Miracle on Regent Street (10 page)

As does something else. Rupert wants to rebrand Hardy’s as a high-end fashion-focused store. Apparently he wants a bright, young talent to help take the store in this new designer-led
direction. He wants to start showcasing the best of young, breakthrough talent hot off the catwalk so Hardy’s becomes known as a real player in the high-fashion world. This will bring in
celebrities and PR, and then, he hopes, customers. But as he knows more about farming than he does fashion he needs help. And the person he is pinning all his hopes on to help him do this?

Carly.

I plunge my hands into my coat pockets. The sharp winter wind whips around me as a trickle of passers-by stagger past. Not one of them looks over at Hardy’s. I glance up at the clock at
the front of the store and I can’t help but think that after nearly a century, it looks like Hardy’s time is up.

‘V
ino?’ Delilah opens the enormous stainless steel fridge-freezer and pulls out a bottle of Pouilly Fumé.

I lift my head off the island unit, nod glumly and then bury my face back in my arms. It’s several hours after my stockroom eavesdropping and, to be honest, if Delilah had offered me a
bottle of Tramps Pee I’d drink it.

‘What am I going to
dooo
?’ I whine, as Delilah pours me a large glass.

‘About what?’ she answers. ‘The Hot American Dude or the fact that Hardy’s needs a miracle to save it from closing?’

‘Both,’ I groan.

She hops up onto the barstool next to me and places the baby monitor in front of us, making a sign of a cross on her chest as she does so. She’s not religious, just desperate for a
child-free evening. And so am I. Not just because of the day I’ve had, but because I’ve always loved it when it’s just me and Delilah. Maybe it’s the six-year age gap, but
when I was growing up she was always more like a celebrity to me than an older sister, and I was in awe of her. She’d left home and gone to university by the time I was old enough to realize
how cool she was, and when she came home for holidays she was like a beautiful breath of fresh air in a house dominated by testosterone-fuelled Alpha males. When I went to high school I became even
more aware of her power. ‘Ahhh, Delilah . . .’ the teachers would sigh when they realized I was related to her. Their eyes would go all cloudy and distant, and for a moment they would
imagine me to be a super-pupil just like her. Then class would begin, the realization that I wasn’t like her would hit them and I’d fade into the background again. I understood
completely; I was disappointed I wasn’t like Delilah too.

Delilah and I have been looking forward to this night in for ages. Even though we live together, it’s rare we get time on our own. She is either working on pitches for new business, out at
client dinners, trying to spend quality time with Will, or seeing to Lola and Raffy. And I’m often . . . well, to be honest I’m always here. But most of the time I hang out upstairs as
I like to give them as much family time together as possible. Which isn’t much, given the long hours both she and Will work.

Tonight, though, I’m going to enjoy the one-on-one time with my big sister. More than anything, I really need her advice. She steered me through my break-up with Jamie, took me under her
wing and helped piece me back together after the split. I guess I’ve relied on her ever since.

‘So,’ I press impatiently, ‘what do you think I should do?’

‘It’s a no brainer!’ Delilah replies. ‘Date the Hot American Dude, what’s his name – Joel.’ She pauses and then grins. ‘Hey there,
Joel
,’ she drawls in a bad American accent, and I can’t help but laugh. Then her face falls. ‘
God
, what I wouldn’t give for a hot date,’ she sighs
dramatically.

I stare at her quizzically and wonder if this is the beginning of the seven-year itch. It’s how long she and Will have been together but they’ve always seemed so happy. Or maybe
it’s the beginning of a mid-life crisis. She is thirty-four, after all. I study her intensely as if doing so will highlight other signs. No, it’s just a silly throwaway comment; she and
Will are the perfect couple. Everybody knows that.

‘Seriously, sis,’ I continue, ‘you don’t think I’m a terrible person for pretending to be Carly?’

‘Not terrible, nooo,’ she says carefully, and takes another sip of wine. ‘Just a bit . . . desperate.’ She catches my shocked expression. ‘Oh, I don’t mean
that nastily,’ she says as she goes to check on the pizza. A glorious waft of rich tomato, creamy mozzarella and fragrant basil wafts out of the oven as she opens it and my stomach rumbles. I
realize I haven’t eaten since this morning, apart from a couple of mouthfuls of the children’s organic lentil stew to try to encourage them to put the food in their mouths instead of
flinging it at the walls. To be honest, I felt like doing the same after tasting it. ‘I just mean that if anyone had waited as long as
you
have for a date, they’d have done
exactly the same.’

She smiles and takes a sip of wine, happy to have placated me, not realizing that she’s failed miserably. She’s usually much more sensitive than this. She knows how hurt I was after
Jamie and I split up.

I met him in the Michelin-starred hotel in Norfolk I was working in while I finished my art degree. He was an ambitious trainee commis chef; I was doing bar and waitressing shifts to earn money
before starting my graduate course at the London College of Fashion that September. Jamie was everything you’d expect a talented young chef to be: brooding, passionate, creative and wildly
exciting, I’d never met anyone like him before. The attraction between us sizzled over the hotplate and during long, late post-shift drinks. Within a matter of weeks we were inseparable, so
when August rolled around and my date to move to London drew ever closer we tried to come up with ways that we could make a long-distance relationship work. After all, I reasoned, we’d only
be a couple of hours away. But Jamie was adamant it wouldn’t work. I loved his intensity; it was all or nothing for him. It made me feel needed, but I also wanted to go to London.

