Miracle on Regent Street (32 page)

‘Oh, come on,’ he says, throwing an arm around me and giving me a squeeze. ‘That’s just not true! Someone soon is going to see how talented you are. You’re wasted
in this stockroom. I’ve seen your drawings, you know . . .’ he adds slyly.

‘You have?’ I say, looking at him with shock. ‘How?’

‘Because you throw like a girl,’ he laughs. I hit him and he yelps. ‘But you sure don’t hit like one.’ He rubs his arm and I wait for him to explain himself.
‘I keep having to clear away these screwed-up balls of paper before I can put my boxes down. They’ve been all over the place recently and I’m not afraid to say I’ve unrolled
a few of them and seen amazing sketches of floor layouts and displays.’

I blush and look away, and he bends down to my eye level and turns my face round to his.

‘They’re good, Evie. You should seriously show them to someone. Your ideas for the Christmas windows are really inspired.’

Now it’s my turn to be bashful. ‘They’re just scribbles,’ I say modestly, taking a bit out of a deliciously crumbly mince pie and washing it down with some coffee.

‘Well, if they’re scribbles, I’d love to see the finished drawings,’ he laughs. ‘Honestly, Evie, you just seem to be able to capture the real essence of this place.
I love the one of the shoe tree. I can see more life in your drawings than there’s ever been in this store.’

‘Well,’ I admit quietly, ‘actually I’ve been bringing them to life
in
the store recently.’

Sam looks at me quizzically. ‘Tell me more,’ he says, folding his arms and leaning back against the sofa.

I tell him about how I overheard Rupert saying Hardy’s was in danger of closing and that, before then, various members of staff would be laid off. Then I tell him how I’ve been
coming in early every morning and making over Hardy’s department by department.

Sam whistles. ‘You are full of surprises, you know that, Evie Taylor?’ he says, and I laugh. ‘So why don’t you tell Rupert what you’re doing?’

‘He doesn’t even know my name. Why would he believe me?’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ shrugs Sam. ‘You’ll never know unless you try.’

‘Maybe not everyone is as brave as you,’ I say, brushing some rogue crumbs off my lap. ‘Besides, if he knew who it really is he might lay off those other members of staff and I
can’t risk that happening. Anyway, it suits me this way. I don’t want attention and I’ve realized that I’m too scared to do anything else other than work in this
stockroom.’ I stop flicking crumbs and look up at him. ‘Whereas you, you’ve gone for what you really want and have grabbed your dream with both hands.’

‘Not quite, I haven’t,’ Sam says, half under his breath.

I raise my eyebrows but he doesn’t elaborate. ‘Anyway,’ I say, wanting to shift the conversation back onto him, ‘I’m really impressed by what you’ve done Sam,
truly.’ I pause then add, ‘Ella must be too.’

‘Ella?’ Sam shrugs and takes a bite of a mince pie. ‘Yes, I guess so. She’s not said anything, though. It’s not the sort of thing we talk about. Besides,
she’s happy with me doing deliveries – at least it brings in the money.’

I wonder how any girlfriend could want her partner to stay a delivery guy forever if he’s not happy. Whatever happened to supporting each other’s dreams? Then I think of Jamie, and
remember that it didn’t get me anywhere. Perhaps she has got the right idea after all. Besides, it’s none of my business.

‘So,’ I say brightly, ‘now tonight can be a celebration of your new career instead of mine!’

‘Tonight?’ Sam says, a perplexed expression on his face.

‘Our night out?’ I say, clocking Sam’s blank expression. ‘Oh ho, now I get it,’ I add playfully, ‘a stockroom girl not good enough for you now you’re
going to be a famous photographer.’

‘No! Don’t be silly,’ Sam says quickly. ‘I just didn’t realize . . . you didn’t specify a day . . .’

‘I didn’t? Shit! Sorry, Sam!’ I shake my head at my idiocy. I’m so wrapped up in these makeovers lately I seem to be forgetting everything else. ‘Is tonight any
good for you?’ I ask hopefully, whilst thinking, please say yes, please say yes.

He nods and smiles. ‘I don’t have a shoot tonight . . .’

‘Ooh, get you,’ I tease and mimic him playfully. ‘“I don’t have a shoot tonight.”’

‘Hey, stop that,’ he smiles as he stretches and yawns. ‘I’m too tired for sarcasm right now, but I’m planning on having an afternoon nap after my last delivery so
you’d better watch out later.’ He smiles at me so little dimples appear in his cheeks. ‘So where are we going?’

‘The Lamb in Lambs Conduit Street, Bloomsbury. Eight o’clock.’

‘It’s a date,’ he says, then we both make a dive for the last mince pie.

‘Got it!’ he says, laughing and brandishing it jubilantly over his head.

I scramble over to him and clamber on his lap, reaching up to grab it from him, which I manage to do, but he tickles me and I collapse on the floor giggling as he tries to get it back. Laughing,
I stuff it greedily into my mouth, half of it crumbling back out. He hovers over me for a moment, but then sits back on his haunches and puts his hands up in an admission of defeat. ‘You win.
I should know to never come between a girl and a snack.’ He pulls me to my feet. ‘Now, I reckon it’s about time I got that delivery in.’

The morning passes in a blur as staff buzz in and out of the stockroom with armfuls of stock to replenish their shelves, as well as grabbing orders on their way. I can’t
keep up with the endless orders on the printer and I’m actually starting to think that I may need an assistant. Perhaps I’ll speak to Sharon about it. I could suggest that we hire one
of the cleaners who got laid off this morning. Although I can just imagine what she’ll say: ‘An assistant? To do your job for you? I don’t think so.’

