Miracle on Regent Street (50 page)

I bend down and empty another box of vintage decorations. Hundreds of miniature painted wooden shoe decorations fall out. I line them up, according size and colour. They are perfectly crafted as
if they have been made by the Shoemaker’s Elves in the famous Brothers Grimm story. I smile as I think about how those tiny artisans secretly made the carpenter’s shoes each night,
working hard to turn the single pieces of leather into beautiful footwear and saving the poor, old Shoemaker’s business in the process. It was one of my favourite stories when I was little.
Now I know why.

I crouch down on the floor and study the beautiful handmade decorations and think about how much we’ve achieved over the last couple of weeks.

I know my life has changed as much as Hardy’s appearance, and sometimes I wonder if it has always been for the best. There have been times recently when I really haven’t recognized,
or really liked, myself very much. And actually it’s nice just to feel like me again this morning.

The old me, that is, the one who got up and helped Delilah with the kids, threw on some clothes and meandered into work, not caring what she looked like and not feeling responsible for the fate
of a store and all its workers. Today has been a day to be normal. I’ve felt invisible again and actually, I’m enjoying it.

I resolved when I woke up this morning that I’d go back to helping with the kids. Delilah was already up with them when I came down. Will hadn’t come back last night – or if he
had, he’d slept on the couch – so we worked together to give the kids breakfast and get them ready for nursery. I gave her a hug as I left, but her response was limp and she felt weak
in my arms, like she’d been drained of everything. For the first time Delilah seems broken, and I don’t know how to put her back together again. I wish I could do for her what
I’ve done to some of my co-workers, who seem to be coming to work with renewed energy and excitement every day. Jane is a changed woman, Gwen is a brilliant saleswoman (her commission levels
are second to none, which must be doing wonders for her debts), even Sharon has become softer. But suddenly those small successes don’t feel so good because I’ve neglected my sister in
the process; and maybe, just maybe, she’s the one who needed my help the most.

I feel a wave of guilt and try to bat that idea away by thinking about Felix: the person who’s surprised me the most throughout all of this. We sat and talked in his office for half an
hour this morning, just like the old days. I’ve realized that
this
is the real Felix: a sparky, creative, get-up-and-go guy with lots of energy and a positive outlook. For the two
years that I’ve known him I’ve seen him as an old man, defeated by the world. Every morning he’d be slumped in his chair doing Sudoku puzzles, passing the long hours until he went
home to an empty house. I knew our chats were once the highlight of his day, but now he has so much more.

Today he was talking about where Evie’s Elves should go for our next makeover meeting tonight. And Jan Baptysta has promised to go round to his house at the weekend and help him with lots
of odd jobs; things that Felix hasn’t felt able to do since Maisie died. They’ve even planning to get a curry and watch a film together. Felix says he hasn’t had the confidence to
socialize much since Maisie died; he worried he’d end up being maudlin and would bring people down. But now, he’s like a new man.

There’s another loud banging and I realize that I’ve totally forgotten there was someone there. I smooth down my hair and flick it off my shoulders before I open the doors, gasping
as a blast of cold air hits me and trying not to look at Sam as I usher him in.

‘I was beginning to think you’d slept in,’ he mumbles. ‘But I, er, I’ve got something I really want to show you.’ He stamps his feet on the mat and throws his
coat on the sofa as I close the doors behind him, covertly glancing over at him while his back is turned. His presence immediately brightens the stockroom, partly because he’s wearing a
garish orange, blue and red checked shirt, which makes him look a bit like he should be felling trees.

He doesn’t wait to sit down or for me to offer him a cup of tea; he doesn’t even bring in the stack of boxes that he’s transferred from his van to outside the delivery doors,
instead he just pulls a couple of papers out from his bag and thrusts them at me. ‘Look at page three of the
Ham and High
!’ he says, stabbing his finger at the paper and jiggling
on the spot as I try to turn the pages. ‘And look – we’ve got half a page in the
Islington Gazette
too!’

Unable to wait for me, he opens the papers and spreads them on the floor. I squeal and drop to my knees as I look at the headlines, pictures and copy.

