Cupcakes At Carrington's Part 6

'That's settled then. I'll need the whole set and if you could organise the monogram too.'

'It will be my pleasure.' I glow.

'Thank you. I'll call by on my way back from the salon. Knew I could count on you, my dear.' She pats my arm before gliding off towards the escalator.

After unpacking the luggage collection and calling Freddie at the engravers on Birtle Street, I go through everything with Annie, making sure she knows exactly what to say and do if I'm still in the meeting when Camille returns. I duck into the cupboard behind my counter to straighten my clothes and bouf up my hair. Grabbing my bag, I head off to the staff lift.

'Chop chop.' It's Tina, and she has her crackle-manicured fingers around the cage door and a cross look on her face. 'Where are you off to?' she demands.

'To see Maxine,' I say, though it's obviously none of her business.

'Ooh, well you don't want to be late then. Do you?' she says.

'No, of course not. Thanks for waiting for me,' I say, feeling a little uneasy as I step into the lift and wrench the cage door closed.

'I've been meaning to talk to you.'

'You have?' I say, warily.

'Yes, it's about your sales sheet. Half the time I can't read your writing so if I'm to pay your commission correctly then you need to tidy it up,' she says, smugly, like the money comes out of her own actual purse. And she's only the blooming record keeper.

'Fine, I'll try harder,' I say, feebly masking the sarcasm from my voice.

'Good.' She pauses. 'And tell Annie too. That girl is practically illiterate, I know she's half Traveller, but honestly, who spells Juicy Couture as Juicy K-A-T-O-O-R?' I open my mouth to defend Annie, but Tina carries on. 'Look Georgie, I'm sorry about snapping at you the other day. Don't know what came over me.' She smooths an imaginary stray hair from her swishy high ponytail that's sc.r.a.ped back so tightly her face looks as though it might burst at any moment.

'No worries, let's just forget about it shall we? So, have you set a date for the wedding yet?' I say, swiftly moving on to a topic that I know she'll love.

'Oh yes. It's going to be on Valentine's Day. Only four weeks to go!' She claps her hands together. 'And it's just perfect that February the fourteenth falls on a Sunday this year so everyone can come, and of course it will be really romantic, with loads of balloons and hearts and swans. And there might even be a pink unicorn!' Her eyes widen and my mind boggles. 'I found a place that will spray-paint one of those d.i.n.ky little horses, and then I'll get someone to strap a horn to its head, plastic of course, I don't want those animal rights freaks coming after me. It's going to be a-mazing. Just like a fairytale. Of course, you're invited, but only to the evening reception. You don't mind do you?' I shake my head as if on autopilot. 'It's just that I don't think everyone will fit in otherwise,' she adds.

'Of course, I understand,' I say, thinking how being home all alone suddenly seems so much more appealing now.

'And you'll need to bring a plus one. I'm not having any singletons, apart from Eddie, of course.' It dawns on me ... how the h.e.l.l am I going to get a plus one at such short notice? Panic surges. I'll be the only person there without a date in tow.

Tina purses her lips while I swallow hard and glare at the display that flashes a red five. Only one more floor to go, thankfully. The lift grinds to a halt, breaking the awkward silence, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief as I turn to leave. But she pipes up again.

'And you will come to my hen do, won't you?' she smiles, her finger on the door hold b.u.t.ton. 'But don't worry about trying to find someone to bring along. I have sooo many friends coming,' she says. For a moment I'm speechless, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she's riled me, so I manage a grimace.

'Thanks, sounds marvellous.' I step out of the lift and, turning my back, mutter, 'Can't wait,' under my breath, just as the lift starts moving again.

I make my way along the corridor towards the offices.

'You OK? You look really stressed.' Lauren's head pops up over the enormous beechwood reception desk.

'What? Oh yes sorry. It's just other people, you know ... annoying sometimes,' I say, feeling fl.u.s.tered by Tina and the ridiculous compet.i.tion she seems to have pulled me into. 'How come you're up here and not in the cash office?'

I notice that her eyes are swollen as if she's been crying.