Two weeks before I was due to leave he turned up late at my house and begged me not to go. He told me he couldn’t live without me, and why couldn’t I see the distance would ruin us?
He told me he loved me and couldn’t be away from me, and that if I left that would be it for us. I told him I loved him too. He grasped my hand and said if I’d just stay and support him
while he finished his training he’d do the same for me and move to London with me so I could do my course. We’d both be following our dreams and, better yet, we’d be doing it
together. Tearfully, I agreed. I loved that he loved me so much he couldn’t let me go. It reminded me of my parents’ relationship, the benchmark from which I’d always measured
True Love. And look at them, I reasoned to myself. They’re still happily married after twenty-eight years. So I decided my career could wait and I’d throw myself into supporting
Jamie’s, knowing that one day that support would be returned. It was a compromise, not a sacrifice, and it was one I was willing to make to have my happily-ever-after.

But a year turned into two years, which turned into three, and just as Jamie became a fully-fledged head chef and agreed to move to London, I was offered a place on that year’s graduate
scheme. It was perfect. But then out of the blue Jamie got the chance of the job of a lifetime at a restaurant in Paris. What could be better, he said. I could study out there instead. I was
thrilled at the thought. It appealed to all my romantic sensibilities. I imagined us living in some pretty little studio apartment in Montmartre, wandering down the Seine, drinking strong coffee at
bijou little pavement cafés. Jamie would work and pay the rent, and I’d study and maybe get some experience in fashion merchandising. And where better than the fashion capital of the
world?

So I turned down my place again and Jamie and I began talking about the big move. Jamie was due to start in May, so I applied for graduate fashion courses beginning in September and said
I’d spend the summer waitressing to help pay the rent. But Jamie argued that it made more sense for me to stay working at the hotel, wait for him to get settled in, find an apartment, then
for me to move at the end of the summer. He said the time would fly by. That summer was interminably long. He was working seventy-hour weeks and there was never a good time to visit him. It
wasn’t until August that we finally co-ordinated a weekend together and I hopped on the Eurostar to visit him and to see the city that I would soon call home. We spent a wonderful weekend
together, sight-seeing, drinking coffee and shopping in cute Parisienne brocantes, only for Jamie to tell me at the end of the weekend, while we were waiting at the Gare du Nord for my train, that
it was over. He said there was no one else, he still loved me and he always would. I was his best friend, first love, blah blah blah. He just wanted to feel that there was more to life than what
we’d planned. He said that being in Paris had made him realize that he wanted to enjoy life while he was young and everything in the future could still be a question mark. And then came the
real killer. He told me that life had been too predictable with me. I was devastated. It felt like my entire future had been pulled from under me. I didn’t know who I was without him and I
was too scared to find out. I just wanted to hide from the world and be invisible.

Which is what I’ve been doing ever since.

Delilah turns round now, and I deliberately stare in another direction. ‘OK, what’s up?’ she says, and tilts her head to look at me.

‘Nothing,’ I mumble, and try not to look at her as she tries to get my attention. She bobs down in front of me and her golden hair floats up and falls perfectly back into place,
bouncing around above her shoulders. I pull self-consciously at my own brown locks. That pretty much defines the differences between us. Delilah is an exquisitely wrapped present tied with gold
ribbon, whereas I’m a brown package tied with string.

‘Ee-vie,’ she pleads. ‘What is it? Have I upset you? I have, haven’t I?’ She rushes over and covers my forehead with kisses. She always used to do this when I was
little and mid-tantrum. It never failed to make me laugh and it has the same effect on me now. I giggle despite myself, and wipe my face.

‘You just made me feel like a right loser,’ I say petulantly.

Delilah’s face drops. ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean to,’ she murmurs. She puts her perfectly manicured hands on my knees. Her engagement ring and platinum wedding band glint
magnificently as they catch the light and she’s pulled me so that my stool has twisted round towards her. She looks at me intensely and her blue eyes darken for a moment. ‘Evie, I have
never, nor will I ever, think you’re a loser. I’m so sorry if what I said came across the wrong way. I’m just a bit . . . I don’t know . . .’ she trails off. She seems
to be struggling to express herself, ‘. . . disappointed with my own lot,’ she admits shamefacedly.

‘You?’ I gape, and Delilah nods miserably. I’m shocked because whilst I feel like that most days, I have honestly never thought my big sister felt the same. Not with everything
she has. I mean, her life’s
perfect
. I focus back on Delilah, who is still apologizing profusely.

‘. . . But I shouldn’t take it out on you, Evie. You, more than anyone, deserve some excitement.’ She cups my face with her hands. ‘Date Joel, have fun, you deserve it.
And don’t worry about this Carly girl. It sounds like she’s got more than enough to occupy her trying to save Hardy’s from closure in the next few weeks, without a gorgeous man to
distract her. In fact . . .’ Delilah snaps her fingers and grins at me, ‘. . . what you are doing is positively
charitable
. You’re probably saving Hardy’s by dating
him. Here . . .’ She lifts her wine glass and motions at me to do the same. I cradle my wine glass protectively to my chest and look at her like she’s a madwoman. She continues
regardless. ‘Here’s to you and the Hot American Dude! A match made in retail heaven.’

We clink glasses but I eye her suspiciously. She must be drunk she’s acting so weirdly.

‘Oh, Evie!’ she exclaims wildly. ‘All I’m saying is maybe this is karma. Carly got your promotion – you got her man.’ She nudges me. ‘This is what
you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it, Evie? A bit of romance and sparkle in your life?’