Authors: Jo Watson
Finding a light blue set in my size, I grab it and one of the silver bags that would be perfect for a wedding—if I was going to a wedding, that is—and head for the checkout.
As the young girl behind the till scans my items, I spot a notice pinned to the counter advertising for the position of store manager. Well, I’m not sure I’m managerial material, but fashion retail is definitely something that interests me.
I picture myself in a different pair of New Look heels every day, snapping up the gorgeous clothes before anyone else gets a chance. That sounds like something I could be good at.
“Do you take on volunteers here?” I ask the girl as she hands me my change.
She gives me a blank look in response. “Volunteers?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about a career in retail for a while now,” I lie.
“If you want a job, you’ll need to get an application pack from customer service. If you want, I can call Sally over for you?”
I stare at the growing line of impatient customers behind me. “No, that’s okay. Thanks, though.”
Back at the office, Scarlett jumps on my New Look bag like a child unwrapping a present on Christmas morning, calling out, “You didn’t tell me you were going shopping! What did you buy?”
The shopping bag is out of my hands before I can answer her.
“This is lovely.” She examines my new clutch bag, her fingers trailing along the beading. “Are you going somewhere special?” She dives back into the plastic bag and pulls out the blue underwear set. “
Oh
.” Her brown eyes widen. “I get it. You’re going on a date!”
“No!” I shout back with a snort of dismissive laughter. “What gave you that idea?”
“Are you telling me you’re going to be using this tiny bag for the office now?” She holds the bag by its thin strap and cocks her head to one side as she looks at me.
“No. But that doesn’t mean I’m going on a date,” I point out.
Scarlett sucks in a sharp breath. “You don’t buy underwear like this if you don’t want someone to see it. So who is it, then?” Her eyes dart around our office as though this “date” she’s dreamt up for me is hiding under my desk.
“It’s nobody,” I insist, snatching my things back from her manicured fingernails and holding them in front of me like a shield.
Oh, no. I’ve made it worse. Now she’s going to think I’m going on a date with somebody embarrassing, someone like the comedy-moustache-sporting Charlie from accounts.
She snaps her fingers. “It’s Ray, isn’t it? The new warehouse guy. I saw you two talking the other day but I never thought—”
“It’s not Ray.” I cut her off, inadvertently turning this into Scarlett’s idea of a fun guessing game.
“Marcus, then?”
“Marcus hasn’t worked here for months.”
“So? That doesn’t mean that you two aren’t hooking up.” She pulls a makeup compact out of her desk drawer and fluffs her long, dark hair as she looks in the mirror.
“Look, Scar, I’m not hooking up with anybody, okay?”
“Oh, I see.” She closes the compact and studies my face. “You haven’t asked this guy out yet, have you?”
“Scarlett.”
I’m saved by Helen striding into the office, swinging her newly highlighted blond locks behind her like she’s in a L’Oréal advert.
Scarlett and I both gawp at the rock dazzling us from her right hand.
“Hey ladies,” she greets us, straddling her desk chair so that she’s facing the two of us. She drums her fingers against the back of it, just in case we’ve managed to miss the bling.
“I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow,” says Scarlett.
“Thought I’d come back early.” She twists the glinting diamond ring around her slender finger.
I’m too stunned to say anything.
“Did Raul buy it for you?” Scarlett nods towards Helen’s right hand. “That’s so romantic!”
“Raul?” Helen’s pencilled-in eyebrows are firmly raised. “I’ve known the guy maybe a month and you think he’d buy me a diamond like this?”
“You’re not seeing someone else, are you?” Scarlett claps a hand over her mouth, and I can see her eyes cataloguing the corridor through the glass door of the HR office as if Helen’s mystery man, and probably my secret date, are hiding out there.
Helen winks and holds her ringed finger up to the light. “Can’t a girl treat herself every once in a while?”
“Where did you get it?” I ask. “Where do you find a ring like that and just buy it yourself?”
“Well it’s not
real.
Imagine how much it would be worth if it was.”
“I want one!” Scarlett uncaps her tube of lip gloss.
“It’s one-of-a-kind.” Helen retracts her hand. “But they have plenty of affordable fakes at that second-hand jeweller in town.”
