Christmas at Carrington’s (10 page)

We make it on to the shop floor that is lit up like a film set. There are four enormous light bulbs positioned either side of my counter, next to two white paper screens on metal poles, and it feels as though there are people everywhere. Some are obviously from the production company, KCTV; they’re wearing funky outfits and flitting around clutching clipboards and various gadgets. The others must be the actors – men, women, a few children; but they all have coats, hats and scarfs on, and a few are even holding Carrington’s Christmas carrier bags.

Mrs Grace is hovering by the DKNY display and her beehive has grown a good inch or two higher since I last saw her. And I’m sure her lipstick is more luminescent. Annie comes over to meet me.

‘Blimey, you look stunning babe.’ She takes my hands in hers and holds them out wide to get a proper look at me.

‘And so do you,’ I say, smiling at her black fitted maxi dress with Audrey Hepburn style hairdo – the high bun is perfect and the expertly applied smoky eyes with flicky eyeliner make her look stunning.

‘God, I’m so excited. But that Zara said we’re getting a complaint. You know I hate dealing with complaints,’ she whispers, leaning into me.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll just do what we always do. I’ll deal with it. If they come to you, then call me over as you normally would. I think it’s important that we keep this as real as possible, even if we are dressed up like movie stars.’ I smile and give her hands a quick squeeze for reassurance.

‘Is it a real complaint then, do you think?’ She raises her eyebrows.

‘I have no idea, but let’s treat it as such. That way we can’t go wrong and get portrayed as inefficient like we were in the pilot show.’

‘Good thinking,’ Annie grins, before being shepherded away by a production assistant.

I take up my position by the counter, wishing I could wear sunglasses as the lights are so bright. I can already feel a trickle of sweat snaking a path down my back, it’s that hot in here. I’m contemplating plumping up a few bags as I normally would before we open up, when Hannah appears in front of my counter, bouncing around like an overexcited puppy.

‘OK Georgie, as we said on Friday at the rehearsal …’ I try not to smile. ‘Rehearsal’ is stretching it a bit, more like five minutes in the staff canteen in between bites of her tuna melt panini; she said to ‘keep it real’ and to ‘go with the flow’, whatever that means. I nod instead. ‘If you screw up then just carry on, we can always edit out any gaffs. You’ll be fab, but most of all – be yourself! Like I said before, you’re a natural and the viewers are going to
lurrrrrve
you. We’ve already had enquiries about your status,’ she adds enthusiastically, and the bouncing intensifies.

‘Status? What do you mean?’

‘Single. Married. That kind of thing. You never know, we might be able to get you filmed out on a few dates. Viewers love all that. And we’d foot the bill, of course.’ She elbows me affectionately as if we’re best friends chatting over coffee and cake.

‘But I’m not single.’ I bite my lip.

‘Oh!’ She frowns. ‘Are you sure?’ She stops bouncing, tilts her head to one side and wrinkles her nose instead. ‘I thought you were. I’m sure Kelly mentioned it.’

‘Well … not exactly. Maybe. Sort of … err, well it’s complicated,’ I mutter before glancing away, feeling like an absolute idiot.

‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll chat to Kelly and see what she has in mind,’ she says, lifting her eyebrows suggestively.

‘But I thought the show was abou—’ She dashes off, so I end up mumbling ‘helping Carrington’s to up its game’ to myself. My heart sinks. I feel duped all over again. I only agreed to be in the show because I thought it was about Carrington’s. Not my love life. Maybe I should have kept out of the spotlight and gone downstairs to sell washing machines instead. I suck in a big gulp of air. Well, they can’t make me be filmed on dates – I know there definitely wasn’t a clause about that in my employment contract. Hannah stops and dashes back to me.

‘And, ooh, I nearly forgot, what’s your writing like?’ she puffs.

‘My writing?’ I ask, momentarily stunned by the randomness of her question.

‘Not that it really matters, we can write it for you. A celebrity gossip mag, I forget which one, wants you to do a guest column, write about accessory tips, that kind of thing, tell their readers which bag goes with which outfit. You up for it?’

‘Err, yes please! Thank you.’
Wow, my own column
. My mood instantly lifts as I try to take in this exciting new development. Maybe I was a bit hasty in dismissing my involvement in the show after all. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. ‘I’d love to.’ I grin.