'Oh, the new big boss wants me meeting and greeting. Talking of which, Maxine has insisted that I come and sit here all day. Said it looks more professional and that she doesn't have time to keep coming to the door to get people herself. I have to run around after her constantly, meaning I can't even get on with any of my real work. And now Tina's told me that I've got to stay late to catch up,' she sniffs. I shake my head. I bet she has, she'll not want to miss an opportunity to exert her authority.

'You poor thing. How's Jack?' I ask, remembering her baby.

'He's gorgeous, and he can just about walk now,' she says, her eyes lighting up. 'Thanks for asking, Georgie.'

'Don't be silly,' I reply, thinking it must be hard for her being on her own and having to leave him with her mum all day. Then I remember the copy of Closer in the bottom of my bag. I quickly pull it out and hand it to Lauren. 'Here, now don't let her catch you with it though.' With a quick pincer manoeuvre Lauren reaches over the desk and s.n.a.t.c.hes the magazine, secreting it underneath the large appointment book in front of her. She grins up at me.

'Down the corridor, in the room on the far right. She's waiting for you. Oh, and good luck,' she whispers in a much brighter voice, waving her flashing red heart pen after me.

'Thanks Lauren,' I call back to her, and make my way off down the corridor, hoping that I won't need any luck. Please let me keep my job, Please let me keep my job, I say as a mantra, over and over inside my head, as I make my way along the long wood-panelled corridor.

I push open the door expecting to see Maxine, but she's not here, and by the looks of it she's got half of Home Interiors' stock crammed inside her s.p.a.cious office. There's an oval polished wood table to the right of the room, while framed paintings that look expensive hang on the two walls cornering the table. There are two very large open gla.s.s cabinets containing various Swarovski crystal figurines that were definitely part of Chinaware's display just a few weeks ago. I know, because I helped Mrs Grace dust them all. Nestled amongst the figurines are a couple of framed pictures of people that I presume are Maxine's friends or family.

Slipping my handbag from my shoulder for fear of nudging one of the paintings from the wall, or worse still, crashing into the Swarovski showcase, I shuffle like a geisha over to the two black leather sofas that are positioned in a show-home style to look like a cosy seating area. Just as I'm sinking down into the soft leather, the door flings open and Maxine sashays across the room, just like the model in the Dior J'Adore advert. She's got the leg movement down to a tee, making me wonder if she's actually done professional modelling before.

'See you've made yourself at home,' she says, in a breathy American Deep South accent. Ahh, hence the pageant smile, I knew it! I bet she's the former beauty queen of Alabama or somewhere. 'Finally we meet. The infamous Georgina. Heard so much about you.' Maxine extends her right hand towards me, not bothering to exert herself too much as I try to haul myself out of the cushions. I manage to scramble forward, jutting my hand towards her as I steady myself with the other. Her handshake is firm, so firm that my hand smarts from the crush. And what does she mean infamous? She walks over to her desk and gestures for me to follow.

I scuttle over, clutching my bag and notepad in my lap. My chair is really low so I have to peer upwards to look at her, like some obsequious minion, which I guess is the point. 'Now let's see. Georgina, bit of a mouthful isn't it?' she says, perching on the corner of her desk. She starts doing ankle circles with a black patent Loub-clad foot, and I see what Eddie means about the playsuit. 'What about Gina? Yes that's it, Gina, Gina, Gina,' she says, each time in a different tone as if limbering up for an operatic performance. 'Yes I like it,' she adds, p.r.o.nouncing it 'Geee-na', and slapping her hands together with glee. 'You don't mind do you?'

'Err, well actually I prefer ...' I start, but her immaculately manicured hand whips up with such speed it causes her Agent Provocateur scent to catch in my throat. So I end up spluttering instead.

'Oh dear, not ill are you? It's very important to be fit in the retail industry. Very exhausting on the legs,' she says, as if I don't know that already. 'You are fit, aren't you Gina?' she adds, smoothing a hand down over her bare thigh.

'Err, yes,' I manage.

