Miracle on Regent Street (24 page)

I sigh as I walk down the street. I can’t help but think of the last time I took this route with Joel. I’d stepped into Carly’s shoes – quite literally – and we
were off on our date. I was so happy, so excited. But even then I knew that it couldn’t last long. Girls like me don’t date men like Joel, or get kissed like that. Well, maybe once in a
lifetime.

And that should be enough
, I tell myself sternly.
I should count myself lucky.

Because my life may not be glamorous or exciting, but my shoes are
way
comfier than Carly’s. And this jumper I’m wearing? It may look like something an old man would wear, but
it’s warm. It’s me. And I like it. Just as I think Hardy’s shouldn’t try to be something it isn’t, perhaps I should apply the same rules to myself.

That thought makes me feel a little better and as I turn on to Oxford Street, I stand and gaze at the glittering display around me: everywhere is lit up like a gigantic circuit board, with
bright, brash, gawdy Christmas lights and decorations that sparkle magnificently over London’s most famous shopping thoroughfare. Lola and Raffy would love them, I think, then wonder guiltily
if I should phone Delilah to check she was OK picking the kids up from nursery. She knows that it’s not often that I haven’t managed to make it on time and I think she liked having an
excuse to leave work early. But I do feel bad. Just then my phone buzzes and I open a text from Delilah.

‘Got kids. Need you home by 7.30 as I have a client dinner. OK?’

I reply swiftly with a yes, pushing through a crowd of excitable, chattering Japanese tourists, taking photos with their fancy cameras. They look so happy to be here. And I know I should be too.
I love London, particularly at this time of year. I honestly don’t think there’s anywhere I’d rather be. I love watching people, gazing in the store windows, pointing at the
Christmas displays and gasping at the lights above them. I just wished I shared their enthusiasm for them. Don’t get me wrong, I adore the decorations on Bond Street; the twinkling fairy
lights, the elegant trees and the beautiful, delicate canopy cobweb lights that illuminate Regent Street. But the big Disney-film-inspired display over Oxford Circus all feels a bit . . . fake.
Like Christmas is about marketing and the magic of making money, not the magic of making people happy, which is, surely, what it should be about?

Call me old-fashioned, but personally I don’t want my city’s main Christmas display to be a glorified advertisement. I want to see hundreds of old-fashioned lights and traditional
decorations. I want a Christmas shopping experience in which people wear bright coats and smiles, hold each other’s hands as they sip hot chocolate and carry armloads of perfectly wrapped
parcels. I want candles and lanterns, cranberries, popcorn and eggnog, and crepe-paper crackers.

Maybe I’m alone in this, I think as I walk past department store after department store that have windows full of fancifully designed displays. I turn my back on Topshop, which still has
customers streaming greedily in and out of it, and cross over at the Oxford Circus traffic lights. I walk down Argyll Street – past the London Palladium where I spent many a happy afternoon
as a child with my parents – before coming to a standstill in front of Liberty. It’s always been my favourite London store (after Hardy’s, of course). But tonight I am left
disappointed by what I see. Even this wonderful old store has gone with a ‘modern’ take of Christmas this year. In the window I’m standing in front of is a mannequin leaning
against a brick wall that is spray-painted with Banksy-inspired graffiti, a load of fake snow and a plain park bench. I can’t help but curl my lip in disgust. This is Liberty! With its
exquisite Elizabethan aspect, Tudor beams and hand-carved mahogany staircase, it’s a symbol of traditional old-fashioned English luxury in the heart of the West End. What is everyone’s
obsession with being modern?

I walk along Kingly Street looking at the rest of Liberty’s treacherously non-traditional windows. In their next one they have replaced the mannequins’ heads with fox heads. I shake
my head and continue towards Regent Street, crossing over and bypassing it completely to head back on to Oxford Street, towards Marble Arch. I’m deeply disappointed that my detour to Liberty
didn’t do anything to lift my Christmas spirit.

I stop and buy a bag of roasted chestnuts from a friendly street seller, hoping this will help me evoke the Christmas spirit. I crunch on several at once and the sweetness explodes in my mouth.
I carry on down Oxford Street, my hand delving back into the bag as I throw chestnuts into my mouth hungrily; I realize I can’t remember the last time I ate. I can’t help studying each
shop window as I pass, wondering what it is about them that draws the crowds in. What is the magic formula?

I suddenly find myself outside Selfridges, the elegant centenary-old store that beat Bloomingdale’s in New York to be named the world’s best department store, and gaze rapturously at
its windows. I can immediately see that the fabulous window displays that have become synonymous with the store’s success are everything Hardy’s aren’t: bold, adventurous,
artistic, they constantly attract attention and praise from the public as well as the art, fashion, media and photography worlds.

The store itself is everything a modern department store should be: large and luxurious, slick and sexy, relevant and cutting edge. You feel its power as soon as you walk through the grand
revolving doors at the front of the store. It doesn’t have the quaint appeal of Liberty or the overpowering wealth and power of Harrods, or the homeliness of John Lewis, but it has something
more: it has mass appeal. I have never met anyone who doesn’t love Selfridges.

I stand outside the store for a while, still crunching on roasted chestnuts and sipping on a latte I picked up from a cute little Italian café I know nestled behind Selfridges on Duke
Street.

I watch as vast swarms of people crowd through the doors. This, here, is the pinnacle of shopping power. It’s what Hardy’s has to tap into in order to survive. But
how?
I
shake my head. It seems like an impossible task. Hardy’s is never going to be like Selfridges. It just can’t compete.

