Miracle on Regent Street (14 page)

Oh. Damn.

‘We-ell,’ I begin, trying quickly to think of a valid reason when it’s approximately minus two degrees outside. And about the same in here. Hardy’s old heating system is
a tad temperamental. ‘You know, Joel, I just find I . . . work better like this,’ I say, prancing on my toes to demonstrate the freedom of being barefoot. ‘I like to be free to
dash around the store, you know, collecting clothes for people. I find I’m more in tune with what is comfortable and, um, chic . . .’ I have no idea what I’m talking about.
‘Um, so, anyway, is there anything I can help you with? I
am
a personal shopper, you know,’ I add grandly. Just in case he was doubting me. I proffer my armful of clothes by way
of example. ‘These are for a client.’ Is ‘client’ the right word? Or is that just a term prostitutes use? Shit, it’s customer. Of
course
it’s customer. Oh
well, maybe he won’t notice my slip-up.

‘A client,’ Joel replies, his mouth twitching a little. ‘Is that what you call them over here? And how would an experienced personal shopper dress the average Hardy’s
male . . .
client
?’ He raises an eyebrow at me.

I glance at the clothes, racking my brain for something suitably insightful to say. ‘Well, of course they are a high-class and
very
choosy type of person. They like style . .
.’ I pull out at disgusting pale pink long-sleeve gingham shirt with a white collar. It’s vile. I gulp. ‘But they are not afraid to push the boundaries of taste. They like casual,
too. For when they’re, you know, going to the polo or something.’ I hold up a pair of pale lemon chinos the colour of cupcake icing and realize that they are also vile.
‘
But
,’ I add hurriedly, ‘they do
not
want to fade into the crowd.’

I put my hand into my armful of clothes and pull out some bright pink braces. Joel bursts out laughing and I try to appear offended. ‘Are you laughing at my client’s outfit?’ I
ask pompously.

He shakes his head and he touches my arm gently and a shot of adrenalin courses through my body. ‘No, I’m laughing at you. You’re very funny. I love the British sense of
humour.’

‘But being American you’re not supposed to have one,’ I reply quickly. ‘Everyone always says you don’t get irony . . . which is ironic.’ I pause and smile.
‘Are you being ironic?’

Joel laughs again and shakes his head. ‘Not ironic. Honest. I like you. I’m glad you’re here, actually. I was hoping to see you this morning so I could arrange that date in
person.’ He glances at his watch again and I take another sneaky peek at him whilst his eyes are averted. His thick, black eyelashes brush against his cheeks. There is the beginning of
stubble on his chin which, against his American tan, looks like a heavy shadow cast over a sandstone rock. ‘Is 7.30 a.m. too early for a date, do you think?’ he says, raising his
eyebrows a little.

‘Some of us have work to do, you know,’ I say with a hint of a smile.

‘Ah, yes,’ he nods. ‘Your
client
. I forgot. So when
is
this polo match he’s going to?’

‘Oh. Um, very soon,’ I reply, nodding vigorously.

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Not
that
soon,’ I say incredulously. ‘
Obviously
he needs to approve his outfit first.’

Joel laughs and I suddenly feel like the funniest girl in the world.

‘No, I mean are you free to go for a drink tomorrow?’ he asks.

I resist the urge to shout, ‘YESYESYESYEEEES!’

‘Yes, I think I am, actually,’ I reply coolly, suddenly very thankful for my weird working hours that led me to bump into Joel again. ‘I finish at— I mean my last
appointment finishes at 3 p.m.’ I mentally praise myself for my quick thinking.

‘Fantastic,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll meet you outside the store tomorrow at three.’

‘Great, Joel, it’s a, er, date.’ I realize too late that sounds truly ridiculous.

Thankfully he’s already wandered off.

I have a date. Oh My God, I have a date. I have a date I have a date I have a date, is all I can think as I wander around the still silent menswear department. I pull out my notebook and draw a
quick but detailed picture of Joel, his sharp suit, his crisp shirt, his nice hands. I kiss it, then I scribble a quick sketch from memory of the picture in the tearoom, of Clark Gable. They look
remarkably similar, apart from the cut of their clothes.

I’ve always loved drawing and I’m totally absorbed in sketching the sharp lines of Clark’s trilby when I suddenly have an idea. I snap my fingers.

‘That’s it!’ I say out loud.

I feel a bubble of excitement expand in my belly as I turn and run up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. I have to get to the stockroom where I know there’s a box filled with
exactly what I need in the fourth aisle, in the middle of the third shelf, next to the 1970s polyester kipper ties and the dual-purpose shooting-stick seat umbrellas (which you can sit on
and
use as umbrellas, although not at the same time, obviously).

My idea probably won’t work, but it’s worth a shot. I can still hear Rupert’s words in my head.

. . . Staff cuts have to be made in the most underperforming departments
.
Menswear is a shambles
.
It hasn’t taken more than a hundred pounds a day in months. Guy has to
go.

My idea may be crazy but it may just work. Guy’s never going to improve his takings with his current display. I’ve got some serious planning to do.