'Awesome, because we've got our work cut out over the next few months. This is going to be big. Huge,' she says, whirling an immaculately manicured finger up in the air above her head like a cowboy with a la.s.so.

'OK, so what does that mean?' I have to know one way or the other. Maybe then I'll be able to relax a bit, if I know what I'm dealing with. At least then I can face it head on.

'Well, what do you think it means?' she says, dazzling me with her pageant smile.

'Well, I guess I want to know if my job is safe.' There, I've said it. I sit back and listen to the blood pumping in my ears.

'I can see why you might be worried about losing your job. Given the current financial climate and your family history ... shall we say?' She stops looking at me, and busies herself instead by circling her other ankle now. There's an uncomfortable silence. I fidget in my chair.

'How do you know about that?' The words are barely audible and I can hear the panic rising in my voice.

'Oh, someone mentioned it,' she says, breezily. Oh my G.o.d! So who else knows? My cheeks flush and, as if reading my mind, she adds, 'That's it!' as though it's just popped into her head. 'It was in your interview notes with something about it being your own personal business and not to mention it in case it upsets you. So I Googled it.' James! Lovely kind James. I breathe a little sigh of relief, knowing I can probably trust him.

'How is your father these days?'

'Well, we don't have much contact ...' I say slowly. 'It was a long time ago,' I add, tentatively. My mind is working overtime trying to fathom out where she is going with this.

'Must have been hard though.' I can feel my hands trembling so I push them underneath the sides of my thighs.

'Yes it was,' I mutter, looking at the floor and wishing I was anywhere but here.

'I'm sure. Dreadful business. Losing everything like that. And then you being left all alone,' she says, touching my arm briefly.

'I lived with a foster family,' I say, instantly hating myself for feeling a need to explain.

'Oh dear, no other family then?'

'Not really,' I say quietly.

My only relatives, Dad's brother and his family, were living in Dubai when Mum died, with 'no s.p.a.ce for an extra teenager' they said. The memory is scalded onto my brain along with the clinical smell of the hospital as I cuddled and stroked Mum's hair during the goodbyes. She'd been ill for so long ... and I'd tried to look after her, even bunking off school on occasion, but it was the pneumonia that took her in the end. Her body, so weak with MS, just couldn't fight it. A jolt of grief grabs me, and for a second tears sting in my eyes. She would have been celebrating her sixtieth birthday this year.

'Well, good thinking on your part to use your mother's maiden name,' Maxine says. 'Break from the past and all that ...'

'Look, I don't mean to be rude, but where are you going with this?'

'Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. I trust n.o.body else knows, apart from James of course,' she says, changing tack now. I shake my head, knowing Eddie would never breathe a word. 'Good, because us girls have to stick together.' She leans towards me in a conspiratorial way. 'Just make sure everything else is in order, because in addition to revitalising the store, I'm going to attempt to modernise Carrington's.'

'What do you mean?' I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

'Well, given that an exceptionally high volume of valuable items are handled on a daily basis, I've suggested HR pull their finger out and do proper checks on everyone, like other stores do. Credit checks and so on. I can't believe they haven't even bothered before now. I've already discovered there's at least ten thousand pounds' worth of shrinkage stock unaccounted for in the last quarter alone.'

I knew it! I gulp and vow to get hold of my credit file. I'm going to have to get it sorted out, once and for all.

'So I'm not going to lose my job then?' And no sooner are the words out of my mouth, when I want to cram them back in.

'There will be changes,' she starts, and I brace myself. 'There are way too many sections in this store that don't make enough money. Every inch of floor s.p.a.ce must earn its keep. So, I'll be a.s.sessing the viability of each section and rationalising them into bigger, more lucrative ones. For example, those homemade silk purses you have taking up a lot of shelf s.p.a.ce, how many do you actually sell?'

'Err, well, I'm hoping to push them as Valentine gifts.' Marigold, the designer, will be heartbroken if we stop selling her stuff. 'And the tourists love them,' I venture, thinking of her working away in the little weatherboard studio on the shingle with unbroken views of the sea. Admittedly, I don't actually sell many of the purses, but customers are always intrigued to hear about the local artist who makes them.

