A Vintage Christmas (13 page)

I was just wondering if anyone had worked in here for years when a small, timid-looking girl peered out from behind a box in the next aisle. Her hair was long and lank, her expression blank.

‘You the new girl?’ she asked quietly.

I nodded and smiled brightly at her.

‘I’m Sarah,’ she said, and then picked up her bag. ‘Well, good luck,’ she added unconvincingly, and pulled on her coat, clearly desperate to leave.

‘Wait,’ I said slightly desperately as she walked towards the door. ‘Aren’t you going to show me the ropes?’

She turned back and smiled kindly. ‘There aren’t any. No one will notice what you do in here anyway. I suggest you make a cup of tea and bring in some good books.’ And then she left.

I stood on the same spot looking around in bewilderment for a good ten minutes. I didn’t know where to begin. All I knew was that I wanted to do something. I’ve always hated disorder. Even as a child I’d put all my toys away at bedtime and shut every door behind me when I was leaving a room.

Once I got over the shock I started exploring the place from top to bottom, searching through every box, every shelf, every pile, getting to know the stock whilst trying to work out where it could logically go. It was a bit like doing convoluted mathematical equations in my head. I actually kind of liked it. Once I’d acquainted myself with everything I began systematically listing each piece of stock, from the sublime (original 1950s pillbox hats) to the ridiculous (multicoloured striped long johns). It felt like I was taking a step back into my childhood: each of the items I came across I could visualize on the shop floor I remembered so well from then. It made memorizing all the stock easy really.

The next day I brought in a kettle, pulled out some old 1950s chipped cups from a box, hung them on some hooks above the sink against the back wall and dragged the battered old sofa that had been groaning under the weight of the boxes of junk over to the back of the stockroom to create a little lounge area. If I was going to do this job properly, I may as well make the place look habitable. Then I flung open the delivery doors to let in some light and fresh air, made a cup of tea and arranged myself on the sofa with a pad and pen, to try to work out how the hell to organize the place.

It took me that entire first month to transform those piles of dusty goods into a fully operating stockroom. It was a massive job, only made easier by the fact that I didn’t get many orders through on the creaky old printer to disrupt me. It didn’t take long to work out that Hardy’s was struggling to get customers through the door. I assigned each department its own aisle and alphabetized the stock accordingly. I even drew up an annotated stockroom plan for each department manager. I figured that once I started my proper job on the shop floor they’d need to be able to find things easily themselves. It was surprisingly fulfilling, and what was even more surprising was that while I was at work I didn’t think about Jamie once. Hiding away in the stockroom for that first month was the perfect way to rehabilitate myself after our break-up. I had a brand-new career and a new home. Finally, I was ready to come out of my cocoon.

C
HAPTER
3

I
couldn’t wait for Sharon to come and assess my work at the end of that month and to tell me what my new job would entail, but first she had to get over her astonishment at the newly arranged stockroom.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she gasped, turning around on the spot. ‘I can see the floor. Everything has a place! It’s like you’ve worked magic!’ She pulled at her cropped hair thoughtfully and I thought I saw her almost smile. Then she patted me on the back, told me I was born to work in the stockroom and that instead of giving me a job on the shop floor she wanted to make me stockroom manager. For a moment I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I thanked her and decided to make the best of it. So what if I was starting at the bottom? Sharon would soon see that I could be an asset to the store. For the first time in my life I’d found something I was good at.

Little did I know that by taking the job, I was effectively packing up my hopes and dreams and storing them away at the back of the stockroom, along with all the other unwanted goods at Hardy’s.

Until today, I think, as I press the security code on the door and then push it open. The harsh neon strip lights flicker uncertainly as I switch them on and eventually the dark room lights up and the stockroom is revealed in all its grey glory. I may have managed to organize it meticulously so it no longer looks like some dead granny’s attic, but I never did manage to give it the lick of white paint it really needs. Sharon looked at me like I was insane when I’d suggested it a couple of months after I started. She said that there was no budget for such fripperies. So instead I took some bright, kitsch 1960s and 1970s magazine covers that I’d found in a box, framed them and put them up on the walls, then I put a couple of old display-damaged Tiffany-style jewelled lamps by the sofa. Each year, in December, I hang strings of fairy lights around the shelves. I’ve even bought a real Christmas tree and it has perched gaily in my lounge area since the last week of November. I flick the kettle on, just as the door buzzer sounds. I wander over and swing open the double doors at the back of the stockroom, which lead out to the store’s loading bays, and smile as a friendly, freckled face greets me. It’s Sam, the delivery guy, who comes every Monday and Thursday. I really look forward to his visits; sometimes he’s the only person I see all day. In fact, he’s the closest to a work colleague I’ve actually got. We’ve been friends ever since he brought a delivery during my first week when I was trying to organize the stockroom. I was completely bewildered by the enormity of the job, but once he’d unloaded everything he sat and helped me work out a plan. He even stayed so he could help me rearrange the room, moving the heavier boxes and bits of furniture I couldn’t manage. I honestly couldn’t have done it without him and our friendship has grown in strength ever since. Sam’s one of those lovely, laid-back guys who’s really easy to talk to. I feel like I’ve known him forever, which is weird because I’ve never had many male friends before. My brothers’ mates always treated me like some stupid kid and were way too intimidating for me, and the boys in my year at school were only interested in being friends with the girls they fancied. I’ve found it a refreshing experience to meet a guy like Sam. We just seem to get each other, you know? We’re the same age, both stuck in dead-end jobs that we don’t know how to get out of, and we both lived with our parents way longer than is socially acceptable. He’s the youngest of three siblings. They’re all more successful than he is, although I don’t know why, as he’s clever, funny articulate, creative and cute – if you like boyish-looking guys with messy hair the colour of maple syrup, a smattering of stubble, and big, soulful eyes, that is. He’s always wanted to be a photographer for magazines, but he’s finding it hard to get into such a competitive industry, so for now he’s a delivery guy at his dad’s company. But he never complains, which I really like.

