Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (17 page)

And I’m not getting to chat to the customers, either. It’s as if they see through you when you’re a shop assistant. No one’s asked me a single interesting question, like “Does this shirt go with these shoes?” or, “Where can I find a really nice black skirt under £60?” I’d
love
to answer stuff like that. I could really help people! But the only questions I’ve been asked are “Is there a loo?” and, “Where’s the nearest Midland cashpoint?” I haven’t built up a single rapport with anyone.

Oh, it’s depressing. The only thing that keeps me going is an end-of-stock reduced rack at the back of the shop. I keep sidling toward it and looking at a pair of zebra-print jeans, reduced from £180 to £90. I remember those jeans. I’ve even tried them on. And here they are, out of the blue—reduced. I just can’t keep my eyes off them. They’re even in my size.

I mean, I know I’m not really supposed to be spending money—but this is a complete one-off. They’re the coolest jeans you’ve ever seen. And £90 is
nothing
for a pair of really good jeans. If you were in Gucci, you’d be paying at least £500. Oh God, I want them. I
want
them.

I’m just loitering at the back, eyeing them up for the hundredth time, when Danielle comes striding up and I jump guiltily. But all she says is “Can you go onto fitting room duty now? Sarah’ll show you the ropes.”

No more folding jumpers! Thank God!

To my relief, this fitting room lark is a lot more fun. Ally Smith has really nice fitting rooms, with lots of space and individual cubicles, and my job is to stand at the entrance and check how many items people are taking in with them. It’s really interesting to see what people are trying on. One girl’s buying
loads
of stuff, and keeps saying how her boyfriend told her to go mad for her birthday, and he would pay.

Huh. Well, it’s all right for some. Still, never mind, at least I’m earning money. It’s eleven-thirty, which means I’ve earned …
£14.40 so far. Well, that’s not bad, is it? I could get some nice makeup for that.

Except that I’m not going to waste this money on makeup. Of course not—I mean, that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m going to be really sensible. What I’m going to do is buy the zebra-print jeans—just because they’re a one-off and it would be a crime not to—and then put all the rest toward my bank balance. I just can’t
wait
to put them on. I get a break at two-thirty, so what I’ll do is nip to the reduced rack and take them to the staff room, just to make sure they fit, and …

Suddenly my face freezes. Hang on.

Hang on a moment. What’s that girl holding over her arm? She’s holding my zebra-print jeans! She’s coming toward the fitting rooms. Oh my God. She wants to try them on. But they’re mine! I saw them first!

I’m almost giddy with panic. I mean, a normal pair of jeans, I wouldn’t bother about. But these are unique. They’re
meant
for me. I’ve mentally reorganized my entire wardrobe around them, and have already planned to wear them at least three times next week. I can’t lose them. Not now.

“Hi!” she says brightly as she approaches.

“Hi,” I gulp, trying to stay calm. “Ahm … how many items have you got?”

“Four,” she says, showing me the hangers. Behind me are tokens hanging on the wall, marked One, Two, Three, and Four. The girl’s waiting for me to give her a token marked Four and let her in. But I can’t.

I physically cannot let her go in there with my jeans.

“Actually,” I hear myself saying, “you’re only allowed three items.”

“Really?” she says in surprise. “But …” She gestures to the tokens.

“I know,” I say. “But they’ve just changed the rules. Sorry about that.” And I flash her a quick smile.

“Oh, OK,” says the girl. “Well, I’ll leave out—”

“These,” I say, and grab the zebra-print jeans.

“No,” she says. “Actually, I think I’ll—”

“We have to take the top item,” I explain hurriedly. “Sorry about that.”

Thank
God
for bossy shop assistants and stupid pointless rules. People are so used to them that this girl doesn’t even question me. She just rolls her eyes, grabs the Three token, and pushes her way past into the fitting room, leaving me holding the precious jeans.

OK, now what? From inside the girl’s cubicle, I can hear zips being undone and hangers being clattered. She won’t take long to try on those three things. And then she’ll be out, wanting the zebra-print jeans. Oh God. What can I do? For a few moments I’m frozen with indecision. Then the sound of a cubicle curtain being rattled back jolts me into action. It’s not her—but it could have been. Quickly I stuff the zebra-print jeans out of sight behind the curtain and stand up again, a bright smile on my face.

Please let the girl find something else she likes, I pray feverishly. Please let her forget all about the jeans. Maybe she’s not even that keen on them. Maybe she picked them up on impulse. She didn’t really look like a jeans person to me.

A moment later, Danielle comes striding up, a clipboard in her hands.

“All right?” she says. “Coping, are you?”

“I’m doing fine,” I say. “Really enjoying it.”

“I’m just rostering in breaks,” she says. “If you could manage to last until three, you can have an hour then.”

“Fine,” I say in my positive, employee-of-the-month voice, even though I’m thinking
Three? I’ll be starving!

“Good,” she says, and moves off into the corner to write on her piece of paper, just as a voice says,

“Hi. Can I have those jeans now?”