Jane pops in and grabs an armful of satin slips, lace garters and all-in-ones, and then shoots out again. She is totally working her new look, sashaying around like she was born to be a beacon
for women with an hourglass-and-a-half figure. It’s fab. She even brings in her husband at lunchtime who just looks at me long enough to splutter, ‘Thank you,’ before Jane drags
him back out. By his belt.

I pop my head out of the stockroom several times during the morning to marvel at the change that is occurring within Hardy’s. Word of mouth, and my little additions to the window displays,
mean that customers are weaving through the store, chattering gaily with the staff and to each other, picking up various items from the shelves or simply browsing amongst the different departments.
The atmosphere is lighter, the shop floor brighter, even the staff are happier. I keep seeing clusters of them huddled together, brainstorming ways to make their departments better. Those people
whose departments haven’t yet changed are happily pitching in with their colleagues, helping to replenish shelves, or serving customers.

If a building could sigh with happiness, I think that’s what Hardy’s would be doing right now. Which makes knowing what I do about its future even harder.

Because even though I am excited by the surge in custom I know that to save Hardy’s we’ll have to sell thousands of trilbies and bottles of perfume. A few more people stopping to
browse and purchase goods from us aren’t going to be enough. Hardy’s doesn’t need just to double, or triple its takings this month, it needs its takings to rise by at least 500
per cent. And Rupert made it quite clear that if we can’t do this then the store has no hope of survival.

I close the stockroom door, the noise and bustle of the store dissipates and I’m left with silence. Now I’ve seen what Hardy’s can become, I’m even more determined to do
something to make a difference, especially as I can see how important it is to the rest of the staff.

As Hardy’s is metamorphosing, so are they. And, more than anything, I’ve realized that my colleagues don’t just rely on this place for their salaries; it goes much deeper than
that. Their friends, their confidence, their self-worth all live under this roof. The truth is they need this place as much as I do.

There must be something more I can do, something I’m just not seeing? I look around my stockroom, desperately searching for answers. People love department stores at Christmas, so what is
it about Hardy’s that sets us apart from the rest? I can’t help but think of the sad, soulless Oxford Street Christmas lights I looked at earlier in the week, and the futuristic store
windows that people were flocking around, and wonder, not for the first time, where the true spirit of Christmas has gone.

What will bring the customers flooding back through the doors of Hardy’s like they did in the old days?

‘The Old Days!’ I exclaim, and clap my hands as my brain zips through my internal map of the stockroom. I dive right down aisle number seven and skid onto my knees at the far corner
where I pull out an old, battered box that is weak with age and covered with dust. I trail my finger down it and leave a long track like a sled in the snow.

It is one of the two dozen or so boxes of vintage Christmas decorations I discovered when I first started working here. My hands are shaking as they tug at the box and I’m suddenly
bombarded with images and ideas of what Christmas is and should be. I think of the colours: gloriously merry reds, lush greens, biscuit browns and, of course, white, powdery snow. I think of the
sights and smells of Christmas, cinnamon and spices, gingerbread, eggnog, mulled wine and pine needles crunching underfoot. I think of the bare trees in Primrose Hill, covered with a light frosting
of snow, I think of snowglobes, and Joel and I ice-skating at Somerset House and how festive and traditional it felt. I think of all the old Christmas movies I’ve loved since I was a child,
and which always made me want to go to New York and wander down Fifth Avenue, gazing in windows as I took my beautifully wrapped gifts for my loved ones at home. I think of the Christmas cookies my
mum makes every year, and the building of the German gingerbread house, which became an annual tradition in my family and which Jonah, Noah and I fought over when we were kids because they had
always eaten the perfect little sugared windows and doors and accessories by the time we went to construct it. And then Mum and I would make our own home-made frosted icing replacements that
somehow made the whole thing even more authentic. Then I think of Christmas and what it means: family, love, dreams and magic and, most importantly, childhood.

I gaze back down at the box in front of me and I suddenly remember how I wondered all those months ago when I first discovered them how anyone could possibly forget about such incredibly
beautiful and nostalgic things; but forget they had and – shamefully – so had I.

I open the box carefully, coughing and covering my mouth as a cloud of dust fills my nostrils, and gasp as I pull out some vintage Pifco fairy lights from the 1950s. The box itself is bright red
and blue and has a picture of a little boy and a little girl gazing in wonderment at the pretty Chinese lantern-style lights hanging above their heads. I put them to one side and look back inside.
There are endless tangled strings of fairy lights, some clearly from the 1980s, with gaudy plastic Cinderella carriages covering multicoloured bulbs. I ignore them and pull out a long string of
lights in the shape of little candles. And there’s lots more beautiful Christmas tree lights too. Some, like these, have clearly been used in the store’s own displays; others, still in
their boxes, were obviously leftover stock from the store.

In another big box I find lots of boxes of Batqers Harlequin miniature crepe crackers. I pull down another box and discover sets of wooden reindeer, boxes of beautiful hand-carved toy soldiers
and tree decorations depicting Christmas tableaux. In one a little girl is putting a present under a tiny tree, in another a child is receiving a gift from his parents. There are lanterns and candy
containers, hundreds of glass baubles still in their boxes, which, when I turn them over, state that they were made in the small German town of Lauscha and are dated 1937. There are ornamental
Santa’s boots and little statues of Father Christmas himself, complete with a wiry wool beard. As I gaze at them all, suddenly I know just what I have to do. It’s just a case of
deciding when. And how.

Because this is too big a job for me on my own.