Christmas at Carrington’s (14 page)

‘Of course.’ My mind boggles – never in a million years is this woman going to look like Taylor; she’s a totally different ethnic group for starters. ‘My colleague will escort you,’ I say, hoiking Annie from the cupboard. I figure it best to stay on my section – don’t want the voiceover guy saying I shouldn’t have abandoned the shop floor, with me being the supervisor and all. Annie starts bobbing from one foot to the other with glee, before quickly calming herself down and gesturing demurely as if the woman is royalty.

‘CUT!’

Kelly is up on her feet now, clapping and rushing towards me with her Ronald McDonald hair whipping around like candyfloss in a wind tunnel.

‘Bravo. Bravo! Perfect. How do you do it?’ she gushes, grabbing my hand and pumping it furiously.

‘Do what? I ask, feeling panicky and euphoric all at the same time.

‘Exude the perfect blend of exemplary service with such provincially naive wonderment.’ She wafts a hand in the air.

‘Um.’
What’s she going on about?
‘Is that good?’ I raise a tentative eyebrow.

‘Oh, you are so divine. Of course it is.’ She squeezes me tight, almost winding me in the process.

‘But I just thought she was an ordinary customer – well, not ordinary for Mulberry-On-Sea, but, well … ’ I say, managing to break free, hoping she wasn’t an actor after all. That would be really disappointing.

‘And she is. Or will be. I certainly hope she’ll become an “ordinary” customer. Carrington’s can’t be sustained with just the likes of that rain-bonnet woman, whatever her name is, spending a tenner once a year.’

‘Mrs Godfrey,’ I prompt.

‘Yes, whatever.’ Kelly flaps a hand. ‘Anyway, Princess Ameerah was insistent on not having a camera stuck in her face, hence my covert manoeuvring and the long-lens activity from the filming guys. It was the only way to get her to agree to come here,’ she says, and I’m suddenly conscious of being surrounded by the whole crew. They’re all laughing and stepping forward to shake my hand or kiss my cheek, and my heart lifts. It feels good to have got it right for a change – perhaps this will earn me a reprieve from the YouTube hall of shame this week.

‘Right. On to the next scene,’ Kelly commands, and clicks her fingers towards a wardrobe assistant, who immediately steps forward with a sumptuously soft grey cashmere wrap. ‘Put this on and follow me.’ Feeling like a proper celebrity, I swathe myself in the ultra-chic and super-luxurious wrap.

‘What about the money?’ I ask as we head off. It’s still stacked up on the counter.

‘Security can deal with it,’ she replies, as if it’s mere detail. ‘The extra is yours, the contents of the bag too. You must
always
accept Princess Ameerah’s gifts with grace and gratitude.
Always
.’

‘But that’s not Carrington’s usual policy,’ I say, despite the fizz of excitement bubbling inside me. I wonder what’s inside the bag and I’ll share the £200 with Annie, of course. She’ll be delighted too.

‘Well it is now. It’s etiquette when serving this calibre of customer. Harrods staff have been doing it for years.’ Kelly nods at Melissa as she steps out from her hiding place. ‘You can look after it all until Georgie returns.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Melissa says with a hint of sarcasm, and does an exaggerated salute before clicking her heels together and marching over to my counter. I quickly stifle a giggle, hoping Kelly didn’t notice, and make a mental note to catch up with Mel later.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask, having to do a gentle jog to keep up with Kelly, which is no mean feat in six-inch-high Giuseppe Zanotti suede ankle boots.

‘You’ll see. Don’t want to give too much away, will ruin the spontaneity. But trust me, you will
lurrrrrve
it.’ She shakes her hands up in the air. I smile hesitantly. ‘And I want you to talk about the council’s plans for the Christmas ice rink.’ Her face changes to serious.

‘Err, OK. But what should I say?’ I ask, momentarily thrown by her random flip from wacky Ronald McDonald to serious businesswoman.

‘Anything. Just mention it – sure you’ll think of something, you’re a bright girl. And do it before Eddie proposes, I don’t want it getting overshadowed by wedding talk.’ Kelly grabs a bottle of mineral water from a passing catering guy, takes a massive slurp and hands it back. ‘Chop chop. Time is money in this game,’ she says, pumping her elbows up even higher to gather more speed.