It’s the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she Houdini?

“Hi!” I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. “Any good? That black skirt’s really nice. I think it would really suit you. The way the splits go at the—”

“Not really,” she says, interrupting me, and shoves the lot back at me, all mussed up and off their hangers. “It was really the jeans I wanted. Can I have them?”

I stare at her desperately. I
can’t
relinquish my treasured jeans. I just know this girl wouldn’t love them like I would. She’d probably wear them once and chuck them out—or never wear them at all! And
I saw them first
.

“What jeans were they?” I say, wrinkling my brow sympathetically. “Blue ones? You can get them over there, next to the—”

“No!” says the girl impatiently. “The zebra-print jeans I had a minute ago.”

“Oh,” I say vaguely. “Oh yes. I’m not sure where they went. Maybe someone else took them.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she says, looking at me as if I’m an imbecile. “This is ridiculous! I gave them to you about thirty seconds ago! How can you have lost them?”

Shit. She’s really angry. Her voice is getting quite loud, and people are starting to look. Oh,
why
couldn’t she have liked the black skirt instead?

“Is there a problem?” chimes in a syrupy voice, and I look up in horror. Danielle’s coming over toward us, a sweet-but-menacing look on her face. OK, keep calm, I tell myself firmly. No one can prove anything either way.

“I gave this assistant a pair of jeans to look after because I had four items, which is apparently too many,” the girl begins explaining.

“Four items?” says Danielle. “But you’re allowed four items in the fitting room.” And she turns to look at me with an expression which isn’t very friendly.

“Are you?” I say innocently. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought it was three. I’m new,” I add apologetically.

“I
thought
it was four!” says the girl. “I mean, you’ve got
tokens with bloody ‘Four’ written on them!” She gives an impatient sigh. “So anyway, I gave her the jeans, and tried on the other things—and then I came out for the jeans, and they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” says Danielle sharply. “Gone where?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, trying to look as baffled as the next person. “Maybe another customer took them.”

“But you were holding them!” says the girl. “So what—did someone just come up to you and whip them out of your fingers?”

I flinch at the tone of her voice. I would never speak to a shop assistant like that, even if I was cross. Anyway, how can she be so obsessed with a pair of
jeans?

“Maybe you could get another pair from the rack,” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Or some capri pants? I bet you’d look really nice in—”

“There
isn’t
another pair,” she says icily. “They were from the reduced rack. And I don’t like capri pants.”

“Rebecca, think!” says Danielle. “Did you put the jeans down somewhere?”

“I must have done,” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “It’s been so busy in here, I must have put them on the rail, and … and I suppose another customer must have walked off with them.” I give an apologetic little shrug as though to say “Customers, eh?”

“Wait a minute!” says the girl sharply. “What’s that?”

I follow her gaze and freeze. The zebra-print jeans have rolled out from under the curtain. For a moment we all stare at them.

“Gosh!” I manage at last. “There they are!”

“And what exactly are they doing down there?” asks Danielle.

“I don’t know!” I say. “Maybe they …” I swallow, trying to think as quickly as I can. “Maybe …”

“You
took
them!” says the girl incredulously. “You bloody took them! You wouldn’t let me try them on, and then you hid them!”

“That’s ridiculous!” I say, trying to sound convincing—but I can feel my cheeks flushing a guilty red.

“You little …” The girl breaks off and turns to Danielle. “I want to make an official complaint.”

“Rebecca,” says Danielle. “Into my office, please.”

I jump in fright at her voice and follow her slowly to her office. Around the shop, I can see all the other staff looking at me and nudging each other. How utterly mortifying. Still, it’ll be OK. I’ll just say I’m really sorry and promise not to do it again, and maybe offer to work overtime. Just as long as I don’t get …

I don’t believe it. She’s fired me. I haven’t even worked there for a day, and I’ve been kicked out. I was so shocked when she told me, I almost became tearful. I mean, apart from the incident with the zebra-print jeans, I thought I was doing really well. But apparently hiding stuff from customers is one of those automatic-firing things. (Which is really unfair, because she never told me that at the interview.)

As I get changed out of my gray trousers and T-shirt, there’s a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it’s even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I’ve done today—and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.

It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—

“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s … it’s … it’s …

“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a surprise!”

Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever—but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirt
and … are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?

“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying.
Surely
she didn’t mean …

“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”

“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”

But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.

And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!

“Hi,” says Lucy.

“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”

“Oh,
you’re
Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.

What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.

“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.

“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully—and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”

“No!” I say, a little too sharply.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”

God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.

“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”

“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”

“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.

“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dad
was talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”

I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything—but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.

“Anyway,” he says. “We must get going.”

“Train to catch?” I say patronizingly. “It must be hard, living so far out.”

“It’s not so bad,” says Lucy. “I commute to Wetherby’s every morning and it only takes forty minutes.”

“You work for Wetherby’s?” I say, aghast. Why am I
surrounded
by City high-flyers?

“Yes,” she says. “I’m one of their political advisers.”

What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or something? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.