Miracle on Regent Street (5 page)

‘Hellooo, Sarah!’ they chime simultaneously.

‘Hi,’ I mutter, defeated again. I brighten up when Carly appears, flanked by Paula and Tamsin, her colleagues from Personal Shopping. All three look immaculate. Carly is stylish and
naturally sexy; Paula is austere in a 1980s throwback kind of a way, with frosted lips, blue eyeshadow and big backcombed hair, like a latter-day Mrs Slocombe from
Are You Being Served?
Tamsin is pure Essex thoroughbred, complete with fake nails, fake tan, dyed platinum hair and suspiciously perky-looking boobs.

The staff gather round Carly, gasping at her outfit and giggling as she regales them with yet another anecdote about one of her notoriously crazy and fun nights out.

‘Oh, Carly,’ Gwen wheezes, clutching her sides, ‘you are a card. Tell us what you said to those football fellas again?’

After finishing her story Carly inches through the adoring staff members towards me.

‘Hiya, babe, how are you doing?’ she says warmly. I smile up at her. She looks radiant as ever in a futuristic-looking gold sequined top with fierce shoulders that protrude at right
angles, in contrast to the rest of the top, which hangs against her body like a sheath. I recognize it as the Gainsbourg immediately. She must have preordered one for herself to wear on the shop
floor. It helps to sell the clothes, though they’ve never before had such a tempting selection as today’s delivery.

‘What do you think this announcement is all about?’ Carly asks me excitedly.

I look at her curiously. It was only last week that I told her all about my hopes for promotion. To be fair, I
did
say it was top secret and she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone but
she’s obviously forgotten. It’s understandable, though. Carly has such a busy social life she probably doesn’t have space in her brain to remember the things I tell her about
mine. Every night she’s either going on a date, or to a fabulous party, or being invited to some opening of a cool new bar. Our lives couldn’t be more different.

I glance up at her as she shakes her wavy brown hair off her shoulders. I say ‘brown’, but it isn’t brown like mine is brown. It’s intricately woven with gold, copper and
auburn tones that make it glimmer and shine like a crown. She also has these cute, perky freckles all over her nose, and her eyelashes, which are long and perfectly frame her pale green eyes,
giving her a wide-eyed look, as if even she is surprised at how beautiful she is.

I still remember seeing her on her first day. I’d just left the stockroom to go on a break and she walked past me, followed by a trail of fawning staff members. She was
telling an hilarious anecdote about a date she’d been on that had everyone – even grumpy Elaine from Designers – in hysterics. She was so confident and at home with everyone that
I felt intimidated by her and didn’t introduce myself, but the next day, she turned up in the stockroom with a cup of coffee for me.

‘Mind if I come in?’ she grinned, and passed the cup to me. ‘I thought you could do with one of these. Someone told me you start at 7 a.m. every day. How do you manage that? I
can barely drag myself here by nine! I’m Carly, by the way. Your name’s Sarah, isn’t it?’

I took the coffee and opened my mouth to tell her otherwise, but I was too shy to explain that my colleagues were still getting my name wrong and I was also worried about drawing attention to
the fact that I’d hijacked someone else’s job. It was just so embarrassing. Instead I asked her how she came to be working here. We sat for half an hour while she told me all about her
year spent living and working in Sydney, her bijou Clapham flat where she lived with her best friend from university, and what it was like being newly single again. I heard about good dates and bad
dates, girls’ nights in and big nights out. And I listened, completely intrigued by her colourful life, which seemed so different from mine.

Then she asked me about Hardy’s and I was happy to oblige her with my knowledge. She was so grateful she offered to buy me a drink after work. Buoyed by the thought of having made my first
proper friend at work, I phoned Delilah and asked her if she wouldn’t mind picking the kids up from nursery. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon shopping in town ahead of my
‘date’ with Carly.

I met her when she finished at 6 p.m. and we went for cocktails at a cool hotel bar in Soho. It was the best night out I’d had in ages. OK, make that the
only
night out I’d
had in ages. We got tipsy and talked about bad boyfriends and good sex, like all girlfriends inevitably do. Well, she did most of the talking, to be honest, but that suited me fine. I went home
that night feeling happy and young, and like someone had
seen
me for the first time in ages. And so what if she didn’t know my actual name?

Since then we’ve spent lots of time together at work. Carly’s always hanging around here and we’ve had the occasional night out too; Mondays usually, as she’s always got
something on the rest of the week. But we have hilarious conversations about the dates she’s been on, the latest clothes she’s bought and the nights out she’s had with her best
girl mates. I love listening to her stories. It gives me a taste of the kind of life I’d love to lead.

Now she turns, winks and motions at me for a cup of tea just as Sharon opens the door. I sidestep towards the kitchenette to pour Carly a cup from the pot I made earlier.
Actually, I’m quite happy to be tucked away in the corner as I don’t want to draw attention to myself before the Big Moment. I imagine Sharon will spot my absence and wait for me to
emerge. Or she’ll ask where I am and Carly will tell her. Then I’ll step into the cheering crowd as Sharon announces my promotion. Maybe Carly and her colleagues from Personal Shopping
will even elevate me above people’s heads, like fans do in rock concerts.

I smile at the thought as I top up the teapot and hear Sharon announce other notices. I’ve just poured Carly’s cup when Sharon’s thin, sharp voice rises in volume and she claps
her hands. I swirl the teabags quickly when I realize she is about to make the Big Announcement.