Ten minutes later we’re in Sam’s café, which has been festooned with paper lanterns and flickering tea lights to create a cosy, fairytale atmosphere. Sam is in place behind the counter wearing a new white T-shirt with Cupcakes At Carrington’s emblazoned in glittery gold lettering across the front, and a massive smile on her face. Her eyes swivel to the left, practically bulging with excitement, as if she’s telepathically saying, ‘Look who it is. Right here. In my café!
Faints
.’ There’s an elegant woman standing next to Sam, with her head down. She looks up. And
oh my God
.

It’s Mary Berry. Baking queen. The actual, proper ledge herself, Mary Berry. I
love
Mary Berry. She’s brilliant on TV and now here she is right in front of us. Incredible. I do a speedy silent scream at Sam, when Mary isn’t looking. Sam reciprocates.

Mary holds up a cake stand bulging with red velvet cupcakes smothered in butter cream icing with miniature snowflakes scattered on top. Striped candy canes are hooked around the edges of the cake stand and Mariah Carey is singing ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ in the background. This is amazing. I just about manage to resist the overwhelming urge to blurt out, ‘Hey, look everyone, it’s Mary Berry.’ Now, that would be so uncool. And it’s true then, Kelly really does know all the famous people. Wow!

I flash Sam a ‘what’s going on’ look? But there’s no time. A camera moves in as a guy counts down – three two one with his fingers – before Millie appears, sweeping an enormous blusher brush over my cheeks, flicking a lock of hair away from my face and straightening the wrap. She gives me a quick wink and mouths, ‘Break a leg.’ Eddie and Ciaran are sitting in a booth, laughing and chatting as if it’s just any other day in the café, seemingly oblivious to the cameras, Mary the Ledge, and the crowd all around us. And I feel so excited.

Eddie catches my eye and smooths his already immaculate hair. Now he’s fiddling with his cuff links as if he’s nervous, which is extremely unusual for him. I know he’s about to propose, but I thought he couldn’t wait … he’s that keen to get to Vegas and have his moment in the spotlight.

In the space behind my head, I sense Kelly clicking her fingers.

‘Her date! Her date! Where is he?’ she whispers furiously. A girl with a clipboard and a blank face appears. ‘Oh never mind. If you want something doing … ’ Kelly puffs, before shooing the girl away. ‘Get ready to grab his hand and walk towards the gays,’ she hisses in my ear. ‘And look happy.’ She disappears.

My heart sinks. I don’t really want to grab Leo’s hand and look happy with him, but I guess it’s only show business, and if it’s OK for Tom … I inhale sharply through my nose.

‘Go. Go. Go.’ Kelly is back. I spin around, but I can’t see Leo. An arm reaches out through the crowd. Kelly pushes the crew guys out of the way. And then I see him. My fake date.

Oh my God.

Oh my actual God. It’s not the actor. It’s not Leo.

It’s Dan Kilby.

Singing star. Sexy and soulful.
Proper famous
. But there’s no time to react. He takes my hand. His fingers feel warm against mine as he leads me over to join the others. My pulse quickens, not because of Dan (I don’t think so, well, maybe a bit – he is utterly gorge with his messy brown hair and soft grey eyes) but because all can I fathom is: what will Tom think when he sees this?

^‘
Why didn’t you say something?’ I’m on the bus and Dad’s on the phone. He sounds delighted. Nancy has just started on the silver surfers’ course and was messing around on her new iPad mini when she spotted a picture of me plastered across the front page of an online gossip magazine above a caption saying:

I want the ground to open up and drag me in. It’s not true – I haven’t found new love. It’s surreal having my private life dissected in the media. I’m mortified. And where did they get the picture? Dad says it’s of me standing outside Carrington’s chatting on my phone, so I can only assume I was on a tea break and that I’m being stalked by paparazzi. Oh God. And they don’t hang around, these sleb hunters – the scene with Dan Kilby was only this morning, which just goes to show how quickly they pounce. I’m not sure I can keep up with it all. Not so long ago I was ordinary Georgie Hart from Mulberry-On-Sea, looking forward to spending Christmas with my new boyfriend, and now … well, it seems I’m a reality TV star linked to one of the most famous singers in the country.

