A Vintage Christmas
Read A Vintage Christmas Online
Authors: Ali Harris
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Ali Harris, 2013
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Ali Harris to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN: 978-1-47112-977-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Contents
Chapter 1
Saturday 20th July
11 shopping days until the new season
‘Sam, we’re here!’ I stand up, grab my case from the overhead hold, throw my purse strap over my shoulder and try to sweep the messy mass of newspaper supplements, coffee cups and snacks we’ve acquired throughout the journey into my arms. In my haste most of it ends up on the floor.
‘What’s the hurry?’ Sam murmurs and pulls me back into my seat. ‘We’re in the countryside now Evie, you can
slow down
.’
I impatiently blow my hair out of my eyes and try to push aside the flicker of annoyance I feel as I gather up the stuff from the floor. Sam knows better than anyone how painfully slow my life was. For years I was practically going in reverse, which is why I find it so hard to stop now. My to do list is endless. And not just at work either. I feel this anxious urge to do as much as possible in all aspects of my life: even on holiday. I try not to get annoyed by what I see as yet another veiled attempt from him to have a discussion about My Work. Or in other words How Much I Work. Instead I close my eyes and exhale some of my nervous energy as he brushes the loose tendrils off my forehead, before moving towards my lips again. It’s no good though. I can’t relax. Just as our mouths are about to meet, I push him away and waggle my finger teasingly.
‘We’re not at the hotel yet,’ I say, which precipitates a guttural groan from him.
I stand up, pulling him up with me and he leans in again, but before his lips make contact, I pull down his bag and thrust it at him and then grab his hand grinning as I pull him along like an excitable child. ‘Come
on
!’ I chirp+. ‘No time to waste!’
Without looking I hurriedly shuffle into the aisle, my round, white, vintage leather case banging against my bare ankle. And apparently, someone else’s.
‘Owch, EXCUSE
me
!’ exclaims my aisle neighbour indignantly, rubbing her Hunter clad ankle whilst pulling on a body warmer. I have no idea why she’s wearing it in this sweltering weather – it is the hottest summer we’ve had for years. But it would seem there is no summery alternative for her ambling attire.
She throws me a cross, haughty glare and I immediately shower her with apologies. It’s a kneejerk reaction for which my octogenarian friend, Lily, who runs the tearoom at Hardy’s, is always telling me off:
‘Sorry should be an occasional outfit, Evie dear. Not a uniform.’
I really should listen to her more often. Especially considering how rudely the heartfelt apology I’ve just offered is being ungraciously rebuffed. The woman huffily picks up her bags and with her nose pointed purposefully in the air, pushes past me and stomps off the train. I want to run after her and apologise again but I remind myself of another Lily-ism:
‘Apologies aren’t like shoes – you
can
have too many of them darling!’
I feel a hand grip my left arm and pull me back into my seat, like a teacher with a disobedient pupil. I rub my hot forehead in shame, slump back into the chair and tug at the hem of my dress. I feel Sam looking at me and I gaze out of the window at the pretty old station of Stroud that we’ve arrived in.
‘Don’t Sam...’ I say, blinking into the sunlight.
He laughs indignantly. ‘I wasn’t going t—’
‘... I already know what you’re going to say. I’ve turned into
that
person haven’t I?’ I pull down my retro white framed sunglasses and glance up at him with an agonised expression, but he just smiles and strokes his thumb over my hand. ‘I’m one of those awful stressed out city-types who can’t wind down even when they’re on a weekend break! Oh
God
,’ I groan. ‘I’m a nightmare aren’t I?’
I look at him beseechingly, my chilled out boyfriend who is so relaxed he didn’t pull on anything smarter than a pair of cargo shorts, trainers and a fitted T-shirt. He gazes at me smilingly from beneath his messy mop of malty hair with his deep, tawny eyes. He looks utterly gorgeous and I can’t help but wish
I
could be so relaxed. I glance at myself and think of the hours I spent packing and editing my case to ensure I had the right combination of clothes for every eventuality. A chic travelling outfit, a photo op casual-but-cute ensemble for romantic country walks, a sensible but stylish shopping outfit, a dress-up outfit for dinner, pretty lingerie for... well, I don’t have to spell out what for. I’m exhausted just thinking about how much I over think everything these days. I’m a far cry from the girl who used to work in the stockroom and just threw on black trousers and a shirt every day. Sometimes I think I need to find a bit of her again.