'They're an indulgence. And one Carrington's can't afford if it's going to be successfully rejuvenated, and that's where you come in.'

'I do?' I say, perking up. Maybe this isn't going to be so bad after all. My section does pretty well compared to the others.

'I shall be a.s.sessing the sections on the ground floor by the main entrance first for visibility and profitability. Women's Accessories, Men's Accessories and Fine Jewellery. I can't believe the cabinet is hidden away up in the personal shopping suite. No, it must be downstairs right by the door, where everyone can see it and be encouraged to buy from it before they waste their money on low-value items elsewhere in the store. I want their shopping fix satiated by high-end goods.' I nod, thinking, so do I, means more commission for me. 'And new brand names. Big names! I want Prada. Hermes,' she gushes, her voice getting louder and more animated, and my nodding head speeds up. 'And then I'll decide who is best to sell such exclusive brands.'

My head stops and my heart sinks. Whaat? What does she mean? I'm the best sales a.s.sistant. Carrington's finest ...

'Well, if you look at my sales figures, you-'

'I like to shake things up a bit.' Hmmm. Bully for you. 'Show me your mettle. Let's see who is really the best sales a.s.sistant and then they can sell those exclusive brands,' she says, triumphantly.

'Does James know about this?' I manage to say, my mind reeling. I'm going to be in direct compet.i.tion with James. And how is my section ever going to compete with Fine Jewellery? One piece alone can cost the equivalent of ten Louis bags.

'He was the first to know,' she replies, scribbling something on a page in her Filofax. The room reels as I try to take it all in. 'So it will be the three of you section heads that I'll be focusing on initially.' Maxine carries on scrawling, not even bothering to look up at me.

'Three of us?' I ask tentatively, I'm guessing this is where Tom comes in. I'm glad she can't see my face.

'Yes, but you know that already, don't you?'

'Err, yes,' I gulp. I fidget in my seat as she continues to hold my stare. So Tom must have told her about our conversation in the club; that I know how he was recruited and what he'll be selling. I knew he couldn't be trusted.

'Look Gina, there isn't much that gets past me. Are you in or out?'

'I'm in,' I say quickly, panic mounting at the prospect of being forced to go head to head with James, but knowing I don't have any choice.

'Good, so this is all about riding the recession and revitalising Carrington's. And trying to make money of course. You and ...' She pauses to glance at a list on the desk. 'Annie is it?' I nod. 'Yes, you need to sell as much as you possibly can. The other sections will be doing the same, and then I can make a decision on what merch stays and who is best to sell it. I may even decide to sc.r.a.p a lot of the smaller and less profitable lines to make way for just a couple of select high-end ones. In my experience, this always means less staff. But seeing as you're a very good sales a.s.sistant and we have some strong in-store Valentine's promotions going on, it shouldn't be too difficult for you, should it?' Standing up, she waves a dismissive hand in my direction. 'And besides, I like winners, not losers.' And she whips a hand up and does the actual L for loser sign against her forehead. I cringe inwardly. How embarra.s.sing.

'Of course,' I mutter, glad to have my share of the Malikov sale. That'll get my section off to a good start.

'Oh, and you'll report directly to me from now on. What day do you have off?'

'Err, Monday,' I say, praying she's not about to make me give it up. Everyone knows it's the best day off to make a weekend when you work every Sat.u.r.day.

'Then your weekly one-to-one meeting with me will be at seven sharp every Tuesday morning. I like to start bright and early.' She rubs her hands together before flicking her big hair around for a bit.

'Great,' I say with a forced smile, feeling relieved that my day off is safe. Good for you. I bet she's one of those crazy types that just lurrves a military-style boot camp session, preferably outdoors in the lashing rain, while normal people are still snuggled up in bed because it's practically the middle of the night.

'Oh, and keep the first Sunday in February free ... the board thought a series of "team-building jollies" might keep spirits up, so I've put you down for the first session,' she adds, pulling a face as if the whole idea is totally abhorrent to her.

