Carrington’s at Christmas: The Complete Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s, Ice Creams at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown
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it … with this miracle suit thing.’ And she pulls a surgical-looking square of Lycra from behind her back and dangles it in front of me. Grabbing the pork-chop-coloured monstrosity from her, I scrutinise it. I think it is what is laughably called a ‘body-shaper’. It’s minuscule but I decide to give it a go. I don’t have much choice, unless I want to go clubbing in my black top and trouser work combo, complete with Carrington’s name badge, the pin of which has bent somehow, making it impossible to remove.
‘Right, out of the room, I want to see if I can wedge myself into this. Which I imagine is going to be some feat, which I’d rather not attempt with you standing there.’
‘Fantastic,’ Sam shrieks, and claps her hands together. ‘Just shout if you need a hand,’ she adds.
‘No thank you, now shoo,’ I say, flapping my hand at her.
‘OK, OK, I’m going.’ Sam backs out of the room and closes the dressing room door behind her.
After managing to shoehorn myself into the dress, I call Sam back into the room.
‘Bloody hell Georgie! You look fantastic, very curvaceous and sexy. And that dress really brings out your blue eyes and glowing complexion,’ she shrieks. I feel a bit constricted, though, as the suit is an underwired all-in-one corset that vacuums everything in.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Absolutely.’ Sam grins.
‘Thanks, honey. Just need to get my shoes now.’ I head off to the hallway.
‘Hang on. Try these. They’ll be perfect with that dress.’ From underneath the scarlet chaise longue, Sam brings out her new Gina sandals. They are absolutely exquisite, with little diamanté stones running across the strappy ankle and toe parts of the delicate shoes.
‘Oh Sam I can’t. They’re your new ones, you haven’t even worn them yet,’ I say, instantly touched by her generosity.
‘Please, have them, I’ve got loads … and besides, I’m not really sure they’re me,’ she says, crossing her slim legs and leaning back on the chaise longue.
‘But I can’t,’ I say, desperately trying not to eye up the sandals.
‘I insist.’
‘Sam, I can’t. Really. You could always take them back if you don’t like them.’ They must have cost a fortune.
‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t like them. I just think they’d suit you better. And I’ll be offended if you don’t take them,’ she laughs. I look again.
‘Are you definitely sure? They really are beautiful,’ I say, not wanting to offend her but secretly wondering if she ever had any intention of keeping them for herself.
‘Yes.’
I give her a huge hug.
‘In that case, thank you my GBF.’ Sam raises an eyebrow.
‘Gorgeous best friend of course,’ I explain, smiling and making a mental note to send her a proper thank-you card. I slip my foot into the right sandal. Twiddling my ankle in the mirror I feel a little shiver of excitement. Not bad at all – my stomach is almost flat and my best feature, my arms with their light sprinkling of freckles on the shoulders, can be seen quite nicely. Always highlight your best asset, isn’t that what Gok says? Sam has certainly come up trumps this time.
‘Right, so are we ready then?’ I grab my clutch bag and Sam stands up and smooths down her Hervé Léger bandage dress in nude. She’s teamed it with a pair of blush patent Kate Kuba wedges and fuchsia-framed geek glasses that almost cover her tiny elfin face. Her curly hair is bobbing around her shoulders and the Shamballa bracelet is sparkling on her wrist. She looks stunning.
‘Come on, we’d better go before we spontaneously combust with the glamour of it all.’ I slip my arm through hers. We’re both chatting and giggling as we head off into the night.
8
After paying the taxi driver, we pass through a red rope that’s unclipped by a doorman who looks as if he’s just stepped out of a Calvin Klein photo shoot, and emerge into the club. I feel as though I’ve walked into a Moroccan wonderland – there are orange and gold glittery soft furnishings draped between mosaic fountains. There are even olive trees dotted in amongst the leather ottomans. We’re both handed one of those cute mini Moët bottles with the drinking spouts. Complimentary to the first fifty clubbers as it’s opening night.
‘Mmm, I must say the view is scorching in here,’ Sam says, lifting my hair to talk straight into my ear. The pulse of the uplifting Happy House beat thuds against my chest. Everywhere I look there are male models, smiling when they catch my eye, as if telepathically telling me I’m their dream woman. Whoever’s come up with this marketing idea must be a genius, because it’s working. Oh yes, it’s working all right. I can almost feel a physical tingle of hedonism on my bare shoulders. Scrutinising the drinking spout more closely, I see that it has Bushka Launch Party inscribed in rose-gold lettering on the side. Nudging Sam, I raise an eyebrow and she nods back. Simultaneously we both whip the little spouts off and stash them in our bags.
Sam yells, ‘Over here,’ before waving wildly. With her left hand above her head, her dress rides up and briefly flashes the side of her diamanté-topped stocking. A group of guys standing nearby nudge each other with appreciation. I glance in the direction of her yell, and striding towards us is a group of men. All of them are stunning, and a tall, athletic and seriously handsome blond one, who I guess must be Nathan, is carrying a giant heart-shaped helium balloon. He steps towards Sam, grabs her up in the air and spins her around.
‘So how is the sexy birthday girl?’
Sam screams with delight, trying to keep the back of her dress from riding up too high. The pair of them lock lips. ‘Ahh, and here are the others,’ Nathan says, prising himself away from Sam. ‘You don’t mind, do you, only I invited some guys from the squash club.’
Looking to where Nathan’s waving, I see a couple of tall men coming towards us. For a moment I don’t believe it. I blink again to be sure, and yes, it’s definitely him. Tom is heading straight towards us. My heart races. He looks even more incredible than he did in the staff canteen. I see a couple of girls eyeing him up and down as he strides past, but before I can get myself together he’s standing right in front of me.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Tom says, fixing his chocolate-brown eyes on mine as I fidget nervously from one foot to the other.
‘Oh I’m not sure,’ I reply in a breezy voice, wondering if he can tell that the memory of him appearing through the canteen doors has made its way into my dreams several times already this week. Only in the dream he’s naked, drenched in massage oil accentuating a rock-hard muscular chest, and begging to take me there and then across the help-yourself salad bar. Naturally the canteen of my dreams is festooned with tea lights creating a sexy shimmery glow. And I look like a siren with really big hair.
‘Yes, I’m definitely sure. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. Where do you work?’ he says, seemingly oblivious to the effect he’s having on me.
‘At Carrington’s. And you?’ I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘That’s it.’ He looks pleased with himself at having worked it out. ‘I was there for the announcement. Must have seen you then.’ He beams a beautiful smile and my heart immediately melts. The feeling is incredible.
‘Of course. Silly me, I didn’t recognise you,’ I say nervously, twiddling the silver stud in my right earlobe and feeling my neck tingling with the first creep of a flush from the blatant lie.
‘Nice to meet you, again.’ Still smiling, he puts his hand out to mine and the sensation is like an electric charge as his warm fingers touch mine. He leans down to my hot cheek and plants a kiss. Momentarily distracted by the faint but delicious chocolatey