‘Dad, you know how the media make things up, embellish the facts,’ I say quietly, turning towards the window, conscious of the other passengers all whispering and nudging each other before glancing in my direction. Dad should know more than anyone what it feels like to be suddenly thrust into the limelight. From the moment he was arrested back then, the newspapers wouldn’t leave him alone. Mum used to get so upset on reading lies about him having had secret women on the side, or how he’d ‘been fiddling the books’ at the bank where he worked for years – I guess that bit is sort of true, but not the rest, I’m sure of it. Even after Dad went to prison, he still sent Mum cards saying how much he loved her. And Mum still loved him – right up to the day she died. She told me so at the end.

‘Yes, of course,’ Dad says. ‘But this is different, darling. If you’re on the telly, then you’re a celebrity, famous, and we all love celebrities. Everyone here is so chuffed. The curtain-twitchers are all saying they could tell right away, just from your movie-star hair and stylish clothes. We all knew there was something going on in town, but nobody guessed it would involve Carrington’s department store. You know, Georgie, one of the old dears even wants me to get your autograph for her niece.’

‘Oh stop it, Dad,’ I chide, and then smile at how he always refers to people his own age as ‘old’, as if he’s a mere boy.

‘Enjoy it, Georgie. A bit of the high life doesn’t come around very often,’ he replies, echoing Mrs Grace’s words. ‘And who is this “sexy singer”?’

‘Um, he’s called Dan. I’ll tell you about it later. But it was all set up for the cameras, Dad.’

‘Phew. I was worried it might be that no-good what’s-his-name, Brett. He liked singing; didn’t you meet him in one of those karaoke bars?’ Dad sighs.

‘Yes. But don’t worry, he’s definitely history.’ I pause. ‘Dad, sorry, I’ll have to call you back.’ I quickly shove the phone in my pocket as a group of teenage girls run down the bus and occupy all the seats around me.

‘Are you Georgie from Carrington’s?’ A girl with a pierced eyebrow and a red Santa hat over dodgy hair extensions asks me.

‘Why do you want to know?’ I reply cautiously, just in case she’s some kind of
crazeee
looper about to happy-slap me in front of her crew.

‘Don’t be anxious babe, it’s me, Madison.’ She grins as if we’re BFFs and grabs my arm, making my heart speed up. ‘Me and the girls saw you on the telly. Can Leanne take a picture of us?’

‘Err, sure … who’s Leanne?’ Madison points to a pretty girl with a seriously extreme Ronseal tan wearing a neon pink Juicy tracksuit under a faux fur gilet. She legs it down the bus clutching her smartphone and, before I can say ‘cheese’, Madison has flung her arm around my shoulders, pulled me in tight, and several pictures have been taken.

‘Thanks babe.’ Madison jumps up. ‘Nice to see you keeping it real.’ I raise one eyebrow and smile vaguely, wondering what she means.

‘The bus!’ She points a long acrylic fingernail around the top deck. ‘Thought you’d have a driver, now you’re a sleb.’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ I grin. Talk about surreal – a few weeks ago, celebrities were just people I read about in magazines, and now I’m one of them.

The bus stops and the girls leave, so I call Dad back and he tactfully chats about the weather and his neighbours, before asking if there’s anything special he can get me for Christmas.
Yes, Tom! Preferably naked, lying on a sheepskin rug in that log cabin we mused about before he went weird and dumped me
… Hmmm, I suggest a woolly hat and scarf gift set instead, and Dad seems happy with that.

‘So when will we see you again?’ The twitchy, uneasy feeling from that day in Nancy’s flat returns. I’m not used to Dad saying ‘we’. I feel as if I’m betraying Mum somehow. Even though she’s not here any more. ‘Nancy is going to cook her outstandingly delicious beef stew and dumplings,’ he adds. ‘So make sure you come hungry. I’m still full after last Sunday’s feast,’ he chuckles.

‘Can I let you know Dad? I haven’t got my diary to hand,’ I say, quickly rummaging in my bag to check.

