There is even a row of Neapolitan-ice-cream-coloured wooden beach huts lining one of the cherry-wood panelled walls. Strawberry. Vanilla. Chocolate. I peep inside the vanilla beach hut and immediately feel transported – there’s a speaker in the ceiling through which I can hear the sound of the seaside on a busy summer’s day. The swooshing of waves back and forward over pebbles, seagulls caw-cawing overhead and the sound of children laughing as they play in the sun. What a genius idea. It’s just like being on an actual beach. And I swear I just got a whiff of sun cream – almond and coconut. It’s so evocative of long lazy hazy summer days on holiday. It makes me want to race upstairs to the special pop-up beachwear shop in Womenswear to find the perfect bikini with matching sarong, big floppy sunhat, beach tote, flip-flops and shades, which I guess is the whole point. Ducking out, I dip into the strawberry beach hut and I’m at a fairground now, I can hear the music from the carousel and a sweet sticky aroma fills the air. Mm-mmm. Sugar doughnuts. Candy floss. It reminds me of going to Mulberry funfair in the school holidays, and I absolutely love it! This is summer right here. Brilliant.
Grinning from ear to ear, I head over to Women’s Accessories and spot Annie behind my old counter.
‘Hello stranger! What are you doing here?’ I ask, giving her a hug. Last I heard of Annie she had left to get married, the whole works – a big-fat-gypsy-type wedding. Annie is a Traveller who lives in a caravan on the permanent site up near Mulberry Common, and when she first came to work here, she was the only girl in her family to ever have a paid job.
‘Couldn’t keep away.’ She twiddles her nose stud and smiles wryly.
‘And the wedding?’ I ask, spotting her bare ring finger.
‘Oh, he turned into a complete knobber – started mouthing off about how after the wedding my place would be at home cooking and scrubbing up after him, so I dumped him. I’m nobody’s chalice.’
‘Chattel.’
‘Whatevs. If that’s another word for slave, then that too,’ Annie says, placing her left hand on her hip, and making me smile. I’ve really missed her. ‘So, I got on the phone to HR and got my old job back. Well, your old job, to be exact.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m the supervisor now. My first day, too, and it’s going really well. I’ve already shifted two Marc Jacobs top handles and a Juicy Couture crossbody bag. And I remembered all the little tricks you taught me, like surreptitiously sweeping the cheaper bag along to the end of the counter so as to focus the customer’s attention on the more expensive piece of merch.’ Standing tall, she puffs out her impressive cleavage while flicking her frosted hair extensions back over her shoulder.
‘Good for you.’ I wink, remembering when Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee, taught me that trick on my first day as a Saturday girl all those years ago – Mrs Grace rocked Women’s Accessories for fifty years before handing the mantle to me. She’s retired from Carrington’s now, after landing a book deal for a good five-figure sum to write her autobiography on the back of being in the reality TV show. It’s going to be a trilogy, starting right from the beginning and detailing the history of Carrington’s – the underground maze of tunnels that practically run the length and breadth of Mulberry town. There’s even one that goes all the way to the old music hall at the other end of Lovelace Walk, a few streets away. Rumour has it that the original Mr H. Carrington, aka Dirty Harry (Tom’s grandfather on Vaughan’s side), had the tunnels built especially as a discreet way to ‘visit’ showgirls, then pay them in kind by inviting them back for secret late-night shopping sprees. Sort of like a free trolley dash in return for sex, I suppose. Mrs Grace told me all about it one time over a cream horn and a steamy hot chocolate in Sam’s café. The books are going to cover the war years, too, when the underground tunnels were opened up to the residents of Mulberry-On-Sea to use as bunkers during the Blitz. Which gives me an idea – we could do a tour as part of the regatta! Apparently it’s going to be a two-day event over the August bank holiday weekend (I got an email ahead of the first committee meeting tomorrow), so plenty of time for people to see ‘behind the scenes’ of the iconic Carrington’s building. I’ll add the idea to my list and be sure to bring it up tomorrow. Mrs Grace might even come out of retirement to be the tour guide. I bet she’d love that.
‘And I’ve positioned the long mirror right here, see,’ Annie points an index finger, ‘
becaaaaaause …
’
‘Those who try it, buy it,’ we both sing in unison, grinning.
Annie puts on a serious work face. ‘Sooo, what can I help you with? I take it you’re after some designer bags for your VIPs?’
‘Sure am. I need top handle day bags, evening – a clutch or two, some totes and a couple of those big stripy beach bags over there.’ I point towards the special ‘summer fun’ shelf that Annie has artfully created. A pile of bonkbusters, presumably for reading by the pool, are stacked at one end, and she’s even snaffled some of the glittery gold sand and sprinkled it in between the bags on display.
