Miracle on Regent Street (15 page)

‘You’d do that?’ I gasp, unable to believe my luck. ‘Would you be able to bring them down before three o’clock? It’s just I’m going out . . . um,
later.’

‘Really?’
she says, and gives me a nudge. ‘Hot date?’

‘Sort of,’ I reply quietly, feeling the cold grip of my treachery.

‘Well, I’ll give you the shoes if you’ll be sure to tell me all about it on Monday. Every single detail. Promise?’

I nod and cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Promise.’

As the hands inch closer to three o’clock I feel the nerves and excitement building. I can’t keep still. I feel like I’ve got motion sickness and my stomach
is in knots. I’m wearing the shoes Carly kindly brought down for me. I can’t stop looking at the gorgeous black stacked heels and peep-toes. They’re taking some getting used to,
mind. But admittedly they make my legs look ridiculously long. I’ve spent the last hour practising walking in them up and down the stockroom as I went to collect orders. There were quite a
few this afternoon, which was strange.

I glance down again as I pick up the vintage chequered cape I’ve borrowed from the stockroom knowing that no one will notice. I throw it round my shoulders and pick up the soft black
clutch handbag Carly lent me to go with the shoes. And thank God she did. I can’t exactly turn up all dolled up and carrying a rucksack.

I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and walk out of the stockroom. I stumble a little, glance down and make a face. These shoes are nothing like anything I usually wear. But then again, I
suppose that’s the point. And
this
is what Joel is expecting. A stylish, sexy, high-heel-wearing personal shopper to swoosh out of the store. So that’s what he’s going to
get.

As I walk out onto the shop floor I hope that my colleagues notice me for once. My hair has been brushed and is hanging loosely around my shoulders; I even have make-up on! Sam would be in fits
if he saw me. He knows how much I scoff at girls who trowel on the cosmetics. This is way more make-up than I’m entirely comfortable with, to be honest, but Carly insisted on giving me a
masterclass when she bought down the shoes and bag.

‘You can’t go on a date tonight looking like
that
,’ she said, waving her finger at my face. Then she pushed me in front of the mirror. My face was blotchy and shiny, my
hair was its usual dull, lacklustre self.

I muttered, ‘I can’t do this,’ and tried to move away, but she begged and pleaded for me to let her help, which made me feel even
more
like going home. If I hadn’t
been doing such a terrible, unsisterly thing by stealing her date, I would have been overjoyed at the attention she was paying me. As it was, I felt horribly guilty. But in the end, her cajoling
worked and she got to work on my face.

After what felt like a lifetime of pulling funny expressions so she could prod me in the eyes, pull at my cheeks and hair and lips, she pushed me in front of the mirror and clapped her hands
excitedly.

‘What do you think?’ she said expectantly.

I gazed at myself with my mouth agape, hardly recognizing my reflection. She had done my make-up exactly like hers, using the same golden, honey-hued shades on my eyes. Then she’d applied
a thick layer of black mascara and a delicate Bardot-esque sweep of liquid eyeliner over the top of my lids. I’d also been furiously bronzed with the biggest make-up brush I’ve ever
seen, and attacked with a shimmering, toffee-coloured lip gloss, which makes my lips feel as if they have got glue on them. But unlike Carly, who always seems to look effortlessly glossy and
beautiful, I thought I just looked, well, a bit . . .
overdone
.

‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to,’ she said confidently, noticing my uncertain expression. ‘But this is exactly what you need for a night out. Just imagine it in low
candlelight at a restaurant, or in a cool, trendy bar.’

Obviously I couldn’t tell her my rendezvous is
now
. I didn’t want her to risk trying to sneak a peek at my date. Her date. But then, I rationalized, the whole point is that
I’m meant to be glamorous and shimmering and glowing. And that’s exactly what I am. I’m just not used to it, that’s all.

