‘A whaat?’ I shout, fear and humiliation making my voice sound shrill.
‘You know … dramality. Real but made up. You’re going to be famous. You are going to be a celebrity and, let’s face it, that’s what everyone wants to be these days,’ he sniffs, as if he’s the authority on popular culture all of a sudden. ‘You’re going to be on that jungle programme, baring your teeth like a baboon when your cheeks peel back to your ears as you’re dropped from a helicopter into the Australian bush. You’re going to have your wardrobe critiqued in Now magazine. You’re going to win a BAFTA. Oh darling, I always knew you were a true star.’ He pauses momentarily and actually sounds genuinely emotional. ‘You’re going to feature in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame. You’re going to make a mint from doing your own fitness DVD. You’re going to have your own fake tan product range. Sweet Jesus … you might even get your own TV show!’ Eddie pauses to suck in a massive gasp of air before he’s off again. ‘I wonder if I’ll get to be in the show too. You must ask that delicious man of yours. In fact, call him. Right now! Tell him how much I adore Kelly. Been a fan for years, darling. Oh hang on angel.’ There’s a muffled silence for a second, and then I hear Eddie shouting out to his boyfriend, Ciaran. ‘Is my best suit back from the dry cleaners?’ More silence follows. ‘Whaat? Never mind watching Top Gear on your iPad mini. Check it! Check the wardrobe right now. I need the suit for work tomorrow. It’s vital.’ Eddie huffs. ‘Honestly, that boy has no sense of urgency. This is my moment. And I’m going to need representation. A manager! I’m going to call that blonde woman. Claire off the telly. That’s right. The one who represents Pete.’
‘Pete?’ I mutter, racking my brains. I’ve never heard Eddie mention having a famous friend called Pete.
‘Yes, Pete! As in Peter Andre?’ Eddie says in a stagey voice, like he’s his best friend forever and I’m the only person on the whole planet who doesn’t know it.
‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?’ I venture, having already decided I’m having no part of this. And how come Tom never mentioned it? I’m going to call him … but not to get him to ask Kelly to include Eddie. No. To tell him that he’s bang out of order and it’s probably illegal anyway. They can’t just rock up at Carrington’s and start randomly filming Annie and me. What about our privacy? It’s stalking! That’s what it is. And what about our human rights? I’ll phone up that court in The Hague; they’re bound to know if I have the right to go to work without worrying about my backside being plastered across the TV screen of every blooming home in the country. The whole world, in fact! If you count all those ex-pat satellite viewers in places like the Costa del Sol. And not forgetting hotels and laptops. These days you can be anywhere and still get your favourite TV channels. Oh God.
Now the initial shock is starting to wear off, I’m devastated. And really hurt if I’m totally honest. I feel like a fool. A fool for thinking that Tom trusted me. Obviously not enough to share this monumental revelation, and it can’t have happened overnight. He must have been ‘in talks’, as he likes to say, with the TV channel for absolutely ages, but he didn’t even think to utter a word about it. And like a fool I fell for his smouldering looks and fun-loving attitude. And I took in Mr Cheeks for him. I even read up on Renaissance art just so I could appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. It just goes to show that you can’t trust anyone these days. And those big hardback arty books don’t come cheap either.
I glance back at the screen in time to hear Kelly talking directly into the camera.
‘Seems these shop girls are more interested in having a good time than serving you.’ And to emphasise her point, she sticks her index finger out, just like Lord Kitchener in that wartime poster. All she needs is the leather queen moustache.
‘Awks!’ Eddie sniggers like a smartarse, making me wish I could reach inside the phone to slap him.
‘Stop it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetcheeks, really I am. Ignore her. It’s probably all for the cameras. You know how these TV personalities like to mix things up a bit. Honestly, it’s not that bad. Quite exciting, in fact … just think, you’re going to be an actual star – nothing less than you deserve, of course,’ he states. ‘The camera obviously loves you, petal, and one day you’ll look back and laugh too. Promise. It’s just the shock of the surprise, that’s all. I’m your best friend, and as such it’s my job to tell you if you look ridic … but you don’t, you honestly don’t. Quite the opposite. Sassy and magnificent.’ I ignore him.
‘But how dare she?’
Something isn’t right, because we never neglect customers. I don’t understand how they’ve managed to make it look as though we do. Sam squeezes my free hand tightly and gives me a reassuring but tentative grin. ‘And who says, “shop girls” anyway, these days? Talk about old-fashioned!’
‘Don’t worry, lover, I bet you know much more than she does about retail sales. Just focus on the fabulous perks that are going to be surging your way,’ Eddie says. ‘Yep. It’s move over TOWIE and Made In Chelsea and Hello Carringtonnnnn’s!’ he sings, like he’s about to star in the next West End musical theatre smash hit.
Well, we’ll see about that.
‘I have to go,’ I say in a trance-like state to end the call, and I drop my phone down onto the carpet. I really thought Tom and I had something. Something really special. I had even started to think he might be the real deal. Everyone says you just know when you meet your one, and that’s exactly how I felt right from the very first moment I saw him. I was standing by the help-yourself salad bar in the staff canteen with my cheeks flushing and my mouth actually hanging open. He’s the quintessential tall dark gorgeous guy. Kind. Especially to animals. Calm. Impeccably mannered. Generous. Intelligent. Artistic. Gentle. Sometimes cheeky. Fantastic in bed. But how wrong was I? If he doesn’t even trust me enough to mention something as epic as Carrington’s starring in a reality TV show, then what does that say about our relationship? He obviously doesn’t feel the same way. And I’m so glad I held back on mentioning the L word. I grab my phone back up and punch out his number. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say for himself.
I’m on the bus making my way to work and I’m still devastated. After Kelly’s show last night, I spent the rest of the evening going over and over the sequence of events for the last month or so, until a trickle of realisation dawned in the early hours of this morning. The film footage was doctored! Edited to look as if Annie ignored Zara, the customer, when in actual fact she hadn’t. It’s the only explanation. Especially as we only had one of those Anya bags in stock and I distinctly remember Annie’s elation when she sold it. To Zara. Must have been.
Annie was whooping about adding the commission from the sale to her savings so she’d have nearly enough money to get the Flo Rida tatt removed from the spot just above her left boob. She’d had it done in a moment of madness on a crazeee hen weekend along the coast in Brighton, after hooking up with a guy called Vince who had gold teeth and seriously intricate sleeve tattoos. She’s regretted it ever since. I even remember saying she could have next Thursday off because it was the only appointment available at the laser clinic this side of Christmas. And we never normally allow it, not with Thursdays being late-night shopping, especially as the run-up to Christmas is our busiest time of year.
But what I’m absolutely gutted about is that Tom must have allowed Kelly to fix the sequence of events. He must have known she was going to portray us like that … Surely he would have investigated, done his ‘due diligence’, as I’ve heard him say, before putting Carrington’s, the business Dirty Harry started over a hundred years ago, in this ridiculous position. We’ll be a laughing stock. Well, I already am. I’ve had seventeen tweets this morning