Alexandra Brown - Ice Creams at Carrington’s

‘Hello stranger! What are you doing here?’ I ask, giving her a hug. Last I heard of Annie she had left to get married, the whole works – a big-fat-gypsy-type wedding. Annie is a Traveller who lives in a caravan on the permanent site up near Mulberry Common, and when she first came to work here, she was the only girl in her family to ever have a paid job.

‘Couldn’t keep away.’ She twiddles her nose stud and smiles wryly.

‘And the wedding?’ I ask, spotting her bare ring finger.

‘Oh, he turned into a complete knobber – started mouthing off about how after the wedding my place would be at home cooking and scrubbing up after him, so I dumped him. I’m nobody’s chalice.’

‘Chattel.’

‘Whatevs. If that’s another word for slave, then that too,’ Annie says, placing her left hand on her hip, and making me smile. I’ve really missed her. ‘So, I got on the phone to HR and got my old job back. Well, your old job, to be exact.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m the supervisor now. My first day, too, and it’s going really well. I’ve already shifted two Marc Jacobs top handles and a Juicy Couture crossbody bag. And I remembered all the little tricks you taught me, like surreptitiously sweeping the cheaper bag along to the end of the counter so as to focus the customer’s attention on the more expensive piece of merch.’ Standing tall, she puffs out her impressive cleavage while flicking her frosted hair extensions back over her shoulder.

‘Good for you.’ I wink, remembering when Mrs Grace, Carrington’s oldest employee, taught me that trick on my first day as a Saturday girl all those years ago – Mrs Grace rocked Women’s Accessories for fifty years before handing the mantle to me. She’s retired from Carrington’s now, after landing a book deal for a good five-figure sum to write her autobiography on the back of being in the reality TV show. It’s going to be a trilogy, starting right from the beginning and detailing the history of Carrington’s – the underground maze of tunnels that practically run the length and breadth of Mulberry town. There’s even one that goes all the way to the old music hall at the other end of Lovelace Walk, a few streets away. Rumour has it that the original Mr H. Carrington, aka Dirty Harry (Tom’s grandfather on Vaughan’s side), had the tunnels built especially as a discreet way to ‘visit’ showgirls, then pay them in kind by inviting them back for secret late-night shopping sprees. Sort of like a free trolley dash in return for sex, I suppose. Mrs Grace told me all about it one time over a cream horn and a steamy hot chocolate in Sam’s café. The books are going to cover the war years, too, when the underground tunnels were opened up to the residents of Mulberry-On-Sea to use as bunkers during the Blitz. Which gives me an idea – we could do a tour as part of the regatta! Apparently it’s going to be a two-day event over the August bank holiday weekend (I got an email ahead of the first committee meeting tomorrow), so plenty of time for people to see ‘behind the scenes’ of the iconic Carrington’s building. I’ll add the idea to my list and be sure to bring it up tomorrow. Mrs Grace might even come out of retirement to be the tour guide. I bet she’d love that.

‘And I’ve positioned the long mirror right here, see,’ Annie points an index finger, ‘ becaaaaaause … ’

‘Those who try it, buy it,’ we both sing in unison, grinning.

Annie puts on a serious work face. ‘Sooo, what can I help you with? I take it you’re after some designer bags for your VIPs?’

‘Sure am. I need top handle day bags, evening – a clutch or two, some totes and a couple of those big stripy beach bags over there.’ I point towards the special ‘summer fun’ shelf that Annie has artfully created. A pile of bonkbusters, presumably for reading by the pool, are stacked at one end, and she’s even snaffled some of the glittery gold sand and sprinkled it in between the bags on display.

‘Blimey. Sounds as if they’re splashing the cash then … Anyone famous?’

‘I don’t think so – didn’t recognise them. A mother-and-daughter day, treating themselves,’ I say, as an image of me as a child, shopping with Mum, pops into my head.

‘Ah, that’s lovely. Right then, jump behind my counter in case a customer comes—’

‘Oh, you don’t have to pick out the bags for me,’ I say quickly.

‘Babes, it’s no trouble. Besides, I want to – this is my kingdom now,’ she pauses to gesture around the floor. ‘And I really want to make this work. I want to be amazing at something. Just like you.’ She gives me a quick hug.

‘And you already are.’ I squeeze her back, thinking how much she reminds me of myself when I first started out in Women’s Accessories, full of ideas and enthusiasm. ‘But thank you, honey.’

‘No worries, leave it to me and I’ll sort out a nice selection for you, starting with the exquisite Cambridge satchel in fluoro lime, yes? New in, and totes amazeballs!’ She gasps, fluttering her eyelids and waving a palm in the air as if experiencing her very own bag nirvana.

Once she’s come to, Annie races around the shop floor picking out the best bags, while I stand behind my old counter reminiscing – I must have only been a little girl when I first came to Carrington’s with Mum; we would shop and eat fairy cakes in the old-fashioned tearoom and be happy together. Of course, this was years before Sam took over and turned it into a cosy café where the cakes are now éclairs and miniature pastel-coloured macaroons, and a good old-fashioned Victoria sponge is a magnificent six-tiered tower of rainbow-coloured layers decorated with blueberries and fresh lemon-infused cream frosting. Those Saturdays and school holidays were probably the best times of my life, although meeting Tom is right up there too. And I so wish Tom could have met Mum; I think she would definitely have approved, especially with him being the majority shareholder – Mum was always a little in awe of anyone out of the ordinary. It was my thirteenth birthday not long before she died, and the nurses in the hospital organised a little party. They even invited someone from the local football team to turn up and give me a teddy bear – Mum went all fan-girl. And she would have loved the VIP suite, feeling special for a day, pampered … Such a shame she’s gone, and I would have loved treating her to a selection of gorgeous new outfits.

I used to miss her so much, I still do sometimes, but having Dad back in my life has made a massive difference, especially as we’ve reached the stage now where we can talk about Mum together and remember the happy times. I make a mental note to call Dad later, see how he is and suggest a trip to Mum’s grave as we haven’t been since Christmas. I’d like to take some flowers – maybe Nancy will come too. Last time she made a beautiful Christmassy arrangement of pinecones, miniature ferns and cinnamon sticks, set around a gorgeous red poinsettia plant, for me to put next to Mum’s headstone. Nancy’s kindness and generosity made me well up with emotion. She’s such a kind, warm woman – and she really knows what it feels like to lose someone so close; her daughter, Natalie, died in a motorbike accident years ago, so she wears her necklace, with a gold letter N on, to keep her close always. I run an index finger over the silver locket that Nancy gave me as a Christmas present. It’s on a chain around my neck, which I never take off. Inside is a picture of Mum (Nancy got it from Dad) when she was young and vibrant; hair fanned around her smiling face and cornflower-blue bright eyes. In the other side is a picture of me, with a brunette bob and the same blue eyes, a similar image to the one Mum would have seen of me just before she died. I love that Nancy did this; it’s as if Mum’s memory of me is crystallised for ever and ever.