I edge along the street, tilting my head as I study the store’s windows. This year, they have done a modern take on Pantomime, with each window framed by fairy-lit garlands depicting
grandiose scenes from various shows. So in one window the Ugly Sisters as dressed by Matthew Williamson, another features Vivienne Westwood’s Widow Twanky, then there’s Santa Claus, who
is graciously pulling Cinderella’s carriage. Each window is also festooned with flashing slogans that say things like, ‘He’s behind you!’, ‘To the ball!’ and
‘Boo Hiss’. The overall look is completely kitsch, cool and chic. Small crowds are gathered in front of each window, pointing and smiling. The whole window display is modern, smart,
witty but also completely Christmassy; totally right for the store’s image.

But what about Hardy’s?
I think, biting my lip thoughtfully as I stare at the Selfridges display and then visualize our sad, stark windows. There has to be something we can do to
make the store stand out, something we’re just not seeing. I stare at the windows so that they blur into a mass of whirling kaleidoscopic colour in front of my eyes, trying to picture a scene
that could work for Hardy’s. But all I can see now is a rainbow snowstorm whirling in front of my eyes.

I blink and shake my head as I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my mobile phone and look at it. Joel’s name flashes up on the screen and I feel sick as my stomach bungee jumps to my
toes and then up to my mouth.
He knows
. I put the phone back in my pocket. I don’t want to answer it. I can’t speak to him.

I focus on the people going in and out of the store instead, trying to ignore the incessant ringing in my pocket. Suddenly I spot a familiar figure, carrying an unmissably bright yellow bag in
one hand, the other pressing a phone to his ear. He pulls it away from his ear and looks at it, frowns, then puts it back to his ear as he steps away from the door and in front of the window. I
dart back against the window where I’m standing. I’m only metres away from Joel and I want to hide, but there is literally nowhere to go. I can either go in the store and risk him
seeing me or keep him occupied by answering the phone. I plunge my hand into my pocket and breathlessly answer.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, stranger,’ Joel drawls.

Stranger. Someone you don’t know. A definite dig. I don’t reply, I just watch as he tucks his phone under his ear, puts his bag between his legs and folds his arms. ‘I thought
you were never gonna answer. How are you?’

I press myself against the window and edge away from him, thankful for the constant stream of people walking by, blocking me from Joel’s view.

‘I’m OK,’ I reply quietly.

Joel laughs. ‘You don’t sound so sure. I missed you today at Hardy’s.’

I don’t say anything.

‘Carly? Are you still there?’

I freeze. Carly? That means . . . Suddenly the street seems devoid of people and I can just see Joel, leaning against the window, one foot crossed in front of the other. His dark hair has been
whipped up into a quiff by the wind and his expression is sweet, vulnerable almost.

He doesn’t know.

I feel elated, my stomach has been whipped like cake mix into a frenzy of excitement and my head feels sparkly. Then reality hits. Perhaps this is the moment for me to own up. All I have to say
is, ‘I’m not Carly.’ Three simple words.

‘I’m still here,’ I reply instead as I feel the guilt stab at my stomach. The irony is lost on Joel. If he were just to look over his right shoulder now he couldn’t fail
to miss me.

‘Sooo,’ he says playfully, ‘guess where I am right now?’

I am giddy with adrenalin and lies. ‘Ooh I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘How many guesses do I get?’

‘As many as you want,’ he replies with a sexy laugh.

‘OK,’ I say as I edge back along the window and then dive through the revolving doors. I step away from the entrance and turn round so I can still see him. This game is fun all of a
sudden. It’s nice to feel in control for a change. ‘Completely random guess number one. Selfridges?’ I peer out of a gap in the window and stifle a laugh as I see Joel look to the
left and right and then shake his head.

‘How did you know that?’ he exclaims.

‘Just a lucky guess.’

‘Well, you’re right.’ He’s still looking up and down the street. He turns slightly and I catch sight of his handsome profile. He turns even more so he is facing the doors
and I dart further into the shop.

I hold up a big designer handbag to my face, pretending to study it closely, peering out after a minute to see if Joel’s still looking. He’s turned back to the street, thank
goodness. I don’t want him to think I’m a stalker as well as a fake.

‘I’ve just bought you a present,’ he murmurs in my ear, and I jump a little. I’ve been so focused on looking at him that I almost forgot we were on the phone.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I reply, suddenly embarrassed.

‘I wanted to,’ he says. ‘It is nearly Christmas, after all. And I probably won’t be here for the holidays. I’ll be going home to Pennsylvania on Boxing
Day.’

I feel my heart plummet to my toes.

‘I wanted to give you a gift, not for Christmas, but just because . . .’

I am gobsmacked. I lower the handbag and gaze at the back of Joel’s head through the window.

‘That’s really nice of you,’ I say quietly.

‘So can I see you again tonight? We could go for a drink or something?’

‘Oh, I can’t,’ I say remorsefully. ‘I’m baby-sitting tonight.’ Much as I’d love to, I’ve been up since 5 a.m. and look like shit. It will have to
wait. Besides, it’s true. It’s quarter to seven now so I have to hurry in order to be home in time for Delilah to get to her client dinner.

‘Oh,’ Joel says, the disappointment clear in his voice. ‘Well, never mind. It’ll just have to wait. How about tomorrow? Are you free then?’

I smile and nod, and then remember he can’t see me so I murmur an affirmative into the phone instead and feel myself blush as Joel replies, ‘Till tomorrow, Carly.’

I press the End Call button and hug the phone to my chest. Then, as I’m barged in all directions by customers coming in and out the store, I creep back to the revolving doors and sneak
outside. I peer out of the entrance just in time to see Joel put his phone in his pocket and then punch the air.

I feel like doing the same because suddenly I don’t care about anything other than seeing him again. At whatever cost.