‘I’ll put the shoe in Lost Property, shall I?’
‘No!’ Realising that he’d overreacted, that she was looking at him at little oddly, he said, taking the shoe from her, ‘I’ll do it. I’ve already wasted enough of your time. Thanks for your help.’
‘No problem, Mr Hart. I’ll keep my eyes open.’
He nodded, but doubted she’d see her and, more in hope than expectation of finding some clue, he retraced his steps back down to the first floor, where he stopped to take another look out over the busy ground floor.
As the afternoon had shifted into evening and offices had emptied, it had become even more frantic, but he would have spotted that black dress amid the madness, the pale blonde swish of hair. That was a real giveaway, one that she should cover up as quickly as possible.
She’d need a scarf, he thought. Or a hat. A hat would be better. It would not only cover her hair, but throw a shadow over her face where a scarf would only draw attention to it.
And once she’d changed her appearance she could risk the shoe department. He’d wait there.
As he started down the stairs, he noticed a display slightly out of alignment, stopped to adjust it and saw a lace-trimmed handkerchief lying on the floor.
He bent to pick it up and caught again that faint, subtle scent that hadn’t come out of any bottle.
Had she dashed in from the street to take cover, bolted up the stairs, paused here for a moment to catch her breath, get her bearings?
Where was she now?
Famous last thoughts.
The minute Lucy opened the door to the staff area she was leapt upon by a flushed and harassed-looking woman wearing a security badge proclaiming her to be Pam Wootton, Human Resources.
‘At last! The agency said you’d be here an hour ago. I’d just about given up hope.’
Agency? Oh, good grief, the elf hadn’t been talking about Christmas garlands but the Garland Agency. The suppliers of the crème de la crème of secretarial staff. She’d had an interview with them when she was looking for a job but she didn’t have the kind of experience it took to be a ‘Garland Girl’.
There was a certain irony in being mistaken for one now, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from grabbing the opportunity with both hands.
‘I’m soooo sorry. The Underground…’ She didn’t have to say another word. It was the excuse that just gave and gave. ‘And it’s started to snow,’ she threw in for good measure.
‘Snow! Oh, great,’ Pam said. ‘That’s all I need. Getting home tonight is going to be a nightmare.’ And she pressed her hand to her forehead as if trying to keep her brain in.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked, forgetting her own worries for a moment. The woman looked flushed and not at all well.
‘Ask me again in February,’ she replied with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘When the January sales are over.’ Then, pulling herself together, ‘It’s just a bit of a headache. I’ll take something for it when I get back to the office. Come on, there’s no time to waste. Let’s get you changed.’
‘Changed?’
‘Into your costume,’ she said, opening a cupboard and revealing a rail of short green tunics. Then, glancing back at her, ‘Didn’t they tell you anything…’ she looked at her clipboard ‘…I don’t seem to have your name.’
‘Lu…’ Noooooo!
Pam looked up. ‘Lou? As in Louise?’
Gulp.
‘Yes! Louise.’ Whew. Pam was still waiting. ‘Louise…Braithwaite.’ It was the first name that came into her head.
‘And you have got a CRB Certificate, Louise?’ Pam asked, pen poised to tick boxes, going through the motions.
‘A CRB Certificate?’
She sighed. ‘You can’t work in the grotto without a criminal records check. I did explain the situation to Garlands. If you haven’t got one…’
Grotto?
The penny dropped.
Pam had mistaken her for an elf.
Out of the fairy tale frying pan, into the…um…fairy tale fire…
‘DIDN’T Garlands explain?’ Pam asked.
‘It was a bad connection…’ so bad it was non-existent ‘…I must have missed that bit. But I have been CRB checked,’ she said. ‘I worked in a day-care nursery before…Well, until recently.’
Oh, boy, Lucy Bright. The ability to look someone in the eye and tell a big fat lie had to be catching. His Frogginess would be proud of her.
Not that she’d lied about having a CRB Certificate. It wasn’t under the name Louise Braithwaite, of course, but it was the real deal. She’d had to have one for the day job at the nursery while she’d been studying at night school. She’d worked as a waitress in the local pizza parlour on her free evenings and at the weekends to earn the money to pay for her course.
Much good it had done her.
She’d applied for hundreds of jobs before she’d got an interview for a clerical assistant post at the Henshawe Corporation. The fact that there had been an interview panel for such a junior position had thrown her, but it had been very informal. They’d been incredibly impressed at how hard she’d worked and encouraged her to talk about her ambitions.
She still remembered the stunned silence when she’d finished telling them passionately that she wanted to prove herself. Make something of herself, be someone. And then they’d applauded her.
When, the following day, they had called her to offer her a job, she’d thought herself the luckiest woman in the world.
‘I realise that Garlands know what they’re doing, but I still have to ask,’ Pam muttered. ‘It’s been so difficult since the new laws about working with children were introduced. We normally get in drama students at Christmas but not too many of them have had the foresight to get a CRBC. I don’t suppose they see themselves doing a Christmas gig as one of Santa’s Little Helpers when they get a place at RADA. That’s why I called Garlands.’
‘They supply elves?’ she asked, which got her an odd look.
‘They place temporary nannies.’
‘Just kidding.’ Whew…
Pam stared down at her feet. ‘What happened to your shoes?’
‘I broke a heel in a grating.’ The truth, the whole truth and almost nothing but the truth…
‘Oh, bad luck.’ They shared a moment of silent mourning, then, pressing on, ‘You’re a bit buxom for an elf,’ she said, looking at her doubtfully, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers. There should be something that fits.’ She held one of the tunics up against her, then thrust it at her, piling the rest of the costume on top. ‘You’ve got small feet. These should do.’ She put a pair of soft felt bootees on top of the pile and then took a small plastic pouch out of a box and added that to the pile. ‘The elf make-up pack. Rouge for your cheeks, a pencil for freckles—you’ll find a picture of what’s required inside. And there’s a pad to remove your nail polish. You can change down here,’ she said, leading the way down a short flight of steps. ‘Find