‘Was there something else?’ I ask James on seeing his hesitation.
‘It’ll keep,’ he says over his shoulder as he strolls off towards the escalators.
3
After processing a card payment for a sparkly teardrop necklace, I turn towards my customer. She’s wearing a shiny green skirt that’s the same colour as a Quality Street triangle and has the biggest static hairdo I’ve ever seen.
‘There you are.’ I’ve gift-wrapped the item and popped it into one of our special Valentine jewellery bags. Crimson with silver rope handles, and a sprinkle of limited edition Cupid-shaped confetti. ‘And thank you very much.’ I smile, making sure I maintain eye contact.
‘Thank you dear. It’s for my daughter, her thirtieth. You know, she was actually born on Valentine’s Day, just after midnight, a true gift of love my husband always says. It’s so exciting … but makes me feel very old,’ she chuckles, patting her hair-helmet before stowing the receipt safely in her purse. A lump catches briefly in my throat as I remember Mum. She loved birthdays, always got excited too. I swallow hard and smile. It wouldn’t do to crumble in front of a customer. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on and everything else can be left behind the scenes. Safe and secure. Unlike my foster home, where Nanny Jean used to sigh whenever I walked in the room and her husband would yell ‘cup of tea’ at me all the time like I was the live-in maid. And as for their brat of a birth daughter, Kimberley, who once told me it was no wonder my real family didn’t want me, given how ugly I was …
‘Well, you must have been very young when your daughter was born,’ I say warmly, shoving the memories from my head.
‘You’re very kind. And yes, I suppose I was,’ she replies in a dreamy voice, as if casting her mind back. She pats my hand and smiles before leaving.
The shop floor is really quiet, so I choose a selection of our very best bags for the Russian to browse through and take them up the back stairs to the personal shopping suite before bombing back down to my till. Carrington’s is a bit of a maze. The underground corridors down in the basement go on forever and there’s even one that runs all the way to the old music hall at the other end of Lovelace Walk, a few streets away. Rumour has it that the original Mr H. Carrington, aka Dirty Harry, had the corridor built especially as a discreet way to ‘visit’ showgirls, then pay them in kind by inviting them back for secret late-night shopping sprees. Sort of like a free trolley dash in return for sex I suppose. Mrs Grace told me all about it.
Once back, I discreetly tilt the computer screen and decide to Google Malikov while indulging in some online window shopping. I tap the screen to bring up the Carrington’s Home Shopping site. As I select the home furnishings icon, Eddie sidles up to my counter.
‘God I’m bored,’ he says, pulling a sulky face. ‘The Heff has gone off somewhere, said he won’t be back until the end of the day, so I’ve got nothing to do. You know he can be so selfish sometimes.’
‘There must be something you can find to busy yourself with,’ I say, distractedly, as I hover the cursor over the ‘Get the Look’ tab.
‘Nope. Nothing …’ Eddie pauses and stares into the middle distance for a bit before announcing, ‘I know! Let’s go to Patagonia and flirt with cowboys.’ He widens his eyes and crosses his arms.
Refusing to be distracted, I click the mouse and take a look at a colonial-style bedroom.
‘What do you think of this?’ I ask, tapping the screen.
‘Boring!’ he says, dismissively. ‘And look at the price tag – more than two thousand pounds. Even with our staff discount card it’s still extortionate. Sweet Jeeeesus … I’d want my whole flat and my next-door neighbour’s refurbished for that amount.’
‘Oh me too, this stuff is way outside my budget.’
‘So why are you looking then?’
‘Well there’s no harm in taking a peek.’
‘Of course there isn’t, but tell me something – why are you up to your eyes in debt?’ he says, placing the tip of his little finger at the side of his mouth and pulling a quizzical face.
‘You know why – it was hard when I came out of care, I just wanted somewhere nice to live like everyone else and got sucked in by all those adverts dishing out 125 per cent mortgages like free newspapers at the station,’ I say, remembering the sticky cold lino and thin faded towels at Nanny Jean’s house, while Kimberley kept all the big fluffy pink ones in her bedroom. And the bank didn’t hesitate in giving me the mortgage, even though any idiot knew I really couldn’t afford the payments without achieving record sales commission every month for ever and ever and ever. Those were the days when designer handbags were a must-have and my sales commission skyrocketed as a result. I just wish I’d known back then that the boom would eventually bust.
‘OK, calm down, you know you didn’t even take a breath then. And I’m sorry, didn’t mean to upset you and bring it all back.’ I pull a face, thinking about the grubby bedsit I wound up in after I was shunted from the care system, with my whole world stuffed inside a couple of black sacks and a jaded social worker to guide me. I was on my own, and the only way to eke out my junior sales assistant’s salary and make ends meet was by living on credit cards and personal loans.
‘Now, where were we?’ I ask Eddie.
‘You were just about to buy something,’ he laughs.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say, clicking to close the Internet browser.
‘Oh, I’m only joking, kiddo.’ Eddie pats my arm.
‘So, has Smith rung yet?’ I ask, swiftly sidestepping the focus away from my mountainous debt problem. Eddie’s the only one who knows about it. He was with me when my debit card got declined in Starbucks one time – it was the day before payday and I was mortified. But Eddie swiftly stepped in and defused the situation by handing the barista a fiver before giving me a hug and a bite of his skinny peach muffin. I ended up telling him everything over a scalding chai tea latte, right back from the start.
‘Not a whiff,’ Eddie says, looking despondent. He scans the shop floor and after making sure regular customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, can’t hear as they wave at me on their way over to the escalator, he leans in close and whispers, ‘Do you think I should call him? Only I don’t want to look desperate or anything.’ He nervously plucks at the skin on his neck. ‘It’s driving me mad, what do you think I should do?’
‘Mmmm, tricky one. Maybe hold out until tomorrow, if you can. Let him know what he’s missing,’ I say, feeling sorry for him having to endure the ‘will he or won’t he call?’ agony. He doesn’t have much luck with men, and I really thought he’d met a keeper this time.
‘But what if it’s too late? All I want to know is if he still feels the same way. I’m just not sure any more.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ I ask, keeping my voice low.
He shrugs before answering.
‘Weell … not coming to the party for starters, when he’d promised to. And I still haven’t heard from him with an explanation. It just doesn’t look very positive for a successful Valentine’s Day, does it?’
‘I suppose not,’ I reply, unsure of what else to say. ‘But like you said earlier in the lift, it’s his loss,’ I add, brightly.
‘Hmmm, guess I was just being ballsy.’ Eddie