Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown
when she was talking, most likely. Wouldn’t surprise me. That’s what she’s like,’ Sam says.
My mobile rings and, on seeing it’s Eddie, my other best friend and Tom’s personal assistant (well, boy assistant or BA for short), I press to answer.
‘Get your tellybox on right now!’ he shrieks, totally bypassing the introductions bit and almost perforating my eardrum in the process.
‘OK, calm down, it’s already on. Where’s the drama?’
‘Dollface. You will not believe this. Gird your ladyballs. S-C-R-E-A-M.’
‘What are you going on about? Eddie, have you been at the booze cabinet?’ I laugh.
‘Oh darling, purlease with the vulgarity … now is not the time to make me out to be some kind of lush. Now, will you just shut up and watch.’
Doing as I’m told, I stare at the screen. And freeze – motionless like the gold statue that stands on a box outside Mulberry-On-Sea station. I’d know that cherry-wood panelling anywhere.
I can hear my own blood pumping. The camera zooms to a woman browsing through the Women’s Accessories department, and I know I’m not mistaken. Sam flings herself upright but doesn’t utter a word. She knows it too. It’s Carrington’s. My Carrington’s!
It’s the actual department store where I work and I feel clammy with fear. I want to throw up. A rivulet of sweat snakes a path all the way down my back. Sam jumps up. I toss the magazine down on the sofa and Sam clutches my free hand. We stand together in silence. Our jaws hang open as Kelly’s secret camera, which must be secreted inside Zara’s hat, glides around the gloriously decadent Art Deco store before coming to a halt up near the key winter merchandise. And right next to the very display podium that I set up a few weeks ago.
Annie, one of the sales assistants who works with me, comes into view. She’s lounging nonchalantly behind the counter with her back to the camera and oh my God … she’s texting on her mobile, totally oblivious to the woman who is now swinging a gorgeous, caramel-coloured, Billy-the-goatskin or whatever, £900 Anya Hindmarch tote on her shoulder while admiring the view in the long mirror. The very mirror I had installed specifically to entice customers to try on the bags. Because every decent sales assistant knows: those who try it, buy it.
Zara glances in Annie’s direction, and then raises a perfectly groomed HD eyebrow at the camera guy, as if deliberately drawing the viewer’s attention to the fact that she’s being ignored. Now the camera is panning towards the window display and oh my actual God. I want to die! Right now, in my shoebox lounge with a lump of partially chewed mince pie trapped inside my gullet. My arse is only gyrating around to that Beyoncé tune, ‘Single Ladies’. I’m even wagging my left hand in the air and pointing to my ring finger. And I swear they’ve put a wide angle on the shot. I know my bum is big, but it ain’t that flipping big.
‘Boom boom, peng ting! Yo go girlfrieeend … get jiggy with it and all that. You are magnificent,’ Eddie bellows, like he’s some sort of badass gangsta boy, and I think I might actually faint. With his voice shrieking in my ear and my wiggling bottom on the screen it’s like a total sensory overload. And my phone hand seems to have gripped itself into a spasm, so now I have the gnarled fist of an ancient old husk of a woman too, which will probably wither from inactivity and render me a cripple by the age of twenty-eight. Grreat. Big bum and club fist – not an attractive look. What on earth was I thinking?
I’m usually so efficient at approaching customers, we both are. Annie and I always wait a few seconds, nobody wants to be pounced on the very minute they show an interest in the merch. OK, so we might send the odd text message when the shop floor is quiet, that’s why we keep our mobiles on silent in our pockets – we’re not supposed to, but everyone does. But we never ignore the customers. No, not ever!
‘This is so fucking ma-jor. You’re going to be a dramality star.’ Eddie sounds like he’s about to holler himself into a hernia, he’s that elated for me.
‘A whaat?’ I shout, fear and humiliation making my voice sound shrill.
‘You know … dramality. Real but made up. You’re going to be famous. You are going to be a celebrity and, let’s face it, that’s what everyone wants to be these days,’ he sniffs, as if he’s the authority on popular culture all of a sudden. ‘You’re going to be on that jungle programme, baring your teeth like a baboon when your cheeks peel back to your ears as you’re dropped from a helicopter into the Australian bush. You’re going to have your wardrobe critiqued in Now magazine. You’re going to win a BAFTA. Oh darling, I always knew you were a true star.’ He pauses momentarily and actually sounds genuinely emotional. ‘You’re going to feature in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame. You’re going to make a mint from doing your own fitness DVD. You’re going to have your own fake tan product range. Sweet Jesus … you might even get your own TV show!’ Eddie pauses to suck in a massive gasp of air before he’s off again. ‘I wonder if I’ll get to be in the show too. You must ask that delicious man of yours. In fact, call him. Right now! Tell him how much I adore Kelly. Been a fan for years, darling. Oh hang on angel.’ There’s a muffled silence for a second, and then I hear Eddie shouting out to his boyfriend, Ciaran. ‘Is my best suit back from the dry cleaners?’ More silence follows. ‘Whaat? Never mind watching Top Gear on your iPad mini. Check it! Check the wardrobe right now. I need the suit for work tomorrow. It’s vital.’ Eddie huffs. ‘Honestly, that boy has no sense of urgency. This is my moment. And I’m going to need representation. A manager! I’m going to call that blonde woman. Claire off the telly. That’s right. The one who represents Pete.’
‘Pete?’ I mutter, racking my brains. I’ve never heard Eddie mention having a famous friend called Pete.
‘Yes, Pete! As in Peter Andre?’ Eddie says in a stagey voice, like he’s his best friend forever and I’m the only person on the whole planet who doesn’t know it.
‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?’ I venture, having already decided I’m having no part of this. And how come Tom never mentioned it? I’m going to call him … but not to get him to ask Kelly to include Eddie. No. To tell him that he’s bang out of order and it’s probably illegal anyway. They can’t just rock up at Carrington’s and start randomly filming Annie and me. What about our privacy? It’s stalking! That’s what it is. And what about our human rights? I’ll phone up that court in The Hague; they’re bound to know if I have the right to go to work without worrying about my backside being plastered across the TV screen of every blooming home in the country. The whole world, in fact! If you count all those ex-pat satellite viewers in places like the Costa del Sol. And not forgetting hotels and laptops. These days you can be anywhere and still get your favourite TV channels. Oh God.
Now the initial shock is starting to wear off, I’m devastated. And really hurt if I’m totally honest. I feel like a fool. A fool for thinking that Tom trusted me. Obviously not enough to share this monumental revelation, and it can’t have happened overnight. He must have been ‘in talks’, as he likes to say, with the TV channel for absolutely ages, but he didn’t even think to utter a word about it. And like a fool I fell for his smouldering looks and fun-loving attitude. And I took in Mr Cheeks for him. I even read up on Renaissance art just so I could appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. It just goes to show that you can’t trust anyone these days. And those big hardback arty books don’t come cheap either.
I glance back at the screen in time to hear Kelly talking directly into the camera.
‘Seems these shop girls are more interested in having a good time than serving you.’ And to emphasise her point, she sticks her index finger out, just like Lord Kitchener in that wartime poster. All she needs is the leather queen moustache.
‘Awks!’ Eddie sniggers like a smartarse, making me wish I could reach inside the phone to slap him.
‘Stop it.’
‘Oh,