Miracle on Regent Street (20 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ Felix says in surprise, looking at his watch as I walk through the staff entrance. ‘You’re not due to start for over an hour
and a half!’

‘Oh, I couldn’t sleep,’ I lie, averting my eyes guiltily. I know I should tell him why I’m here at half-five in the morning but I want to see if my idea works before I
involve anyone else. I’m worried that what happened in Menswear was just a fluke. This place is too important to Felix for me to give him false hope.

Anxious to get started, I hand him his Claridge’s takeaway cream tea – which to be honest hasn’t fared as well as I hoped after a day at home and the bike journey this morning
– but he seems pleased. I feel bad about not stopping for a chat like normal, but I’m hoping the scones and cake will make up for it. I rush through the corridor and out through the
doors that lead into the beauty department. I head straight to the central staircase where I lean over the banisters and look down into Menswear. My display of matinée idol-inspired
mannequins are still there, but the shop floor looks severely depleted. Guy must have had a busy weekend. I make a mental note to start my list of replenishments there – clearly he
didn’t have much time to do it himself. But first, I have other work to do.

I run to the stockroom first to grab a few essentials, then I head back through the ground-floor atrium and into the beauty department with its various counters filled with rainbow palettes of
eye shadows and rows of brightly coloured lipsticks, all standing to attention like soldiers in some multicoloured army. It looks like the displays haven’t been changed since the 1980s. It
strikes me again just how stuck in a time warp Hardy’s is. I can’t help but wonder if it is age that has been its downfall. Perhaps my hunch is wrong and we
do
need to move with
the times, as Rupert thinks, and become the fashion-forward store that Carly is envisaging. Do we all need to become tougher, smarter, sexier in order to ensure our survival in a highly competitive
market and a tough economic climate? I bite my lip as I imagine my entire plan backfiring.

What I’m doing could cost me my job. But then again, I counter, it’s worth the risk if there’s the smallest chance of saving Hardy’s.

I continue walking through the department, running my fingers along the counters and resisting the urge to inspect my fingers. A bit of dust is the least of Hardy’s problems and, besides,
the cleaners do a sterling job. I wouldn’t want to offend them with my freakish habits. I think of Mum, who can’t cope with even a speck of dust or disorder in her house, and wonder if
I am genetically predisposed to turn into her. I don’t know whether to be grateful or aghast at the thought.

It feels strange but pleasant to not be accosted by a fleet of white-coated assistants spritzing at me furiously as I walk past. I think of Gwen, with her carefully painted smile, poised to
pounce on any unsuspecting customer who happens to walk past. Perhaps people would be more inclined to buy from her if she adopted a gentler sales technique. I know she’s desperate for extra
commission in order to pay off all those debts her husband doesn’t know about, but her sales patter just isn’t working. And judging by their consistently low takings, I’m not the
only person who wants to run a mile as soon as Gwen or Jenny waves a blusher brush in my direction.

I pause to have a look at the displays of face and body creams. They all look the same to me, in identikit sickly pastel and cream packaging, and I can’t help but yearn for the gloriously
classy and decadent make-up packaging of yesteryear: the beautiful vintage gold-plated compacts that we still have boxes of in the stockroom; the fat, fragrant powder puffs and glamorous gold
lipstick cases that contrasted so beautifully against the crimson, carmine and coral products within; in fact, the very same things I have with me now.

I stand there for a few minutes with my battered box full of goodies and other vintage treasures that have been gathering dust in the stockroom. Then I set to work recreating the pictures in my
head, happy that this time I’ve come fully prepared. I don’t have long and there’s a lot of work to be done.

It didn’t take long for me to work out what’s needed to give Beauty a serious facelift. I’ve been thinking about what I could do to entice women into Hardy’s
hundred-year-old department. I can’t help but feel that what women want is the same as we’ve always wanted: simple but effective products, packaged beautifully; no science, no promises,
no endlessly confusing colour spectrums or anodyne celebrity campaigns, just a sprinkling of magic that will convince us we can be transformed by the products. Maybe I am only speaking for myself,
but I don’t want to see images of naturally beautiful models with translucent skin, touching their faces reverentially and gazing up at the sky to emphasize just how effortlessly beautiful
they are. I don’t want barely-there make-up advertisements. I want lipstick, powder and paint in all its glory. I want Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth and Marilyn Monroe. I want Sophia Loren
and Brigitte Bardot and Faye Dunaway. I want Farrah Fawcett and Joan bloody Collins, for Christ’s sake. I want sweeping eyelashes and bold lips and perfectly executed eye make-up.