Saturday 3 December

22 Shopping Days Until Christmas

T
he next day I’m relaxing on the stockroom sofa, having a much-needed cup of tea and daydreaming about my forth-coming date with Joel, when
the door bursts open. I am exhausted. It isn’t even 10 a.m. yet. It’s Saturday and according to my Advent calendar (Door 3: chocolate church bells) there are exactly twenty-two shopping
days left till Christmas, so we may even have a handful of customers today.

‘You’ll never guess what, Sarah!’ Carly exclaims as she springs into the stockroom. She has somehow managed to make impossibly tight grey skinny jeans, black Ugg boots and a
black, bum-skimming puffa jacket worn open to reveal a silver satin cowl-necked top, look both seasonal and stylish. Her chestnut hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail with flicky layers
framing her features and her face is shining with excitement.

‘What?’ I say, and sit up. Carly bounds over and sits next to me and I feel a sharp stab of guilt penetrate my stomach.

‘I’ve just had a phone call from some Human Resources lady from Rumors,’ she gasps. ‘They’ve heard all about me and want to invite me for an interview!’ She
squeals and hugs me. Then she slips off her coat and boots and opens her soft, black slouchy handbag. ‘I mean, it’s AMAZING. It’s my dream job,’ she says, popping her Uggs
in her bag and takes out a pair of gorgeous silver high heels. ‘It’s just,’ she continues, ‘I feel like I’d be really landing Rupert in it if I left before Christmas.
I mean, it’s the busiest time of the year. Well,’ she adds as an afterthought, ‘maybe not here . . .’ She looks at me. ‘What would you do, Sarah? Go for something that
you really want, or stay loyal to your friends?’ She tilts her head and looks at me, and it feels like her green eyes can see right into my soul.

I cough and stand up. ‘Stay loyal, I guess. But that’s just me. I love Hardy’s and couldn’t imagine working anywhere else. But you, well, you have to do what’s
right for you.’

But she’s not listening, she’s busy burrowing in her gigantic bag, trying to find her ringing phone.

‘Hello?’ she says, resting it between her ear and her shoulder as she holds a finger up to silence me, then spends the next five minutes chatting while I wait patiently for her to
finish.

‘Sorry about that, hon,’ she says at last. ‘It was just my flatmate organizing the guest list for tonight. We’re going for cocktails at this cool new club that’s
just opened. Last time we had the most hilarious night. This super-rich guy sent over a magnum of champagne to our table. I mean, it was clear he just wanted to get into our knickers, you know how
it is . . .’ I am nodding like one of those dogs people have in the back of their cars, but the truth is I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Being with Carly feels like I’m
watching reruns of
Sex and the City
. Carly is now talking about not wanting to date anyone until she sees Mr Eye Contact Guy again. I feel a stab of guilt . . . Suddenly I realize Carly has
asked me a question. Thinking about Joel had made me drift off.

‘Are you OK, honey? You don’t seem with it today.’ Carly says kindly. ‘You look a bit under the weather, actually. A bit pale.’ She snaps her fingers and delves
into her handbag. ‘You should go to this amazing woman who does spray tans. I’ll give you her number. She does all the celebrities. She’ll even give you a discount if you mention
my name.’ Carly pulls a card out from her bag and gives it to me. ‘She’s just round the corner. We all need a glow in these winter months, hey!’ She smiles at me. ‘And
it’d mean you’d be able to carry off that pretty top even better. It’s gorgeous, by the way. I’ve been meaning to ask you where you got it. I haven’t seen it
before.’

I can’t help but feel a rush of pleasure that Carly is complimenting
me.
It must mean I’m doing something right. It took me ages to choose what to wear for my date with Joel
this afternoon and I finally settled on a 1940s delicate lace, cream blouse with billowing sleeves and a round collar with a rust-coloured 1960s tunic dress over the top. It’s quite short for
me, but I think the blouse, cream tights and the little string of pearls that sits just under the blouse collar makes it looks cute and chic. At least, I hope it does. I tell Carly about the little
vintage shop I know in Islington but she wrinkles her nose.

‘Vintage? As in some old dead granny’s? No thanks. But I have to admit cemetery chic looks good on you.’ She takes a sip of the tea I’ve passed to her. ‘Now, talk
me through the whole “no shoe” thing you’re sporting right now.’

I glance down at my feet and blush. Ever since my quick transformation yesterday morning, I haven’t wanted to wear my battered old brogues; they’re like a symbol of the old me, the
me I want to forget.

‘Are you starting a new trend with that and that granny chic top?’ She smiles at me and tilts her head comically, and I can’t help but laugh. Obviously I can’t tell her
the truth. Besides, she’d never believe me.

‘Oh, you know, I’m just bored of my boring old brogues,’ I say, waving a hand in their direction. They have spilled out of my rucksack, which is lying in the corner of the
stockroom. ‘And they didn’t seem to go with this outfit.’

‘You’re right there, hon. But then again they don’t really go with
anything
, do they?’ She giggles playfully. I should be offended, but I know she’s right.
‘You know what?’ she says thoughtfully. ‘I’ve got the perfect pair of shoes upstairs in the personal shopping department. I’d actually put them aside for me, but I
need to wait till January now to get them. Shall I bring them down later? I think they’d look
fierce
with that outfit.’