‘Of course, darling. Oh hang on. Nancy’s saying something.’ There’s a muffled, scratchy pause, as if Dad has the phone pressed into his jumper. I stop rummaging. I can just about hear Nancy’s voice in the background – she’s saying something about ‘understanding’ and ‘best do it now’.

Do what now?

But before I can work it out, Dad is back on the line.

‘Just let me know when suits you, sweetheart. I know how busy you are.’

‘Dad?’ I ask, and then hesitate.

‘What is it, Georgie?’

‘Err, it’s … oh no, don’t worry, it’s nothing.’ I bite my lip.

‘OK. But you know you can talk to me. I’m always here for you.’

‘I know Dad.’ My voice softens. It’s lovely having him back in my life. ‘Well, there was something – I was just wondering if we could visit Mum’s grave some time.’

‘Of course, sweetheart. That would be wonderful. We can make a day of it. Go for lunch or a stroll along the promenade, if the weather isn’t too chilly, that is, just like we used to when you were a little girl. Do you remember? Mum used to make banana sandwiches and we’d eat them on the benches next to the pier, and drink cans of ginger beer before devouring those massive Mr Whippy ice creams with chocolate flakes on from the van. And you never see those ice-cream vans any more.’

‘Yes. I remember. Mum used to say that when the music was playing it meant the man had run out of lollies, and then spoil it all by laughing, so I always knew she was joking.’

‘But you still fell for it every time, if only for a couple of seconds,’ he says, sounding animated and light. And for some reason, tears sting in my eyes. I wonder what Mum would have thought of me being on the telly. Proud, I reckon, and it’s such a shame she’s missing out. Mum was always a little in awe of anyone out of the ordinary. It was my thirteenth birthday not long before she died, and the nurses in the hospital organised a little party; they even invited someone from the local football team to turn up and give me a teddy bear – Mum went all fan-girl. I chew the inside of my cheek as a horrible, immature thought pops into my head. I hope Dad doesn’t invite Nancy along on our day out. I quickly shove the thought away – I like Nancy and it’s nice that Dad has met her.

We say our goodbyes and the bus reaches my stop.

After closing the door to my flat, I unzip the boots (the wardrobe woman said I could keep them, which I’m thrilled about) and stow them carefully on my shoe rack. They’re beautiful, extra-soft purple suede with little tassels down the side, and most likely cost a fortune. I place the Carrington’s bag from Princess Ameerah on the hall table; inside is a divine Louis wallet in a beautiful seasonal berry colour with cream detailing. I thought I might give it to Sam as a Christmas present. I could get her initials put onto it. I’m just hanging my coat up, when my mobile rings again. This time it’s Sam.

‘Georgie! I’m sorry,’ she says, sounding worried.

‘What for?’ I ask, making my way into the kitchen. I’m starving.

‘For not saying I’d be there this morning, or warn you that Dan Kilby had been roped in. I only found out very late last night – Kelly called me herself and made me promise to keep it a secret; she wanted you to be surprised. Something about it being more authentic, you know, when they filmed your face on seeing that Dan was your surprise date.’

‘Oh don’t worry about it. It was pretty exciting and a fantastic distraction from thinking about
you know who
,’ I laugh.

‘And what about Mary Berry?’ Sam is practically hyperventilating, she’s that excited. ‘She’s like my idol. In fact, scrap that, I actually want to be her – she’s that amazing. Kelly arranged for her to come and film a Christmas cupcake masterclass in the café, I think they’re showing it in the next episode. She was just so lovely and shared some baking secrets with me – we even had a chuckle about the best ways to avoid the dreaded ‘soggy bottom’ when baking pastry. And there’s even talk of me being involved in a special celebrity series of the
Great
British Bake Off
.’

‘Wow! As a judge?’

‘I don’t know. Or maybe a contestant – nothing has been agreed … ’

‘That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you,’ I say, knowing one of Sam’s dreams just came true. Right there.

‘Thanks, hun. Anyway, I tried calling as soon as Kelly hung up last night, there was no way I was keeping it from you.’ She pauses for breath. ‘I left a voicemail, but could tell from your face you hadn’t got it when you turned up at the café.’

