Me and Mr Carrington: A Short Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

someone has to make sure the VIPs are looked after properly,’ he quips, before strutting off towards a group of middle-aged women arriving through the revolving door at the main entrance.
    ‘What’s gotten into him?’ Annie says, once Eddie is out of earshot.
    ‘I think he’s just extra busy, with Tom being away,’ I say, diplomatically.
    ‘Well, he’s not the only one missing him, eh?’ Annie elbows me gently and I laugh.
    ‘Uh oh, here they come. No time for standing around chatting,’ I say, as the group of women head towards us. Ciaran, one of the waiters from Sam’s café appears with a tray of canapés, which the women devour within a few seconds.
    ‘Oooh, don’t mind if I do,’ a women with purple spiky hair says loudly to her mate while eyeing up Ciaran’s bottom as he weaves through the now bustling crowd. Certainly an improvement on the last event we did like this – the autumn/winter sale preview, only nineteen people turned up and we sold just over a thousand pounds worth of stock. Dismal.
    A stunningly attractive younger woman wearing a floaty butterfly-patterned Missoni mini dress appears at my counter in a puff of Clive Christian. She has long butter-blonde hair and is carrying the limited edition Dior top handle bag that Annie and I spotted in Elle magazine last month – costs a bomb and there’s, like, a ten year waiting list or whatever. Although this one has a sparkly gold jewelled key chain dangling from the handle. Nice touch, and I haven’t seen one like it before. Oh wow! I’m guessing this woman is from one of the yachts moored up in the new Mulberry Marina, and I’m sure she’s never shopped at Carrington’s before because I would definitely remember her special bag and sparkly key chain. Things are definitely looking up.
    ‘How may I help you this evening?’ I beam, making sure my eyes crinkle at the corners, just as Mrs Grace taught me back in the day when I started as a Saturday girl. She used to say there was nothing more off-putting to a customer wanting to splash the cash than a moody-looking sales assistant. Make them glow! That was her motto.
    ‘I’d love to have a look at the Anya bags please – that sunshine-yellow Seymour over there.’ The woman waves a beautifully-manicured hand across the floor and I’m impressed: she obviously knows her handbags. She dumps the Dior on the counter in anticipation.
    ‘Certainly. A good choice,’ I say, as Annie leaps into action and bombs over to retrieve it before returning to hover nearby and drool over the Dior bag. Luckily, she manages to refrain from actually stroking it.
    ‘It’s part of the sale preview, right?’ the woman asks, her stunning emerald eyes widening.
    ‘It sure is. And it’s half price.’ I lift the tag to show her.
    ‘Even better, I do love a bargain,’ she smiles conspiratorially, leaning into me and lowering her voice.
    ‘Oh me too, and this handbag is divine. See the detailing here,’ I open the bag to show her the iconic monogrammed interior with trademark tasselled zip pocket.
    ‘Can I try it on?
    ‘Please do.’ I lead her over to the long mirror.
    ‘Oooh, it’s gorgeous.’ Pushing the bag into the crook of her elbow, she twists and turns, admiring the view. ‘Would you mind trying it on please, so I can see what it looks like?’
    ‘Sure.’ She hands me the bag and I’m standing in front of her with it in my elbow when someone bellows from over by the floor-to-ceiling window display:
    ‘What on earth are you doing?’ An older woman with an Italian accent and long black hair swept severely from her surgically-enhanced face comes striding towards us. She’s wearing a navy Gucci trouser suit over a white ruffle-necked blouse and has a ruby-topped cane in one hand and a miniature quivering furchild with a pink diamante collar around its neck in the other, which she hands to a man in a chauffeur’s uniform. The man stands awkwardly, holding the yapping dog at arms length.