‘Evie, relax...’ Sam says, rubbing my shoulders. ‘You know I think you work – and worry – too much!’ He’s right. It’s been an on-going conversation ever since we moved in together a year ago and quickly realised that even when we’re sharing the same (small) amount of square footage in our one bedroom flat, we still don’t see enough of each other week in week out. In fairness, Sam is busy too, with a burgeoning photography career that often takes him abroad.
‘You’re right, Sam,’ I sigh. ‘I know you’re right. I’m sorry, it’s just... I’ve been working so hard since Christmas and then Rupert hit me with that bombshell just before I left work yesterday...’ I trail off realizing that not only am I on a roll of self-flagellation, now I’m being a work bore. Way to go, Evie. ‘Sorry. Must. Stop. Talking. About. Work.’ I finish dolefully.
‘Evie,’ Sam laughs, ‘stop apologising will you!’
But I’m not listening anymore. Instead Rupert Hardy’s voice has begun playing on a loop in my head again. Like it has for the entire journey.
‘It has been an incredible year and a half since you did the makeover on Hardy’s, Evie. I can’t thank you enough for turning the store’s fortunes around. But we are facing a new problem. It is one that needs fixing or Hardy’s will once again sink into the proverbial mud. And I am relying on you, as creative director, to sort the problem out...’
He pointed out that whilst Hardy’s has certainly gone from strength to strength and reiterated that, thanks to me, the store’s new look – and old-fashioned vision of making shopping about the experience, not the profits, have sent crowds flooding through the doors.
‘The tills haven’t stopped ringing since that Christmas, Evie! That’s quite a feat in these recession hit times!
’ And then came the ‘but’. Rupert had pointed out that he is as aware as I am that it has now reached a point where the once full-to-bursting stockroom is looking decidedly bare. He knows that I have to work harder and harder to source suitable vintage stock and discover great British Artisans, who are as committed to making beautiful British designs as we are to selling them. In short, in a business that relies on supply and demand, we are becoming worryingly short on the goods.
I haven’t stopped thinking about what he said since. Even the train seemed to be echoing his words as it sped down the track from London to the Cotswolds.
Hardy’s Stock, Hardy’s Stock, Hardy’s Stock
, it seemed to be whispering repeatedly like an anxious mum.
I think of my beautiful, beloved Hardy’s, which feels like my home as well as my work. A grand dame of a department store, Hardy’s is housed in a four-storey Edwardian building poised gracefully on the corner of two streets just north of Regent Street. Lily always says it looks like it is executing a perfect
eleve en pointe
. And indeed, the delightful Edwardian building with its sandstone exterior and arched baroque windows is as architecturally elegant as you can get on a street just north of Oxford Street. Indeed, since its makeover, Hardy’s has become a Prima Ballerina amongst shops, a star attraction that draws in the crowds.
We are currently coming to the end of the summer sale and whilst it has been the best sale period we’ve ever had, the pressure is on me to fill the store with wonderful new season stock that will fly off the shelves and keep the customers coming in throughout the Autumn/Winter season. I’m nearly there but there are still a few gaps in some departments. Gaps that desperately need filling with Hardy’s unique take on modern British vintage stock.
I push out thoughts of work and zone back in to the sound of Sam dispensing yet more sage advice. Even when he was a delivery boy and I was the stockroom girl, he knew just what to say and do to make me feel better. It’s one of the things I love the most about him. I feel a flush of pleasure at my free use of the word ‘love’, it is one I have become gloriously comfortable with since we said it on Valentine’s Day, six weeks into our relationship. Everything seemed so uncomplicated back then. We were so swept up in each other that we didn’t imagine we’d ever have any problems. We’d overcome the biggest hurdle, which was getting together in the first place and we just knew, with the certainty of a newly loved-up couple, that the rest would be plain sailing.
‘You need to slow down Evie’, Sam reiterates as we wait for the rest of the carriage to pass us and disembark the train. It’s a phrase he’s used a lot with me lately. Slow down how exactly? If I don’t do my job well, it could spell the end for Hardy’s. After all, these are still trying times for the high street. And department stores are not immune to the axe wielding economy that is forever hovering over our heads.
‘I know I know, it’s just hard Sam. I’m under a lot of pressure...’
‘Which is why I’m here to tell you to take your foot off the pedal for one weekend! Remember why we’ve come away, huh? To have some time
alone...’
