Cupcakes at Carrington’s (Carringtons Department Store 1) (11 page)

‘Of course,’ I mutter, glad to have my share of the Malikov sale. That’ll get my section off to a good start.

‘Oh, and you’ll report directly to me from now on. What day do you have off?’

‘Err, Monday,’ I say, praying she’s not about to make me give it up. Everyone knows it’s the best day off to make a weekend when you work every Saturday.

‘Then your weekly one-to-one meeting with me will be at seven sharp every Tuesday morning. I like to start bright and early.’ She rubs her hands together before flicking her big hair around for a bit.

‘Great,’ I say with a forced smile, feeling relieved that my day off is safe.
Good for you
. I bet she’s one of those crazy types that just
lurrves
a military-style boot camp session, preferably outdoors in the lashing rain, while normal people are still snuggled up in bed because it’s practically the middle of the night.

‘Oh, and keep the first Sunday in February free … the board thought a series of “team-building jollies” might keep spirits up, so I’ve put you down for the first session,’ she adds, pulling a face as if the whole idea is totally abhorrent to her.

T
he
door at the staff exit is so heavy it seems like an eternity before I eventually step out onto the pavement. I breathe in, and the salty sea air catches in my lungs. The euphoria at not losing my job has quickly subsided, leaving an empty realisation that if my section isn’t deemed the most profitable, I’ll most likely be unemployed. I can’t seem to quell the panic that’s coursing through me at the thought of that chilling prospect. It was practically impossible to revise at Nanny Jean’s with the TV blaring out and Kimberley hollering all day long, so I know damn well I’ll struggle to find something else with my qualifications. It didn’t matter so much at the start, but these days even graduates with a degree in retail management are finding it tough to find jobs. Not that
there are any other department stores in Mulberry-On-Sea,
and practically none of the smaller, boutique-style shops are taking on new staff, in fact quite a few have already closed down, there are loads of empty units in the pedestrianised bit of town. Everyone is feeling the pinch.

I guess I could commute to London, but then with the huge monthly travel costs to fork out for, I’d never earn enough to cover the rest of my overheads. And James will hate me if I stay and he has to go – he took me on in the first place. And I’ll be competing against Tom and I don’t know anything about him.

Then there’s my guilty secret debt problem, I’ve got to do something about it as it’s bound to come out when HR do the checks. I feel as though I’m being backed into a corner.

I need some time alone. Time to think before I face the others. I decide to head for Gino’s, the little Italian deli tucked down a narrow cobbled lane behind Carrington’s. I haven’t been there for a while; it’s got a little seating area for espresso and tapas and it’s perfect for my current mood.

As I walk along, pounding the hard pavement, a woman on roller skates burns past me, her white shirt billowing around like a puff of smoke as she elbows me out of the way. The roller skates remind me of Dad, and of clinging on to his hand as I attempted to balance on the pair of rainbow-coloured roller skates I got for my tenth birthday. Thinking of Dad makes me wonder what it must have been like for him all of those years ago. I ponder for a moment, and then after remembering what Sam said in the club, I pull my mobile out from my bag and scroll through the address book to find his number.

‘Hello darling, what a wonderful surprise. Is everything OK?’ His voice sounds worried. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ There’s an awkward silence.

‘I
am
at work,’ I reply, a little too sharply. ‘Well, I just popped out and … err, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you the other day,’ I manage, trying to disguise the unease in my voice. ‘So how are you?’ I add, awkwardly.

‘I’m fine. A bit tired. Anyway, enough about me. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ he says, and for a moment it’s as though everything that’s gone on between us before has been forgotten in an instant. But then my back constricts. I start to feel as though calling him was a bad idea, and I realise that I’m just not ready to forget what he did to us … especially to Mum. ‘You know I was telling Uncle Geoffrey how well you’ve done, and he said to pass on his love.’ The thought of my dad’s brother conjures up images of when it all happened. I remember Uncle Geoffrey bringing over suitcases full of my cousin Olivia’s old cast-offs. Olivia is a couple of years older than me and has always been much taller. But ‘beggars can’t be choosers’, that’s what Uncle Geoffrey used to say when he hauled the suitcase up onto the kitchen table. Mum would thank him profusely for his generosity while I stood there shivering in my vest and knickers waiting to try on the clothes that were always too big. And all the time I was thinking I’d make sure I had nice clothes that fitted me properly when I was grown-up.