So with all this work I am hoping that someone in the store will turn round and say, ‘Hey, look at Sarah!’ (I’m not expecting them to use my actual name or anything. I mean,
let’s not hope for miracles.) I’ve even left my cape open so they can get the full effect of my ‘look’ (that’s what personal shoppers call ‘outfits’, I
think). But as I walk out I realize that most of the staff are all huddled by the stairs, gazing down into the menswear department and chattering excitedly. I tentatively take a few steps closer
and a big, resounding ‘Ooh’ makes me jump, quickly followed by several ‘Aaahs’.

Then I hear someone bellow: ‘What’s happening now? I can’t see!’

It sounds as though there’s some big, dramatic scene unfolding. And that’s what worries me. My heart pounds as I take my place behind Gwen, who is herself straining to see over
someone else’s head. I don’t want to get any closer. I’m terrified of what is happening down there. What if Guy is having some awful tantrum, or worse, is being fired by Rupert? I
try to peer down into the basement to see what the hell is happening. What was I
thinking
earlier? I should’ve just left well alone.

‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to Gwen, who doesn’t even look round at me.

‘Guy’s got customers down there,’ she whispers with glee. ‘Lots of them! He’s running around his department like a lunatic! Honestly, I’ve never seen anything
like it.’

I squeeze into a small space by the banisters and peer down. I’m amazed to see that there is a huddle of male customers surrounding Guy, all holding up items of clothing that they want to
try on or buy. He is holding court like he’s Sir Philip Green, and is clearly in his element.

He glances up and gestures grandly at us. ‘Well, don’t just stand there you lot,’ he trills. ‘
Some
one come and help me. I’ve got customers waiting to be
served!’

Becky from Handbags rushes down the stairs to assist him, leaving the rest of us up here admiring the view.

‘It looks like a scene from a 1940s movie,’ sighs Gwen, and I feel a swell of pride as I look down and see that my little idea has worked.

Yesterday morning I spent a couple of hours designing a whole new display for the department. I wanted to show the best of Hardy’s stock in a cool, classic way. So I imagined how
Hardy’s might have displayed the stock back in its heyday. I wanted to recreate that old image of London businessmen in sharp suits, trench coats, hats and umbrellas. I knew I could make a
display of mannequins look cool and modern in Hardy’s old-fashioned Menswear stock if I just presented them in the right way. Drawing the picture of Clark Gable made me think about the
pictures of classic film stars on the walls in Lily’s tearoom and suddenly I knew just how to make it all come to life.

This morning I came in extra early, dragged the box of trilbies down to menswear, then collected all the other props I’d dug out of the stockroom. I stripped four mannequins of their
denim, pulled them into a line in the middle of the department, put them in sharp suits and gave each of them a cool, tilted trilby. For some reason I just knew it would look good. As a final
touch, I gave one an umbrella, another one was holding last night’s copy of the Evening Standard, which I nipped out to get from Brian, the friendly newsagent across the road, the next one
was holding a vintage briefcase, and the final one had his hand up as if hailing a cab. I was pleased with the first stage of my idea. But I had more work to do.

‘Those trilbies looks so cool,’ breathes Jenny.

‘Why don’t you see blokes dressed like that any more?’ Paula from Personal Shopping says. ‘It’s all baggy jeans and bums out, these days. So not classy.’

‘It’s very
old-fashioned,
’ ponders Carly, who is right at the front. ‘I’m not sure the men I meet would ever want to wear a hat like that.’

I can’t help but disagree. An image of Sam in a trilby pops into my head and I think, actually he could really pull it off, in a trendy pop star kind of way. And Joel, ooh, he’d look
just like an old-fashioned matinée idol. And my dad would look just like a 1960s businessman, all sharply tailored suit, smart overcoat and umbrella.

‘Well,
they
clearly do!’ Paula exclaims, and points at the queue of customers forming round the paying point. More men are picking up trench coats and trilbies and heading to
the changing rooms. I smile as I listen to my colleagues. The mannequins do look good, even if I say so myself. I’ve always felt it was a travesty that those vintage hats were hidden away in
the stockroom. I watch as Guy rings through another one on the till for a young guy, who immediately puts it on. It feels nice to be proved right.