Scarlett wrinkles her freckled nose. “The one near the Oxfam?”
Helen is saying something else about jewellery, but I’m not listening.
Charity shops are always looking for volunteers, aren’t they? And it is retail, isn’t it?
Okay. Informing little old ladies what 99p cardigans are available isn’t in the same league as telling New Look’s customers what stilettos they’ve got in.
But charity-shop retail work has got to be better than working in some places. Like…like a lingerie shop. I cringe imagining standing behind the counter in La Senza when your mother walks in, her husband in tow, and heads straight for the festive underwear section…
But it’s one step closer to fulfilling the points in the article. Isn’t volunteering supposed to make you feel all warm inside? Maybe that’s why Olivia Bright particularly mentions voluntary work. Maybe I really will turn into a cool, confident woman because of it.
I can do this. I’m going to be
good
at this.
I mean, better than I ever would be at fashion design or any of those silly ideas.
* * *
Nora sends us home early on Thursday, which gives me time to nip down to Oxfam before I catch my bus home.
The Leeds shop is a decent size, and not too far from the bus station. There’s a woman sitting behind the counter who looks much younger than the average charity shop face, her long black talons gripping a tatty Mills & Boon paperback.
She doesn’t smile as I approach.
“Excuse me?”
She flicks her dark eyes over me for the first time, a pinched expression on her face. I’ve obviously interrupted an erotic scene between a Greek billionaire and his virgin mistress.
“I was wondering if you had any voluntary vacancies going.”
The woman sighs as though my query is such a hassle to her and reaches under the desk for an application form. “Fill this in,” she says in a monotone voice.
I move to one side of the counter to fill in the forms, ignoring the sound of the door opening behind me. I’ve just got to the part about my skills and experience when a voice behind me says, “Hello, Megan. I thought you said you were going straight for the bus.”
It’s Nora. My high-class, well-dressed boss, who definitely doesn’t buy her clothes from charity shops. So what is she doing in Oxfam, then?
“Nora!” I greet her enthusiastically. “I was just…uh…” A wave of panic surges through me as I realise that her eyes have already fallen on the papers in front of me.
What if she thinks this will affect my paying job? What if she says she’s setting me free to pursue a career in retail? And what if I discover it’s not really my dream at all? What will I do then? Confident women aren’t unemployed, are they?
I think again of the photos in the magazine. All those girls look like successful businesswomen who wear Jimmy Choo pumps and Chanel No. 5 perfume.
“Volunteering?” Nora’s lips are a tight line. “Well, Megan, I’m sure you will be an asset to a place like this.”
I blink a few times. Is she really saying… Is that a compliment?
Swallowing, I manage to say, “Thank you.”
Nora nods once at me and then moves off to scan a rail of dull suit jackets.
Oh, my God! She really does buy clothes from Oxfam. She might even get her underwear from Primark.
I turn back to the desk. The shop assistant is still reading her book like Nora and I aren’t here.
Does this mean Olivia Bright could be wrong? Nora is a woman who exudes confidence without being anything like the glossy-haired girls in magazine photographs. And she definitely isn’t the sort of person to listen to anyone’s advice.
But then it occurs to me that, if confident women like Nora shop at Oxfam, maybe working here really will be a good thing.
I’m grinning with excitement as I hand in my application form.
“Thanks.” The woman behind the counter finally drops her book. “Due to the high volume of applicants received, please assume you have been unsuccessful if you haven’t heard from us within two weeks.” She speaks as if reading from a cue card.
“What?” I stare blankly at her. “You mean I don’t automatically get the job? It’s a voluntary position for God’s sake!”
“We get rather a lot of applications from people seeking something to fill their CVs with,” she explains, picking her tatty Mills & Boon back up.
“Oh.” I step backwards. “I see.”
“We’ll give you a call if anything suitable arises,” she says as I head out of the shop.
Well, that didn’t exactly go to plan. Don’t they need more staff to cover the Christmas period? Do people even do their Christmas shopping in charity shops?
Oh, dear. I haven’t got a clue. Maybe retail isn’t going to be my dream job after all.
