Miracle on Regent Street (27 page)

Just then the stockroom door opens and a despondent-looking Carly comes in. Her sleek ponytail has sagged, her tight, white dress is ruched in all the wrong places and she immediately kicks off
her heels and comes stomping into the stockroom.

‘I need caffeine,’ she growls, and then flops down onto the sofa and buries her head in her hands. This is most unlike Carly.

‘Coming right up,’ I say, and dash over to the kitchenette, glancing back over my shoulder as I pop the kettle on. Carly hasn’t moved. Fleetingly, I notice her toenail polish
is chipped. I look down at my own feet. I did my toenails last night especially for my date. They’re painted ruby red. Lily would be proud of me. I wanted to make the effort even though my
high-heeled pumps are not peep-toe.

‘I am so over today,’ Carly says through her hands.

‘Why, what’s happened?’ I ask, intrigued.

‘What’s
not
happened, you mean.’ She looks up and slumps back on the sofa, as if her body cannot support the weight of her head. Which to be honest, given her skinny
frame, is highly likely. ‘We haven’t made one sale in Designers,’ she says tearfully. ‘Elaine says it’s a total disaster. And Rupert and Sharon are probably saying the
same.’ Her bottom lip quivers. She swallows and sticks her chin out defiantly. ‘Not that I care what they think anyway.’

I sit down next to her, adopting my usual sympathetic expression. ‘It’s probably because none of the customers knew about the makeover. It’s not like you’re on the ground
floor, like Beauty. Perhaps you should think about advertising the new look in the window tomorrow?’ I add helpfully.

Carly looks at me, her green eyes sharpen for a second and then cloud. She shakes her head, her ponytail flopping lankly left and right, and frowns. ‘Oh, we had customers all right. The
bloody blue-rinse brigade. They walked in, around and then walked out again, swinging their granny handbags and muttering that it was “much better before” as they left.’

I raise my eyebrows sympathetically but inside I’m wondering if maybe I was right after all. Mrs Fawsley, Iris, Babs Buckley, Lady Fontescue – they don’t want sculptured
dresses by the hottest designers, they want wearable fashion that makes them feel comfortable but chic. Obviously we need to move on from their particular idea of style, which mostly seems to
consist of flammable fabrics in pastels or in vomit-inducing patterns. But they just need to be educated gently; guided in a direction they don’t even know they want to go in until they are
there. Like Rupert’s sheep back on his farm. Poor Carly, I think as I look at her now, sitting so dejectedly. It doesn’t feel good to be right. I feel like I should help her. But I
don’t think she’d accept my help. Although there’s no reason not to try.

‘I think I know what the problem is,’ I muse thoughtfully.

‘You do?’ She looks at me and smirks a little as she takes a sip of tea. ‘Go on . . .’

‘It’s not that your idea isn’t good, it’s just not right for Hardy’s current clientele,’ I say breathlessly.

Carly rests her face on her hand and ponders this for a moment. ‘I can accept that,’ she says at last.

‘And the truth is,’ I continue, ‘you’re catering for a type of customer we haven’t got yet . . .’

‘Unfortunately,’ Carly adds bitterly.

‘What you need to do is straddle the old and the new. Bring in lines that our old customers will be drawn to, whilst incorporating stock that will appeal to people who have never shopped
at Hardy’s before . . .’

‘Young, fashionable, cool people, you mean,’ she laughs. ‘You know what, Sarah?’ she says, sitting forward on the sofa and thrusting her empty mug into my hand. ‘I
think you’re right! It’s not my fault the makeover hasn’t worked. It’s the customers!’

‘Well, I didn’t actually say that . . .’ I protest, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

Instead she stands up until she is towering over me. I can see straight up her nostrils, which are flared with excitement.

‘So what I need to do is stop worrying about the fusty old fuddy-duddies who’ve shopped here for years. I don’t care what they think anyway. Frankly, if they’d liked my
shop floor I’d have been
offended
. No,’ she nibbles on a fingernail and then looks into the distance as if realizing something for the first time, ‘it’s not
me
who has to change, it’s
them
. And that’s
exactly
what I’ll tell Rupert. I’m a genius!’ She smiles beatifically at me. ‘No wonder they gave me this
promotion. What would they do without me, hey?’ And she bends down, squeezes me on the shoulder so that it burns a little, and then swans out the room. ‘Thanks for listening,
Sarah!’ she calls back, as an afterthought.

As the door swings shut I flop back on the sofa and close my eyes. I’ve just made things worse. I turn my head, glance at my watch and suddenly I feel better. At least there are only a
couple more hours till I see Joel. Then I can forget all about this mess.

Kind of.

T
he evening darkness hugs the city like a blanket. I weave through the streets towards Charing Cross, where I’m due to meet Joel. I’m
passing Hamleys and I pause to look at the cute carol-singing teddy bears that make up one of their windows when Sam comes out of the store.

‘Evie!’ he gasps in surprise and glances back at the store nervously. He looks really cute, all wrapped up in a big brown duffel coat and the faux-fur deerstalker hat I gave him when
he came in yesterday. He’s grown some stubble and looks like a big cuddly bear. I want to put him in Hamleys’ window so everyone can walk past and admire his cuteness too.

‘Sam!’ I exclaim. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t have you down as a Hamleys kind of guy.’ He flushes and I wonder if I’ve hit a raw nerve. I nudge him
playfully. ‘Expanding your Star Wars figure collection, are you? Or no, hang on, are you more of a cuddly toy boy?’

