Miracle on Regent Street (16 page)

J
oel looks up from his phone and as I teeter over to him. I feel a flutter of panic that I look ridiculous. But then he smiles and steps towards
me.

‘I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.’ He puts his phone in the pocket of his thick camel coat and smiles before kissing me gently on the cheek. ‘You look
glowing,’ he murmurs.

Clearly he is too much of a gentleman to say, ‘You look a bit more done up than when I last saw you at the crack of dawn yesterday morning.’ But I’m convinced it’s what
he’s thinking. I knew all this make-up was too much on me.

‘Yes, well, sorry I’m late. I just had some stuff to do before I could leave,’ I reply, feeling overwhelmingly shy all of a sudden. I’m cold, my feet are already hurting
in these stupid shoes and I’ve only been out here two minutes. How does Carly do this every day? I longingly think about how snuggy my toes would be right now wrapped up in my thick wool
socks and sensible leather brogues. And my coat – what I wouldn’t give for my trusty duffel coat. There are all sorts of draughts creeping through this silly cape.

‘You look . . . gorgeous,’ he says, stepping back to look at me. Suddenly his eyes are locked on mine and I forget all about my feet. ‘Are you OK to walk awhile?’ he
says, turning up the collar of his coat and offering me his arm before glancing down at my heels.

‘Sure, sure,’ I reply brightly, trying to get into character. ‘I wear shoes like this all the time. In fact, I’m so used to wearing high heels that I feel uncomfortable
in flat shoes. These are like . . . like extensions of my feet.’ I lift my foot, wiggle it a bit and then step towards him, but I stumble a little and have to grab his arm. I can feel my
cheeks flush.

‘I thought we’d go to my hotel . . .’ he says as we turn in the direction of Oxford Street.

I extricate my arm from his immediately. ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate, to be honest,’ I say stiffly. ‘I may be wearing high heels and a lot of make-up but
that’s not the kind of girl I am.’

‘I meant for afternoon tea,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘I’m staying at Claridge’s and haven’t had a chance to sample this fine British tradition yet. Is that
OK?’ He looks worried.

I nod primly and slip my arm back through his. ‘Well, yes, that does sound OK. Um, how far is it again?’

The answer to my question is clearly ‘too bloody far’, but Joel doesn’t know that. Mainly because he doesn’t have to walk in four-inch heels down Regent Street on one of
the busiest shopping days of the year. In the space of twenty minutes my feet are trampled on by more tourists than I ever thought possible.

It is only when we reach the relative sanctuary of Bond Street that I am able to relax a little, but only because I’ve lost all feeling in my feet. We wander slowly down the street, which
is home to some of the most elegant and expensive shops in the capital, chatting amicably about our homes and our lives. I tell Joel about Delilah, Noah and Jonah, and am just about to reveal my
mother’s obsession with naming us all after people from the Bible when I remember I’m meant to be called Carly, and I have to backtrack. After all, even with my relative lack of
religious knowledge I’m pretty sure there was never a Saint Carly.

After that I decide it’s safer if I stop talking for a while.

We walk past decadent art and antique stores, exclusive designer shops and bank-breakingly expensive jewellers until we arrive outside the grand London hotel that is the destination for our
date. Suddenly I am hit by a wave of excitement. It is nearly Christmas. And I am on a date with a Hot American Man. At Claridge’s, no less.

‘Well, shake me up and put me inside a snow globe,’ I murmur as I gawp at the warm, red-brick exterior of the hotel, unable to believe this is all really happening.

Joel’s laugh rings out. ‘You do say the cutest things. Come on . . .’ He pauses and a twinkle teeters on the edge of his pupils like a star hanging in the night sky. Not that
I’m staring at him or anything. He clears his throat. ‘Aim desperaite for ai cup of char.’

‘Oh, no, no, no, don’t do that,’ I say, wincing and making a face at his terrible British accent.

‘I’ve been told my accent’s pretty good!’ he says defensively.

‘Who by?’ I retort. ‘Dick Van Dyke?’

He laughs. Again. ‘Come on, Carly,’ he says. ‘Let’s take tea,’ and he ushers me inside.

