Christmas Cracker 3-Book Collection. Lindsey Kelk
her, and Sam said that some of the best sex she ever had was after a bust-up. It got so passionate one time that she ended up with a row of little carpet burns all the way down her spine after they got carried away on the hall stairs.
My heart lifts at the prospect of making up with Tom. He could even stay over tonight and we could pick up from where we left off after our hat trick. I could wear my new black lacy Lejaby underwear – I treated myself when the range was on special offer in Lingerie. A warm sensation radiates through me as I run through the sizzling scene in my head. I might even be able to leave work a bit earlier. I’m sure Annie will cover for me, seeing as I covered for her three times last week. Then I can get the flat nice, change the bed linen, maybe light some candles and have a bubble bath before I get ready. It’s going to be sensational. My heart soars and my cheeks pulse. I can not wait.
Eddie must be on his lunch break as his desk is empty when I arrive in the anteroom outside Tom’s office. I can hear voices inside, so I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. No answer. The voices stop. Silence follows. I’ve got my ear pressed to the door when it suddenly flings wide open and I end up doing a slapstick stumble over the threshold, even stepping completely out of my left New Look heel. How embarrassing. I quickly retrieve my shoe and wither a little inside.
‘You just can’t keep away, can you?’ It’s Zara. And I don’t believe it. She’s only got the dusty pink Chloé bag swinging jauntily in the crook of her elbow! It must be the one I sold this morning. Has to be. Unless it’s a pure coincidence, which is highly unlikely as Carrington’s is the only place around here to stock Chloé bags. Perhaps she already had the exact same one, I think, giving her the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe she bombed up to London at lightning speed after seeing her shaman, whatever one of those is. I make a mental note to Google it later.
‘Excuse me?’ I say, wishing I could say more, but seeing as she’s the daughter of Tom’s mother’s friend, I quickly decide against antagonising her. If Tom and I are going to have a future together, then I’ll need to get on with his friends. And I certainly don’t want to upset his mother, Isabella Rossi, of the wealthy Italian Rossi dynasty, before I’ve even met her.
‘Only joking,’ she says, giving me a frosty smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ she adds, rudely.
‘Hello, I’ve come to see Tom.’ I grin brightly, figuring I might as well make an effort to be friendly, even if she can’t – kill them with kindness, that’s what Mum used to tell me. I push a lock of hair behind my ear, and quickly smooth down my top.
‘Well you’d better come in then.’ She takes a minuscule step sideways, but keeps her free arm high on the door just above my head, so I have to duck down to enter the room, like a servile minion.
Inside, and Kelly is back on the sofa with her feet up and her eyes glued to a row of little TV monitors. There is stuff everywhere: clothes, shoes, and practically all of the cosmetic hall’s stock, by the looks of it. Plastic crates of make-up cover every surface, mingled in with several empty bottles of champagne and plates of half-eaten sandwiches and crisps.
Kelly swings her feet down, making the now familiar jingle-jangly sound, and promptly steps on a giant can of Elnett super-hold hairspray, which she instantly boots out of the way. It rolls across the floor before clattering to a halt against the side of Tom’s antique desk.
‘Bloody junk. Is there no end to it all? Milllleeeee,’ she hollers, and a few seconds later, a very striking and androgynous-looking woman who, I guess, is Millie the hair and make-up artist, comes tearing out of the bathroom. Her short dark hair is swept back to show off perfect dewy skin and shiny conker eyes. Freckles sprinkle her nose and cheekbones. She’s dressed all in black apart from silver Converse trainers on her feet and a trio of primary-coloured Perspex bangles on her left wrist. Surprisingly, she doesn’t appear to be wearing any make-up.
‘Will you please quit yelling, Kel? I’ve got one hell of a hangover from all those Dirty Martinis you poured down my neck last night.’ Millie pauses to clutch the right side of her head. ‘So, what’s up?’ she adds, in a strong Geordie accent, before placing both hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side and grinning widely.
‘When are we getting a proper space? I can’t possibly be expected to work my magic in squalor like this.’ Snorting loudly, Kelly sweeps a hand through the air to emphasise the perceived ‘squalor’ of Tom’s office. I see she’s changed her tune. What happened to the ‘funky, sweetness and light, we’ll be new besties forever’ attitude she had going on this morning? And I see now what Sam means about not being fooled by her wacky exterior. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, that’s for sure. Especially when she could insist I be sacked, just like the staff from her last series were.
‘How should I know? I just do make-up. Last I heard, that guy on the executive floor … ’ Millie pauses to ponder. ‘The preppy-looking one, could do ads for Ralph Lauren if he tanned up a bit. Works in customer relations or something.’ Millie pauses again, momentarily deep in thought. ‘James, that’s it!’ She clicks her fingers in the air, looking pleased at remembering his name. ‘He knows someone who knows someone, so they’re getting us suites at the Mulberry Grand Hotel. Not far from here. I’ve asked for a sea view,’ she states in a blasé voice, before flinging a lid off a crate and rummaging through it.
I smile inwardly at the mention of James. We had a one-night stand once, ages ago; it was just before Valentine’s Day – this was before Tom and I started going out together, obviously. It was very romantic, but James hadn’t long split from his wife, Rebecca, after she dumped him for someone else and, well, it got complicated. Turned out he wasn’t ready to have a new relationship – he was still in love with her. They’re divorced now, and word on the shop floor is that he went on a date with Vicky a few weeks ago. She works in the Carrington’s crèche and is very pretty and petite. Apparently, they were spotted in the Dog and Duck, the pub next to the cinema in the centre of town, and Vicky was all breezy and pretending to be uninterested, according to Emma, who works part-time in Stationery. But I’m pleased for him. We’re just good friends now. He deserves to find his happy-ever-after.
‘Well, if she’s having a sea view, then so am I,’ Zara says, before throwing a daggers look in Millie’s direction, which she doesn’t even notice. Millie is too busy reading the instructions on the back of an Illamasqua box of extra-length false eyelashes in intense blue. I can’t help wondering who they are for? Oh God, not me I hope. Nooo, surely not. I’ll look like a blow-up doll. And our regulars won’t like it, that’s for sure. I can just imagine Mrs Godfrey from the WI, all flaring and huffy, if I flutter long blue lashes while helping her to select a new rain bonnet. We tried to phase the bonnets out at one point, but the local WI had a word with Betty, our mumsy switchboard supervisor, who had a word with someone on the board, so the bonnets had to stay.
‘Darling, you can have whatever you want,’ Kelly says, sounding exasperated with her own daughter. Millie glances up from the crate, and on catching my eye she pulls a face before looking at Zara’s back. So Millie has the cut of Zara then, I see.
‘Well, in that case, I want to go to Paris.’ Zara kicks the point of her left Loub against the cherry-wood panelling next to the fireplace.
‘Oh not this again. Can’t you just make do with more money instead?’ Kelly sighs heavily and reaches for her handbag. ‘Anyway, don’t be ridiculous. You’re needed here to help me with the show.’
‘It’s so unfair. How come everyone else gets to do the exotic bits while I’m stuck in this provincial dump that doesn’t even have a wait list for Birkin’s.’ Zara jabs the panel again. I turn to look at Kelly, wondering what she’ll come back with. It’s like following the ball at Wimbledon.
‘Sweetie, if you want another Birkin, then you only have to say and I’ll put in a call to François. He owes me some merch, especially after all that product placement I did for him in my last series.’