Miracle on Regent Street by Ali Harris Read Free Book Online Page B

that Rumors are looking for a central London flagship store?’ she continues. I have my hand on the door but turn politely and look interested. ‘I’d kill to work there. I went to the New York store on Fifth Avenue once and it was so cool. All the staff wear couture and the whole shop façade is made of glass – even the
changing rooms face on to the street and have frosted glass to cover your body up to your neck but you can see everyone’s faces as they’re getting changed!’
    I shrug. I’ve never been to New York but I have heard of Rumors. It sounds like my idea of shopping hell. ‘Hardy’s isn’t so bad,’ I say, feeling defensive.
‘It just needs a bit of love and attention and some . . . direction.’
    ‘I know, that’s what I think too,’ she says, and crosses her impossibly long legs. I can’t help but look at the gorgeous stacked patent heels she’s wearing, then
compare them unfavourably to my own sensible, scuffed brogues. ‘That’s why I spoke to Sharon and suggested we use some new designers. I think that’s what swung me the promotion,
you know. I told her, I said: “Sharon, we need to be more modern, appeal to the younger clients, clients like me. They want shops to be more exclusive, more fashion forward .”
’
    ‘I guess,’ I say tentatively. ‘But they also want somewhere they can relax and feel at home—’
    But Carly cuts me off and carries on recounting word for word her promotion monologue.
    ‘. . . They want glamour and excitement and fabulousness, not some safe, staid boring old shop that just stays the same for, like, a hundred years. I mean ya-aawn. Now,’ she claps
her hands, ‘tell me what’s been going on with you. Is there any gossip from the stockroom today? Other than my promotion, of course!’ She throws her head back and laughs so that
the tinkling sound reverberates around the room like wind chimes.
    I honestly think I’ll suffocate if I don’t get out in the next thirty seconds and somehow I manage to make my excuses and leave. I wander despondently out into the store.
    ‘God, where is everybody today? I am so bored.’ I turn to see Becky from Handbags slouched against one of the beauty counters, staring at her face in the mirror.
She’s in her early twenties but she says she thinks that she’s starting to look leathery because she spends her days dealing with horrible old bags (I’m presuming she means her
stock and not Hardy’s customers, but I can’t be sure).
    ‘Well, it’s still early, I guess,’ I reply.
    Becky puts her hand up to heart. ‘Christ . . . er, Sarah, isn’t it? You made me jump! I didn’t see you there. What are you doing creeping round the store? Shouldn’t you
be in the stockroom?’ Having dismissed me she turns and continues examining her pores.
    I sigh and look out at the street beyond. Lots of people are milling around but they all walk straight past Hardy’s, utterly oblivious to its presence. I want to jump into the barely
dressed windows and wave at them, do star jumps, shout, scream, anything to get their attention.
    As I walk down the staircase to the basement, I envision myself, as I always do, as a beautiful woman of the1940s, in a two-piece Chanel suit, with red lips and short, pin-curled hair, about to
meet my American GI lover.
    I increase my pace as I go through Menswear and towards the tearoom, tucked away at the far end. It’s always a welcome retreat when I want some peace from the comings and goings of the
stockroom. None of the staff ever comes here; they prefer the buzzy Starbucks opposite the store, or they go to Oxford Street on their breaks.
    Lily has worked here ever since I was a child, and then some. She’s a tiny slip of a woman who must be in her late seventies but looks at least ten years younger. She won’t tell me
her exact age; she just tells me she’s old enough to know better and young enough not to care. She has dyed black hair, which she wears pulled back into a