But even though I don't like the outfit, I still feel a frisson of excitement as I come out onto the shop floor. The spotlights are shining brightly; the floor's all shiny and polished; music's playing and there's a sense of anticipation in the air. It's almost like being a performer. I glance at myself in a mirror and murmur, 'How can I help you?' Or maybe it should be, 'Can I help you?' I'm going to be the most charming shop assistant ever, I decide. People will come here just to be assisted by me, and I'll have a fantastic rapport with all the customers. And then I'll appear in the Evening Standard in some quirky column about favourite shops. Perhaps I'll even get my own TV show.
No-one's told me what to do yet, so – using my initiative, very good – I walk up to a woman with blond hair, who's tapping away at the till, and say,
'Shall I have a quick go?'
'What?' she says, not looking up.
'I'd better learn how to work the till, hadn't I? Before all the customers arrive?'
Then the woman does look up and, to my surprise, bursts into laughter.
'On the till? You think you're going to go straight onto the till?'
'Oh,' I say, blushing a little. 'Well I thought . . .'
'You're a beginner, darling,' she says. 'You're not going near the till. Go with Kelly. She'll show you what you'll be doing today.'
Folding jumpers. Folding bloody jumpers. That's what I'm here to do. Rush round after customers who have picked up cardigans and left them all crumpled, and fold them back up again. By eleven o'clock I'm absolutely exhausted – and, to be honest, not enjoying myself very much at all. Do you know how depressing it is to fold a cardigan in exactly the right Ally Smith way and put it back on the shelf, all neatly lined up – just to see someone casually pull it down again, look at it, pull a face and discard it? You want to scream at them, LEAVE IT ALONE IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BUY IT! I watched one girl even pick up a cardigan identical to the one she already had on! I mean, what is her problem?
And I'm not getting to chat to the customers, either. It's as if they see through you when you're a shop assistant. No-one's asked me a single interesting question like 'Does this shirt go with these shoes?'or 'Where can I find a really nice black skirt under £60?' I'd love to answer stuff like that. But the only questions I've been asked are, 'Is there a loo?' and 'Where's the nearest Midland cashpoint?' I haven't built up a single rapport with anyone.
Oh, it's depressing. The only thing that keeps me going is an end-of-stock reduced rack at the back of the shop. I keep sidling towards it and looking at a pair of zebra-print jeans, reduced from £180 to £90. I remember those jeans. I've even tried them on. And here they are, out of the blue – reduced. I just can't keep my eyes off them. They're even in size 12. My size.
I mean, I know I'm not really supposed to be spending money – but this is a complete one-off. They're the coolest jeans you've ever seen. And £90 is nothing for a pair of really good jeans. If you were in Gucci, you'd be paying at least £500. Oh God, I want them. I want them.
I'm just loitering at the back, eyeing them up for the hundredth time when Danielle comes striding up and I jump guiltily. But all she says is, 'Can you go on to fitting-room duty now? Sarah'll show you the ropes.'
No more folding jumpers! Thank God!
To my relief, this fitting-room lark is a lot more fun. Ally Smith has really nice fitting-rooms, with lots of space and individual cubicles, and my job is to stand at the entrance and check how many items people are taking in with them. It's really interesting to see what people are trying on. One girl's buying loads of stuff, and keeps saying how her boyfriend told her to go mad for her birthday, and he would pay.
Huh. Well, it's all right for some. Still, never mind, at least I'm earning money. It's 11.30, which means I've earned . . . £14.40 so far. Well, that's not bad, is it? I could get some nice makeup for that.
Except that I'm not going to waste this money on makeup. Of course not – I mean that's not why I'm here, is it? I'm going to be really sensible. What I'm going to do is buy the zebra-print jeans – just because they're a one-off and it would be a crime not to – and then put all the rest towards my bank balance. I just can't wait to put them on. I get a break at 2.30, so what I'll do is nip to the reduced rail and take them to the staff room, just to make sure they fit, and . . .
Suddenly my face freezes. Hang on.
Hang on a moment. What's that girl holding over her arm? She's holding my zebra-print jeans! She's coming towards the fitting rooms. Oh my God. She wants to try them on. But they're mine!
'Hi!' she says brightly as she approaches.
'Hi,' I gulp, trying to stay calm. 'Ahm . . . how many items have you got?'
