Christmas Cracker 3-Book Collection: Three Cosy Christmas Romances. Lindsey Kelk
Читать онлайн книгу.
Georgie, these days you can have sex on a first date if you want to. That’s what the suffragettes did for us. They gave us that choice. If you want sex then have it. I do,’ Sam says, winking before making a serious face, and I contemplate telling her everything. ‘And let’s face it, Tom is not only extremely charming, funny, kind to animals,’ she pauses to glance at Mr Cheeks who is ensconced on a cushion purring contently, ‘he’s F-I-T. Grab hold of him with both hands … one on each—’ If only she knew.
‘Bum cheek,’ we yell in unison before cracking up. ‘Yes, yes I know. You don’t have to remind me,’ I wheeze, the memory of his beautifully firm bottom beneath his tight white Calvin’s making my cheeks flush.
Settling down, I flick on the TV and search through the channels.
‘Stop! Go back a bit,’ Sam yells, kicking her shoes off and tucking her feet up under her legs. I press the remote control and swig a mouthful of wine before polishing off the rest of a mince pie. I think about retrieving another box from the freezer. Tesco are flogging them as part of a special run-up to Christmas promotion – buy one, get two free. I have eighteen boxes. ‘There, that’s it. Let’s watch this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ahh, you know, you must have seen it before. It’s that new series – undercover programme with what’s-her-name.’ I give her a blank look. ‘Kelly Cooper. She’s totally bonkers and sorts out flagging companies and stuff with her madcap, brilliantly unorthodox ideas. It’s on every week until Christmas.’
‘Oh right,’ I say, helping myself to the last mince pie. The adverts finish and an older woman with wild orange Medusa curls and funky green geek glasses is talking directly to the camera in a stage-whisper voice, and she looks just like Ronald McDonald. She’s wearing a swirly patterned Westwood playsuit and a curly plastic earpiece, and keeps glancing at a computer surveillance screen.
‘Oooh, here she goes!’ Sam is suddenly glued to the screen. I neck another mouthful of wine and start flicking through the I Heart TV mag, wondering if it’s still too early to set up my Christmas Sky+ viewing schedule.
‘What’s she doing?’ I ask, glancing up as the camera pans to a younger woman in a car park pulling on a big floppy hat and shades.
‘She’s getting ready to go to wherever they’re filming. It’s always a secret until they arrive inside, makes it more thrilling and authentic. Last season’s show was called Kelly Cooper Come Onboard and it was on an Italian cruise ship stuffed full of lush sailors. Swoon.’ Sam makes dreamy eyes.
‘Cor! I like the sound of that.’
‘It was amazing. I’ve got the whole series in box set. I’ll lend it to you. Anyway, first off she’ll be seeing if the business is up to scratch. It never is. That’s the whole point of the show. And then she helps them get their act together. Come up with new ideas to increase revenue, that kind of thing. Oh God, I love this programme.’ Sam is practically hyperventilating now. ‘That’s Zara, her glamorous assistant. She’s actually her daughter in real life,’ she adds, all matter-of-factly.
‘But it is real life,’ I say, feeling confused and wondering how I completely managed to miss watching this programme before now. I’m usually right there when it comes to a decent reality show.
‘Hmmm, guess so … anyway, she’s the one who goes undercover, hence the hat and shades, Kelly is way too vibrant and recognisable.’ That’s one way of putting it. I resist the urge to smirk while Sam does the whole fan-girl thing. ‘And that guy is the cameraman, he’s there to capture Zara’s experiences, with a secret hidden camera, obviously. Don’t want to alert the staff, so they put on an act; it would ruin everything if they were on best behaviour. That’s just boring. And don’t be fooled by Kelly – she may appear all jolly and fun at first, but underneath she’s ruthless, a total ballbuster when it comes to promoting her TV shows and whipping businesses into shape. She really tells it like it is and doesn’t take any prisoners. In her last series, she made them sack five people.’
‘What for?’ I ask, instantly feeling sorry for the ones that lost their jobs.
‘I’m not sure, just read something about it in one of those celebrity gossip magazines. Sniggering when she was talking, most likely. Wouldn’t surprise me. That’s what she’s like,’ Sam says.
My mobile rings and, on seeing it’s Eddie, my other best friend and Tom’s personal assistant (well, boy assistant or BA for short), I press to answer.
‘Get your tellybox on right now!’ he shrieks, totally bypassing the introductions bit and almost perforating my eardrum in the process.
‘OK, calm down, it’s already on. Where’s the drama?’
‘Dollface. You will not believe this. Gird your ladyballs. S-C-R-E-A-M.’
‘What are you going on about? Eddie, have you been at the booze cabinet?’ I laugh.
‘Oh darling, purlease with the vulgarity … now is not the time to make me out to be some kind of lush. Now, will you just shut up and watch.’
Doing as I’m told, I stare at the screen. And freeze – motionless like the gold statue that stands on a box outside Mulberry-On-Sea station. I’d know that cherry-wood panelling anywhere.
I can hear my own blood pumping. The camera zooms to a woman browsing through the Women’s Accessories department, and I know I’m not mistaken. Sam flings herself upright but doesn’t utter a word. She knows it too. It’s Carrington’s. My Carrington’s!
It’s the actual department store where I work and I feel clammy with fear. I want to throw up. A rivulet of sweat snakes a path all the way down my back. Sam jumps up. I toss the magazine down on the sofa and Sam clutches my free hand. We stand together in silence. Our jaws hang open as Kelly’s secret camera, which must be secreted inside Zara’s hat, glides around the gloriously decadent Art Deco store before coming to a halt up near the key winter merchandise. And right next to the very display podium that I set up a few weeks ago.
Annie, one of the sales assistants who works with me, comes into view. She’s lounging nonchalantly behind the counter with her back to the camera and oh my God … she’s texting on her mobile, totally oblivious to the woman who is now swinging a gorgeous, caramel-coloured, Billy-the-goatskin or whatever, £900 Anya Hindmarch tote on her shoulder while admiring the view in the long mirror. The very mirror I had installed specifically to entice customers to try on the bags. Because every decent sales assistant knows: those who try it, buy it.
Zara glances in Annie’s direction, and then raises a perfectly groomed HD eyebrow at the camera guy, as if deliberately drawing the viewer’s attention to the fact that she’s being ignored. Now the camera is panning towards the window display and oh my actual God. I want to die! Right now, in my shoebox lounge with a lump of partially chewed mince pie trapped inside my gullet. My arse is only gyrating around to that Beyoncé tune, ‘Single Ladies’. I’m even wagging my left hand in the air and pointing to my ring finger. And I swear they’ve put a wide angle on the shot. I know my bum is big, but it ain’t that flipping big.
‘Boom boom, peng ting! Yo go girlfrieeend … get jiggy with it and all that. You are magnificent,’ Eddie bellows, like he’s some sort of badass gangsta boy, and I think I might actually faint. With his voice shrieking in my ear and my wiggling bottom on the screen it’s like a total sensory overload. And my phone hand seems to have gripped itself into a spasm, so now I have the gnarled fist of an ancient old husk of a woman too, which will probably wither from inactivity and render me a cripple by the age of twenty-eight. Grreat. Big bum and club fist – not an attractive look. What on earth was I thinking?
I’m usually so efficient at approaching customers, we both are. Annie and I always wait a few seconds, nobody wants to be pounced on the very minute they show an interest in the merch. OK, so we might send the odd text message when the shop floor is quiet, that’s why we keep our mobiles on