Ice Creams at Carrington’s (2 page)

‘I work part-time at Carrington’s,’ I had told her, brightly and proudly. And why not? I love my job managing the VIP customer shopping experience where I get to meet Arabian princesses, visiting dignitaries and the like. Since taking over, my role has evolved, and I’m more of a personal stylist now, with a number of well-heeled clients – actresses, celebrities, even royalty. But they’re not all A-listers; some of my regulars are ordinary women who just want honest advice on what suits them best without having to rely on a well-meaning friend to fib – that an outfit looks good when it clearly doesn’t. So they call for my advice on creating the perfect wardrobe. I even had one customer FaceTime me from a boutique in Dubai, wanting to make sure I approved of a pair of neon-green Choo heels she was about to purchase to match the pink shift dress I had selected to be part of her holiday wardrobe. I didn’t. Instead, I couriered a pair of exquisite Miu Miu Mary Janes (exclusive to Carrington’s), which I knew would match perfectly. She called me the very minute they arrived and begged for a pair in every colour to be sent right away, because she loved them that much with the shift dress, which she’s now requested in every colour too. And that’s how it works … my customers trust me, we have a rapport, and this means the world to me.

And the sales commission and other perks are phenomenal. Only last week I was asked to escort a selection of Carrington’s exclusive couture gowns to a Premiership footballer’s daughter celebrating her eighteenth birthday in Paris – they sent a private jet (yes I know, a proper YOLO moment) to collect me, the six dresses, matching accessories (high-end handbags and shoes), in addition to a selection of our finest jewellery collection, all because she wanted my personal advice on which of the exquisite ensembles would suit her best.

Maybe I should also have mentioned the weekly fashion and beauty column I write for
Closer
magazine, which takes up the rest of my time, where I get to write about international fashion shows, designer dresses at film premieres, and I’ve even interviewed celebrities for one of my special features:
What’s In Your Wardrobe?
I go to their house, flick through their walk-in dressing rooms selecting outfits, and then explain how readers can source the same look by shopping on the high street, preferably in Carrington’s.

The column came about on the back of me having been a reluctant reality TV star for a bit, when celebrity retail guru, Kelly Cooper, rocked up instore to film her last series – but that’s another story that I really didn’t want to go into when we were around Tom’s parents’ private dining table at the exclusive restaurant in London’s Mayfair. My YouTube clips still surface from time to time – secret film footage of me twerking, really badly, on the shop floor to Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’ tune, and generally showing me in a far from flattering light. The less they know about my past the better, because it’s just too much of a leap from what they’re accustomed to. A whole different world. And one I’m sure they wouldn’t select by choice for their only son and heir to be involved with. So I’m glad I kept it to myself. Of course Tom knows pretty much everything about me, but I just can’t imagine his mother, Isabella, has ever thumbed through a sleb gossip magazine in her life. Oh no no no. I Googled her – this is a woman who speaks seven languages, was businesswoman of the year in her day and even has a Nobel prize for her pioneering work in global economics, for crying out loud. No wonder her expensively tightened face almost rearranged itself into a frown as the hideous realisation dawned – yep, that’s right, that I work in the same Carrington’s department store, the very one her son, aka Tom, aka my gorge, funny, sexy, kind to animals (he rescued Mr Cheeks right at the start), down-to-earth boyfriend actually owns! He’s Tom Carrington, the boss, the managing director – and he’s dating me, a mere employee. And a part-time one at that! Oh no.

To give her due, Isabella did try to mask her disappointment very well, but I spotted it nonetheless – the whitening of the knuckles as she gripped the stem of her champagne flute just that teeny bit tighter while flashing a fleeting sideways glance at her husband. But then it really can’t be easy being the mother of – quite possibly – the hottest and most eligible man on earth.

I roll over. Oh
shiiiiiit.
Is that the time?

