Miracle on Regent Street (25 page)

I
t is nearly midnight by the time Delilah comes home from her client dinner and I have spent the past few hours floating blissfully around the
house, dreaming about my next date with Joel.

I’m up in my room when I hear the front door slam shut. I pause for a moment, then continue rummaging through The Wardrobe, trying to find another appropriate outfit from my treasure
trove. I can’t decide between two different outfits: a soft angora blush-beaded sweater that hugs my curves perfectly, with a short floaty black 1960s georgette miniskirt; or a gorgeous 1940s
red belted shirtdress with short sleeves and a collar, and with cream horses printed all over it. It’s very Stella McCartney, apparently. Well, according to Delilah, anyway. Or did she say
Chloé? I can’t remember, all I know is that I love it.

I pull it out of the wardrobe and hold it up against me just as Delilah bursts into the room. Without knocking. She has clearly had a drink or several hundred. She is swaying, her choppy blond
bobbed hair is standing up on end and her make-up is smeared.

‘Hisssis . . .’ she hisses and flops on my bed. ‘Hesnoherethen,’ she slurs, and a bit of her spittle lands on my hand. I wipe my hand on my trousers surreptitiously as I
try to decipher what she’s saying. Luckily I’m well practised in this art form, having seen Delilah drunk many times over the years. She’s usually pretty funny, but tonight she
appears to be harbouring a darker mood.

‘No, Will’s not here,’ I say gently.

‘Asstard.’

Delilah sits up suddenly and puts her hand over her mouth. Oh, Jesus, she’s not, is she . . . ?

I sidestep quickly as Delilah pushes past me and dives into my ensuite, and just in time, judging by the grotesque sounds coming from in there.

‘Are you all right?’ I say, peering round the door.

She is hugging the toilet bowl and looks back at me pathetically. I go over and hold her hair back, smoothing it gently into a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck as she continues to
retch.

‘Eurgh,’ she says, wiping her mouth. She sits up, groans and then lies on the floor, her face pressed against the tiles. ‘Mmm, tha’ feels nice,’ she murmurs as her
eyes roll back and her lids flutter to a close. ‘I’ll just lie here for a lil’ minute.’

‘No, Lila,’ I say firmly, pulling her up. ‘Go to bed. You’ll feel much better for it.’

‘Won’t feel better,’ she says petulantly. I am alarmed to see her eyes are brimming with tears. She leans against the wall. ‘I don’t wanna to go to bed becaush I
think . . . no, I
know
.’ she shakes her head vehemently. ‘My hushband doesntlovemeanymoooore.’ She looks at me, shakes her head and begins to cry.

I bend down and put my arms around her, rubbing her back as she sobs into my chest. I’m shocked and don’t really know what to do. I have never
ever
seen her like this.

‘What makes you think that, Lila? Will idolizes you,’ I say reassuringly.

‘He’s never here,’ she wails. ‘He’s always “working late”, he never notices me any more, and a-a-a and . . .’ She inhales and hiccups at the same
time. ‘I read today in a magazine that more affairs happen at this time of year than any other because there are so many feezble . . .’ she pauses and tuts, trying to get her words out,
‘fea-feas
ible
alibis.’ She pulls the magazine out of her designer handbag and immediately flicks to the offending article, stabbing her fingers at it to emphasize her point.
‘Work Christmas parties, client dinners, working late to pull ahead before the Christmas break . . . it all makes sense. Will wasn’t home on time all last week, Evie!’ She shakes
her head as a fresh round of sobs rack her body.

‘But you’re late tonight, Lila,’ I say reasonably whilst secretly wondering if she’s right. Will’s a good-looking guy, he works in the City and he’s always
‘working late’. I mean, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility. Then I rationalize that it’s unfair to jump to conclusions without any solid evidence. He’s also a
great dad and husband, and has always been utterly besotted with my sister.

‘You haven’t got any proof that Will is having an affair so why get yourself in such a state? He loves you, Lila. And you know how hard he works. You both do,’ I add quickly,
knowing how sensitive Delilah is about her job being considered equal to his.

‘But this is different,’ she says doggedly, staring at the opposite wall. She shakes her head. ‘I s’pose you’re right, though. I don’t have any
proof.’

Just then we hear the front door open and shut quietly. Delilah stares at me but doesn’t say anything, her plump bottom lip still quivering though her green eyes seem relieved.

‘See? He’s home, there’s nothing to worry about,’ I say, stroking her back soothingly. ‘Are you going to go and see him?’

She shakes her head and wipes her mouth. ‘No, let him come to me.’ She pauses and listens for a moment. ‘Shhh,’ she hisses. We can hear Will climbing the stairs. He opens
a door on the first floor, Raffy’s or Lola’s. Then the other. He closes each one quietly then climbs more stairs. Then he opens his and Delilah’sbedroom door and shuts it firmly
behind him. There is silence.

‘SEE!’ Delilah bursts into fresh tears and scrambles to her feet.

‘See
what
?’ I’m confused and, to be honest, a bit concerned about her sudden paranoia.

‘Proof that he’s having an affair!’ she wails, and a little more spit lands on my arm. ‘If he wasn’t,’ she continues, ‘he’d come and find me. But
clearly he wants to just go to sleep so I don’t smell perfume on him, or . . . or question him about what he’s really been doing this evening or . . .’