He blushes and just at the moment a girl – the same girl I saw him with yesterday, I think – exits the store and stands by his side. She is pretty and a little older than he,
I’d say, with short, pixie-cut hair and a harried, disgruntled expression. She looks at me, then at Sam, and hitches her handbag over her shoulder

‘Ella, this is my
friend
Evie,’ he says, emphasizing ‘friend’. ‘Evie, this is . . . Ella.’ No emphatic use of ‘friend’ for her, I
notice.

‘Hi.’ I smile warmly and hold out a gloved hand to Ella. She shakes it and looks away, distracted by something in the window, turning her back on us completely.

‘We’re just doing some Christmas shopping,’ Sam says brightly, lifting up his bulging Hamleys bag.

‘So I see! I haven’t even started mine yet.’ I pause and my eyes flicker to Ella, who still has her back to us. I wish she’d turn round so I can get another look at her.
‘Well, brrr!’ I say loudly, stamping my feet and clapping my hands like a kids’ TV presenter demonstrating the cold. ‘Can’t stand here in the cold all night.
I’d, er, best be off . . .’ I flap my arms around my body and do a fake shiver, then point down the road in the direction I’m going, accidentally smacking a passer-by as I do. He
tuts at me and I apologize profusely. Then I hurriedly turn, bumping into someone else, who staggers out of my way.

‘Remind me to take you sale shopping with me,’ Sam laughs. ‘Those elbows of yours are lethal!’

I stop and step closer to the store window, afraid of derailing any more shoppers. Ella’s nowhere to be seen and has clearly been lured back into the store.

‘You look great, going somewhere nice?’ Sam smiles, looking at me strangely. I realize he has never seen me in anything other than my work clothes.

‘I don’t know, actually. It’s a surprise.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘It’s a date,’ I add bashfully. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you
next time you come in.’

‘Er, right. Well, I’ll look forward to it,’ Sam says, pulling his hat down over his ears and turning to look for Ella, clearly distracted by her absence.

I use this as my exit opportunity, hurrying off before I have to say goodbye to them both, slightly displaced by the strange sensation I felt at seeing them together.

I continue quickly down to Piccadilly Circus, propelled by my urge to see Joel, and am body-slammed by a riot of colour and noise. I’m pushed and shoved by the crowds who fill the streets
and I jostle through determinedly. At Leicester Square there is more space but, unbelievably, even more people. The Christmas funfair is in full swing and I rush past, glancing back long enough
over my shoulder to see the hundreds of happy faces illuminated by the neon lights.

I pull my coat around my body as I dash through the streets. It is a cold night; my breath frosts like cigarette smoke and I can’t help but imagine myself as a young Lily in 1950s London,
having just finished a dancing shift at The Windmill and smoking a cigarette on her way to meet a suitor for late night drinks. It’s not hard to imagine in my get-up. I’ve also pinned a
cute cream beret to the back of my head, being especially careful not to muss up Lily’s Victory Roll as I put it on. I’m so ensconced in my fantasy of 1950s London that I realize only
just in time that I’m walking past the enormous Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. The impressive twenty-metre-high Norwegian spruce stands proudly alongside Nelson’s Column, framed by
gushing fountains and back-lit by the warm apricot glow from the lights of the National Gallery. It looks wonderful and I can’t help but stop to stare at it for a moment, my hands clasped
together as I allow the scent of fresh pine needles to tickle my nose and my imagination.

Joel is waiting in front of Charing Cross station as I dash up breathlessly. He is the most casual I’ve ever seen him, in a thick, dark grey roll-neck that cups his chin,
creating a creosote shadow across his jaw. He’s also wearing jeans that are slightly too pale to be trendy, but I’ll let him off. American men are famously good at wearing bad jeans.
You only have to look at Tom Cruise or George Clooney to realize that. Besides, I’m not one to talk. I’m not exactly a fashion expert. Although, I guess in my current role as a
‘personal shopper’ that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be.

‘Woah.’ He smiles as he takes me in appreciatively, his eyes waltzing across my body like it’s a dancefloor, before forming happy crescents as they gaze into mine. Then he
kisses me gently on the lips. I try not to blush as I apologize for being late.

‘It’s a girl’s prerogative, isn’t it?’ he teases, and slides his arm around my back. I inhale sharply at his touch. It sends waves of pleasure coursing through me
so that between the warmth of him and the chill of the December air, it feels like I’m being electrocuted.

We begin to walk side by side. I can feel his hand brushing accidentally against mine, as if it’s magnetically drawn to me.

Breathe, for God’s sake, Evie, breathe.

‘So, how was the baby-sitting?’ Joel asks chattily as he leads me gently down the Strand. His hand is now resting against the curve of my back. I try to focus and start telling him
about Raffy and Lola, only just remembering in time that they’re meant to be ‘friends’ children’, not my niece and nephew. He laughs in all the right places when I tell him
stories about them and even makes endearing ‘Awww’ noises when I describe Lola. He tells me he’d love to have a daughter one day.

Is he for real?
A successful, sexy, interesting man who calls when he says he will and
loves kids
.

He’s now busy telling me about how much he loves Christmas and how his family celebrate it back home in Pennsylvania, and I’m lost in his description of a traditional American
Christmas. It’s all eggnogg, candy canes, and cranberries and popcorn strung round the tree. I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of wanting to be there with him for the holidays.

Obviously I’m not going to admit that. I mean, I’m not a
complete
idiot. His eyes glisten fondly as he talks about his mum, dad and brothers back home, and suddenly it feels
that the Strand may as well be Siberia; it’s like there’s no one here but us.

‘You miss them, don’t you?’ I say.

He nods. ‘We’re really close. It’s hard being away at this time of year. It’s the first time I’ve ever missed Thanksgiving.’