And what about our loyal customers? They won’t like being filmed. Some of them have been coming to the store since childhood, just like I did. Mum used to bring me to Carrington’s, before she passed away when I was thirteen years old. She had multiple sclerosis, which had worn her down so much that when she caught pneumonia she just couldn’t fight any more, so I ended up in foster care because Dad was still in prison and my only other relative, Uncle Geoffrey, couldn’t – or wouldn’t – take me in. But before it all happened, Mum and I would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. This was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy café where the cakes are now cupcakes and a Victoria sandwich is a layer cake with elderberry infused jam and gold glitter frosting decorated with delicate edible butterflies made from hand-spun Valrhona chocolate. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although, thinking about it, my hat trick with Tom does come a pretty good second … hmmm, but putting that aside, it’s as if all those glorious memories have been tarnished now.
Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, I jump off at the bus stop beside the bandstand to look across the road and up at the Carrington’s frontage. Even after all this time it still excites me. An impressive, powder-blue Edwardian building with intricate white cornicing around enormous arched windows housing this year’s Christmas display – a real wooden sleigh, piled high with wrapped presents, pulled by four life-size reindeer figurines. They even have faux brown fur, enormous antlers and jingle bells nestling on crimson collars at their necks. Shimmery fake snow is scattered on the floor and all around the edges of the windows. The display lights create a magical, almost Narnia-esque image within the white colonnaded walkway of olde worlde streetlamps and pretty hanging baskets, bursting with seasonal purple cyclamen swaying gently in the wintery-cold breeze.
Set in a prime location in the centre of Mulberry-On-Sea, Carrington’s department store is a family firm spanning three generations, offering old-style elegance with a strong sense of tradition; that special something, where loyal customers are addressed by name and the staff are treated like personal friends. No matter what’s going on in the outside world, you know that when you step inside Carrington’s you’re entering a bubble of sparkly optimism where nothing bad ever happens. Well, until last night, that is. Thanks to Tom and his new best friend ‘Ronald McDonald’, everything’s changed in an instance. Carrington’s is a tradition, a landmark synonymous with Mulberry-On-Sea, and not some gaudy sideshow that relishes making fools of people. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell him, and her, if I get the chance.
Pushing through the door of the staff entrance at the side of the building, I say hello to a couple of the Clarins concession girls and head towards the rickety old gilt-caged staff lift. I unwind my super-chunky long knitted scarf as I go – I made it myself from a kit that came free with a magazine, all part of me doing my bit for the austerity drive. I’ve made a few maxi dresses, too, and a pair of curtains, with Mum’s old sewing machine, some patterns I found in amongst Dad’s stuff and a bit of help from Iris in Haberdashery.
‘Hello lovey.’ It’s Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee. She used to run my department, Women’s Accessories, before retiring at the grand old age of seventy-one, but after her husband spanked all their savings on his pigeons, she had to come back to work. So she now looks after the stockrooms on a part-time basis and, if I’m not mistaken, she’s changed her lipstick to movie-star red. Her Garnier blonde hair, which is usually bouffed up into a big Aunty Bessie bun, is now styled into an elegant beehive with a super sparkly diamanté clip holding it all altogether. And she’s smoothing down a smart, two-piece skirt suit instead of her usual hand-crocheted waistcoat and easy-fit trousers. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she says, crinkling the corners of her eyes.
‘Exciting?’ I say, not quite sure what she means as I press the call button for the lift. My heart is thumping with anticipation of the showdown that’s about to unfold with Tom. I wonder if he’s bracing himself too. He must know I’m on the warpath. When he didn’t answer his phone last night, I left a very terse voicemail followed by a text. Well, four to be exact. Just to be on the safe side. He needs to know how seriously upset I am.
‘With the film crew being here, dear. Did you see the show last night?’ she asks, and I nod. ‘Such innovation, your Tom is very clever. My Stan would never have come up with such an idea, but then he’s far too busy messing around with those filthy birds.’
I can’t believe it. Mrs Grace is the last person I thought would approve of Tom’s actions. She’s not even keen on TV, much preferring her bingo. And being such a stalwart for tradition, a self-appointed protector of the Carrington’s good old days, she really wasn’t happy when we got a memo saying not to address customers as Sir or Madam any more. Tom said research showed it sounded old-fashioned, that some women get offended by it, it makes them feel old – and, as much as it pains me to say, given how I feel about him at this precise moment in time, I do think he had a very good point.
‘Oh dear, what is it love? You don’t look very happy. Here … ’ Mrs Grace snaps open her granny bag and pulls out a crumpled pink-and-white striped paper bag full of pick ’n’ mix sweets. ‘These will cheer you up.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, helping myself to a slightly fluffy foam banana. I take a bite and relish the sugary taste.
‘Take two, one is never enough,’ she chuckles, rustling the bag enticingly, so I take a green pear drop to be polite and pop it in my pocket. ‘I thought you youngsters loved the telly. It’s the only reason I voted in favour of doing the show.’
‘Voted? What do you mean?’ I ask, creasing my forehead and racking my brains as I try to work out what’s going on. She’s standing directly underneath one of the original 1920s Tiffany wall lamps, which is casting an eerie glow on her face, and I can’t help thinking that it makes her look like one of those spooky old china dolls.
‘At the special staff meeting in the canteen after work one night. Ooh, it must have been a good few weeks ago now, may even have been a few months. My memory’s not so good these days,’ she chuckles as the lift arrives and I crank the cage door back. We step inside and I pull the door closed before pressing the gold button.
‘Was everyone at this meeting?’ I must be going mad. I definitely wasn’t invited to a meeting, and surely Sam and Eddie would have mentioned it last night if they already knew about the TV show. Fair enough, Sam might not have known, given that she’s not technically a Carrington’s employee – her café business leases the space. But anyway, if she knew, maybe overheard one of the other sales assistants talking over a coffee perhaps, then she would definitely have told me, there’s no way she would have kept a secret this massive. No, Sam was as shocked as I was. She was actually speechless, and it takes a lot for that to happen to Sam. Eddie, on the other hand, may have held out on me, but then he is Tom’s BA so I suppose he’s kind of conflicted, a bit. On second thoughts, no! There’s no way Eddie would have managed to contain himself for a nanosecond, let alone weeks or even months – he was way too excited about me becoming a star.
‘Oh no, just the board and a handful of senior staff,’ Mrs Grace continues. ‘I was invited because I used to be a manager. Confidentiality they said. On a “need-to-know” basis only.’ She pushes her granny bag into the crook of her elbow before making little quotes signs with her bony fingers. ‘But between you and me, I think I was only invited as a courtesy, probably to get me on side so I didn’t form a protest.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Oldest trick in the book – get the potential troublemaker on board first.’ She chuckles. ‘We even had to sign a form to say we wouldn’t blab any of the details as it would spoil the surprise element of the show. Very Hollywood and hush-hush, it was. They gave us free pizza,’ she says, pronouncing it peeeza, ‘although I didn’t have any as all that cheese gives me heartburn something rotten.’ Mrs Grace pauses to pat her chest. ‘And they paid for a cab home. Kelly wasn’t actually in the meeting, just the production team, but her glamorous assistant was and she’s a real beauty up close. All milky skin and bee-sting lips.’
Incredible.