Miracle on Regent Street (19 page)

We kids all make gagging noises on cue and then burst out laughing. But the truth is we love that Mum and Dad are still in love with each other. We know how rare that is these days.

Just then Dad’s mobile rings and he looks at it and then up at Mum apologetically. ‘Sorry, darling, I have to take this. It’s work.’

‘But your lunch . . . the kids are here . . .’ she protests without success as he puts his napkin on the table and stands up.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ Dad replies, then leans over, kisses her on the forehead and strides purposefully out of the room.

There is silence for one minute and we all look at each other as Mum sighs and then picks up her knife and fork and slowly continues eating, the chink of her cutlery echoing around the otherwise
silent room.

‘Come on, everyone,’ she says, swallowing a mouthful before smiling at us all stoically. ‘Don’t let it get cold.’

We all busy ourselves taking big mouthfuls and making lots of ‘mmm’ and ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ sounds, it’s like we’ve suddenly turned into the Bisto
Kids. Even though she tries not to show it, we all know it is a constant source of annoyance to Mum when Dad’s work interrupts precious family time. She’s so patient, though, sometimes
I wonder if all her frustrations just fester under the surface. I can’t work out where else they go.

Mum puts down her knife and fork and smiles at me benevolently as she links her fingers. Oh no, this is her ‘tell Mum all about it’ position. She may as well have turned a spotlight
on me and adopted a German accent. In Dad’s absence it is now interrogation time for me.

‘Come on, Eve, I want to hear all about this fine young man of yours,’ Mum orders. It is purposely not phrased as a question.

‘Yeah, Evie,’ echoes Noah, and winks at me. ‘Tell us all about this bloke of yours.’

‘Like how much are you paying him?’ snorts Jonah.

I stick my tongue out at him as he chortles childishly. ‘Speaking of paying people, have you been to any more strip clubs recently?’ I say sweetly, which shuts him up. Jonah hates
the fact that I found out about an ill-advised stag night from some pictures posted on Facebook, and I’ve been waiting for a chance to use it against him, but Mum doesn’t seem to hear
me. She is still lost in her romantic imaginings for me.

‘So when are you going on another date with him?’ she asks, her green eyes softening as she looks at me. She may be a pain sometimes, but I know she’s always on my side.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply briskly.

‘Aaah,’ she waggles a finger at me, ‘so there will be another date?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Oh God, make this stop.

‘Maybe he’ll take you to Paris,’ Delilah says wistfully.

‘What is this obsession of yours with Paris?’ Will shoots across the table at her.

‘It’s romantic,’ she snaps.

‘And we’ve been loads of times,’ he replies.

‘Not for
years
,’ Delilah says flippantly.

‘That’s because we have kids now,’ Will replies defensively.

‘Doesn’t mean the romance has to go out of a marriage, though, does it?’ she tinkles sweetly, stroking Lola’s raven hair.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ shoots back Will.

‘Oh, nothing!’ laughs Delilah. She turns to me, leaving Will looking frustrated and bemused. ‘Go on, Evie, you never told us what happened after The Kiss.’ She clasps her
hands together and gazes at me as if I am about to tell her some wondrous fairytale. I wish she’d stop using me as a distraction. And I’m not the only one.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ mutters Will, and he wipes his hands on his napkin, throws it on the table and says, ‘I’m going out for a cigarette.’

‘Disgusting habit,’ Delilah snaps over her shoulder, and Noah and Jonah hastily get up to follow Will, ducking like they’re avoiding low-flying female hormones.

‘Thanks, Mum, that was lush,’ Noah says, bobbing down and kissing her on the head before he and Jonah make a hasty retreat. There’s no doubt they adore Mum, but even they treat
her like a housekeeper. Probably because that’s what Dad has always done. It annoys me that they can’t even clear their own plates. And it annoys me even more that Mum lets them get
away with it. Lola and Raffy have slipped off too and are playing in the lounge, sensible kids. They’ve clearly sensed the changed in atmosphere.

‘What was all that about, Delilah?’ I ask with concern. She and Will have been arguing much more than usual recently. And from what I can tell, it’s usually started by her.

‘What?’ she replies, her face a picture of innocence. ‘That? Oh, nothing. Will and I are just having a petty row. That’s what married couples do, you know.’ She
glances at Mum for affirmation. Sitting next to each other they could pass for sisters. They look so alike but they’re worlds apart in other ways, which, if I’m not mistaken,
Mum’s about to demonstrate.

‘You shouldn’t speak to him like that, darling,’ Mum says softly.

Delilah rolls her eyes at me. Mum’s very old-fashioned, despite her youthful looks. She’d have us giving up our jobs, running a home and working hard to make things nice for our men
before you could say ‘1950s throwback’.

‘You know, darling,’ Mum begins, and Delilah looks at me desperately for help, ‘you really should treat Will with more respect. I know better than anyone that it’s hard
to maintain a balance in your marriage when you’ve got kids, but the main thing to remember is to look after your partner as much as your children. He needs you, darling. He’s a good
man, he works hard for his family and—’

‘And I don’t?’ Delilah shoots back, her eyes darkening dangerously.