2

F
linging back the duvet, I bounce out of bed with an uncharacteristically exuberant flourish and immediately stub my toe on the side of an empty Prosecco bottle. Working through the pain, I squeeze my foot and think about last night as a more pleasurable distraction – Tom had just arrived back after a fortnight-long business trip, visiting practically every major city in the hunt for suitable premises in which to open a new store. Carrington’s is expanding! So it was me, him and a large stuffed-crust Hawaiian followed by a bottle of bubbles and an evening of clothes-rippingly glorious sex involving practically every surface in my flat. Two weeks is a long time to be apart, and he’ll be off again soon, no doubt, so you can see why we didn’t waste a second of his R&R just chatting – oh no, there was so much more fun to be had. I still have the friction burns from the carpet on my backside and the stubble sting from his chin on my inner thighs as an exquisite souvenir. Tom may come over all gentlemanly and polite in company, but when we’re alone it’s a whole different thing. Pure filth! And I love it. Anyway, better get a move on, the soirée starts in exactly three hours.

I leg it down the hallway as my mobile buzzes with a text message from Tom, which I press to view while simultaneously kicking the bathroom door open with my good toe.

Sorry I had to dash. Really do need to get this paperwork done
See you later. Mooooo! X

Ha-ha, in a
funneee boom-boom
way – he does work too hard, though, but then he’s totally focused on building the Carrington’s brand, and has already made some incredible changes since buying the majority share in the store from his aunt Camille – there’s the pet spa, the gourmet food hall down in the basement, a new cocktail bar (installed specifically to attract the glamouratti instore from the new Mulberry Marina), the roof top ice-rink, the glitzy Cartier boutique and there’s even a staff crèche now, so everyone’s a winner, which reminds me, I must call Sam. She’s my best friend and her adorable twin girls; Holly and Ivy (yes they were conceived at Christmas time) play in the crèche while Sam creates truly scrumptious comfort food and bakes delicious cakes in her café, Cupcakes At Carrington’s, up on the fifth floor. Sam also owns the freehold for the Carrington’s building, so she’s invited to the party too. Her wonderful dad, Alfie Palmer, the charismatic and incredibly wealthy owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agencies in the country, died last year, leaving his vast fortune to Sam. And we’ve known each other since boarding school days – before I got thrown out because Dad had gambled everything away and couldn’t pay the fees. So I was billeted back home on the first train and then slapped around for talking posh in the local school playground by the following Monday morning.

I promised to call Sam for a pre-soirée briefing before arriving on board. And I never go back on a promise, even if I am tight for time.

‘Hey you. How was last night?’ Sam says after the first ring.

‘Sizzling as always,’ I smile. ‘But how are you?’ I quickly add, knowing how she’s been feeling really jaded recently.

‘Exhausted. Ivy was screeching at three o’clock this morning, which then set Holly off. And then my darling husband, Nathan, couldn’t get back to sleep so started rattling on about a client that he’s been having problems with … Like I’m interested in all his legal work stuff at four in the bloody morning!’ She lets out a big puff of air.

‘Oh dear,’ I reply diplomatically.

‘Never mind. I’m not complaining. Well, I guess I am a bit,’ she quickly adds. ‘But it’s just what babies do. And lawyer husbands, I guess … So, tell me about the sex. Remind me, please, what it’s like to have a whole night of bacchanalian bliss without the tandem wailing of year-old twins as an immediate passion killer, because I can’t even remember my last time.’ She does a feeble laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d literally die for my girls, but it would be
sooooo
nice to have just one whole night off – to drink champagne, share a bath and have wild uninterrupted multiple orgasms courtesy of my own husband. Just like before. You know how much I love sex … does that make me a bad mother?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not an expert – hell, I’m not even a parent, so what do I know about mummies and their orgasms, but aren’t there places that use sleep deprivation as a preferred method of torture?’

‘Ha! Yes, very good point. Nathan reckons we should get a nanny. A team of six, to work eight-hour shifts ensuring twenty-four-hour cover for each twin.’ She heaves another weary sigh. ‘He’s practically dead on his feet at work each day – me too, I’m so exhausted, I feel like I’m wading through treacle most of the time. And I’m making mistakes – baked a whole batch of lemon drizzle cupcakes yesterday and totally forgot the crucial ingredient, the actual lemon juice!’