When I walk into a beauty department I want to feel that I can transform myself into any of these women with a flick of a make-up brush and the right products. But more than that, I want to
enjoy doing it. I may not be a make-up maven but even I want to imagine sitting at a dressing table, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, wearing marabou slippers and applying creams from pretty little
glass pots, and sweeping gloriously coloured lipstick over my lips as I prepare for a date. Because that’s the point, isn’t it? Shouldn’t all this be about fantasy, about playing
‘dress-up’? I want to feel glamorous. I want to feel like a woman. I want it to be just like the old days. And I’m pretty sure that’s what other women want too.

Maybe I’m even more my mother’s daughter than I realize, I think as I fly around the shop floor, sweeping the current displays to the floor and working quickly and meticulously to
recreate the vision in my head. Just like her I can have a room cleaned, tidied and perfectly organized by the time I get from one end of it to the other, and clearly, despite appearances to the
contrary, I’m more of a beauty junkie than I realized. I’ve never felt the need for it before but wearing Carly’s make-up made me feel like a different person. It was like wearing
a mask. I felt protected, confident, untouchable, and because of that, for the first time in a very long time, I felt good about myself. I wish I’d tried it years ago.

I glance anxiously at my watch. I don’t have much time. There are still boxes of props and products strewn all around me, the shop floor is in total chaos, but I am in heaven. I feel
alive, energized. Watching the displays take shape in front of me is like putting together a jigsaw; with each piece I can see what the full picture is meant to be. It’s a painstaking
process, but incredibly satisfying.

I spend the next half an hour working furiously, only taking my eyes off the displays to check my watch. I am achingly aware of the time as I can’t risk anyone seeing what I’m doing
– well, apart from the cleaners, that is. They don’t mix with any of the floor staff or management and I know they are too absorbed in their own work to worry about what I’m
doing. Their only concern has been to see if I need any help. Jan Baptysta saw me dragging a large, heavy box and offered to carry it for me, which was sweet of him. Mind you, he did say it meant I
had to marry him so I’m not sure it was purely a charitable offer.

At last I take a long breath and, wiping my grubby hands on my trousers, I take a step back and look at my work. Even I am amazed at the transformation.

The horrible lurid plastic displays are gone. Instead, over the bare counter Jan has hung from the ceiling several ex-display vintage 1920s tiered chandeliers after I’d remembered him
telling me that he is a qualified electrician. On one of the white counters I’ve recreated a theatrical dressing room, by adding a vintage triple mirror I found, complete with bulbs, in the
stockroom. Then I’ve pinned photos of the most glamorous female film stars of all time onto the mirror, and underneath each picture I’ve grouped together the products from all the
different beauty counters that will help customers recreate that particular star’s look. So whether you’re looking for Elizabeth Taylor’s arched beauty, Audrey Hepburn’s
elegant sophistication or Marilyn Monroe’s dazzling sex appeal, there’s something for everyone. Palettes of make-up lie open invitingly on the dressing table, just waiting to be used.
I’ve even found a pair of marabou slippers in the depths of the stockroom and placed them under the footstool. Forget Gwen and her hovering make-up brush, I want to encourage the customers to
test the products properly, to sit down here and play with the products themselves.

Against the back wall of the department, behind the till, I’ve made use of the wall-to-ceiling shelves that usually house endless white boxes of moisturizers, toners and cleansers.
Instead, I’ve created a simple display of fifty vintage bottles that I found in boxes in the stockroom when I first started here. They are all in pristine condition with the labels still
perfectly intact, if somewhat faded. Some are beautiful cut-glass perfume bottles, complete with atomizers; others are old-fashioned French bottles holding various creams and lotions. The products
are all well past their sell-by date but I couldn’t bear to throw them away so I took them home one weekend, emptied them out and carefully cleaned each one, making sure not to get the labels
wet. I brought them back in, knowing that the bottles alone were probably worth a fortune, and have always hoped that one day we could do something with them.