‘Blimey. Sounds as if they’re splashing the cash then … Anyone famous?’
‘I don’t think so – didn’t recognise them. A mother-and-daughter day, treating themselves,’ I say, as an image of me as a child, shopping with Mum, pops into my head.
‘Ah, that’s lovely. Right then, jump behind my counter in case a customer comes—’
‘Oh, you don’t have to pick out the bags for me,’ I say quickly.
‘Babes, it’s no trouble. Besides, I want to – this is my kingdom now,’ she pauses to gesture around the floor. ‘And I really want to make this work. I want to be amazing at something. Just like you.’ She gives me a quick hug.
‘And you already are.’ I squeeze her back, thinking how much she reminds me of myself when I first started out in Women’s Accessories, full of ideas and enthusiasm. ‘But thank you, honey.’
‘No worries, leave it to me and I’ll sort out a nice selection for you, starting with the exquisite Cambridge satchel in fluoro lime, yes? New in, and totes amazeballs!’ She gasps, fluttering her eyelids and waving a palm in the air as if experiencing her very own bag nirvana.
Once she’s come to, Annie races around the shop floor picking out the best bags, while I stand behind my old counter reminiscing – I must have only been a little girl when I first came to Carrington’s with Mum; we would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. Of course, this was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy café where the cakes are now éclairs and miniature pastel-coloured macaroons, and a good old-fashioned Victoria sponge is a magnificent six-tiered tower of rainbow-coloured layers decorated with blueberries and fresh lemon-infused cream frosting. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although meeting Tom is right up there too. And I so wish Tom could have met Mum; I think she would definitely have approved, especially with him being the majority shareholder – Mum was always a little in awe of anyone out of the ordinary. It was my thirteenth birthday not long before she died, and the nurses in the hospital organised a little party. They even invited someone from the local football team to turn up and give me a teddy bear – Mum went all fan-girl. And she would have loved the VIP suite, feeling special for a day, pampered … Such a shame she’s gone, and I would have loved treating her to a selection of gorgeous new outfits.
I used to miss her so much, I still do sometimes, but having Dad back in my life has made a massive difference, especially as we’ve reached the stage now where we can talk about Mum together and remember the happy times. I make a mental note to call Dad later, see how he is and suggest a trip to Mum’s grave as we haven’t been since Christmas. I’d like to take some flowers – maybe Nancy will come too. Last time she made a beautiful Christmassy arrangement of pinecones, miniature ferns and cinnamon sticks, set around a gorgeous red poinsettia plant, for me to put next to Mum’s headstone. Nancy’s kindness and generosity made me well up with emotion. She’s such a kind, warm woman – and she really knows what it feels like to lose someone so close; her daughter, Natalie, died in a motorbike accident years ago, so she wears her necklace, with a gold letter N on, to keep her close always. I run an index finger over the silver locket that Nancy gave me as a Christmas present. It’s on a chain around my neck, which I never take off. Inside is a picture of Mum (Nancy got it from Dad) when she was young and vibrant; hair fanned around her smiling face and cornflower-blue bright eyes. In the other side is a picture of me, with a brunette bob and the same blue eyes, a similar image to the one Mum would have seen of me just before she died. I love that Nancy did this; it’s as if Mum’s memory of me is crystallised for ever and ever.
‘Here!’ Annie says, catching her breath and breaking my reverie. She holds out her arms to show off the bags that are looped all the way from her wrists up to her armpits. ‘Take your pick.’
‘Can I have all of them?’ I ask, scanning the floor for a stock trolley. Reading my mind, Annie nods towards the little alcove behind the counter.
‘Yep – you will bring back any unsold merch, though, won’t you?’
‘Of course. But I plan on flogging the lot,’ I beam, wheeling out the trolley.
‘Good. And remember to scan each piece they purch,’ Annie instructs, wagging an index finger in my face as we carefully load the bags so as not to damage the leather.
‘Yes, Annie. I know,’ I say in a singsong voice over my shoulder as I head back towards the lift with my stash.
‘Just checking,’ she calls out after me. ‘I don’t do shrinkage in my section. I can account for
all
of the merch … just so’s you know.’ She laughs.
Cheeky! I laugh too. I’m so proud of Annie – she started at Carrington’s straight from school, just like I did. I gave her a chance, trained her, just like Mrs Grace trained me. And now she is indeed ruling her kingdom. Well, good for her … I hope she loves it as much as I did.
I wheel the trolley into the staff lift and reach the third floor when it shudders to a halt.