Half an hour later and we are nestled in the refined warmth and grandeur of Claridge’s dazzling art deco foyer. Above us Dale Chihuly’s famous silver-white light
sculpture hangs from the foyer’s high ceiling like Medusa’s hair in all its glittering glass-coiled magnificence. We sip from the pretty green and cream striped tea service and smile at
each other, slightly inhibited by our surroundings. We nibble on delicate finger sandwiches and I resist the urge to plough right into the scones and clotted cream. Instead I think, what would
Carly do? I quickly deduce that she would probably have a single solitary sandwich and nibble on a little pastry but would leave the rest to her handsome companion. Or hide it in her handbag when
he goes to the loo. She doesn’t get a figure like hers by troughing through a plate of cakes, that’s for sure. I decide the handbag idea is a brilliant one. Mainly because I figure that
Felix will enjoy having his very own Claridge’s takeaway cream tea if I bring it to him in a doggy bag with his coffee on Monday morning.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ Joel says, and he strides over towards the toilets. I hastily open my napkin in my lap and slip a scone in it. I glance around to check no one is looking, then
pop a delicious-looking chocolate truffle cake thing into my napkin too. I decide not to risk the creamy strawberry dessert that’s in a glass; this isn’t my handbag, after all.

A minute later two glasses of pink champagne are delivered by a gracious waiter and I smile guiltily at him and clutch my cake-filled bag tightly in case he happens to have X-ray vision and can
see right through it. I take a sip of champagne just as Joel comes back and I watch him swagger over whilst luxuriating in the sensation of bubbles exploding in my mouth. I can’t help but
notice most of the women in the room are watching him too.

‘Mmm, champagne,’ he says as he lifts his glass. ‘I do love your English tea but there’s nothing better than a glass of bubbly, don’t you think?’

I nod happily and take another sip.

‘So, Joel,’ I begin, keen to find out a bit more about him, ‘you said you work in retail too. What exactly do you do?’

He pauses before answering. ‘Well, I’m a retail consultant, which means I help department stores with the financial side of the business.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I nod as if I know exactly what he means. ‘Is that what you’re doing for Hardy’s?’

He shifts on his seat. ‘Er, kind of. Obviously, it’s a pretty big job. Hardy’s is kinda struggling at the moment.’

I nod sadly and the mood drops momentarily.

Joel leans towards me and his eyes shine brightly. ‘But other than my day job I actually have my own family store, back in the little town in Pennsylvania where I’m from.’ He
looks off into the distance. ‘That’s where my heart lies.’

‘Really?’ I exclaim in delight. A guy who has his own store? I can’t help but hear Lily and Iris’s voices in my head:
It’s that age-old heady combination:
shopping and sex.
And to be honest, I’m more turned on by his passion for his family shop than anything else. He suddenly feels like a kindred spirit.

‘Tell me about it,’ I say, sitting back in my chair and taking another sip of champagne.

‘It’s called Parker’s,’ he says with a smile. ‘It’s a cute little place on Main Street in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania but unfortunately it’s not doing so
well these days. My father doesn’t have the necessary retail vision to move it forward. It’s my dream to go back there and help steer it in the right direction. But it’s hard.
Small businesses just aren’t doing so well since the economic crash, everyone seems to go to the nearest Walmart for everything from food to clothes to homeware, and failing that,
they’ll head into Philadelphia or even New York for all the big department stores. Parker’s doesn’t seem to have a purpose any more.’

‘Just like Hardy’s,’ I murmur.

He glances up at me and for a second there is a fizzle of understanding between us. He nods and smiles wistfully. ‘You know, Hardy’s reminds me a lot of my family business. There is
so much potential there, but people want something different these days. It feels like there’s no room for our friendly family stores any more. It’s so sad.’

I shake my head fervently and feel my hair fan out. Thanks to Carly it has wings today. ‘I don’t agree,’ I say firmly.

Joel raises an eyebrow at me and sits back. ‘You know, I’ve heard that you have some great forward-thinking ideas for the store,’ he says as he takes a sip of tea.
‘I’d love to hear them from a personal shopper extraordinaire.’