‘You’re late,’ I admonish him now, waggling my finger at him.

‘No I’m not,’ he retorts as he huddles in the doorway, proffering a paper bag with his gloved hand. ‘I went to get you a pastry. I know better than to turn up here without breakfast.’

He’s right. Sam has been bringing me breakfast every week since I started here. Sometimes it’s coffee and pastries, other times it’s a bacon or sausage and egg sandwich, and he’s even been known to bring takeaway pancakes, including blueberries and maple syrup. On special occasions he really goes to town. On my birthday he brought Buck’s Fizz and a selection of gorgeous cakes from Patisserie Valerie. I add ‘thoughtful’ to my mental list of Reasons I Like Sam.

I peer inside the bag, suddenly aware that I’m starving. ‘Mmm, cinnamon and raisin, my favourite.’ I take a large bite, bigger than my mouth can actually manage, and begin frantically chewing, trying not to spit bits of flaky pastry at him.

He gazes at me in amusement. ‘So I see.’ Then he gestures at the van. ‘Shall I start unloading?’ I nod, still munching hungrily on the pastry and he lopes off towards the van. ‘Pour us a cuppa,’ he calls back. ‘I’ll just have time for one before my next delivery. I need to thaw out. It’s bloody freezing out here.’

I trundle obediently over to the kettle, happy to be spending time with him on my Big Day. I’ve not breathed a word of it to anyone but I really want to tell Sam about my impending promotion; he’ll be so happy for me.

‘Hunfffff.’ Sam heaves the last of the delivery boxes into the corner and I turn round, clutching his cup, to be greeted by a wall of cardboard.

‘Great,’ I grumble good-naturedly as I hand him his tea. ‘
More
stuff to unpack.’

Sam takes a long gulp of tea and glances over at the boxes. ‘It’s from the latest collections, apparently.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Which were designed when, 1984?’ Being on trend is not Hardy’s strong point.

I walk over to the boxes, pick up a Stanley knife, swipe it down the centre of the first lid and then gasp as I pull out a shimmering sequined top with padded shoulders and slashed sleeves. ‘Hang on, Sam, this is
gorgeous
.’

I may not be a fashion expert but even I can see that this is more than a cut above the stock we usually buy in. Under the plastic the gossamer material is so light to the touch it feels like liquid silk between my fingers and, oh my God, the way it
hangs
makes me think it could look good even with my curves. I’m almost overcome with an urge to try it on but, aware of Sam’s indifference to it, I merely glance at the label instead.

‘Florence Gainsbourg?’ I read, and shrug my shoulders. ‘Never heard of her. How come we’re stocking stuff like this?’ I glance at the front of the box in confusion. ‘Are you sure this is my delivery, Sam?’

He looks affronted. ‘Since when have I ever mixed them up? This job isn’t exactly rocket science, you know.’

I flap my hand at him dismissively. ‘Don’t be so sensitive. I just can’t believe that any of our managers would order this stuff. It’s not exactly Hardy’s usual style. Whereas this is.’ I lean over to the shelf behind and pull out a massive pair of jodhpurs, stretching them to their full girth to emphasize my point. Sam laughs and I throw them back on the shelf before sitting down wearily on one of the crates. I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell him my news.

‘Oh, Sam,’ I sigh dramatically. ‘How much longer am I going to be unpacking boxes?’

‘About four hours, judging by this lot,’ he says, slurping his tea and leaning against the shelves, seemingly oblivious to my hint. I hit him on the arm and a bit of tea dribbles out of his mouth. He pushes me back playfully. ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’

‘I don’t mean how long am I going to be unpacking
these
. I mean working in
here
.’ I look up at him, suddenly curious. ‘I know you don’t want to be doing deliveries for your dad forever either,’ I probe. ‘Don’t you ever get frustrated by your job?’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Sam shrugs. ‘I quite enjoy it. Plus there are perks.’ He raises his cup at me and I laugh.

‘Well, I just hope the new stockroom manager is as good a host as I am,’ I say casually. I drop my eyes and then look up at Sam to gauge his reaction.

‘You’re not leaving are you?’ He’s clearly shocked.

‘Not leaving Hardy’s, no, but I
am
leaving the stockroom.’ I pause before saying tentatively, ‘You’re looking at Hardy’s new assistant manager. Well,’ I add bashfully, ‘it’s not official yet but I think it’s going to be announced this morning. I just couldn’t wait any longer to tell you. You’re the first person to know!’

Sam puts his tea down and before I know it his arms are wrapped around me. I’m surprised at just how warm he is, given how cold it is outside.

‘That’s FANTASTIC news!’ he says as he squeezes me tightly.

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ I wriggle from his embrace, pleased but embarrassed by his reaction.