‘Yes you do, darling, you work very hard indeed,’ Mum placates. Then she pauses. I glance at her. Oh God, she’s not going to say it, is she? ‘Maybe that’s the
problem,’ she adds, and begins stacking the plates.

Oh shit, now that’s gone and done it.

‘
Here
we go . . .’ Delilah folds her arms and looks up at the ceiling like a petulant teenager.

‘I’m just saying, darling, that you’d have more time for romance if you were at home more. You could do all the things involved with running a home and family during the day,
and you and Will could go on dates regularly, or even go away for the weekend.’ She gets up and smoothes her hands on her floral apron.

‘I don’t need to listen to this.’ Delilah pushes her chair back just as Dad walks in.

‘Where is everyone?’ he says, looking around the emptied dining room. He pours himself another glass of red wine and I can see him racking his brains for a reason to find the
boys.

‘Outside,’ Mum says, smoothing down her hair before picking up the stack of plates. ‘Sit down, darling. I’m about to serve dessert. I’ve made your favourite:
chocolate soufflé.’ She touches him gently on the shoulder, but Dad is looking at his BlackBerry, which is flashing at him to signal yet another call. He answers it and I see
Mum’s face drop before she turns and hurries out of the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later Mum serves dessert and peace reigns for a bit. In fact, it is oddly quiet. All that can be heard is the clinking of cutlery against the plates as everyone
scrapes up the last bit of chocolate.

‘Delicious as ever.’ Dad smacks his lips and touches Mum on the hand and she smiles, having got her reward. ‘And can I say how wonderful it is for us to have our family around
our dinner table. It is a rare blessing . . .’

Delilah, Noah, Jonah and I all roll our eyes simultaneously at this comment. It’s anything but rare, as well he knows.

‘. . . but one your mother and I always appreciate. It’s always so lovely for us to catch up on all your news. Especially yours, Eve . . .’

I blush and don’t know where to look. I’m never usually singled out for attention like this.

‘Your mother and I do worry about you, you know, especially in your line of work. Retail is so . . .’ he searches for a suitably inoffensive word, ‘. . . precarious.’ I
know Dad is disappointed by my job and I don’t blame him. I am, too. He wouldn’t mind if I was married or in a relationship; in fact, he was almost as disappointed as I was when Jamie
broke up with me. He’d always liked Jamie, said he liked his ‘spirit’. I think he reminded Dad a little of himself. I’ve never thought about it before but he was probably
right. They’re both ambitious and sexist. But I guess that’s partly to do with their chosen careers. In their industries men always get to the top, and women, well, they usually
don’t.

Dad takes a long sip of wine and looks at me. Uh-oh, the grilling isn’t over.

‘You know I’ve read that Hardy’s is struggling. There’s been talk in the business pages of another store trying to acquire the site.’

‘Oh, poor Hardy’s,’ Mum says, her hand fluttering to her chest. ‘It’s not going to close, is it?’

‘It’s inevitable in this economic climate,’ Dad says matter-of-factly, ever the money man.

‘Well, actually,’ I say, suddenly buoyed by the excitement of what happened in Menswear yesterday and wanting to share it with my family, ‘I’ve had this really good idea
. . .’

Dad looks at Mum and then raises his eyebrows at me encouragingly. ‘Really, darling, that’s nice!’ he says in the patronizing tone he reserves for me. I swallow my frustration.
I know he wouldn’t be so dismissive with Jonah or Noah or even Delilah, so I carry on regardless.

‘Yes, I’ve had this idea for a makeover. And I really think that with my plans I could save the store.’

‘Oh, Evie,’ Dad sighs as he wipes his mouth and puts his napkin on the table, ‘when will you stop dreaming? It’s a sweet thought, but you just don’t have the power.
I mean, no offence, darling, but you’re just the stockroom girl.’ He taps me on my hand and beckons for the coffee pot before turning to Will. The conversation is apparently over.

On the journey home I sit in the back of the car idly drawing patterns in the condensation on the back window, while the kids sleep and Delilah and Will sit in stony
silence.

Just the stockroom girl
, Dad’s voice echoes in my head over and over again. I blow on the glass and draw Hardy’s impressive façade with my finger.

If I wasn’t determined to save the store before, I bloody well am now.

Monday 5 December

20 Shopping Days Until Christmas

T
he streetlamps seem to blink in surprise as I shut the front door behind me and am immediately swallowed up by the dusty coal-black darkness of
this dreary Monday morning. I’m up and out even earlier than usual as I want to get a head start on the shop floor. My dad’s words have made me feel even more determined to make a
difference.

I’m dressed for comfort and warmth again, not style, despite my new-found love of The Wardrobe’s offerings. I can’t help but be grateful for my old, thick jumper and coat. I
have no plans to leave the stockroom today so there’ll be no unexpected meetings with Joel.

I carry my bike quietly down the steps, put my heavier-than-usual rucksack on my back, climb aboard and start pedalling furiously. It’s a freezing cold morning and dawn is still a long way
from lifting its weary head. But I don’t care. I’m not tired, I’m full of life and ideas and excitement. I want to get to work.