10.

The door at the staff exit is so heavy it seems like an eternity before I eventually step out onto the pavement. I breathe in, and the salty sea air catches in my lungs. The euphoria at not losing my job has quickly subsided, leaving an empty realisation that if my section isn't deemed the most profitable, I'll most likely be unemployed. I can't seem to quell the panic that's coursing through me at the thought of that chilling prospect. It was practically impossible to revise at Nanny Jean's with the TV blaring out and Kimberley hollering all day long, so I know d.a.m.n well I'll struggle to find something else with my qualifications. It didn't matter so much at the start, but these days even graduates with a degree in retail management are finding it tough to find jobs. Not that there are any other department stores in Mulberry-On-Sea, and practically none of the smaller, boutique-style shops are taking on new staff, in fact quite a few have already closed down, there are loads of empty units in the pedestrianised bit of town. Everyone is feeling the pinch.

I guess I could commute to London, but then with the huge monthly travel costs to fork out for, I'd never earn enough to cover the rest of my overheads. And James will hate me if I stay and he has to go he took me on in the first place. And I'll be competing against Tom and I don't know anything about him.

Then there's my guilty secret debt problem, I've got to do something about it as it's bound to come out when HR do the checks. I feel as though I'm being backed into a corner.

I need some time alone. Time to think before I face the others. I decide to head for Gino's, the little Italian deli tucked down a narrow cobbled lane behind Carrington's. I haven't been there for a while; it's got a little seating area for espresso and tapas and it's perfect for my current mood.

As I walk along, pounding the hard pavement, a woman on roller skates burns past me, her white shirt billowing around like a puff of smoke as she elbows me out of the way. The roller skates remind me of Dad, and of clinging on to his hand as I attempted to balance on the pair of rainbow-coloured roller skates I got for my tenth birthday. Thinking of Dad makes me wonder what it must have been like for him all of those years ago. I ponder for a moment, and then after remembering what Sam said in the club, I pull my mobile out from my bag and scroll through the address book to find his number.

'h.e.l.lo darling, what a wonderful surprise. Is everything OK?' His voice sounds worried. 'Shouldn't you be at work?' There's an awkward silence.

'I am at work,' I reply, a little too sharply. 'Well, I just popped out and ... err, I'm sorry I couldn't talk to you the other day,' I manage, trying to disguise the unease in my voice. 'So how are you?' I add, awkwardly.

'I'm fine. A bit tired. Anyway, enough about me. It's so nice to hear from you,' he says, and for a moment it's as though everything that's gone on between us before has been forgotten in an instant. But then my back constricts. I start to feel as though calling him was a bad idea, and I realise that I'm just not ready to forget what he did to us ... especially to Mum. 'You know I was telling Uncle Geoffrey how well you've done, and he said to pa.s.s on his love.' The thought of my dad's brother conjures up images of when it all happened. I remember Uncle Geoffrey bringing over suitcases full of my cousin Olivia's old cast-offs. Olivia is a couple of years older than me and has always been much taller. But 'beggars can't be choosers', that's what Uncle Geoffrey used to say when he hauled the suitcase up onto the kitchen table. Mum would thank him profusely for his generosity while I stood there shivering in my vest and knickers waiting to try on the clothes that were always too big. And all the time I was thinking I'd make sure I had nice clothes that fitted me properly when I was grown-up.

'So how's work?' he asks, plugging the gap of silence.

'Fine.' I decide not to tell him what's happened. I don't want Uncle Geoffrey to know I might be unemployed soon with grim prospects. Gloating, just like he did all those years ago in the kitchen. The thought makes me panicky, it will be near on impossible to find another job if I'm let go. There are so many people getting laid off at the moment, I'll be on the sc.r.a.pheap before I'm even thirty.

'So what's up then?' he asks, knowing me too well.

'Nothing.' I hate myself for lying.

'You can always talk to me, darling ...' His voice trails off and I feel terrible. I shouldn't have called him. Not now. Breaking the silence I mutter, 'Dad ... please don't.'