Miracle on Regent Street (41 page)

‘How is Parker’s doing?’ I ask, realizing that I haven’t asked Joel much about his own store.

‘Oh, you know,’ he sighs. ‘Pretty goddamn awful, given that it’s meant to be the busiest shopping month of the year. It’s like the whole town has forgotten that we
exist. And now they’re building this big new shopping mall, which is sure to be the final nail in Parker’s coffin. I just wish I knew what to do. Parker’s could do with a makeover
like Hardy’s.’

‘So what’s stopping you?’ I say.

Joel furrows his brow. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Giving the place a makeover. It seems to be working for Hardy’s, why couldn’t it work for Parker’s, too?’

Joel looks uncertain. ‘It’s just not my area of expertise,’ he says, shaking his head defeatedly. ‘I’m a money man through and through. I can balance books, look at
costs, do business plans and think of financial ways to improve the store, but the whole aesthetic thing? I’m just not good at that.’

‘So find someone who is,’ I shrug. ‘Or at the very least take some inspiration from Hardy’s. You said that it reminds you a lot of Parker’s, right?’

Joel nods. ‘Yeah, I mean, obviously we don’t have the whole traditional British thing going on and we haven’t been around for quite as long as Hardy’s has, but it’s
an old-fashioned family store in a gorgeous old building and in a prime location . . .’

‘So harness some of Hardy’s ideas but adapt them to suit your American clientele,’ I say. ‘The whole focus of Hardy’s makeovers has . . .’ I pause, ‘. .
.
seems
to have been a retrospective. Instead of competing with the brand-new stores like Rumors, with all their high-concept contemporary displays, whoever has been doing these makeovers
seems to have been looking back, making the old stock relevant again and giving customers something different; something nostalgic and traditional that no other London store is offering. It’s
what people seem to want.’ I pause as I think about Carly and her love of contemporary fashion and then add hurriedly, ‘I mean, it’s totally not my thing,
obviously
, but
there’s no reason why you couldn’t do similar.’

Joel studies me as a slow grin crawls across his lips. ‘Clever
and
cute,’ he says, and then he leans forward and kisses me lightly on my lips, his mouth lingering for longer
than I expect until I feel the warmth of his tongue meet mine and we are kissing like love-struck teenagers, our hands curled round each other’s necks, fingers stroking each other’s
hair. And then suddenly we are at the front of the queue and we step into the big glass pod with our arms wrapped round each other, leaning against the hand rail as we look out, ready to be lifted
high in the air and over London Town. And as the people pile in and we begin to move up, up, up, I realize that once again, it is snowing and being in this pod with Joel is like being in my very
own snow globe.

‘I wonder if we can see Hardy’s,’ I mutter, more to myself than to Joel.

‘I think you care about that place more than you let on,’ he says, moving behind me and leaning the weight of his body against my back, curling his arms around my stomach as we look
over the city.

‘Yes,’ I reply, without thinking, ‘I guess I do.’

‘You know, sometimes I feel like I’m dating two different people,’ Joel says, and I feel myself stiffen in his arms. ‘One minute you’re this visionary, ambitious,
powerhouse of a girl and the next, I see flashes of this soft, romantic side. It’s like you have a love/ hate relationship with Hardy’s. So come on, tell me what you love about the
place,’ he murmurs softly.

And perhaps because up here, suspended like this over the city I love, with Joel’s arms around me, miles away from Carly and my family and people’s expectations of me, I somehow
believe that anything is possible. Or maybe it’s because from up here, the big, expansive, vibrant city – which seems to have swallowed me whole ever since I moved here, making me
invisible to everyone – suddenly looks like it’s constructed out of matches and I, for once, am a dominating presence looming over it like a puppet-master, pulling the strings of the
people below and utterly in control of my destiny. But all I know is that for once I want to be totally 100 per cent truthful with Joel. And so I tell him about Hardy’s and how much I love
it, without revealing anything else about me or my real role at the store. I realize with a growing frustration that
this
is the person I want Joel to fall in love with: the simple stockroom
girl whose colleagues barely acknowledge her presence, who lives with her sister and is a glorified babysitter, and who desperately wants her life to change, but who has also come to recognize that
she doesn’t want to be someone she’s not in order for that to happen.

As we make our descent to the ground I feel overwhelmed with sadness. Yes, I’m having a wonderful time with Joel, and for once I feel like I’m in an old black-and-white movie rather
than obsessively watching them, and Joel is my Cary Grant and Errol Flynn and Jimmy Stewart all wrapped up in one gorgeous gift. But the truth is this gift wasn’t meant for me. It was meant
for Carly. And the parcel Joel has received may have glossy packaging, but inside it’s pretty disappointing.

The pod slows almost to a stop and Joel turns me round and kisses me again, but this time I pull back. I can’t look at him. I know that if I do, I will cry and I don’t want to let
that happen.

‘I’m sorry but I have to go,’ I gasp and, as the doors open, I run out into the bitterly cold air, feeling it whip against my exposed skin, as if it is punishing me for not
being myself.

I pause for a moment as I work out which way to go. I literally have no idea. I run blindly down the Southbank, staggering into stall-holders trying to sell me their Christmas wares, the sound
of Joel’s voice calling out Carly’s name carried to my ears by the cruel wind.

I
trudge miserably up the path that leads to the top of Primrose Hill, leaning into the wind and trying to ignore the couples that are filing past
me, chatting animatedly whilst wrapped in each other’s arms. It seems everyone in the world has someone to share their Sunday afternoon with; more to the point, someone with whom they can
really be themselves. I glance up and shiver as I look at the bare trees stretching their aged branches into the bleak, monochrome sky that is groaning with thick grey clouds.

