Miracle on Regent Street (29 page)

‘I didn’t know what you wanted to eat, so I ordered you everything,’ he smiles.

I sit up in bed as he places it on my lap.

‘To be honest,’ I say huskily, my voice still thick with sleep and lust, ‘I’d have ordered the same as last night.’ I restrain myself from putting my hand over my
mouth with shock at what just came out of it. Who took my personality and replaced it with a rampant sex goddess’s? Is this the sort of thing Carly says to her lovers? Am I literally
channelling her now? I can’t help but be impressed with myself.

Joel laughs as he sits on the edge of the bed. He goes to kiss me but I hurriedly thrust a croissant into his mouth, aware that he has cleaned his teeth and I haven’t. He takes a bite and
then sighs as he munches on it.

‘There is nothing I’d like more than to stay in bed with you all morning, but I’ve got an important meeting I just can’t get out of. You look beautiful when you
sleep,’ he adds gallantly.

‘Psssh,’ I splutter in embarrassment, my mouth full of croissant. He kisses me and I focus on keeping my mouth firmly shut.

He shakes his head woefully and strokes my face. ‘I have to go now, but you stay as long as you like and enjoy this wonderful room.’ He stands up and I suddenly remember that I have
a job, too.

‘Er, what time is it?’ I ask.

‘Seven thirty,’ he replies. ‘Plenty of time for you to get to work by nine.’

I try not to let the panic show on my face as I nod and reply in a strangulated voice. Joel has no idea that in my real job as stockroom slave I’m meant to be at work by seven. Which
means, in the words of the White Rabbit, I’m late I’m late I’m really really late. And not only that, I’ve just remembered I never did get round to ringing Delilah last
night. Let’s just say I got . . . distracted. I feel a wave of shame as I reach for my phone and see there are three missed calls from her. Shit. I’m in big trouble.

Once Joel has gone – and I never thought I’d be pleased to see him leave – I scramble out of the gigantic bed and dart around the room, picking up garments that are scattered
all over the place and hastily get dressed, cursing as I realize I’ll have to do the walk of shame in the same clothes into work. I can only hope that Sharon hasn’t been into the
stockroom yet and so won’t notice just how terribly late I am. It’s the first time I’ve ever been late, so if she has noticed I pray she’ll accept my apology and be lenient
with me. I’ll tell her the truth: that I slept in. Which I did; I just won’t add that it was with a super-hot man.

I brush my hair furiously, then pin it up to disguise that it hasn’t been washed, before grabbing Lily’s handbag from where I dropped it last night and open the door. I turn back and
look at the suite, overwhelmed with regret that I can’t enjoy this incredible hotel room longer. Although one might argue, I enjoyed it more than I thought was physically possible last
night.

I hop into the lift, nodding at the attendant as I smooth down my slightly crumpled dress and try to look like I should be there as other hotel guests get in. Again I feel grateful to Lily for
her loan of the Chanel handbag. It has given me much-needed Claridge’s class. The lift doors open at the ground floor and I try to step gracefully out, channelling my inner Audrey, but I
freeze in front of the lift when I realize that there are several members of staff gathered in the lobby, including the doorman I saw last night and from when Joel and I came to tea. He’s
going to think I’ve become a permanent fixture.

Someone tuts and stumbles into me, and I turn round and see I’ve caused a domino-style traffic jam of posh people trying to exit the lift. The doorman looks over at the commotion and I hop
behind the enormous John Galliano-designed art deco ‘Under the Sea’-inspired Christmas tree and peer out from around its sparkling leaves and pink coral. It seems an interminably long
way across the grand foyer to the bronze and gilt revolving doors, and I don’t want anyone to know I’m doing the walk of shame so I wait for my moment, then make a dash for it, walking
quickly with my head lowered and my designer bag clutched protectively in front of me. All I can see is the blur of gleaming black and white chequered tiles as I make my speedy dash towards the
doors, too afraid to look up in case the doorman spots me. I sigh with relief as I step inside the revolving doors but to my confusion I forget to look up, somehow miss the exit and end up spat
back out in the foyer with the doors swishing smugly behind me.

‘It’s Mr Parker’s . . . friend, isn’t it? Miss Taylor, I believe?’ says the doorman, who is now standing in front of me and looking very serious.

I nod, trying to hide the embarrassed flush that I know is climbing up my neck towards my cheeks. I feel like I’ve been stripped naked and exposed. Oh God, he’s going to say
something.