‘Oh, you know what the signal is like in my flat. It’ll probably arrive next week or something,’ I say, feeling relieved. I had thought it a bit odd that Sam hadn’t said she’d be there, let alone keep Mary Berry and Dan Kilby a secret, but it’s not the end of the world. Besides, I’m hardly in a position to take offence: we usually tell each other everything, but that didn’t stop me from keeping my passionate night with Tom a secret. A sudden rush of longing engulfs me. After balancing the phone in the crook of my neck, I pull open a Terry’s chocolate orange (buy one get two free – I have fifteen) and stuff two segments into my mouth.

‘As long as you’re OK. Where did you rush off to after?’ Sam asks.

‘Oooh, hang on a sec,’ I reply, in between chewing and swallowing. ‘Sorry about that.’ I lick melted chocolate off my fingers. ‘Kelly rushed me back to the shop floor to do a couple of publicity shots behind my counter – to send out to all the magazines and newspapers. Apparently, she’s had enquiries from tabloids wanting to interview me and
FHM
have even asked about a bikini photoshoot.’

‘Wow, how exciting. Are you going to do it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Why the hesitation?’

‘Everything’s changing so quickly. I’m already in some online magazine linked with Dan. What if they airbrush my clothes off and flog naked pictures of me to a dodgy men’s mag, for the curvy girls’ page,’ I sniff, letting my inner drama queen run riot with my imagination. I’ve read about stuff that happens to celebrities – leaked sex tapes, kiss-and-tell stories. Even fake pictures. And it’s not just celebrities: Kate and Will can’t even sunbathe in private!

‘I bet you’d look glorious,’ she immediately replies, not missing a beat.

‘Aw, thanks for the cheerleading, but I’d rather not appear naked in a magazine with a Carrington’s carrier bag or whatever covering my Aunty Mary.’ I shudder at the thought, and Sam giggles.

‘Totes agree,’ she says, before pausing and then adding, ‘They wouldn’t really do that, would they?’

‘No, probably not – just my feeble attempt at a joke. Besides, I definitely didn’t see a clause about getting naked in my employment contract, but hey … you never know; anything seems to go these days.’

‘Sounds to me like you might need a manager, someone to look after that side of things.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. I know Kelly seems to be passing some amazing opportunities your way, but she also has her own interests to look after.’

‘I guess so, don’t suppose you managed to get a number for Claire?’ I laugh. Talk about mad – I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation with my best friend. It’s as if I’ve stepped onto a massive rollercoaster and now can’t decide if I want to ride on it or not. I love the goody bags, the freebies (shoes, clothes, makeovers, etc.), the magazine column, which I’ve written and emailed to Hannah (after sampling every single item in the goody bag, all of which were divine, the Asos stash too). But the online article that Dad saw before I had a chance to, has really unnerved me. Makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. And maybe I shouldn’t travel by bus on my own. Madison and her friends were lovely, but what if the next group of girls aren’t? Perhaps I do need someone to guide me.

‘No, I tried Dad’s old PA, but she couldn’t find any details for her. Don’t tell Eddie, though, he’ll be devastated. Why don’t you ask Kelly? I’m sure she could put you in touch with someone.’

‘Sure, maybe I will. Thanks for the advice. Anyway, how are you? How’s Nathan?’ I say, to change the subject, making a mental note to invest in a new coat with a large hood, or a snood, or, better still, a balaclava, to shield my face whenever I’m outside my flat or Carrington’s from now on. I don’t want any more random pictures of me turning up online.

‘All good here. I haven’t had the dreaded morning sickness for days now. And Nathan is such a sweetheart, you know he’s getting very good at foot massage.’

‘Aw, that’s lovely. Are your feet getting very swollen?’

‘Oh no, it’s way too early for all that, but he likes to feel involved. And he was thrilled to bits when the first scan appointment arrived.’

‘Oooh, how exciting – when is it?’

‘Monday … in a couple of weeks’ time. I can’t wait. It’s in the morning at the hospital and then we’re going for lunch afterwards, followed by a pay-per-view session at the private clinic. Jenny went a few days ago and said it’s fantastic. They even let her set up a Skype call from her laptop so that Tony could see the baby on the plasma screen, all the way from Helmand.’