I think about it. On one hand, this is a huge lie, but on the other hand, what else am I going to tell Leo? I’ve already made the mistake of telling him I work here; I can’t exactly go back on it now, can I? And the problem still stands. I cannot tell him I work for One Light because he’ll realize who I am. The bank is really convenient because it’s next door to One Light and we share a car park at the back with the other buildings in this part of the street. Our back doors are literally one step away from each other. It wouldn’t be too difficult to come in here if he happens to be watching like this morning, and walk through and out the back into the charity shop. And I’m determined to help Leo in some way. I’m going to become his friend whether he likes it or not. This doesn’t end at him walking me to work in a downpour …
‘The bloke from It’s A Wonderful Latte,’ Casey says when she’s decided I’m not answering fast enough.
‘Oh, good going, Georgia!’ He holds his hand up for a high five. ‘Leo Summers. I know him. His father used to bank here. Lovely lad.’
I reluctantly slap his hand, feeling like this conversation has happened without me.
‘Consider the bank at your disposal. Use us whenever you like. I’d love to be part of a good love story. It’s like something you see in the movies, isn’t it? Like your It’s a Wonderful Life. My wife keeps saying it’s on the telly but we never find time to sit down and watch it.’
‘You definitely should. It’s timeless and so heartwarming, especially at this time of year.’
‘I know because she’s made me watch it with her seventy thousand times over the years. Anyone would think she was named after the main character or something,’ Casey says.
‘It’s a good film,’ I say, glancing out the back window at Mary and one of the volunteers standing under their umbrellas, undoubtedly talking about how late I am, and I’m standing here discussing films.
‘I don’t like films that make me cry,’ Casey says.
‘My wife loves a good weepie. I’ll make it a mission to watch it this Christmas.’ Jerry leans over and unlocks the back door for me. ‘Don’t forget, come in any time you need to for your love story.’
‘It’s not a love story,’ I protest.
‘It’s a coffee story,’ Casey says. ‘Apparently we’re all having a coffee with lunch today. Georgia’s paying.’
‘Fine, but yours will be an apple pie latte,’ I say, knowing full well that Casey thinks festive-flavoured coffees are an affront to humanity. ‘It’s not about money. It’s about making Leo feel like his hard work is worth it.’
Even as I think it, I know it’s pointless. Leo doesn’t need to sell an extra coffee or two and another batch of muffins. He needs a massive increase in customers. Like every other business on this street has needed for years. Like One Light needs to sell more than a couple of Christmas party dresses and hideous old suits as Halloween costumes to stay afloat. A whole round of coffees for the bank might help for a day but it won’t do anything in the long run.
I can’t stop thinking about it as I go to rescue Mary and the volunteer from the sopping car park. My mind is elsewhere as I listen to Mary worriedly ignoring her own wet coat and soaking grey hair to make sure I’m not late for reasons of ill health, ask if everything’s okay with my dad, and why I look so distracted.
I don’t tell her I’m distracted because seeing Leo makes my day better every morning, and I’ve never realized how much truth there is in the saying that the saddest people always try the hardest to make others happy.
I know above all things that I want to help him. And not just because I fancy him, but because I’ve been handed a unique opportunity. He doesn’t know that he’s shared this with me. Or, at least, he doesn’t know that I’m who he’s shared this with. This is fate. He found a leaflet on the bridge that I put there. He owns a shop called It’s A Wonderful Latte, named after my mum’s favourite Christmas film. She didn’t name me Georgia Bailey for nothing. This is fate telling me to be like Clarence, the guardian angel who stopped my namesake jumping off a bridge in the film. This doesn’t just happen, does it? Leo needs help. And I’m going to help him.
I’m just not sure how yet.
* * *
It’s while I’m in the window getting the mannequins dressed in our best evening wear and standing them around in groups like they’re nattering at a Christmas party, setting up tables full of empty glasses and a sparkling tree in one corner of the display that an idea comes to me. I keep going outside to see how the window looks, and every time I do, I back up just a little bit more than needed so I can see around the corner and up towards It’s A Wonderful Latte.
A woman is peering in the window, but her eyes fall on the gingerbread house and she turns away rather than going in. There are a couple of people around, but not one of them so much as glances at Leo’s window.
‘The windows look wonderful,’ Mary says, having made no comment about them being left unfinished last night even though she must have noticed. ‘Just as wonderful now as they did when you went out to check them the first sixty times.’
She knows something is going on. I can feel her eyes on me because I never go outside to see how the windows look from a customer’s perspective this often.
Creating eye-catching displays that showcase the very best of our stock is probably the biggest part of my job. I know how hard it is to get anyone on this street to look at your window displays, and Leo hasn’t even got a window display, he’s just got a gingerbread house. It might be a good gingerbread house, but it’s not going to make anyone stop in their tracks and rush into his shop. Windows on this street need to be special. This is no longer a street where people mosey about and leisurely wander into shops. These days, the only reason anyone walks down this street is because it’s a shortcut to somewhere better. Window displays don’t just need to be good, they need to be spectacular. They don’t just need to be eye-catching, they need to grab people by the eyeballs and drag them through the door. Figuratively, not literally. That would just be weird. And probably painful and a bit messy.
It does get me thinking though. Window displays are kind of my thing. I got this job because of decorating a window. I’d gone for the interview at the flagship shop in Bristol, and one of the tasks was to decorate their window with only items in the shop. They loved what I did with it and offered me the job despite my lack of experience.
We’re told again and again the importance of seasonal windows. It’s December – everyone wants a bit of Christmas at this time of year, and Leo’s gingerbread house isn’t cutting it. It’s doing nothing to attract customers, and customers are what he needs.
I go outside and look again, not even pretending to be looking at our windows this time. Normally Leo loves Christmas. It wouldn’t hurt to remind him of that, and make his window a bit more attractive in the process, would it? I used to paint. Once upon a time, I wanted to be an artist, and my dad still has a shed full of my old paint. I could do something with that, couldn’t I?
It’s dark when I go back to Oakbarrow High Street. The bag over my shoulder is heavy with spray paint and the tube that holds my stencils is battling for space in my hands with a torch, and my dad’s old portable steps are swung over the other shoulder.
There are no streetlights as I walk down the main road through Oakbarrow, hoping not to run into anyone except Bernard, and telling myself I’m being stupid to worry about it. No mugger would bother with Oakbarrow anymore; there’s nothing to mug.
I stop outside It’s A Wonderful Latte and lower my bags carefully to the pavement. I don’t know why I’m being quiet but everything seems