‘Please, allow me,’ he says briskly, then steps inside the door and holds his arm out.

Worse, he’s
actually
going to throw me out onto the street. He probably thinks I’m a lady of the night or something. I look at him desperately but to my surprise he winks at
me and proffers his arm. I thread my arm uncertainly through his and he says loudly, ‘It’s been a pleasure to have such an esteemed guest here, Miss Taylor. Do come again soon.’
Some of the guests in the lobby look over and start whispering to each other, clearly trying to work out who I am. I widen my eyes at him and the doorman squeezes my arm.

I clear my throat. ‘Well, you know Claridge’s is always my favourite hotel when staying in London,’ I reply, trying not to laugh and feeling like a princess as we begin to walk
through the revolving doors. I get a little bit carried away and find myself waving regally at the crowd of guests now gathered in reception and I feel the doorman’s body shake as he
chuckles.

Once out on the street, he gracefully untwines his arm and tips his gold-brocade-trimmed hat at me.

‘Thanks for that . . . James,’ I say, looking at his name badge and then smiling broadly at him. ‘You saved me from certain humiliation.’ I pause. ‘Well, for today,
at least.’

He laughs and lifts his hand to his head in a mock salute. ‘Please call me Jim, ma’am. I hope to see you here again soon.’

‘Thanks, Jim!’ I say. I shake his hand enthusiastically, then I hitch my beautiful, classic vintage handbag over my shoulder from where it has slid down my arm, and walk proudly and
gracefully down the street.

Once I’m out of sight, I forget all about my inner Audrey, throw any grace, calm or refinement to the wind, and, staggering clumsily in my heels, wave frantically at any taxi that passes,
whether the For Hire lights are on or off. Finally, a cab pulls over and I hop in and slam the door.

‘Hardy’s, please – as fast as you can,’ I say breathlessly, feeling a little thrill as I do so. I’ve always wanted to say that.

I sit back in my seat and gaze out of the window. The city is already bustling with cars and people, and our progress is slower than ideal. I pull out my phone, scroll to my sister’s name
and press the Call button. Delilah answers just as we pull up in front of Hardy’s. I scramble around in my handbag for money and thrust it at the driver, including a generous tip. He deserves
it for getting me here relatively quickly, despite the morning traffic. He beams at me as I slam the cab door behind me and wave at him.

‘Evie?’ Delilah barks. ‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Er, at work,’ I pant as I head towards the staff entrance.

‘I know THAT,’ she says pointedly. ‘I mean, where the hell were you last night? I was worried sick. You didn’t come home, you didn’t call and, most importantly, you
weren’t here this morning to get the kids ready for nursery.’ Her voice becomes muffled and I hear her shout, despite her hand being over her phone, ‘STOP THAT, LOLA!’

I hover by the staff entrance, waiting for my clearly irate sister to come back on the line and shout at me some more. I feel terrible and I know I thoroughly deserve it, but I can’t help
wishing she’d stop shouting long enough for me to tell her the amazing thing that happened to me last night. Twice.

‘Well?’ she says eventually, her voice fizzing with fury.

‘Oh, Delilah, I’m so sorry. I meant to call you but I was out with Joel and we had such an amazing time, and then, well, then he invited me back to his hotel.’ I lower my voice
to whisper. ‘He has a suite at Claridge’s,’ I say wondrously, knowing she’ll appreciate that detail. I remember how she used to give me minute-by-minute accounts of her
dates with Will. I’d listen rapturously as she divulged the glamorous places they went to, the wonderful things he said, and the incredible nights they had. I know she’ll want the same
from me so I am expecting an excited reaction but there is only silence.

My voice falters a little. ‘Anyway, you know, one thing led to another and I just totally forgot to ring you. Please don’t be angry at me. I’ve had such an amazing time and I
truly meant to ring you. I did.’

‘Well, it’s not good enough, Evie,’ she says prissily, though her annoyance is definitely dissipating. She has a short fuse, but she never stays angry for long. I’m just
not used to her wrath being directed at me. ‘Besides,’ she adds mellifluously, ‘I was really worried about you, Evie.’

I feel a surge of guilt and so I apologize profusely again and beg her forgiveness until she relents.

An hour later I feel back to my jubilant self, especially as my lateness has apparently gone completely unnoticed by Sharon, or anyone else, for that matter. It seems that
sometimes it pays to be invisible. Then the stockroom door creaks open and Jane from the lingerie department pops her head round. I pause from my job of sorting through a tangled pile of vintage
diamanté clasp earrings, brooches and necklaces, and look up.