‘HARDY’S REINVENTED!’ shouts the Islington Gazette, and Sam’s photograph of the madeover beauty department sits proudly underneath.

‘CAN SECRET SANTAS SAVE THIS STORE?’ queries the
Ham and High
with three reportage-style pictures of Evie’s Elves in silhouette as we transform the handbag
department.

‘And that’s not all,’ Sam says proudly, sitting back on his knees as he pulls more newspapers out of his bag. ‘Most of the locals have covered it, some in more prominent
places than the others. And . . .’ he pauses and pulls out a paper from the bottom of the pile, grinning widely as he thrusts it into my hands, ‘. . . it must have been a quiet day in
Fulham – we made the front page!’

I clasp my hand over my mouth to stop myself screaming as I take the copy of the
Fulham and Hammersmith Chronicle
.

‘CAN HARDY’S HELPERS TURN STORE FROM GROTTY TO GROTTO?’ the headline yells.

‘Oh my God, Sam, you did it!’ I gasp, shaking my head in disbelief.

Sam flicks his hand dismissively but his eyes shine with pleasure. ‘
We
did it. This has been teamwork. I don’t know if it’s enough, Evie, but it’s a start. Who
knows how many new customers you’ll get today!’

I throw my arms around Sam and squeeze him tightly. I feel like I could hug him forever. He smells fresh and Alpiney, and for a moment I close my eyes and imagine being locked away in a snowy
log cabin with him. I feel his breath on my neck grow heavy and I pull away, conscious suddenly of our closeness.

‘I can’t wait to show the others, Sam. They’re going to be thrilled. You can bring all the papers to our meeting tonight.’

‘Ah,’ Sam says, pulling himself to his feet and looking awkward all of a sudden. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to make it
this time.’

‘What?’ I say, dismayed. ‘Why? We only have two more before Christmas and we need everyone’s ideas and input. Plus the gang will want you there . . . you need to show
them all your hard work.’

Sam shrugs and thrusts his hands in his jeans but doesn’t answer.

‘Is it a date you really can’t change?’ I ask finally.

Sam looks embarrassed. ‘I guess you could say that,’ he replies quietly. ‘It’s Ella. She’s got this thing on – a work Christmas party – so I have
to—’

‘Go.’ I finish his sentence for him. ‘Of course you do.’ I swallow the lump that has inexplicably appeared in my throat and nod silently before turning away. ‘Well,
that’s fair enough,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘But I, I mean,
we’ll
miss you.’

‘I’ll call you if any more papers run the story,’ Sam says softly, and I nod, busying myself once more with untangling faded paper chains and brightly coloured Chinese
lanterns.

The stockroom door swings open just as Sam is about to leave and Carly walks in.

‘Well,
hello
,’ she says coquettishly as she spots Sam. ‘What, I mean, who do we have here?’ She sashays over confidently, looking more like herself than she has
for days. Her hair is bouncy and lustrous and fans over her short, black wool polo-neck dress, which is perfectly moulded to her body and falls just below her bottom. She is wearing thick, black
opaque tights and perilously high heels.

She’s back. And, I have a feeling that so is Designers. So why don’t I feel happy?

‘Carly, this is Sam; Sam, this is Carly,’ I say evenly, unable to look at Sam.

She holds out her hand and flutters her eyelashes, biting her bottom lip seductively before saying, ‘I’m
very
pleased to meet you, Sam.’

Sam smiles and shakes her hand gently, looking, I’m pleased to note, ever so slightly disconcerted by her obvious flirting. She is still holding his hand and I feel the need to intervene
for some reason.

‘Sam was just going, weren’t you, Sam?’ And he looks at me gratefully before dropping Carly’s hand, bobbing his head at us both, picking up his bag and then hurrying out
the back door.

‘So who was
that
, you dark horse!’ she exclaims, still looking at the door that Sam has disappeared out of. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been keeping him to
yourself!’

‘Oh, he’s just a friend,’ I say evenly.

‘Really?’ she says. ‘Well, that is interesting. I mean, if he’s
just
your friend then maybe I—’

‘He’s the delivery guy,’ I add quickly.