‘So how’s work?’ he asks, plugging the gap of silence.

‘Fine.’ I decide not to tell him what’s happened. I don’t want Uncle Geoffrey to know I might be unemployed soon with grim prospects. Gloating, just like he did all those years ago in the kitchen. The thought makes me panicky, it will be near on impossible to find another job if I’m let go. There are so many people getting laid off at the moment, I’ll be on the scrapheap before I’m even thirty.

‘So what’s up then?’ he asks, knowing me too well.

‘Nothing.’ I hate myself for lying.

‘You can always talk to me, darling …’ His voice trails off and I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have called him. Not now. Breaking the silence I mutter, ‘Dad … please don’t.’

‘I’m sorry darling. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

I swallow hard and feel like a fool. I should never have burdened myself with a ridiculous 125 per cent mortgage. And for what? Just to fit in? Make myself feel better? To prove a point to the girls in the playground? My mind spins and for a moment I feel as though I’m suffocating.

‘You enjoy it darling. You’ve worked extremely hard and I know it wasn’t easy for you, starting out with nothing and having to cope with what I did. And all alone too. But you did it, and long may it continue. I’m very proud of you.’

‘Thank you,’ I mumble, just about managing to mask the well of emotion that’s going to burst at any moment. I have to keep the job.

‘And Mum would be too,’ Dad adds, quietly. Tears start streaming down my face now, I can’t hold them in, and I try and force myself to stop crying. I put my free hand over my mouth so Dad can’t hear the gasps. ‘Hello. Georgie are you still there? Hello, hello?’ I can hear Dad’s voice but I can’t speak. ‘Damn gadgets, useless waste of time,’ Dad puffs, before hanging up.

I shove my phone into my pocket and pull out an old tissue to blow my nose on. I feel utterly crap as I carry on walking.

Gino’s, as always, looks warm and inviting. Its 1950s décor of blue and white tiles above caramel-coloured painted wood panels is old-fashioned but comforting, and with a bit of luck I won’t bump into anybody from work in here.

‘Bella! Long time no see.’ Gino looks up from a huge bowl of green pesto he’s lovingly spooning into small pots, and I manage to smile back, hoping my tissue rescue job performed a few minutes ago outside has worked well enough to hide the tear stains. ‘What can I get you, a milky tea?’

‘Yes please. And lots of sugar,’ I say, suddenly craving a sugar rush like it’s the only excitement on offer these days.

‘Take a seat and I’ll bring it over,’ he says, gesturing with his hand towards the tables.

‘Thank you.’ I make my way over to a corner one and busy myself with draping my coat across the back of the rickety wooden chair, when Mrs Grace, my predecessor in Women’s Accessories, appears at my side.

‘Mind if I join you, love?’ she says, unbuttoning her wool coat before patting the back of her Garnier blonde Aunty Bessie bun. I shake my head, not wanting to be rude, and she sits down opposite me. Gino arrives with our drinks and hands us two steaming pink mugs.

‘Thanks Gino,’ I say, and he dashes back to the counter.

‘A little treat to cheer you up.’ Mrs Grace pulls a red foil-wrapped chocolate heart from her granny handbag and places it on the table in front of me. Her kindness makes me well up again. ‘Oh lovey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you again. Come on now, no tears. I spotted you leaving the store when I was outside having a ciggy. I could see you were upset so I followed you. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘Sorry.’ I dab my eyes again.

‘Tell me,’ she says gently, handing me a napkin. ‘I’m old, but sometimes a friendly ear can help.’ Mrs Grace looks across at me, her crinkly eyes full of concern. And the whole story comes tumbling out like a confessional.

‘You’ll be fine, sweetheart,’ Mrs Grace says, when I’ve finished telling her everything. ‘I’ve seen it all before. These high-flying types … coming in and shaking us all up with their fancy ideas.’ Mrs Grace crosses her arms and purses her lips. ‘And I must say that Maxine one is
very
full of herself. Nothing a decent square meal wouldn’t fix, mind you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, it’s the hunger, dear – makes them all edgy and overzealous,’ she explains, rolling her eyes.

