Me and Mr Carrington: A Short Story (2 page)

I pull out my iPhone to check for more messages. Nope, nothing. I tap through to my sent items just to be sure my reply to Tom did actually get sent. I hope so – I must have deleted the original and then tweaked it at least six times before I was satisfied it didn’t sound too needy, or clingy or desperate or whatever … I’m all in favour of appearing bright, breezy and chatty. Didn’t want to come across all bunny-boiler and scare him off. Frustrating, when what I actually wanted to write was,
I literally CAN NOT stop thinking about you, hell, you’ve even appeared in my dreams, several times in fact. NAKED. Gloriously tanned, glistening in mist spray and begging to take me right there, wherever that may be. The last scenario was in the sauna
(at the health club I joined and never went to but he doesn’t need to know that)
resulting in me waking up in a very hot and highly sensitised state …
or words to that effect.

And this situation would be so much easier if Sam was here, she’d know what to do, she’s an expert when it comes to bagging the man of your dreams, but she’s on honeymoon so there’s no way I’m interrupting her and Nathan to chat about my potential new lover …
Hmm, steady on.
It was just a kiss; several in fact. Yes, very passionate ones, but still, early days and all that. Besides, given my track record with men, I think it’s fair to consider that it could quite possibly fizzle away to nothing and I’ll miss out on having incredible sex with the sexiest man I’ve ever had the resoundingly good fortune to meet. Not to mention the chance of an actual bona fide relationship.

We make it in to the staff room and after hanging up my mac and checking my make-up for rain slippage, I find my phone and click to view the email that I did eventually send.

Hi Tom,

Thanks for your email and for surprising me on the day before Sam’s wedding, which went really well btw. She’s now Mrs Taylor!

Oh God, why did I put that? Like he really cares what my best friend’s new surname is. Cringe. I quickly press on.

It was lovely seeing you and I can’t wait to continue from where we left off.

Better. A bit too formal, but then he started it off like that. And then I go and ruin it all by signing off with this.

Luv

Georgie
xoxoxo

What on earth was I THINKING? Everyone knows love spelt L-U-V is code for I think I might actually love you already even though we’ve only kissed a few times, how else can I explain my totally irrational obsession with thinking about you every single second, it’s insane when I barely know you, BUT, I don’t want to look too keen and scare you off by actually writing the L word because I’m not really some kind of
fffffreak
with a fixation complex AT ALL. And as for the smiley face emoticon and the multiple hugs and kisses? Oh God. Purlease.
Saaaaave
me. What am I? Twelve years old!

I tell myself it will be better when he’s back and we can communicate face-to-face, or better still, skin-on-skin. Nothing gets lost in translation then …

‘Don’t suppose you know when Tom is due back, by any chance?’ I turn to Eddie, who is Tom’s personal assistant after all. Well, boy assistant or BA for short. I will him to say ‘today’ and I’m already visualising me in my new French silk navy underwear set with matching lace-trim stockings, leading Tom by the hand into my bedroom just like the sultry siren I imagine myself to be in those dreams, when Eddie goes and ruins it all.

‘Sorry, petal, a month or so, I think … but I’m not sure.’ He gives me a sympathetic look then returns to inspecting his already immaculate cuticles. A MONTH! Oh no, no, no. I can’t wait that long. And how can Tom disappear for such a long time when he has a department store to run? ‘No doubt I’ll be enlightened further once I’ve thumbed through his schedule,’ Eddie continues, ‘but he did say something about travelling on to meetings in Milan and Paris with suppliers and brand managers once he’s left Sicily. You know how keen he is to be hands-on in turning Carrington’s around, which we all know, this store is in dire need of if last quarter’s sales figures are anything to go by. Plus he wants to get to know everyone involved in the store personally. Some more than others.’ Eddie nudges me hard, not missing a beat. ‘Which reminds me … Have you had the memo re the VIP summer sale preview event next month?’

‘Yes, I’m sure I saw something about it,’ I say quickly, feeling bamboozled by this sudden shift in subject. I want to talk about Tom.