‘Oh no!’ Sam’s lemon drizzle cupcakes are legendary; shoppers come from all over Mulberry-On-Sea to devour them. She’s even had phone orders from people who’ve moved away but just can’t live without them.

‘Yep, we’ve tried the whole taking-it-in-turns thing to stagger out of bed, which never works as we both still end up wide awake in the middle of the night, and then start bickering over the duvet and whatever other trivial things our addled brains have suddenly elevated to paramount importance. But an actual nanny? I’m just not sure.’

‘Why not?’

‘Hmm, well, it just seems so grown up, somehow. And I’d feel a bit guilty, I guess. I’ve overheard the stay-at-home yummy mummies in the café bitching about the “
lazy women with help
” and, “
why did they bother having children if they were just going to give them to someone else to look after?
”’

‘Oooh, harsh,’ I tut.

‘Indeed.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you have to be superwoman. Sam, you can’t do it all – run the café, oversee Alfie’s estate with all those meetings up in London, not to mention the management of the Carrington’s freehold, and still find time to be Mary Poppins. For the sake of your orgasms you must say no!’ I laugh to lighten the mood.

‘Don’t you mean
yes yes yes
?’ Sam laughs too, not missing a beat.

‘Ha!’

‘Do you think Mary Poppins had orgasms?’

‘Stop it! There’s no place inside my head for that image.’

‘Hmm, on second thoughts, you’re right.’ And Sam makes a
bleeeeugh
sound down the phone.

‘Besides, you’re already a fantastic mother just the way you are. You
really
are. So you must do whatever works best for you and ignore the opinions, because everyone has one, but they’re just that … opinions!’ I say gently, wondering where the old Sam went – she would never have been bothered by a bit of gossip; she’s always been so self-assured and confident. Blimey, she’s put me right on many occasions, but now it seems to be the other way around, which is OK – of course I’ll champion her as best I can – but I’d much sooner see Sam happy. And by the sounds of it, this really doesn’t seem to be the case.

‘I know. And you’re right, of course. But then my own mother couldn’t be bothered with me, remember? So I don’t ever want the girls to feel the way I did, and still do sometimes …’ Her voice trails off.

‘Oh Sam, that will never happen. You’re not Christy …’

At boarding school, Sam and I had shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. I used to try to comfort her by sharing sweets and whispering bedtime stories about princesses in castles, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned Christy for years until now, I think she still struggles to understand why she left. And even more so since becoming a mother herself, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast, and that’s tough, especially when all you have is a bag of Haribo Strawbs and the vivid imagination of a nine-year-old friend to comfort you.

‘True … but my brain is so addled from lack of sleep, it’s affecting everything, and it’s just
sooooo
not like me,’ she replies.

‘Of course it isn’t, you’ve always been the most positive, upbeat person I know. Tell you what, why don’t I babysit for a weekend or something? You and Nathan could stay in a hotel overnight, get some rest, chat, have loads of sex – do whatever you like, it would be just like the old days,’ I say impulsively, instantly pushing away the panicky feeling that follows – I’m sure it can’t be
that
hard to look after two tiny babies for an evening.
Heeeelp!

‘Would you really do that?’ Sam perks up.

‘Sure, that’s what best friends are for. I’m just sorry I didn’t think to offer before now.’ I know Nancy will jump at the chance to lend a hand should I need it. She adores children and really
cannot
wait to be a grandmother; she even asked me one time if Tom and I had chatted about all that yet. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we haven’t – that our time together is spent mostly in bed, or across my kitchen table or in the shower, or the hallway, and my sofa has certainly seen a lot of action too – and that I’m just not interested in having babies, to be honest. No wild urge to procreate. That biological thing I hear so much about hasn’t kicked in for me yet. Maybe it never will.