‘Good. They’ll pay of course. Won’t be much, two grand-ish if you agree to a photoshoot too.’

Whaaaat? £2,000. Oh my God. Amazing
.

I’m mulling it all over and feeling really chuffed when a pumped-up version of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ bellows through the speakers and the people in coats jump into action – chatting and wandering around the store, looking at and touching the festive merch, creating an authentic busy Saturday afternoon feel. For a moment I’m transfixed at the show unfolding in front of me; it’s like being in an actual film or a modern-day episode of
Mr Selfridge
– the atmosphere is buzzy and electric, and very, very exciting. My pulse quickens. I think I’m going to love doing this, after all.

The music reaches the ‘
gave you my heart
’ bit, when a woman appears by the Marc Jacobs display. She seems just like a real customer and not how I imagine an actress to look like at all. She’s wearing a black mohair coat and even has droplets of rain on her red patent handbag. I can’t decide whether to approach her or not. Annie catches my eye and I can tell that she’s thinking the same thing. In my peripheral vision I see a camera gliding up behind the woman, who’s looking directly at me now, so I decide to go for it.

‘Good morning, were you looking for a particular bag?’ I give her a smile, and she responds with a poker face. I plough on. ‘Just give me a shout if you see anything you like,’ I add, retreating back to my counter, knowing that customers like this are best left alone until they’re ready to engage. Only she isn’t a real customer, and I have no idea what her agenda is. I busy myself with labelling up a new delivery of chunky cocktail rings to go in the display board on the counter. They arrived on Friday but we didn’t have time to unpack them then, so I might as well make use of being here on a Sunday. Besides, it will make the show look more authentic if I’m doing what I normally would at work. I’ve just placed an exquisite sunshine-yellow daisy design ring into place, when the woman beckons me over.

‘At last! I’ve been standing here for ten minutes. I want that bag,’ she says rudely, pointing to a gorgeous chocolate leather tote up on the top shelf.

‘Oh good choice,’ I say, grabbing the stepladder to retrieve the bag.

‘No. Not that one. This one.’ She wags her finger along the shelf towards the same bag, but in navy crocodile leather. I move the stepladder along and start climbing up. The camera shifts around until it’s positioned at the first rung looking up at me, and a sudden moment of panic sets in. What if they’re filming my bottom again? There’s no backing out now so I leg it up the ladder, retrieve the bag and make my descent in record time, figuring that if I keep moving then at least there won’t be too many static shot opportunities, but my left Loub catches on the carpet as I step down and I end up catapulting myself backwards across the floor. The bag does an Olympic standard high-dive somersault before landing in the real pine Christmas tree next to the Lulu Guinness display. Feeling mortified, I fling myself back into a standing position, quickly straighten my jacket and push my big hair extensions away from my face before retrieving the bag, brushing off the pine cones and handing it to the woman. I swear I can hear someone stifling a snigger in the background. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ the woman says, after inspecting the bag. ‘It has a scratch.’

‘Oh.’ I study the area near her pointed index finger.

‘Right there.’ She taps the leather a couple of times in quick succession.

‘I think that’s part of the actual crocodile skin,’ I state, diplomatically. I can’t see a scratch.

‘It isn’t.’

‘No problem, I can easily get another one from the stock cupboard. In the original packaging,’ I offer, not wanting to argue about it, especially on camera.

‘But I want this one,’ she says, taking the bag back and flinging it over her shoulder.

‘Of course.’ I smile and she stares at me for a bit.

‘How much is it?’ she asks, pulling it open to inspect the monogrammed interior. I tell her the price and she nods.

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Are you sure? I’m more than happy to get another one for you, if you prefer.’ She shakes her head before glancing at the camera.

‘This one.’

‘Great. Would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I remember to keep smiling, thinking this is a bit bizarre; one minute she’s complaining and now … but I decide to ‘go with the flow’ as Hannah instructed.

‘Yes,’ she says, and I head towards the counter. She follows. The camera too. I pull out the dustbag and place the tote inside, before selecting a suitably sized box from under the counter. Just as I place the bag inside the box she slaps her hand down, making me jump. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

I open my mouth to speak, but she turns and marches away, leaving me gaping after her. The cameraman zooms in for a close up and I realise that my mouth is actually hanging open, but before I can figure out what just happened – somebody shouts, ‘Cut’, and Kelly appears from behind a camera.