‘And now,’ I hear her say, ‘I want you all to join me in giving our congratulations to the member of staff who has been given a long-overdue promotion . . .’

I clutch Carly’s tea, partly in fear, partly in excitement. I can imagine Sharon’s eyes working the room like searchlights to find me.

‘This young woman has worked tirelessly to prove her commitment to Hardy’s, often in difficult circumstances, and over recent months she has consistently amazed me with her work
ethic, her ability to transform her department and her unique vision for the store . . .’

I can feel myself blush. All my hard work has finally paid off.

‘She is a credit to the store,’ Sharon continues, ‘so I’m sure you will all join me in congratulating her on her promotion. She is an irreplaceable team member and I know
that Hardy’s will be a better place with her on-board the management team. Now, where is our new assistant manager? I can’t see her?’

Oh my God, this is it, I think. This is my moment.

I peer out and see Sharon searching amongst the sea of staff. I step out into the crowd just as she says, ‘Ah, there she is! Don’t be shy, step forward!’ Blushing, I take
another step, and then Sharon enthuses, ‘Everyone, please give Carly a big round of applause.’

I
freeze. Discordant clapping echoes around the room and I slowly reverse back into the kitchenette and lean my head against the cool, tiled wall
above the sink and close my eyes. I want to cry with frustration. How can I have got it so wrong?

Once I’ve gathered myself I wander back out into the crowd and immediately spot Carly holding court. I
want
to congratulate her,
want
to feel happy for her but I can’t
help but feel like pounding my fists on the floor like Delilah’s daughter, Lola, does when she’s having a tantrum. But of course I do nothing of the kind. Instead I wait for more people
to leave, take a deep breath, paint a bright smile on my face and walk over to her.

‘Congratulations, Carly. You really deserve it,’ I say warmly, but my words sound hollow, like an echo of all the congratulations that have gone before. I wonder if she’ll be
sympathetic once she remembers that I was expecting to get a promotion myself. But she doesn’t seem to recall.

Once everyone leaves I slump against some shelves. I pull out my mobile and dial Sam’s number, desperately wanting the sympathy only a good friend can give. But it goes straight to
voicemail. I put the phone back in my pocket and look miserably out of the small window at the plump flakes of snow still falling. Much as I wish I had someone to share my disappointment with, part
of me is relieved to be left alone in my prison. Because at this precise moment that’s what it feels like. I’ve served nearly two years here, and now my sentence has just been extended;
and with no parole. I groan as I think of how I boasted about my impending promotion to Sam this morning. Why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? He’s going to think I’m such a
loser when I tell him what happened. And he’ll be right.

I hear a shuffling noise, peer through the shelves and see that Sharon is still here, flicking through delivery reports. For a moment I’m tempted to ask her why she’s overlooked me
for promotion again but I get the feeling she doesn’t want to be disturbed.

I sigh and settle down, busying myself by colour-grouping some deerstalkers. I put a soft brown one aside for Sam as an early Christmas gift from me. It cheers me up momentarily, but as I
continue sorting I gaze down at myself in my grubby white shirt, plain black trousers and then I stand up and look in the mirror above the sink at my unwashed hair hanging limply around my face, my
features devoid of make-up. My eyes fill with tears and I gulp them back, not wanting Sharon to hear me. I must be deluded to think anyone would ever consider me for a job that involves being in
public. I’m a complete mess. Ever since Jamie broke up with me I’ve let myself go; I’ve lost my confidence and most of all, my
self
. Suddenly an image of Carly –
laughing, smiling, looking stylish – pops into my mind. If only I could be more like her, then maybe I wouldn’t be so . . . invisible.

I hear Sharon walk out and the stockroom door slams shut. Just then I spot something winking at me temptingly from amongst the pile of clothes. It’s the Florence Gainsbourg that came in
this morning. The same top Carly is wearing. I look down again at my plain white shirt and bite my lip as my arm, unbidden, stretches towards the glittering prize. My hand shakes as it touches the
plastic it’s encased in, and with a sudden movement I pull it out from the pile and find myself studying it with wonder.

As I hold it up it occurs to me that this top embodies everything I’d like to be. It is stand-out-from-the-crowd, forget-me-not fabulous; edgy and bright and exciting. Every sequin seems
to hold a promise of what life could be like if I just slip it on. I glance behind me nervously. Perhaps if I put this on, just for a moment, maybe some of that magic will rub off on me. Before I
know what I’m doing I tear off my shirt and stuff it down the back of a radiator. It can burn, for all I care. I shiver as much with anticipation as cold as I pull the top tentatively over my
head, closing my eyes as I relish the feel of the expensive fabric against my skin, the coarseness of the tiny, intricately sewn sequins on the outside contrasting with the smooth, satin finish of
the material underneath. I panic as the expensive garment gets stuck as I try to pull it over my head. And then one of my arms won’t go through. For a moment, I stagger about like a headless
one-armed zombie, banging into boxes and cursing my clumsiness, feeling the tears spring back into my eyes. At last I get the precious top on and I look in the mirror. My eyes are bright with
tears, my cheeks flushed from exertion and crying, and much as I’m tempted to hide behind my long, straight hair, like I usually do, instead I pull it into a loose, messy bun at the side of
my neck, the way Carly sometimes wears hers, securing it with an elastic band I find on the floor. Then I go to the beauty department’s aisle and pull out a powder compact, some mascara and a
clear lip gloss and apply them using the compact’s mirror. Finally, I wander back to the cracked, full-length mirror in the corner of the stockroom, close my eyes and open them again.