Chapter Four
By Friday, I still haven’t come up with a valid reason not to attend Mum’s party. Every time I think of a possible excuse, my mother’s voice echoes in my head, saying things like, “Oh, but darling, Tim will be there.” Or, “But I’ve made your favourite quiche!”
The only way out of this is to pretend I’ve got some contagious disease that will cause all of her golf-playing, champagne-drinking guests to break out in massive red hives.
But there’s a certain amount of acting involved in that, more than my GCSE-grade-B skills, anyway.
I’ll just have to go and deal with Tim Hudson, the brilliant lawyer. And his sister Bryony, the newly engaged.
How bad can it be?
Zara is busy with work anyway, forcing me to go alone. Which means she’ll never be able to tease me about the nonexistent crush everyone in Mum’s social circle seems to think I have on Tim.
I arrive in a green V-neck dress, clutching my new handbag, since I’d hate its debut to be at Bryony’s bloody wedding.
It’s Phil who greets me at the front door and pulls me into a tight hug. We’ve always had a close relationship. He’s the nearest thing I’ve had to a dad since my real father walked out on my mum and moved to America when I was three.
But when you’ve witnessed your stepfather shopping with your mother for anything that remotely links to their sex life, a hug isn’t exactly what you need.
“Your mum will be so happy to see you!” he says like I’m their long-lost daughter, not the one they saw in La Senza a few days ago.
“Is that my Meggy?” Mum appears at the door, her fluffy brown hair unflatteringly backcombed. “Come on in, darling,” she says, adding in a lower voice, “Tim’s helping himself to some nibbles. Why don’t you go and ask him about London?”
The last thing I want to hear about is Tim’s exciting life in London. Really. I’d rather hear about which washing powder he uses, or how many times a day he flosses.
But Mum’s pushing me forwards with an encouraging smile on her face as if it’s my first day at school all over again.
And there’s Tim loading his paper plate with potato salad.
He looks just the way I remember him. Black hair gelled back off his pale face, round-rimmed glasses sitting on the end of his pointed nose. He sort of reminds me of Clark Kent. Just not in a good way, like Henry Cavill’s Clark Kent.
“Megan!” he greets me, his arms outstretched for a hug.
I grab a paper plate and hold it out like a barrier between us. “Hi, Tim.” I offer him a limp smile.
“How’s life treating you?” he asks like a gossiping girlfriend.
“Um…”
“Your mum tells me you work in admin now. HR, is it?” he continues before I can answer properly.
“Yeah. I’ve been there about eight months now.” My smile tightens.
“Really? And you aren’t considering going back to your studies? You’d have such great prospects with a degree.”
I flinch at his words. Just about everyone my mother knows feels it necessary to bring up my failed attempt at completing a university course.
For two years, I was a Leeds University fashion student. And then I met Jack. And then I failed my second year. And a whole load of complicated things that I don’t really want to get into happened after that.
“I’m not sure university is really for me.” I clench my hands by my sides.
“Oh, but you wanted to go into fashion design, didn’t you? You know, if you’re serious about that you should think about relocating after you’ve finished your degree. Most designers live in London these days.”
I don’t want to move to London. I don’t want to be anything like Tim.
“It’s great living in the capital,” he prattles on without any encouragement. “Hey, maybe you could come down and visit? See my new apartment?”
Who does he think he is? Living in an “apartment.” It’s probably smaller than my flat. It’s probably smaller than—
“Megan!”
Oh, God. It’s Auntie Wendy.
If there’s anyone more proud and smug of Tim’s success than he is, it’s his mother.
“Darling! How are you?” she asks without pausing for an answer. “I bet Tim’s been telling you all about London, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. It sounds…wonderful.” My face is starting to ache from all the smiling.
“Tim’s so modest.” She glows with pride as she looks at her son. “I bet he hasn’t told you that he’s working for one of the top law firms in the country.” She and leans closer to me, keeping her voice low as though it’s a secret.
“Mum!” Tim protests before turning back to me. “They’re not the
top
firm.”
“Don’t be silly, darling!” Wendy shrieks. “Of course they are. Always destined for greater things, my Tim.” She gives him one last gratified smile before turning back to me. “What about you, Megan? When were you thinking of finishing your degree?”