‘Hello, lovey. How are you?’ It’s Betty, our mumsy switchboard supervisor. She steps into the lift. Her glasses, which are swinging on a chain around her neck, narrowly miss getting caught in the metalwork as she leans across to close the cage door.
‘Very well, thank you. And how are you?’
‘Not so bad now the sweats are easing off,’ she replies, wiping her top lip with a cotton hanky while I nod sympathetically. ‘Ooh, and I heard about the regatta,’ she swiftly adds, changing topic.
‘You did?’
‘Yes. My friend, Joyce, works at the council, so she knows everything that goes on here in Mulberry.’ Blimey, news sure does travel fast. ‘You know, I organised a village fete many years ago, so if you need a hand with anything … you just let me know.’
‘Oh thanks Betty, I shall definitely bear that in mind,’ I smile politely, not wanting to offend her, but really hoping the regatta will be a much bigger event than a village fete – more like a festival. And you never know – if we pull it off, then perhaps it could become an annual thing, with camping too, or special all-inclusive packages at the exclusive Mulberry Grand Hotel. It could be huge, like Glastonbury, only without the mud!
‘Yes, do. Hashtag Team Carrington’s!’ she says, cheerfully. ‘Isn’t that what they say on the Twitters?’ Betty looks at me for confirmation and I nod. ‘My Luke is on there all the time. I reckon he’s addicted – that, or he’s got himself a girl at last. Good thing, too, she can take him off my hands. He really should have left home by now – thirty-five is no age to be still sleeping in a box room with me doing his ironing and washing up after him. He has it too good, that’s what my husband says. Georgie, do yourself a favour, lovey, and bypass the whole kid thing. I love my Luke, but he’s so damn lazy. I suppose it serves me right in a way, I’ve spoilt him.’ She stashes the hanky inside the sleeve of her hand-knitted cardy. ‘And that MP’s assistant certainly needs taking down a peg or two. Apparently she’s got herself on the regatta committee, and Joyce was telling me that she’s forever calling the council to lodge complaints – she’s just a secretary, for crying out loud. Not a flaming Secretary of State, the way she carries on. You know, she was instrumental in campaigning against the new marina, so it’s a bit rich that she now wants to muscle in on the regatta, the one to be held at the very marina that she tried to block!’
‘Really?’ I ask, shocked. The new marina has made a massive difference to Carrington’s turnover, and to the whole of Mulberry, in fact, it’s helped attract loads more customers to the area, especially those with money to spend after mooring their yachts. Who knows where Carrington’s would be without the marina. Not so long ago, before the reality TV show instore, there was a very real possibility of Carrington’s spiralling into a terminal decline, but things are on the up now. Carrington’s is in the pink!
‘Yes, that’s right. But then she’s never been a fan of the store. Well, not since she was asked to leave, that is …’
‘Oh?’
‘She used to work here … Years ago! She was secretary for a time to your Tom’s predecessor, old Walter, aka the Heff, as in Hugh Heffner, on account of his numerous dalliances with women half his age,’ she huffs. ‘Anyway, she and Walter were caught at it in the boardroom, which was all hushed up at the time, but then Walter’s wife, Camille, your Tom’s aunty …’ Betty looks for confirmation that she’s got the Carrington family tree correct. I nod. ‘Well, Camille found out and insisted she be sacked. So watch your back with her … I reckon she’d love nothing more than to exact a bit of revenge by ruining things for Carrington’s if she can.’
Oh great. So not only do I have Isabella waiting for me to mess up, but also now it seems the scowly-woman-with-no-name could be out to sabotage things. Well, in that case, I’ll just have to make sure I pull out all the stops because I’m determined to make this the best regatta Mulberry has ever seen. There’s no way I’m letting the scowly-woman-with-no-name ruin it, and I’m definitely,
definitely
not showing Tom up in front of his mother, or jeopardising his chances to open another store. It means the world to him to demonstrate his business acumen. He really wants to take Carrington’s to the next level, grow the business, and I don’t want anything to spoil that, especially if we really are to have a proper future together. Isabella would be my mother-in-law, which means as her daughter-in-law I would want to be the best one she ever did have. I love Tom, I adore him, so I’d want Isabella to adore me, for us to get on brilliantly, have shopping days and spa weekends together, that kind of thing – be the daughter she never had. I could even call her mum, if she liked. Not that she’d ever replace Mum, but you know what I mean. It could be lovely. Mmm, I mull it all over. I’d be a part of something magical, a proper family, an Italian dynasty – Tom has loads of aunts, uncles and cousins. And family friends, too, who he’s known for years. I’ve never really had that – when Dad went to prison, everyone faded away, apart from Sam and her dad Alfie.