‘And who exactly has been saying all these kind things about me?’ I ask teasingly, but desperately wanting to know who Carly’s big fan is.

‘Rupert, if you must know. He has high hopes for you.’

I nod, suddenly realizing just how esteemed Carly is in Rupert’s view.

‘Tell me, Joel,’ I say, trying to appear nonchalant, ‘what was it that made you so sure I was Carly when we bumped into each other the other day? I mean, we’ve never
spoken, never met, I could have been anyone.’

Ain’t that the truth, I think but don’t say.

Joel leans towards me, his eyes locking with mine, and I resist the urge to back away from him. But I badly want to know the answer so I fix my eyes firmly on his. ‘You couldn’t have
been anyone,’ he murmurs, then reaches his hand across the table and puts it over mine. ‘You have this . . . aura about you. I can’t explain it. Maybe it was confidence, maybe it
was style, but whatever it was I knew I had to get to know you. That realization hit me instantly.’

‘When you first saw me?’ I press, wanting to find out if he felt those things when he saw the real Carly in the store, or when he met me.

‘When I first saw you,’ he drawls softly, obviously thinking he is paying me the highest compliment. But he’s just confirmed what I already knew: he fell for Carly, not me.
This is a serious case of mistaken identity.

‘Now it’s your turn to answer my questions,’ he says, turning all serious. ‘Tell me why you don’t agree with me that stores like Hardy’s have a place in the
retail spectrum any more.’

I am flummoxed. When he said that earlier I was about to launch into a passionate speech about how I don’t agree with him because I think there
is
a place for stores like
Hardy’s and Parker’s. That people
do
still want the same friendly, informed, intimate shops where assistants know your name and personal shopping isn’t a department
it’s an
experience
, it’s just that we’ve been conditioned into thinking that we should prefer either superstores where you can get everything under one roof, or haughty
high-end shops and malls where you can get lost in a sea of swanky products and snooty staff, so that we’ve all become shopping sheep, buying what we’re told to by magazines, models,
celebrities and advertising campaigns, rather than shopping for what actually suits us.

But now I know he really does want Carly I feel compelled to be just like her. So what the hell would
she
say?

I stall for time by taking an extra long gulp of champagne. I accidentally down half the glass in one mouthful, the bubbles go up my nose and I cough and splutter. Joel gets up and pats me on
the back.

‘Sorry,’ I gasp at last. ‘That went down the wrong way.’

‘So I can see,’ he says as I hastily down the rest of the champagne.

By the time I’ve got to the end of the glass I’ve thought of a response.

I look at him but his eyes bore into me and I lose my confidence.

Channel Carly,
I think.
Think fashion, think modern, think like her.

I clear my throat. ‘Well, um, I don’t think it’s sad because shopping and especially department stores need to look to the future. People are used to internet shopping now,
they don’t want overly fussy staff and cluttered stores, they want minimal, minimal, MINIMAL.’ I bang my hand on the table to emphasize my point and Joel jumps a little. ‘Clean
lines and a selective number of products displayed in a pure, white environment.’ I pause. ‘Fashion should be like art,’ I breathe, into my Carly character now, but in my head
thinking that’s exactly what it shouldn’t be. I suddenly visualize my poor Wardrobe with the clothes that have hung unloved in there for so long. I put them from my mind and
refocus.

‘I mean, take Rumors, for example,’ I continue. ‘How cool do all the staff look in their couture? And those transparent dressing rooms are just
amazing
. A place like
that is the future of department stores, not Hardy’s. That’s what I told my manager just before she gave me my promotion,’ I say proudly, as I remember Carly repeating her
post-promotion monologue to me the other day. ‘I said to her, I said, “Sharon, we need to be more modern, appeal to the younger clients, clients like me. They want shops to be more
exclusive, more
fashion
. It is the future, after all.”’ I smile beatifically at the waiter as he refills my champagne glass, then I take another gulp. I feel warm and fuzzy, like
Christmas has come early. This date is going brilliantly, even if I do say so myself. Being Carly is easy.