while you’re up here. They adore you. Told you I’d make you a star. You too,’ she says through a fixed smile, all the while posing for the crowd as she turns to face Eddie, who’s standing the other side of her now. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Stars. Huge. The pair of you. Wonderful!’ We all clap some more and blow kisses as the opening notes of Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ starts belting out from four giant speakers erected on scaffolding.
‘Right. That’s their lot. Come on inside. The media pack are waiting for you.’ Kelly ushers me, Eddie and Mrs Grace away from the balcony and into a lounge area, closing the doors behind us. We take off our hats and coats, and Hannah piles them up into a mountain on a couple of wing chairs. I scan the room. It’s crammed with press people wearing plastic ID badges on chains around their necks. Some are holding pads and pens, others have Dictaphones primed to record.
‘Ooooh, this is the best night of my life.’ Mrs Grace helps herself to a flute of champagne. ‘Did you see the Peabodys? Turn up to an envelope opening, those two. And that snooty one from the WI? She won’t be looking down her nose at me again,’ she sniffs, before pushing her granny handbag into the crook of her elbow and turning towards a waiting journalist. ‘Yes dear, that’s G-R-A-C-E.’ I smile as Mrs Grace peers over the journalist’s shoulder, making sure she gets all the details correct. ‘Did they tell you that I’m “in talks” …?’ she pauses to do quote signs with the fingers of her free hand and the journalist smiles patiently. ‘That’s right, with Good Housekeeping magazine regarding a regular column, which is a huge honour as it’s a marvellous publication and everyone holds it in such high regard. You know, I heard the queen reads it and there’s no higher endorsement than that!’ Mrs Grace purses her lips and makes big eyes. ‘And I served her once. Such a charming girl she was.’
‘Did you? When was that?’ the journalist asks, looking interested now.
‘Oh, this was back in the Sixties when she was here on official business – a “meet and greet”, I think they call it, dear.’ She pauses so the journalist can catch up in writing it all down. ‘Anyway, Her Majesty came to Mulberry-On-Sea and … ’
Kelly loops her arm through mine.
‘Come with me.’ She steers me over to the other side of the room. ‘Oh, hang on a sec.’ Her mobile rings. ‘Yes. What is it now?’ she says on answering. A short silence follows. ‘Zara, you can be so obnoxious sometimes … ’ Another pause. Hmmm, ain’t that the truth? ‘Fine. I will tell François that the seven thousand pound Birkin bag that he gifted to you is the wrong shade of pewter.’ She snaps the phone shut and lets out a huge sigh before turning back to me. ‘Now, the next person I’m going to introduce you to is very important, a handbag designer, and if you play your cards right, then you may get to help design some bags.’ Oh my God. Thoughts of Zara instantly vanish from my head and my heart actually misses a beat. Designing handbags, I’d love to do that. Instinctively, I smooth down my top and check my hair before swigging a mouthful of champagne. ‘Here she is. Now, five minutes only darling. Georgie’s in demand,’ Kelly says to an attractive blonde woman, who looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her in magazines. And then I realise … it’s Anya Hindmarch, designer and manufacturer of exquisite handbags and purses. I’ve read her Wiki page. Oh my God. I love her bags. Annie and I always squeal with delight when a new range arrives for us to sell.
I resist the urge to do a little courtesy in reverence, and shake Anya’s hand instead. We chat about bags for the allocated timeslot and she gives me her business card before Kelly ushers me away. I’m introduced to journalists, brand managers and magazine editors. Someone from Closer magazine thanks me for my column, congratulating me on the in-depth detail and star rating I gave to each product, and promises to send me more goody bags, if I’m interested in doing a few more features – she suggests a special celebrity ‘what’s in your handbag’ piece, where I get to scrutinise the contents of A-list women’s handbags? Err, what do you think? Who wouldn’t want to get a glimpse inside someone like