Miracle on Regent Street (8 page)

I’m so busy trying to imagine the place back in Walter Hardy, junior’s day that I don’t notice that there’s someone behind me until I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. My
heart races as I glance down and realize I haven’t put my coat back on. I close my eyes and turn round slowly, waiting to be berated by Sharon.

‘Don’t worry, I’m going to take the top off now. I was only going to wear if for a while anywa . . .’ I open my eyes, expecting to see Sharon’s disapproving face,
but what I see instead is a tall, movie-star-handsome, dark-haired man with broad shoulders, a jaw you could crack brazil nuts on, and bright, searching blue eyes that are looking at me in
amusement.

‘Shit!’ I splutter, and attempt to cover my body with my hands as though I were actually naked. ‘I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he says flirtatiously, his unmistakable American accent ringing out around the first floor. That’s the best offer I’ve had for ages . . .’

Feeling uncharacteristically brave, I fix my eyes on his and allow a half-smile to hover over my lips. ‘Do you mean to say the department stores you usually frequent don’t train
their staff immediately to offer to strip off for you? How strange. It’s the done thing here in Hardy’s, you know. We find it’s the best way to get our customers to spend
money.’

‘It’s certainly the best sales technique I’ve come across,’ he drawls sexily. His accent is as smooth and delicious as golden syrup being poured over freshly baked
scones.

‘Well, we aim to . . . tease,’ I shoot back, and he laughs, a great, infectious booming sound that echoes round the department. I’d be embarrassed, but I feel like I’m in
this weird vortex and no one else can see or hear us.

‘You’re funny! Carly, right?’ he says with a knowing smile. I blink at him, noticing how his mouth tilts deliciously in the corners causing two lines like punctuation marks to
appear either side of his lips. His thick eyebrows lift expectantly, which makes another two lines appear in his forehead, like old-fashioned tramlines. I don’t understand how he can possibly
mistake me for Carly and I’m just about to point out his mistake when it suddenly hits me. The top. It’s because I’m wearing this blasted top. Now it all makes sense.
This
is the guy Carly was talking about. Somehow, he’s mistaken me for her. Well, I
have
just walked out of Carly’s personal shopping department. But even so, he should know with one
glance that I am not her. Perhaps there’s something wrong with his eyesight. I look at him through narrowed eyes.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, and I realize I’m still peering at him.

‘Oh, yes . . . yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking that you need glasses.’

He laughs and nudges me. A crackle of electricity shoots down my arm and straight between my legs. He leans in and I blush as he murmurs, ‘Is that a style tip?’

‘That depends . . .’ I answer, trying to rack my brain for another, more clever response. He raises his eyebrows questioningly and tilts his head as he waits for me to continue. My
mind goes blank. I can’t stop looking into his eyes; they’re utterly hypnotic. I blink and shake my head. ‘. . . Er, that depends on whether you value fashion over flirtation.
After all,’ I add flippantly, ‘girls don’t make passes at boys who wear glasses.’

‘Really? That’s interesting.’ He looks amused, then puts his hand into his jacket pocket, pulls out a pair of black-rimmed spectacles and puts them on.

My mouth goes dry and I swallow quickly. Jesus, he looks even hotter, if that were possible.

‘I’ve always wondered why I’ve been single for so long,’ he laughs, and I swear I hear church bells ringing in my head.

‘Well,’ I squeak, then clear my throat and try again. ‘Now you know.’ I point at his frames then pull an agonized face, feeling terrible for lying to him.

Still laughing, he shakes his head as he slips them back into his pocket. ‘So that’s where I’ve been going wrong. I’ve always thought they made me look more
intelligent.’

‘You’re American; it’ll take more than that, love,’ I blurt out, wondering why I suddenly sound like a character from Coronation Street and why I’m intent on
insulting him.

Luckily, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. ‘I love the British sense of humour. You guys are so dry!’ He shakes his head and looks at me. ‘You know, I’ve
heard a lot about you, Carly, but no one said how funny you are. Beautiful and stylish and intelligent, yes, but funny . . . ?’

He touches me gently on the arm again and I gulp as I look at him. He smiles at me and this time it’s the big reveal; a perfect chorus line of straight, white teeth are high-kicking their
way across his mouth. I want to tell him he’s made a mistake, that I’m not Carly, but all the saliva has disappeared from my mouth (along with my voice, and the strength in my knees).
Luckily I am saved because he speaks first.

‘I’d really like to take you out. If you’ll allow me, that is. I’ve heard so much about you. And you’re just how I imagined.’

I feel my heart plummet to my toes. I have to tell him.

‘I think you’ve got the wrong girl,’ I say softly, sounding much calmer than I feel, and I turn to go.

‘Surely that’s for me to decide?’ he replies quickly, his hand pulling me back to him. I stop, immobilized by his touch. ‘After all, isn’t that what dates are for?
To find the right person?’ I gaze up at him and he looks meaningfully back at me.

I should walk away now, I know I should. This is Carly’s date, not mine. But he is looking at me so intently and my heart is thumping so wildly under this sparkly top that it looks like a
glitter ball is bouncing out of my chest. And then I think to myself, so what if this cute guy thought I was Carly when he stopped me? He seems pretty determined now he’s met me to take
me
on a date.