Mrs Grace has heard everything, about today’s meeting with Maxine, and how I’ve now got to compete with James and Tom if I’m to stand a chance of keeping my job and not lose everything. I’ve even confided in her about my guilty secret crush on Tom, even though he can’t be trusted. And how deep down I’m fed up of spending Valentine’s Day on my own. Let alone going to a wedding that will no doubt be crammed full of happy couples, while I’m being ‘Bridget Jones alone’, unless a miracle occurs and I manage to find an actual date to invite. I yearn to look forward to 14 February, to feel excited. And light and skippy and in love, just as I was once with Brett. She also listened patiently while I told her about my debilitating debt problem and how it could totally ruin everything if it comes out. I’ll be deemed a risk.

‘Oh, I wish it were that easy, Mrs Grace,’ I say, trying to feel brighter.

‘And you tell James that he must stop touching your fingers. He has a wife,’ Mrs Grace says sternly, wagging her bony finger in the air. I manage a feeble giggle, imagining James’s face if I actually said that to him. Besides, he might not even speak to me now we’re going to be competing. ‘Though I heard on the grapevine that he and Maxine were once an item.’ She folds her arms.

My mouth drops open.

‘
Whaat?
’ I manage.

‘James and Maxine. They went out together after meeting on some training course in London, before he met and married his wife.’ She shakes her head. ‘That Maxine is now a woman scorned, I imagine. And James’s future is in her hands.’

I try to take in this piece of information. It all makes sense now, his reaction when she was introduced. And Mrs Grace could be wrong about who had dumped who: what if Maxine favours James? She could still have a thing for him. Or worse still, James might rekindle what he had with her. I know he’s married, but she is supermodel-stunning after all. Then where would that leave me – she’s hardly going to get rid of him if they are an item, is she?

I grab my bag. ‘Oh, look at the time,’ I say in a breezy voice. ‘I’d better go, but thanks so much for the sympathetic ear, Mrs Grace,’ I say gratefully.

‘Fate will see you right, my dear,’ she whispers, and suddenly my mind is crystal clear. I know what I have to do. ‘And don’t give up on Cupid … his arrow will find a way to your heart,’ she smiles, and gives me a big hug, enveloping me in a comforting, nostalgic mixture of stale perfume and Revlon lipstick.

‘
T
here you are.’ Eddie runs towards me as soon as I step out of the staff lift. He looks agitated. ‘Do you know where James is?’

‘Err … no. What’s up?’

‘It’s the Russian – seems he’s in the mood for more shopping and I’ve been calling your section for the last half-hour at least,’ he pants.

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, you’re here now. James has gone AWOL, can’t get hold of him at all and the Russian is going to be here
like any minute now
. You better hurry, he wants you to meet him outside by the main entrance.’

‘
But why?
’ I ask, wondering why he can’t just come in the store like all the other customers. I mean, it’s not as if he’s mega-famous or anything. Probably just thinks it makes him look exclusive or something.

‘I don’t know, something about a late lunch en route to the airport.’ Eddie nudges me. ‘Hubba hubba,’ he laughs, and I swat him on the arm.

‘Stop it, you’re revolting.’ A shiver of panic courses through me at the prospect of being alone with Malikov.

‘You’d better watch out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, before you know it he’ll have you drenched in Shalimar and spread-eagled across his leatherette waterbed while he sucks on a Monte Cristo and asks you to call him Daddy.’

‘Err, ran-dom! Even by your standards,’ I say, stifling a giggle.

‘You mark my words.’ Eddie folds his arms and looks at me, meaningfully.

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. He probably just wants me to escort him around the store or up to the personal shopping suite. And besides, he’s not that old,’ I protest, desperately clinging to my own words for reassurance.

‘Oh well, why not – at least it’s a bit of excitement, unlike the rest of Mulberry-On-Sea.’

‘If it’s so boring here, why do you stay?’

‘Cos you’re here. The very best friend a girl could have.’ He looks serious for a brief moment. ‘I can talk to you and you never judge me, that counts for a lot in my book.’

‘Aw, that’s so nice Ed.’

‘Hmm, lap it up pussycat because it’s the only time I’m saying it.’ I squeeze his cheek and he shoves my hand away. ‘Whatevs! Now go. You don’t want to keep your sugar daddy waiting.’ Eddie makes a shooing action towards me.