Christmas at Carrington’s. Alexandra Brown

never have come up with such an idea, but then he’s far too busy messing around with those filthy birds.’

      I can’t believe it. Mrs Grace is the last person I thought would approve of Tom’s actions. She’s not even keen on TV, much preferring her bingo. And being such a stalwart for tradition, a self-appointed protector of the Carrington’s good old days, she really wasn’t happy when we got a memo saying not to address customers as Sir or Madam any more. Tom said research showed it sounded old-fashioned, that some women get offended by it, it makes them feel old – and, as much as it pains me to say, given how I feel about him at this precise moment in time, I do think he had a very good point.

      ‘Oh dear, what is it love? You don’t look very happy. Here … ’ Mrs Grace snaps open her granny bag and pulls out a crumpled pink-and-white striped paper bag full of pick ’n’ mix sweets. ‘These will cheer you up.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I say, helping myself to a slightly fluffy foam banana. I take a bite and relish the sugary taste.

      ‘Take two, one is never enough,’ she chuckles, rustling the bag enticingly, so I take a green pear drop to be polite and pop it in my pocket. ‘I thought you youngsters loved the telly. It’s the only reason I voted in favour of doing the show.’

      ‘Voted? What do you mean?’ I ask, creasing my forehead and racking my brains as I try to work out what’s going on. She’s standing directly underneath one of the original 1920s Tiffany wall lamps, which is casting an eerie glow on her face, and I can’t help thinking that it makes her look like one of those spooky old china dolls.

      ‘At the special staff meeting in the canteen after work one night. Ooh, it must have been a good few weeks ago now, may even have been a few months. My memory’s not so good these days,’ she chuckles as the lift arrives and I crank the cage door back. We step inside and I pull the door closed before pressing the gold button.

      ‘Was everyone at this meeting?’ I must be going mad. I definitely wasn’t invited to a meeting, and surely Sam and Eddie would have mentioned it last night if they already knew about the TV show. Fair enough, Sam might not have known, given that she’s not technically a Carrington’s employee – her café business leases the space. But anyway, if she knew, maybe overheard one of the other sales assistants talking over a coffee perhaps, then she would definitely have told me, there’s no way she would have kept a secret this massive. No, Sam was as shocked as I was. She was actually speechless, and it takes a lot for that to happen to Sam. Eddie, on the other hand, may have held out on me, but then he is Tom’s BA so I suppose he’s kind of conflicted, a bit. On second thoughts, no! There’s no way Eddie would have managed to contain himself for a nanosecond, let alone weeks or even months – he was way too excited about me becoming a star.

      ‘Oh no, just the board and a handful of senior staff,’ Mrs Grace continues. ‘I was invited because I used to be a manager. Confidentiality they said. On a “need-to-know” basis only.’ She pushes her granny bag into the crook of her elbow before making little quotes signs with her bony fingers. ‘But between you and me, I think I was only invited as a courtesy, probably to get me on side so I didn’t form a protest.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Oldest trick in the book – get the potential troublemaker on board first.’ She chuckles. ‘We even had to sign a form to say we wouldn’t blab any of the details as it would spoil the surprise element of the show. Very Hollywood and hush-hush, it was. They gave us free pizza,’ she says, pronouncing it peeeza, ‘although I didn’t have any as all that cheese gives me heartburn something rotten.’ Mrs Grace pauses to pat her chest. ‘And they paid for a cab home. Kelly wasn’t actually in the meeting, just the production team, but her glamorous assistant was and she’s a real beauty up close. All milky skin and bee-sting lips.’

      Incredible. So some of the staff were allowed to know beforehand, but not me – girlfriend of the majority shareholder! Tom obviously deemed I didn’t ‘need to know’. Why would he do that? And I’m a supervisor. What on earth is going on? This just makes it a billion times worse. And what was I thinking by sleeping with him? I knew I should have waited until I’d worked out what a sneaky snake he is. I even confided in him about my ‘trust issues with men’, as the social worker neatly noted in my file when I left the care system. But then, is it any wonder, when my own Dad forged my signature, lumbering me with a stack of massive loans he’d taken out in my name to fund his gambling debts? I know Dad and I are putting it all behind us now and he’s doing his best to win back my trust – but still, Tom could have at least kept it in mind. And then there was Brett, my last serious boyfriend. We were together for three years, totally loved-up, or so I thought, until he dumped me for a tall, gloriously beautiful woman with super-big blonde hair. A total contrast to my average height, freckly complexion and flyaway brunette bob. I saw them together not long after the split, holding hands and laughing over an intimate joke as they sauntered along the towpath down by the canal.

      By the time I’ve said goodbye to Mrs Grace and slammed through the door to the executive floor, I’m almost in tears. I stride down the corridor and into the anteroom outside Tom’s office. Inhaling hard through my nose, I blow out through O-shaped lips and brace myself.

       3

      ^‘Hey dollface. What’s up?’ Eddie sprints around from behind his desk before smoothing down an immaculately cut charcoal grey suit with a cornflower blue open-neck shirt. His blond hair has been styled into a ridiculously dapper side-parting do with lashings of gel.

      ‘So what happened to your twist-cut chinos and espadrille combo then? Take it Ciaran found your best suit,’ I snap, thinking: so much for solidarity in the face of adversity. Eddie’s wasted no time in reinventing himself to look like a slick TV star.

      ‘Oh, those old rags?’ He waves an imperious hand in the air. I glare at him. ‘Why are you being so sulky?’

      ‘Sulky?’ I huff, making big eyes. ‘Wouldn’t you be if your boyfriend had sold you out to some TV company without even bothering to mention it?’

      ‘But you were amazing on screen,’ he says, enthusiastically.

      ‘Hmmm,’ I mutter as Eddie gives me a hug. He ponders for a moment before changing the subject.

      ‘Come and see my Pussy!’

      And, suddenly, I feel as though I’ve slipped inside a parallel universe. Grabbing my hand, Eddie pulls me over to his desk and scoops up a fluffy white bichon frise from a Burberry print dog basket nestled underneath. Around the dog’s neck is a pink crystal collar, and all four of its spindly little legs are sporting lime- green knitted legwarmers. ‘She’s channelling her Eighties workout vibe, aren’t you Pussy?’ he explains. I stare for a bit before managing to drag myself back to reality.

      ‘Eddie! Are you insane? You can’t bring a dog into the store. And what kind of name is Pussy for a dog anyway?’ I say in an incredulous whisper-voice, while resisting the urge to pet the cute puppy that’s now licking the back of my hand with her tiny pink velvety tongue.

      ‘Of course I can, everyone has a furchild these days – they’re an essential accessory. And isn’t she a darling? Anyway, Kelly adores her and has already said she can be in the show,’ he says, pursing his lips and stroking the dog’s head. ‘And I’ll have you know that Pussy is a very apt name for a department store pet.’

      ‘Whaat?’

      ‘As in Mrs Slocombe’s cat, she called it Pussy.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Are You Being Served … ring any bells?’ he says, pulling an exasperated face.

      ‘What are you going on about?’

      ‘Oh never mind. Before your time, obvs. Although, of course, I only have an extremely vague memory of catching a glimpse of it once as a newborn peering up from my cradle,’ he quickly adds.

      ‘But this is Carrington’s. A department