Miracle on Regent Street (9 page)

‘Righty-oh,’ she says, her smile painted on her face like a clown’s. ‘Er, Sarah love,’ she grabs me by the arm and her long, cerise-painted nails pierce my skin
slightly, ‘You won’t . . . tell anyone about my little, er, problem will you?’ She laughs forcefully and I can hear the fear in her voice rise up and threaten to choke her. The
thousands of pounds’ worth of credit card debt she’s secretly amassed over the past couple of years has become a massive burden to her. I’m no expert, but when she opened up to me
last week I told her she needed to tell her husband and deal with the consequences. It would be far less stressful for her in the long run.

‘Of course not,’ I say gently. ‘What’s said in the stockroom stays in the stockroom.’ She nods in relief and I walk on through the store.

When I reach the stockroom, I punch in the security code, open the door, step inside and shut it.

‘Carly?’ I call.

No answer. I peer over to the sofa, but she’s gone. I do a double-check around the stockroom and then, when I’m sure I’m alone, I scream. And squeal. And jump up and down. Then
I clasp my hand over my mouth as it hits me.

I’m a really bad person. Terrible, in fact. I’ve lied to someone really nice by pretending to be someone
I
really like and who
I
know likes the person that
I
think is nice. If that makes any sense. I need to rectify it. I need to find him and tell him the truth.

But you don’t want to,
whispers a voice inside my head.

I do, I really do.

No, you don’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the door. Yes, I do.

You don’t want to because you deserve this. You deserve it more than her. You’ve been waiting for something like this for so long. It’s your turn for some
excitement.

Is it?

Yes.

I open my eyes and look down at the top I’m still wearing. The yellowy-gold sequins glimmer at me brightly as if they’re winking at me.

Go on,
they seem to be saying
. Go on . . .

I shake my head, trying to get the voice out of my head and the devil off my shoulder. I dash past the aisles of stock, past the boxes waiting to be unpacked and the stack of order sheets
waiting to be filed. When I get to the back of the stockroom I pull the top over my head and fling it down. I stand there, panting for a second in my faded white bra, gazing at the sequined
Gainsbourg number like it’s Carly’s shroud. It may as well be. It has her face, her figure, her personality stamped all over it. I just happened to take them all on when I wore it. Now
it’s off I’m back to boring old me. I can feel the excitement drain from my body, like water going down a plughole. I grab my shirt from behind the radiator and pull it on. Then I
scurry to the corner of the back aisle, doing up the buttons as I go, ready to begin working on the latest stockroom report. I don’t want to be seen by anyone again today. And I don’t
want to be anywhere near that top. It’s got me into enough trouble as it is. There’s no way I can keep this pretence up, no way.

Joel will be so disappointed when he realizes who I really am.

T
he hours trickle by but I’m finding the slow, methodical process of doing the stocktake to be very calming. I’ve even managed to
convince myself it doesn’t matter that I failed to tell Joel who I really am, he’ll probably never call anyway. The ‘flurry’ of customers this morning was a one-off. I
haven’t had an order through the printer for hours. And, weirdly, none of the staff has popped by. I don’t mind, though; I’m happy to be left alone. I clearly can’t be
trusted around people. Especially handsome American men with tranquil blue eyes who, when they look at me, make me feel like I’m swimming naked in a sparkling pool warmed by a glowing,
Mediterranean sun.

I shake my head and chastize myself. Get a
grip
, Evie.

I stiffen as the door creaks open. It’s two forty-five, fifteen minutes till my clocking-off time. I stand up, brushing my dusty hands down my legs. I’m about to go and see who it is
when I hear the sound of muffled conversation.

‘Is anyone in here?’ says a reedy male voice.

I peer out from the aisle and see Sharon – who has her back to me – and Rupert Hardy. He has wiry, oatmeal-coloured hair, which he wears with a centre parting and which hangs down
into his pale, watery eyes, and slightly too many teeth for his mouth. His cheeks are the colour of Russet apples, with lots of thin broken veins, which make him look like a child has drawn on him
with a red Biro. I always think he has a look of perpetual surprise about him, like he can’t quite believe he’s running the place. He’s somewhere in his mid-thirties but appears
younger, due to his diminutive stature. And he looks even shorter standing next to Sharon. I duck back behind the aisle as she walks through the door.

‘We’re all alone,’ she answers huskily. ‘The stockroom girl probably sneaked out a few minutes early, thinking no one would notice!’

I gasp and then clamp my hand over my mouth in case they hear me. The cheek of her! She knows I’d never do that. I press my body against the shelves and desperately look for a way out.
They clearly want to have some sort of private rendezvous and I don’t want to be here during it, but if I reveal myself now they’ll think I was hiding. Which I sort of am, but
that’s not the point. And if I
don’t
come out, Sharon will think I’ve skived off. I hear rustling. Maybe I should just saunter out now, grab my coat and say goodbye
nonchalantly?

Just then, Rupert speaks and my opportunity for a sneaky getaway vanishes.

‘The figures are down again, Sharon,’ he says gravely.

Sharon drops her head. ‘I know. I’ve told the departmental managers what they need to do to improve their takings. We’ve tried remerchandising, retraining the staff with new
sales techniques, but we can’t do anything about the fact that the customers just aren’t coming in.’

