Alexandra Brown - Ice Creams at Carrington’s

I like that – reminiscing, the feeling of nostalgia, a sense of history, and when I think about it, I’ve worked blooming hard to make this little shoebox flat my home for so long. First, stashing every penny I earned to buy it in the first place – a lot of extra hours and overtime was involved; and then keeping hold of it over the years – there were plenty of times when I very nearly couldn’t pay the monthly mortgage. This flat holds many memories; it’s my security, and that’s important to me after spending time in foster care as a child. Mum died when I was thirteen – she had multiple sclerosis, which had worn her down so much that when she caught pneumonia she just couldn’t fight any more. So I ended up in care because Dad was in prison for selling secrets from the trading floor of the bank where he worked to fund his gambling addiction, and my only other relative, Uncle Geoffrey, couldn’t – or wouldn’t – take me in. But that’s all in the past now. I’m blissfully happy, financially secure and Dad and I are really close again – his new wife Nancy is lovely, so kind and warm and mumsy; I had missed having a mother figure in my life.

‘Well, you don’t have to sell it or anything, I know how much this place means to you. So just keep it – it can be your bolthole,’ Tom suggests.

‘Will I need one then?’ I raise an eyebrow. My last boyfriend, Brett, cheated on me with a tall beautiful woman with super-big blonde hair and a sylph-like figure, in total contrast to my average height, curves and wispy brunette bob that requires a lot of maintenance (read: copious cans of Batiste Plumping Powder) to resemble anything near swingy. I tried hair extensions for a while, but had to have them removed after shaking my head a little too vigorously on a lunch date one time – a chunk above my left ear winged out and ended up floating in Tom’s butternut squash soup. Eek!

‘No. Only an idea … it could be your girl pad,’ Tom says casually.

‘Did you really just say girl pad ?’ I stifle a snerk.

‘Where are those knickers you used to wear? The ones with the cow motif all over them and the words “cheeky cow” emblazoned across the back?’

‘Don’t know.’ I pull a pretend ‘whatevs’ face.

‘Worn out, I bet.’ He slides a hand under the duvet and pings my knicker elastic.

‘Ha ha, you are so hilare! In fact, you crack me up so much I think I’m going to laugh myself into an actual hernia because you’re just too funneee …’ I shoo his hands away.

‘Hmm, well, as much as I’m enjoying our banter, I really must go. Just think about it, please.’ He kisses his left index finger and places it gently on my lips before turning to go.

‘Will do. Promise,’ I call after him.

‘OK. Girl paaaaad ,’ he shouts as the front door closes.

And I really will think about it. But first I’m having half an hour in bed to luxuriate inside my new two hundred trillion, or whatever, thread count cotton sheets while I ponder on suitably sensible but witty one-liners to say to Tom’s parents this afternoon – Isabella of the incredibly wealthy Italian Rossi dynasty, and Vaughan Carrington, direct descendent of Harry Carrington, the founder of Carrington’s department store where I work as a personal stylist.

One rainy afternoon, Tom and I were cosied up watching old films, drinking hot chocolate and sharing our respective family stories, and he explained that his father, Vaughan, never showed an interest in Carrington’s, so went ‘off to see the world’ instead. That’s how he met Tom’s mother, Isabella, on safari in Zanzibar. Meanwhile, the majority share in the store was left to Vaughan’s sister, Camille, who later sold it to Tom, which is how he came to be the boss. Mr Carrington.