I’ve also created mini tableaux in the rest of the department. Over in the far corner, near Lily’s tearoom, I’ve placed a mannequin in front of a table, sitting with one leg
crossed over his thigh, leaning over as if talking to someone. He’s wearing a crisp suit with dark-rimmed spectacles, and there’s a packet of Lucky Strikes (also purchased from the
newsagent) and a cocktail glass (which I found in the stockroom) in front of him.

In the other far corner, where rails of tracksuits and fishing gear used to hang, there’s two mannequins dressed as golfers. One is wearing checked trousers, a polo shirt, a cool, jaunty
cap and the red braces I picked up yesterday when I was talking to Joel. I’ve positioned him so he looks like he’s just teed off. He was inspired by a picture of a popstar I saw looking
super-cool in a celebrity magazine. The mannequin next to him is wearing the pastel lemon chinos I showed Joel, which I’ve teamed with a grey Pringle of Scotland diamond-patterned tank top
over a white polo shirt, with a sharp, grey skinny tie underneath. I decided against the pink braces. I’ve re-merchandised the whole sportswear bit of the department by forward facing what I
think is the coolest, most stylish of the old stock on the rails, and making it all look like outfits guys could wear, even if you weren’t planning on playing golf, or going hunting, shooting
and fishing. I’ve even done a display that is a homage to Guy Ritchie, with cool tweed jackets and trousers, and I’ve put out on display the deerstalkers I was sorting through
yesterday. I suddenly realized they’re perfect for a cold, snowy December and should be properly displayed.

‘Oh,
look
!’ cries Bernie from Haberdashery. She and her sister, Susan, have been quiet up till now. They don’t like change. They’ve never taken to Rupert and would
love it if they could pretend it is still the 1950s. Which is why I was hoping they’d approve of my makeover. If they like it, it must be authentic. ‘Look at the pictures in the
frame!’

‘They don’t make men like that any more, sure they don’t,’ Susan adds whimsically.

‘Who are they?’ asks Carly as she strains to get a better view of the black-and-white pictures I’ve put up.

Susan and Bernie tut and roll their eyes. ‘Only some of the greatest movie stars who ever lived.’

‘They look so suave,’ sighs Jane wistfully.

‘Like proper gentlemen,’ agrees Jenny.

I smile as I glance around the walls of Menswear, where I’ve hung the signed pictures from Lily’s tearoom, in big, ornate gold frames that were languishing in the stockroom. I hope
she doesn’t mind.

I suddenly remember that Joel will be waiting for me. This is my perfect opportunity to leave without anyone – and by that I mean Carly – spotting us.

I slip past my colleagues and head unnoticed towards the front doors, deep in thought. My little idea has worked better than I could ever have imagined. Which makes me wonder: if I can do it for
Guy’s department, why can’t I do it for everyone else’s? Especially those who are also about to lose their jobs, like Gwen and Jenny. It’s got to be worth a shot,
hasn’t it? No one need know it was me who did the makeover. Guy can take all the credit and then Rupert won’t fire him.

As I push the doors open and step outside I am hit by a wave of cold air. I shiver and turn back to the store. Everyone is still huddled around the stairs, chattering and pointing excitedly.
Smiling again, I walk round the side of the building and stand in front of one of the windows. I decided when doing the makeover this morning that I had to do something in the window to try to draw
new customers inside. So in one window, I’ve replaced the horrid, fake silver Christmas trees with a mannequin looking exactly like a 1940s film star in his vintage trilby. He’s
kneeling on one knee and is proffering a small, beautifully wrapped gift box in Tiffany-blue wrapping paper out to the street, as if proposing to any woman that passes by. It’s not
particularly Christmassy, but then, I reasoned, nor was my other display. To the right of the mannequin, in another old-fashioned gilt frame, is Lily’s signed picture of a smouldering Clark
Gable, looking for all the world like he’s waiting for his Scarlett O’Hara.

And in front of the window, checking his phone, is another handsome, debonair American, who is waiting for me.