Her interest visibly wanes, as I knew it would. ‘He’s a white van man? What a waste! Oh, well, never mind . . .’

She settles herself down on the sofa and I set about making her tea.

‘You’re in early this morning,’ I remark, glancing at the clock. It’s just before eight. I have never seen Carly walk through Hardy’s doors before nine
o’clock.

‘Oh, it’s part of the New Me,’ she grins. ‘After the
amazing
day Designers had yesterday I’ve decided to do everything I can to make the department work. I
mean, the place looks amazing! Have you seen it? Customers were clamouring to get into the VIP Closet and the dresses were flying off the rails. The till didn’t stop ringing all day! Even
Lady Fontescue came in and bought herself a—’

‘Vintage Ossie Clark dress,’ I say, thinking of the gorgeous black evening dress I’d chosen just for her and which I knew would make a welcome change from her usual
taffeta.

‘How do you know?’ she asks, looking confused.

‘Oh, I, er, bumped into her when I was leaving the shop yesterday. She was full of praise for you, actually,’ I say, hoping the compliment will distract Carly from my slip-up. And it
does.

She smiles knowingly and examines her nails. ‘Well, yes, I was on rather good form yesterday. And so was Elaine, to be fair. The customers seem to like her and she knows the stock well.
And I told her that, too.’

‘You did?’

She nods and smiles. ‘I figured I’d take you up on your suggestion of a new management tact. It worked, I think. She was civil to me all day.’

‘That’s great!’

‘Hey,’ Carly says, glancing down at the newspapers, which are still lying on the floor, ‘what are these?’ She crouches down daintily, revealing the full length of her
model legs and making me feel rather short and stumpy in what I thought was a flattering but practical vintage slate-grey shift dress, black tights and patent high-heeled pumps.

‘Oh, Sam brought them in. He saw them on the local news-stands this morning when he was doing his deliveries and thought someone here might be interested in them. Don’t know who,
though,’ I finish dismissively, turning away from Carly so she doesn’t see my face burn bright red.

She reads out the
Fulham and Hammersmith Chronicle
’s story, which has run the Hardy’s story on the front cover. ‘Wow, this is good!’ she exclaims. ‘Can I
take it and show Rupert? It might help to put me back in his good books.’ She scoops all the papers up before I have a chance to answer and staggers to her feet, smiling at me. ‘You
know, your pep talk really helped me yesterday, hon, and because of you I’ve resolved to be a new person from now on. I’m going to work hard, be nice to everyone and prove that
I’m worthy of my promotion . . .’ She trails off and then continues with a harder, more determined tone, ‘. . . so that whoever it is who is trying to steal my job knows that
they’ve got a battle on their hands.’

‘Steal your job?’ I repeat, feeling a flash of panic.

She nods grimly, her lips tightened into a thin line. ‘Yep. I’ve realized that I’m being sabotaged. Someone here wants my job and isn’t going to rest until they’ve
got it. And I’ve got a theory that it’s this so-called Secret Santa.’ She stabs the front page of the newspaper with her finger. ‘So I’m going to find out who
“Hardy’s Helper” is once and for all,’ she says grimly. ‘Then I’m going to expose them so that everyone can see their true colours. After all, it’s not
some great act of kindness, is it? No one is that selfless. They
must
have some motive, it’s just a case of finding out what it is.’ Then she winks at me and whips round to face
the door. ‘Just call me Sherlock Carly!’

I smile uncertainly and she opens the door.

‘See you, hon, and remember to keep your eyes peeled for me. At least I know you’re on my side.’

And she winks at me before sweeping out of the stockroom.

I
walk out the stockroom for my break, desperate to find out what’s happening in Designers. But I don’t have time to get there. The
store is abuzz with more people and noise and chatter than there’s ever been. Classic Christmas songs are being played on a loop and new, young customers are browsing through the store, women
in chic camel winter coats, carrying designer handbags and chatting loudly about the ‘gorgeous old store’, men in sharp, trendy outfits desperately trying to escape their girlfriends
and get down to Menswear.