And this afternoon his parents are hosting a summer soirée on board their super-yacht! Yes, super-yacht . I know! Apparently, it has a cinema, a champagne bar and an actual helipad for, like, when they can’t be bothered driving or taking a train in normal-people style, they can just be mechanically rotated from whichever exotic location they happen to be in, and boom! They’ve arrived. Not that I begrudge them, of course not, and I’ve only met them once before as they tend to spend most of their time travelling the globe, so perhaps I read it wrong. Or maybe I was having an oversensitive moment brought on by nerves from necking one too many jellybeantinis – I knew Tom and I shouldn’t have met up in that cocktail bar beforehand. Big mistake. Huge. You see, I really want his parents to like me, of course I do, he’s my one, my boyfriend, my happy-ever-after. But the slightly awks atmosphere when Tom’s mother, Isabella, turned to me and said, ‘So what do you do, my dear?’ in her very breathy but regal-sounding Italian accent, told me it wasn’t to be. Yet! Let’s just say I’m working on it. Hence the proper preparation this time around. And definitely no jellybeantinis …

‘I work part-time at Carrington’s,’ I had told her, brightly and proudly. And why not? I love my job managing the VIP customer shopping experience where I get to meet Arabian princesses, visiting dignitaries and the like. Since taking over, my role has evolved, and I’m more of a personal stylist now, with a number of well-heeled clients – actresses, celebrities, even royalty. But they’re not all A-listers; some of my regulars are ordinary women who just want honest advice on what suits them best without having to rely on a well-meaning friend to fib – that an outfit looks good when it clearly doesn’t. So they call for my advice on creating the perfect wardrobe. I even had one customer FaceTime me from a boutique in Dubai, wanting to make sure I approved of a pair of neon-green Choo heels she was about to purchase to match the pink shift dress I had selected to be part of her holiday wardrobe. I didn’t. Instead, I couriered a pair of exquisite Miu Miu Mary Janes (exclusive to Carrington’s), which I knew would match perfectly. She called me the very minute they arrived and begged for a pair in every colour to be sent right away, because she loved them that much with the shift dress, which she’s now requested in every colour too. And that’s how it works … my customers trust me, we have a rapport, and this means the world to me.

And the sales commission and other perks are phenomenal. Only last week I was asked to escort a selection of Carrington’s exclusive couture gowns to a Premiership footballer’s daughter celebrating her eighteenth birthday in Paris – they sent a private jet (yes I know, a proper YOLO moment) to collect me, the six dresses, matching accessories (high-end handbags and shoes), in addition to a selection of our finest jewellery collection, all because she wanted my personal advice on which of the exquisite ensembles would suit her best.

Maybe I should also have mentioned the weekly fashion and beauty column I write for Closer magazine, which takes up the rest of my time, where I get to write about international fashion shows, designer dresses at film premieres, and I’ve even interviewed celebrities for one of my special features: What’s In Your Wardrobe? I go to their house, flick through their walk-in dressing rooms selecting outfits, and then explain how readers can source the same look by shopping on the high street, preferably in Carrington’s.

The column came about on the back of me having been a reluctant reality TV star for a bit, when celebrity retail guru, Kelly Cooper, rocked up instore to film her last series – but that’s another story that I really didn’t want to go into when we were around Tom’s parents’ private dining table at the exclusive restaurant in London’s Mayfair. My YouTube clips still surface from time to time – secret film footage of me twerking, really badly, on the shop floor to Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’ tune, and generally showing me in a far from flattering light. The less they know about my past the better, because it’s just too much of a leap from what they’re accustomed to. A whole different world. And one I’m sure they wouldn’t select by choice for their only son and heir to be involved with. So I’m glad I kept it to myself. Of course Tom knows pretty much everything about me, but I just can’t imagine his mother, Isabella, has ever thumbed through a sleb gossip magazine in her life. Oh no no no. I Googled her – this is a woman who speaks seven languages, was businesswoman of the year in her day and even has a Nobel prize for her pioneering work in global economics, for crying out loud. No wonder her expensively tightened face almost rearranged itself into a frown as the hideous realisation dawned – yep, that’s right, that I work in the same Carrington’s department store, the very one her son, aka Tom, aka my gorge, funny, sexy, kind to animals (he rescued Mr Cheeks right at the start), down-to-earth boyfriend actually owns! He’s Tom Carrington, the boss, the managing director – and he’s dating me, a mere employee. And a part-time one at that! Oh no.