My phone bleeps and I pull it out of my pocket wearily. It is the fifth text I’ve had from Joel in half an hour. I put the phone back in my pocket and keep walking. I don’t really
know what possessed me to run away from him like that earlier; all I know is that I couldn’t handle being near him and not being myself for one more second.

Now I’m mired in regret and wish I’d stayed. I don’t want to go home and I don’t want to be here alone. But I walk on up the hill anyway, feet digging in the mud and
slush until I reach the top and, by some stroke of luck, manage to find a free bench to sit on. I lean back, cross my legs and lift my shoulders around my neck to stop the wind whistling down my
coat as I gaze at London sprawled majestically across the horizon. Then I wipe away a stray tear with the sleeve of my coat. It is so beautiful up here, but right now it feels like a place I
don’t belong. Perhaps I should just give up and go back home to Norfolk, accept that my fate is a quiet, country life with no handsome men in the picture and no high-flying jobs in
fashion.

I sniff miserably at the thought just as a figure passes in front of me and then sits next to me. I glance at my park compatriot wondering who else is alone on a day like this. He looks sad,
like he is missing having someone with him too. I focus my eyes through the blur . . .

‘Sam?’ I say in delight.

‘Evie!’ he gasps as he turns towards me. ‘I had no idea that was you huddled up there. What are you doing here?’

‘I live here, remember?’ I say, laughing through my quickly evaporating tears. ‘More to the point, what are
you
doing here?’

There is a pause. ‘Um, well, it’s funny you should ask actually,’ Sam begins uncertainly, studying my face as if searching for some sort of sign. ‘It’s a long story
and one that I’ve kind of been wanting to tell you for a while . . .’

‘OUCH!’ I yell as a ball suddenly whacks me against my leg and two snotty-nosed little boys come running up to grab it, before careering down the hill, kicking the ball and letting
out peals of laughter.

‘Bloody kids,’ I shout as I rub my calf. I turn to Sam. ‘That really hurt! Why can’t their parents stop them from attacking unsuspecting people who are just trying to sit
in peace and enjoy the view on a Sunday afternoon?’ I pause. Sam looks horrified by my outburst. ‘Oh God!’ I wail. ‘I sound like Scrooge!’ I shake my head as he
laughs. ‘But honestly, sometimes I wonder why people bother having kids at all if they can’t look after them. I mean, it’s not a part-time job; it takes time and effort, and you
need to dedicate all your energy to it. I just wish more parents would realize that. Then maybe there wouldn’t be so many frustrated children running about, and so many unhappy families, come
to think about it . . .’

I’m ranting but I’m no longer aiming my anger at the two 8-year-olds who have inadvertently caused severe muscle damage to my leg. Instead I am thinking about Delilah and Will, who
seem willing to dump their kids on me at any given opportunity in order for them to be able to pursue their careers. It just doesn’t seem right.

‘Oh,’ says Sam, shifting uneasily on the seat, probably trying to edge away from the madwoman sitting next to him.

‘Sorry, Sam.’ I reach my hand across to his knee. ‘I have some pent-up frustration I haven’t quite dealt with. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Now, what was
this long story you were about to tell me?”

Sam examines his fingernails and then looks away. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’ There is a pause and then he stands up and stretches out his hand towards mine. ‘Fancy grabbing a drink?
I need to be someplace warm before I lose some really essential body parts to frostbite.’

‘You’re on.’ I grab his hand, laughing as he pulls me to my feet.

Giggling and still grasping each other’s hands, Sam and I run down the hill, past children and dogs and grandparents, and groups of friends and couples, towards the sparkling lights of the
high street. We burst through the doors of the Queen’s Head pub, which sits on the corner of Regent’s Park Road and at the epicentre of Primrose Hill’s little high street and I
grab a spare table in the corner, right by the roaring fire, while Sam goes to the bar to order drinks. I watch him for a moment as he stands next to a group of lads all discussing football. Sam
looks at me and rolls his eyes and I smile and fake a yawn in their direction.

Moments later he brings over two glasses of mulled wine, pulls out a stool and sits in front of me. The table is small so our knees our touching and I try to shift them away but there’s no
room, so I relax and allow our legs to press softly together. He pushes the glass of steaming, ruby-coloured liquid across the table and I clasp my hands around it, sighing with pleasure as the
scent of cinnamon, mixed spices, apple and wine waft up to my nostrils.

‘Mmm,’ we say in unison, and there is a moment of mutual contentment.

‘So why were you sitting up there alone, looking so miserable?’ he asks gently, sitting forward on his stool, fixing his eyes on me intently.

I shift a little in my seat as the space between us lessens and I feel a rush of intimacy that I didn’t expect.

‘New boyfriend trouble?’ he says, averting his gaze as he takes a sip of mulled wine.

‘I guess so,’ I admit reluctantly.

Sam nods and I take a deep breath and blurt out everything that I’ve been feeling. I can’t tell Sam I’m pretending to be Carly, that’s way too embarrassing to admit, so
instead I focus on the worry that I’m trying to be something I’m not to impress Joel because I feel like he is out of my league. Sam listens quietly to everything I tell him, sipping on
his mulled wine and nodding every so often to encourage me to continue. When I’ve poured out my heart to him he puts his elbows on the table and rests his head in one of his hands and looks
straight at me.