‘Good, because the board has given me a list of VIPs to invite, and one of them, a personal friend of the Carrington family, Countess someone or another, has specifically requested a tour of the high-end handbag selection.’

‘Ooh, I shall look forward to meeting her in that case.’ I make a mental note to put together a selection of our very finest bags, realising that it might actually be a good opportunity to have something other than my obsession with Tom to think about, if only for a few seconds. And we could certainly do with some decent sales – as Eddie says, things have been extremely quiet this quarter.

‘Anyway, must dash sweetcheeks. People to please and all that …’ He plops his Costa cup in a bin before swinging open the door and sweeping away. And then, as if by magic, my phone pings alerting me to one lovely new email. I let my finger hover, savouring the potential promise this numerical symbol offers. And bingo! It’s another message from Tom. Maybe he likes emoticons after all! My pulse quickens.

Pinning my gold Carrington’s name badge on to my uniform black top, I practically skip through the door leading to the staff corridor, bounce into the lift and float back downstairs to the shop floor. I’m going to save Tom’s email for later and then wait as long as I can possibly bear before replying. I don’t want look too keen, and besides, right now, a whole month without him feels like an eternity so I intend on savouring every single agonisingly exquisite second of this long-distance flirtation …

The shop floor looks amazing, all summery and happy, lifting my mood to practically euphoric – the display team have done a fantastic job. Giant daisies hang on lengths of invisible string from the ceiling and the podiums dotted around the floor are swathed in pretend grass and decorated with candy-striped deckchairs, buckets and spades and piles of brightly coloured towel bales from Homeware are stacked high with bottles of lotions and potions dotted in between. Molton Brown. Cowshed. Soap and Glory, they’re all here. Another podium displays a sleek silver luggage collection beside a couple of cocktail glasses and a stack of bonkbuster beach books. Even the traditional cherry wood gilt-inlayed panelled walls have had a makeover and are now adorned with a trillion tiny daisies, pretty and sparkly with their gold-dipped petals.

I duck into the little alcove behind my counter here on the ground floor, next to the floor-to-ceiling window display giving me a magnificent view of the cobbled High Street with its white colonnaded walkway and pretty hanging baskets brimming with fuchsia begonias suspended from romantic
olde worlde
streetlamps. During quiet times, I love watching all the people milling up and down outside, or relaxing in a deckchair enjoying a musical performance on the bandstand opposite. And on a clear early morning, when the town is still empty, I can see as far as the peppermint-green railings down by the harbour and out to the glistening sea beyond.

After surreptitiously sliding my mobile from my trouser pocket, (we’re not really supposed to have phones on us, but everyone does and as long as we’re sensible and keep them on silent mode, then nobody knows) I read the email.

Hi Georgie,

I’m looking forward to picking up from where we left off too.

Tom x

Ps – does that mean I get to kiss you all over next time after I’ve tickled you into submission??

Mmm. Flirty. And I like it. A lot.

I let out a long breath before smoothing down my hair and straightening my top – one of our regular customers could appear at any moment to catch me red-cheeked, and that really wouldn’t do. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on purely for the customers’ retail shopping pleasure where everything else can be left behind the scenes. It’s all an illusion. When a customer enters Carrington’s,
the store with more
, as our strapline says, they want it to be about them, not the flirty goings-on of the sales assistant.

I sneak one last quick peek at the email before slotting my phone back inside my pocket.

‘Hey, what are you grinning like a looper for?’ It’s Annie, my assistant, and she’s scrutinising me from behind the biggest pair of sunshine yellow geek glasses I think I’ve ever seen.

‘Nice frames,’ I say.

‘Don’t try to change the subject.’ Annie flicks her frosted hair extensions back over her shoulder. ‘Something’s going on,’ she pauses to ponder, crinkling her forehead and placing her index finger on her lip. ‘You’ve had sex!’ she bellows.