I think about Carly and her life: the endless parties and dates, the trail of men who’ve lost their hearts to her, and the promotion she’s just got. She doesn’t need any more
good fortune, surely? Would it be so wrong for me to grab this opportunity that’s been handed to me? After all, it isn’t like they’ve ever actually met. I’m not doing
anything wrong. I can’t even be sure this is
definitely
the man she saw. I mean, he could be someone completely different. This could be another heart-stoppingly gorgeous man
who’s just walked into Hardy’s this morning. Because obviously we get them
all the time
in here.

Sod it, I think. Why not chance my arm? The opportunity has presented itself and, as Dad would say, surely I should just ‘go for it’.

‘Do you want to try asking again?’ I say bravely, fixing my eyes determinedly on his. I wanted my life to change today, so maybe I have to force its hand a little. It’s not
like working hard or waiting for good things to happen to me has worked so far. Maybe it’s time to try a different tack. The sequins on the Gainsbourg top prickle my skin like a conscience,
but I ignore them. He smiles and adjusts the collar of the impeccably starched white shirt he’s wearing.

‘O . . . K,’ he drawls, and takes a step closer. He clears his throat. ‘Would you care to allow me to take you on a date to remember?’

‘And what if I don’t?’ I shoot back.

‘Don’t think I’ll hold it against you,’ he replies quickly, just like Clark Gable in
Gone With the Wind
. I think of Lily’s movie-star photos in her tearoom
and suddenly feel like they have come to life and this is all happening in monochrome.

I teeter on the brink of doing The Right Thing. I should just say, ‘Actually, Mr Handsome American Man, I’m Evie, the stockroom girl,’ and then wait for him to retreat. I can
then dream about what it might have been like to kiss those
really
nice lips of his.

‘Well . . . ?’ He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Are you going to make my day?’ Oh heavens, now he’s Clint bloody Eastwood. ‘Will you go out
with me, Carleen, I mean Carly?’ He brushes the palm of his hand against his temple and looks at me expectantly, vulnerably almost.

Just tell him the truth, Evie,
I think as I open my mouth and then, before I can stop myself I blurt out my response.

‘I’d like that very much,’ I reply.

I’
d like that very much?

What the bloody hell just possessed me to say that?

‘Wunnerful,’ says Mr Wonderful in front of me. I look at him aghast, then smile dumbly and edge away, hoping to retreat before I get myself in any more trouble.

‘Well,’ I begin politely, ‘it was nice to meet you . . .’

‘Joel,’ he interjects. ‘Parker.’

‘It was nice to meet you, Joel Parker.’ I turn round and make for the staircase.

‘Just Joel is fine.’ He turns and starts walking alongside me. I have a sudden urge to say, ‘Well,
just Joel
, you can call me Evie.’ But I don’t. I pick up
my pace. So does he.

‘You live in Clapham, right?’ he drawls. I swivel my head to look at him, even more aghast than before. That’s where Carly lives. How does he know that? Is he some sort of a
stalker? What have I got involved in here?

He catches my horrified expression and laughs. ‘Oh God, that makes me sound like a weirdo, doesn’t it? I only know because I’ve been looking at the personnel files – for
work reasons.’

I edge away, unconvinced.

‘I work in retail?’ he adds, his accent turning everything into a question. ‘As a consultant? For big department stores? Mainly in the US but I’m over here temporarily so
I can work on a couple of projects in the UK. Actually my friend Rupert invited me here to show me around his store.’ I open my mouth to ask a question but just then his phone rings and he
makes a face. ‘I’m sorry, I have to take this call but shall we do something this weekend?’ He looks bashful for a moment. ‘Could I take your number and I’ll give you
a call tomorrow to make arrangements?’

I don’t know where to look or what to say. I can’t look him in the eyes, so I find myself looking at his arms, which are bulging under his suit. There is some serious muscle under
there. Hypnotized by his biceps, I say yes, and I give him my mobile number.

After our brief encounter I head back down the stairs towards the stockroom. At least I think that’s where I’m going. I’m not entirely sure as my legs don’t appear to
belong to my body any more and my head is floating somewhere above the grand central staircase. I can’t think straight, let alone see. What possessed me to pretend to be Carly? I have no idea
what came over me. But . . .

I’ve got a date.

I can’t believe it.

This guy, this tall, handsome, erudite, well-dressed, drop-dead GORGEOUS American guy just asked ME out.

I slip on my coat and do it up so as not to get myself into any more trouble as I make my way back to the stockroom.

Suddenly someone jumps out in front of me brandishing a brush and a broad smile.

‘Can I interest you in a makeover, dear?’ says Gwen, who is the pushiest of salespeople. ‘You have beautiful skin, but you look like you could do with some help applying your
foundation – and, gosh,’ her perfectly painted lips curl slightly, ‘is that meant to be blusher?’ Then she points at my face. I rub my cheeks self-consciously, aware that
it’s just me blushing because of my encounter with Joel.

‘Er, no thanks, Gwen. I’m just going back from my tea break.’

She stares at me and a flicker of recognition crosses her face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were a customer.’

‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve been here two years. You talk to me all the time.’ She looks at me blankly and shakes her head so I lean in and whisper conspiratorially,
‘You have credit card debts that you don’t want your husband to find out about . . .’

‘Hush!’ Her hand flutters to her chest in panic. ‘How do you know about that?’

I take a deep breath. ‘You told me when you came into the stockroom for a cup of tea. Last week?’ I pause and look at her. Still nothing. ‘I work in there,’ I add
despairingly.

‘Oh!’ She heaves a sigh of relief. ‘You’re wotsit, um, oh, yes! Sarah the stockroom girl!’

‘Anyway, gotta go.’ I nod resignedly and edge away.