‘W-w-well, i-it’s not good enough,’ Rupert stutters. He’s a sweet guy but his management skills are shaky, to say the least. No one at Hardy’s seems to have any
respect for his authority. Maybe it’s because he has no retail experience. Prior to this he was running the family’s farm in Gloucestershire. The poor bloke’s used to lovingly
tending cattle, not dealing with argumentative, moaning shop workers. ‘We need to try harder to entice them into the store with some canny moves and gentle encouragement,’ he adds
unconvincingly.

‘You’re not on your farm now, Rupert.’ Sharon treats him like he’s beneath her, probably because she
wants
him to be beneath her. Ever since he started here
she’s been on a mission to snare him. ‘Customers aren’t like
sheep:
you can’t just
herd
them in,’ she finishes huffily.

‘But of course you can!’ Rupert blusters. ‘That’s the point! You need to woo them, encourage them gently but firmly into the pen . . . I mean, store . . . and then shut
the gate . . . I mean, door behind them. You should be like a sheepdog, Sharon!’

‘And you’re barking mad,’ she grumbles. I stifle a giggle. They’re like a comedy double act. Little and Large? I bite my lip to stop myself laughing.

Rupert sighs loudly. ‘Look, Sharon, I understand that my lack of retail experience makes it hard for you to understand where I’m coming from, but I just want you to see that we have
to do something. I care about this store, and the truth is, if we don’t drastically improve our takings it won’t be here much longer.’

Fleetingly I wonder if this is what Joel was talking about earlier. Rupert has obviously called his old friend in to help advise him on the store’s financial situation.

‘But Hardy’s won’t close,’ Sharon replies quickly. ‘It’s been here forever.’

‘And some people would say that’s too long,’ Rupert replies. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this but we’ve had interest from another store to acquire the
site. My father is putting pressure on me to accept the offer. He thinks the store has had its day, that we should get out while we can and pour the money into other investments. He doesn’t
care about Hardy’s any more, he just wants to ensure he has a hefty retirement fund,’ he adds bitterly.

‘But you can’t sell Hardy’s!’ Sharon exclaims. ‘What about our jobs?’

Rupert’s voice is strained. ‘I’m doing all I can to save as many jobs as possible right now. But the truth is, if the store’s takings don’t go up drastically,
we’ll all be out of work. Including me.’

I shake my head in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Hardy’s can’t close. It’s been here for one hundred years, survived two World Wars. What about Gwen’s debts,
Jenny’s IVF, Becky’s rent? Where will Iris get her soap? What about Mrs Fawsley’s peacock fascinators? What about me? It’s Christmas in three weeks. They can’t lay
people off before then, can they? Can they?

I peer through the shelves. Sharon has stepped closer to Rupert.

‘What about you, what do
you
want?’ She brushes her match-stick-like body against his, like a chicken bone propped against a side of pork. I have a sudden mental image of them
as animals – with Rupert as a disgruntled pig and Sharon a clucking hen, pecking at him continuously. Her advances are clearly lost on Rupert. He steps away and turns his back on her, and
Sharon staggers forward awkwardly. She quickly assumes a new position, this time with one hand on her hip, the other arm stretched up against the shelves. She looks like she’s about to launch
into the ‘I’m a little teapot’ routine. Poor Sharon, even
I
can do sexy better than this.

‘I want to give this wonderful old place one last chance,’ Rupert says with quiet determination. He seems to be talking to himself more than to her but I’m impressed by the
passion in his voice. ‘It’s my family heritage,’ he goes on, his voice now choked with emotion. ‘My great-grandfather founded it; it was his and my grandfather’s whole
life. I grew up here and I know how great it once was. I want more than anything to turn it’s fortunes around.’

Sharon’s arm has tired during his speech and has dropped back to her waist. She flings it back up in the air as he turns to face her.

‘But I can’t do it without your help.’

‘You know I’ll do anything to help you, Rupert,’ Sharon purrs. She takes a step closer to him again and runs a finger down his arm. ‘Just tell me what you . . .
need.’

Rupert gulps. ‘I need you to triple our sales over the Christmas period,’ he says nervously.

‘WHAT!’ Sharon exclaims, taking a step back. ‘That’s impossible!’

‘W-W-well then,’ he stutters, ‘perhaps I need to find a general manager who believes it
is
. Um, possible, I mean.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ she gasps. ‘You wouldn’t get rid of me. You couldn’t.’

Rupert sighs and visibly deflates. I’m pretty sure he’s wishing he was on his farm tending his cattle right now.

‘Sharon, I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. If we don’t at least double our takings by Boxing Day the store will be sold.
Rumors
has been trying
to find a prime location for their London flagship store and they think this is it. They have made a lucrative offer and the board is seriously considering it. We have less than a month to
instigate a major turnaround. If we fail, Hardy’s will be sold and my family’s business will be gone. Forever,’ he adds sadly.

There is silence.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Sharon says eventually in a subdued tone.

He shrugs wearily. ‘I was hoping you’d have one. All I know is that for now, 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. Then there’s Gwen . . .’

As I walk out of the store at the end of my shift it feels like I’m leaving an old friend to its terrible fate. Poor thing, I think tearfully as I gaze up at the
Edwardian façade. Suddenly I notice that there are two letters missing from the store’s sign. The Y and S that were hanging loose have fallen off completely, so the sign above the door
now just reads ‘Hard’.

I choke back a tear. It truly is hard times for Hardy’s. And what’s worse is that none of my colleagues are aware of what we’re facing. I can’t help but feel the enormity
of the store’s loss, not just to me but to all of them, too. This place has been a sanctuary for so many people for so long. The thought of anyone losing his or her job so close to Christmas
makes me feel sick.