‘Shuuuuush,’ I mouth, swiftly dragging her behind the Marc Jacobs display, and narrowly avoiding regular customers, Mr and Mrs Peabody, who never actually buy anything, they just like to come in store for a chat and share pictures of their grandchildren who live in California. But still, I don’t want them overhearing Annie – she can be very loud and animated when she gets going. Plus, I’m not sure I want the rest of the staff knowing about Tom and me just yet. And the last thing I want is him thinking I can’t be discrete. Trusted. He may want to keep things under wraps for now. He is the boss after all.

‘It’s Mr Carrington, isn’t it? Oh my God … It is, isn’t it!’ Annie practically screams, before slapping her hand over her mouth. ‘You are one very lucky lady.
Fuuuck
… what I wouldn’t do to grab hold of him.’ She smiles and shakes her head in disbelief.

‘Whisper-voice, Annie, someone might hear you, and no, I haven’t had sex,’ I tell her, before scanning the floor.

‘But why not? He’s totes gorge,’ she adds, lowering her voice now.

Annie makes big eyes and waits for me to respond.

‘Err …’ I start, wondering how on earth she even knows about me and Tom, when the only Carrington’s staff in the loop are my best friends, Sam and Eddie, and I trust them both. Eddie might be the biggest drama queen going, but he’s completely reliable and Sam, well, she’s the kindest, most loyal friend ever, we’re practically sisters and we’ve known each other ages – since we started school together at five years old.

‘Oh, it’s OK. Everyone knows … Well, not
everyone
everyone.’ She shakes her head and grabs my hand reassuringly. ‘Only me and Betty, that mumsy switchboard supervisor. And Mrs Grace I think, but not the customers or anything.’
Oh that’s good.
Betty is the biggest gossip going, and Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee will certainly have something to say about it. She’s a stalwart for tradition and upholding the ‘proper way to behave’; she really won’t approve of Mr Carrington carrying on with me – I can see her now, clutching her granny bag and wagging her bony finger, warning me not to dally with the likes of them upstairs on the executive floor. She’s old-fashioned and a bit of a ‘them and us’ and ‘it’s alright for them’ type.

‘
Whaaaat?
’ But how?’ I ask.

Annie leans in to me, her eyes darting from side-to-side as if she’s a spy on a special top-secret espionage mission.

‘I only found out because Betty was here on the floor a few minutes ago.’

‘Oh?’ I raise an eyebrow.

‘That’s right. She took delivery of a massive bouquet for you … from Mr Carrington!’ Annie is beside herself now and lets out an actual squeal before clapping her hands together. ‘This is SO romantic, just like a film,’ she gushes, echoing Eddie’s sentiment from earlier and my heart lifts. Flowers. Tom sent flowers. ‘Georgie, this is real babe. You’ve landed a millionaire. A bloody buff one too – not one of those geriatric Ronseal-tanned ones that own pole-dancing clubs and want you to call them daddy.’ She flings her hands on her hips and stares me straight in the eye. My mind boggles wondering how she knows such things.

‘And where are the flowers?’ I ask, grinning as I peep inside the alcove in anticipation.

‘In the stock room. I took them from Betty, and then legged it down there to ask Mrs Grace to keep hold of them for you. Betty was going to leave them in the staff room, but you know how everyone gossips, the whole store would know they were yours within two seconds of them landing in the sink. That’s how Mrs Grace found out.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.

‘No worries. I’m so happy for you. I’d love to find me a millionaire, get whisked away to his castle or whatever – and God knows I need the rest. I love the kids to bits but they drive me mental.’ Annie is a Traveller and the first girl in her family to ever have a paid job, but when she isn’t working at Carrington’s she ends up looking after her numerous brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews all day long. ‘Look, it’s really quiet today,
sooo
…’ Annie gestures across the floor, and she’s right, there’s a woman with a double buggy admiring an oversized black Belstaff tote in the long mirror. The mirror I had installed because every decent sales assistant knows
those who try it buy it.
Hmm, on second thoughts, scrap that, it seems it’s not love at first sight in this instance – the woman dumps the bag back on the shelf and wheels the buggy away. ‘If you want to bomb downstairs and take a peek, they are truly beautiful. Expensive-looking too. I can hold the fort and if anyone wonders where you are, I’ll just say you’ve gone for more stock.’ She nudges me conspiratorially.