‘Bravo!’ she says, clapping enthusiastically. ‘This is TV gold, just what we like. But you must remember to stand up tall and smile, sweetie.
Smile
. It’s all about the tits and teeth! Say it after me. And shake your hair back too,’ Kelly commands, so I mutter ‘tits and teeth’ and flick my hair around like a performing show pony, willing my cheeks to stop burning. ‘That’s it. Tits and teeth. Hair shake.’ She makes the jingle-jangle sound as she dances from one foot to other, grinning like a loon as she thrusts her cleavage up in the air.

‘Sure. And sorry about my fall.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ She flaps a hand around for a bit.

‘Will it be edited out?’ I ask, keeping my fingers crossed behind my back.

‘Probably not.’ My heart sinks.
Great
. My YouTube hits are going to be stratospheric at this rate. ‘But don’t worry. The viewers will adore you even more.’ Leaning in to me, her faces changes to serious and she whispers, ‘You are wonderful. A natural. And if you keep this up you will find your life transformed. I promise you that. I’m going to help you.’ She pats my arm discreetly.

‘Um, thank you,’ I breathe, as another wave of excitement fizzes through me, even though I’m not entirely sure what she means by ‘transformed’; but if it has anything to do with me writing magazine columns, then I’m up for it. She may be bonkers and a bit scary, but I can’t help warming to her. Maybe she isn’t the enemy after all.

‘Right. Positions please,’ a guy shouts out. Kelly disappears and the camera is rolling again. The guy who bought the Chloé bag on Tuesday is striding towards me.

‘I bought this the other day,’ he says, not bothering to even say hello.

‘Oh yes, I remember. How are you? How is your wife? And Declan?’ I ask, fixing a smile on my face.

‘It’s broken so I need a refund,’ he says, ignoring my questions and dumping the Carrington’s carrier bag on the counter.

‘OK, I’ll take a look,’ I say slowly.
So this must be the complaint that Zara mentioned
. He’s a very good actor, because he seems genuinely ruffled, a stark contrast to the easy-going, laidback, loving husband and Dad thing he had going on before.

‘Right there. See, the zip on the inside pocket is stuck and there’s a lipstick stain on the fabric. It’s been used,’ he states, folding his arms.

‘But it can’t have been,’ I say, feeling confused. There’s no way Carrington’s would sell a used handbag. Even a return would have been checked over thoroughly before being put back into stock. I look at the camera, unsure of what to do next. I’ve never encountered a real situation like this before, let alone a pretend one. I scan the crowd, desperately searching for Hannah, but she’s not here. I swallow and inhale hard through my nose, figuring it best to treat him just like any other customer.

‘I’m really sorry, but the bag wasn’t like this when it left the store,’ I say, knowing that I can’t just give him a full refund. It’s an expensive, high-end bag, and it definitely wasn’t like this when he bought it. And the tags have been removed.

‘Well how did it get in this state then?’

‘Err, I’m not sure, perhaps somebody used it,’ I suggest, cringing and wishing I was anywhere but here. My brain seems to have gone all foggy, and why does it have to be so blooming hot in here? I run a finger along the inside of my collar, conscious of the camera just mere centimetres from my face.

‘Are you saying that I’ve used it?’ he asks, staring straight into my eyes.

‘No. No, of course not. Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant.’ I can feel my cheeks burning again now. This is horrendous; I’m not normally so feeble with customers, but with the cameras and the production people all around me, I’m like a rabbit caught in the headlights, literally. And I’m sure another light bulb just went on. Suddenly a dazzling circuit of white light surrounds me and I feel panicky. My pulse quickens and my head spins. I place a hand on the counter to steady myself and realise that I’m actually holding my breath.

‘Good, because that would be ridiculous. I’m not in the habit of using ladies’ handbags.’ He glares as a camera moves in for a close-up.

‘Of course. But didn’t you say it was a Christmas gift for your wife? It was gift-wrapped, and now it isn’t?’ I say, quickly pulling myself together.
Ha! Wriggle out of that one.
Two can play this game, which is exactly what this is, a game; he’s not even a real customer. He’s an actor. I’ve a good mind to shout ‘CUT’ just so we can get this farce over with right away.