‘Hi, Sarah,’ she says mournfully. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea?’ She asks the question apologetically as if she’s requesting something enormous of me. I have
a lot of time for Jane. She has such a wonderful personality, she’s warm and witty and has this incredibly infectious laugh. She’s larger than life, in more ways than one, with tumbling
dark curls that coil down her back and this gorgeous, soft body that oozes womanhood. At least, she used to be. Recently she looks faded; less confident, more introverted.

‘Come in, Jane! I’ve always got time for tea with you,’ I say brightly as I put down the tangled necklaces and get up. ‘I’m still recovering from the fact that
somehow Sharon didn’t notice I was over an hour late this morning. How lucky am I!’

‘That is bloody lucky,’ Jane says with a tight smile. ‘That woman is like a meerkat: she sees everything. She’s already been poking her nose around my department this
morning, telling me that my displays “just aren’t good enough” and “why haven’t I had any customers yet, Gwen and Guy are both rushed off their feet blah blah blah . .
. ” I mean, it’s not even eleven o’clock yet! You know,’ she sighs, ‘I can’t help but think that if I don’t do something with my department soon, I could
be in trouble. But I’m used to measuring people’s bust sizes, not doing big, fancy displays. Besides, there’s only so much you can do with beige bras and bloomers.’

I laugh at this. It’s true, the lingerie department in Hardy’s is aimed at the over sixties only and is embarrassingly unsexy.

‘So why were you late?’ Jane asks me as she sits down, her generous body sinking gratefully into the soft sofa.

I feel myself blushing. Should I tell Jane about Joel? It’s so refreshing to be asked something about me for a change. I’m trying to work out how to say, ‘I was still in bed
after a night of hot sex with my lover,’ without completely oversharing, when Jane lets out a deep, long sigh as she peers into the kitchen where I am busy brewing our tea.

‘You haven’t got any cakes, have you?’ she asks hopefully. ‘I need something to cheer me up.’

I pull down a pack of Chelsea buns from a shelf.

Jane’s eyes brighten and then she shakes her head. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t. I’m trying to lose weight,’ she says, looking regretfully down at her body.

A generous size eighteen, Jane has been battling with her weight for as long as I’ve known her but she never used to be as unhappy with it as she is now. Admittedly, she has gone up a
couple of dress sizes recently, but she has the sort of shape that carries it well. She’s tall, with a big bust, a small waist and long legs. Unfortunately, Jane doesn’t see any of
that. She just sees the extra pounds on her scales. She also thinks it’s the reason why her husband has lost interest in her sexually. They’ve been married for five years, but
she’s told me that in recent months their sex life has dwindled to practically nothing. I suspect this is what she’s upset about today, too.

‘I just don’t know what to do any more, Sarah,’ she sighs, clasping and unclasping her fingers. ‘Stuart just isn’t interested in me at all now.’ She looks up
at me tearfully as I hand her a cup of tea and sit down next to her. ‘We used to be inseparable; holding hands, cuddling, kissing, and our sex life has always been great. I mean
really
great.’

I try not to blush or look away as I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Why do people feel the urge to tell me this stuff? Have I got ‘Overshare with me’ written on my forehead
or something? It’s baffling. Particularly as it’s not like I have a habit of going round telling everyone
my
deepest, darkest secrets. Probably because no one ever gives me the
chance. But even so, I don’t think I’m the type.

She exhales and looks down mournfully at her body, which seems to deflate like a balloon. ‘But now it’s like he just doesn’t want me any more.’ She shakes her head as her
eyes fill with tears and her fingers grasp at each other. ‘I think he’s going to leave me,’ she says, gasping with the shock of what she’s admitted to me. Her beautiful
alabaster skin goes blotchy and she dabs at her eyes with a wet, crumpled tissue that she pulls out of her shirt breast pocket and that has obviously seen a lot of tears recently. I lean over to
the coffee table and take a fresh tissue from a box that I always keep for situations just like this.

‘What’s given you that idea?’ I say gently. ‘Stuart always seems besotted by you.’ Jane’s husband comes into Hardy’s quite regularly as he works round
the corner as a duty manager of a hotel. He’s a small, unassuming man with dark gingernut hair and freckles like cinnamon sprinkles all over his face. I have never thought him the type of man
who would be bothered by his wife’s weight. He seems sensitive and sweet and thoughtful. Not to mention utterly devoted to Jane. You can just see it by the way he looks at her.