It didn’t take me long to line them up on the shelves. They look so elegant and refined standing there. The modern perfumes that customers can buy are displayed on the counters as usual. I
like to think they’re basking in the reflected glow of their vintage friends, who are showing them just what they can do.

I bite my lip as I try to imagine what Gwen and, more importantly, Rupert and Sharon will think. None of this is exactly what you’d call ‘modern’. But I can’t help having
a hunch that what I’m doing is right for the store and what Hardy’s customers really want. What’s left of them, anyway.

I turn round and my gaze falls on the display I’m most proud of. It has brought to life exactly what Hardy’s should be about: a store that is proud of its heritage, that wants more
than anything to serve its people, and that truly believes that its customers – the generations of British people who have shopped here for one hundred years – are its future because
they are the true shareholders of the store. It is, at its heart, a stoic survivor, a place that can be relied upon not just to get through the worst of times but to come out fighting.

Then it came to me. Make
them
the centrepiece of the beauty department. So in the middle of the hall I’ve stacked the pale lilac-coloured bricks of lavender soap, which are wrapped
in parchment paper and tied with string, in a pyramid, just as supermarkets used to display their canned goods years ago. To one side I’ve placed a large, blown-up black-and-white photo of
the WI ladies who created the product. I found it on Google Images over the weekend. It’s not the best quality; it’s a bit grainy up close. The women are all standing in a line with one
arm outstretched towards my display as if presenting their product in an advert. They’re all wearing wartime Land Girls’ uniforms and looking at once proud, determined and full of hope.
They are immaculately groomed, with pin curls and dark lips. Looking at it, I suddenly feel like I’ve been transported back in time. I imagine Joel dressed in a GI uniform, swirling me around
a smoky dancefloor. We’re braving the blitz and ignoring the bombs that are falling outside, completely lost in each other . . .

My phone beeps and takes me out of my fantasy; I glance at it and realize to my horror that it’s nearly 8 a.m. I’m late for my real job and don’t want to risk being spotted by
any early arrivals. I dash through the dimly lit ground floor, hearing the whirr of the industrial floor cleaner echoing around the empty space and make my way through Accessories and Jewellery,
passing Handbags as I go. I don’t stop, as the sight of so many expensive leather totes bunched together like old women in a post office queue would just depress me. That’s a job for
another day. I wave at Velna as I pass, though. She’s pushing the industrial floor cleaner around whilst practising what appear to be Brotherhood of Man-style dance steps and singing about
saving ‘all your kisses’.

I wave and make an apologetic face as I dive into the stockroom before she has a chance to engage me in conversation, or song. I’m now officially out of time.

‘What time do you call this?’

Sam is leaning in the doorway as I open it, arms folded with a disgruntled expression on his face. He has cute pillow creases along his right cheek and some food stains on his shirt.

‘What happened to you?’ I say. ‘You look like me after feeding time with the Primrose Hill monkeys.’

Sam doesn’t raise a smile, despite the fact he knows all about my second job as Super-Auntie/Nanny. Instead he ignores me as he lugs some boxes in. I frown; it’s not like Sam to be
in such a grump. And where’s my breakfast today?

‘Clearly you just don’t care about being on time for delivery guys now you’ve been promoted then,’ he says grumpily.

I smack my forehead. The text Sam sent asking about the promotion. I never replied to it because I was busy talking to Lily and Iris. It completely slipped my mind till now.

‘Oh, no, that, er, that didn’t happen,’ I admit, turning away to hide my embarrassment.

‘What. Do. You
meeean
?’ huffs Sam breathlessly as he carries more boxes in. He’s clearly in a rush this morning. I’ve made him late for his other deliveries and I
feel terrible.

‘I mean I didn’t get the promotion,’ I say quietly.

‘Oh.’ I hear him take a step closer. ‘I’m sorry, Evie,’ he says at last. He doesn’t sound it. I’m slightly offended. Maybe he’s annoyed about my
boasting the other day. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. ‘Did they say why?’ he asks.