‘Oh, Delilah,’ I say wearily, playing with her hair, ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Why don’t you just go and talk to him about it?’

‘I’m going to do better than that . . .’ she says ominously quietly.

She is still talking as I walk out of the ensuite and back into my bedroom. I pick up the red print dress and hold it against my body, turning from side to side as I imagine me wearing it
tomorrow night.

‘. . . give you proof,’ Delilah mumbles as she walks through my room towards the door.

But I’m no longer listening to her. I’m already wrapped up in the early Christmas gift I’ve been given: my next date with Joel.

Tuesday 6 December

19 Shopping Days Until Christmas

F
elix glances up from his Sudoku as I walk towards his office and raises a thick, untamed eyebrow at me.

‘Morning, Evie. You’re in early again,’ he says pointedly.

‘You know me,’ I reply quickly, averting my eyes so as not so betray their guilt. ‘Diligent as always.’ He tilts his head slightly and studies me, as if I might reveal
something more. Instead I cough, lean over and hand him his coffee, glancing at his puzzle as I do so. ‘You’re doing well today, Felix! You’re becoming quite the
expert.’

‘Hardly,’ he snorts. ‘It’s the same one I was doing yesterday. Drive me up the bloody wall, they do. But they pass the time. Although,’ he sighs, ‘it feels
like that’s all I’m doing these days. Ever since Maisie . . .’ He clears his throat, sits up and tries to pull himself together, which makes me want to cuddle him and cry all at
once. I go for the cuddle.

‘Thanks, love. Sorry for being maudlin.’

‘You never have to apologize to me, Felix.’ I pause. ‘You know what?’ I say, thinking about the party that Sam had suggested, ‘I think I’ve got something that
will cheer you up. I’m working on having a little night out with a few people from here. I want to introduce you to a couple of people, like my friends Sam and Lily . . .’

Felix’s face visibly brightens. ‘Lily? I haven’t spoken to her in ages. She’s a wonderful lady . . .’

‘You know her?’

‘I employed her!’ he says proudly.

I’m desperate to know more about the old days, but I glance at my watch and realize I’ve run out of time. I make an apologetic face. ‘Hold that bit of information!’ I
exclaim. ‘I have to go now. Got lots to do this morning, you know, er, deliveries to unpack for Christmas and everything . . . but we’ll pick up on this chat tomorrow! Bye,
Felix!’

I turn and flee, desperate to get to work. Part of me really wants to tell Felix what I’ve been doing with the shop floor – I know he’d support me but I don’t want to
implicate him in my deception. I have no idea if what I’m doing is right, or even if it’ll really work. My last couple of makeovers could’ve been complete flukes for all I
know.

That’s why I’ve decided not to do another one for a day or two as I want to see how Menswear and Beauty get on first, and besides, I don’t want to arouse too much suspicion
that it isn’t the departmental managers themselves doing the work. I’ve only come in early today to spend some time in other departments so I can plan the next big makeover
properly.

The morning passes quickly, so ensconced am I in my new role as secret shop-floor remerchandiser. I spent the first couple of hours, before anyone came in, roaming through the
store, sketching mock-up makeovers in my notepad and scribbling down ideas for props I could use from the stockroom before heading back there to get even more inspiration. I spot the group of oval
gilt mirrors I’ve been thinking about, which have been stacked against a wall in the corner of the stockroom for ages because I didn’t know where else I could put them. I’ve had
this idea that I could use them in the shoe department to display some beautiful vintage shoes that have been gathering dust here. These pretty mirrors would look perfect dotted on the walls around
the department, and I could ask Jan Baptysta to put a little shelf in front of each as the shoes would look great reflected there. There’s so many beautiful pairs in the stockroom that
deserve to be properly displayed: gold T-bar sandals with a cute little heels; cherry-red pumps, silver ballroom shoes and a beautiful pair of peacock-blue Yves Saint Laurent peep toes. It’s
utter sacrilege that they’ve all been hidden away in here for so many years. And then there’s the boxes of beautiful ex-display evening shoes I’ve found; faded, stretched and, as
a result, unsellable, but I have another idea for them. Something bigger than just a shop-floor prop. I’m thinking a festive shoe tree in the middle of the department, with these shoes hung
like precious, shiny decorations. It’ll look amazing. Just because we can’t sell them, doesn’t mean we can’t use them. They shouldn’t be in here gathering dust, with
only me to appreciate them.

I gaze around and smile. Suddenly my grey little stockroom has been transformed into a veritable Aladdin’s cave, an endless treasure trove at my fingertips; every item seems to spark a new
idea. All these forgotten vintage items have the power to turn Hardy’s fortunes around, I’m sure of it. I just need to convince everyone else. I step back and look about, feeling as
though I’m seeing the stockroom properly for the first time since I started working here. All you need to do is look beneath the surface to see how beautiful these things really are.

I blink, feeling overwhelmed for a moment. Maybe it’s because it has dawned on me that this place feels more like my home than the beautiful converted attic I currently live in at my
sister’s multimillion-pound house. Right here in Hardy’s stockroom was where my broken heart was slowly healed after my split from Jamie. It gave me a purpose in life again. Now, if I
can just use its healing power to restore Hardy’s fortunes then perhaps the store, in one capacity or another, will continue to be my home for a long time to come.