'Four,' she says, showing me the hangers. Behind me are tokens hanging on the wall, marked One Two, Three and Four. The girl's waiting for me to give her a token marked Four and let her in. But I can't.
I physically cannot let her go in there with my jeans.
'Actually,' I hear myself saying, 'you're only allowed three items.'
'Really?' she says in surprise. 'But . . .' She gestures to the tokens.
'I know,' I say. 'But they've just changed the rules. Sorry about that.' And I give her my best unhelpful-shop-assistant smile.
This is quite a power trip, actually. You can just stop people trying on clothes! You can ruin their lives!
'Oh, OK.' says the girl. 'Well, I'll leave out—'
'These,' I say, and grab the zebra-print jeans.
'No,' she says. 'Actually, I think I'll—'
"We have to take the top item,' I explain, and give the unhelpful smile again. 'Sorry about that.'
Thank God for bolshy shop assistants and stupid pointless rules. People are so used to them that this girl doesn't even question me. She just rolls her eyes, grabs the Three token and pushes her way past into the fitting-room, leaving me holding the precious jeans.
OK, now what? From inside the girl's cubicle, I can hear zips being undone and hangers being clattered. She won't take long to try on those three things. And then she'll be out, wanting the zebra-print jeans. Oh God. What can I do? For a few moments I'm frozen with indecision. Then the sound of a cubicle curtain being rattled back jolts me into action. Quickly, I stuff the zebra-print jeans out of sight behind the curtain and stand up again with an innocent look on my face.
A moment later, Danielle comes striding up, a clipboard in her hands.
'All right?' she says. 'Coping, are you?'
'I'm doing fine,' I say, and flash her a confident smile.
'I'm just rostering in breaks,' she says. 'If you could manage to last until three, you can have an hour then.'
'Fine,' I say in my positive, employee-of-the-month voice, even though I'm thinking Three? I'll be starving!
'Good,' she says, and moves off into the corner to write on her piece of paper, just as a voice says, 'Hi. Can I have those jeans now?'
Oh my God, it's the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she bloody Houdini?
'Hi!' I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. 'Any good? That black skirt's really nice. The way the splits go at the—'
'Not really,' she says, interrupting me, and shoves the lot back at me, all mussed up and off their hangers, I might add. 'It was really the jeans I wanted. Can I have them?'
My heart starts to thump hard.
'What jeans were they?' I say, wrinkling my brow sympathetically. 'Blue ones? You can get them over there, next to the
'No!' says the girl impatiently. 'The zebra-print jeans I had a minute ago.'
'Oh,' I say blankly. 'Oh yes. I'm not sure where they went. Maybe someone else took them.'
'But I gave them to you! You were supposed to be looking after them.'
'Ah,' I say, and flash my shop-assistant smile. 'I'm afraid we can't be held responsible for property given to us to hold while customers are in the fitting rooms.'
'Oh for God's sake!' she says, looking at me as if I'm an imbecile. 'T
his is ridiculous! I gave them to you about thirty seconds ago! How can you have lost them?'
Shit. She's really angry. Her voice is getting quite loud, and people are starting to look.
'Is there a problem?' chimes in a syrupy voice, and I look up in horror. Danielle's coming over towards us, a sweet-but-menacing look on her face. OK, keep calm, I tell myself firmly. No-one can prove anything either way. And everyone knows the customer's always a troublemaker.
'I gave this assistant a pair of jeans to look after because I had four items, which is apparently too many,' the girl begins explaining.
'Four items?' says Danielle. 'But you're allowed four items in the fitting room.' And she turns to look at me with an expression which, frankly, isn't very friendly.
'Are you?' I say innocently. 'Oh God, I'm sorry. I thought it was three. I'm new,' I add apologetically.
'I thought it was four!' says the girl. 'I mean, you've got tokens with bloody "Four" written on them!' She gives an impatient sigh. 'So anyway, I gave her the jeans, and tried on the other things – and then I came out for the jeans, and they've gone.'
'Gone?' says Danielle sharply. 'Gone where?'
'I'm not sure,' I say, trying to look as baffled as the next person. 'Maybe another customer took them.'
'But you were holding them!' says the girl. 'So what – did someone just come up to you and whip them out of your fingers?'
Oh piss off. What's her problem, anyway? How can she be so obsessed with a bloody pair of jeans?
'Maybe you could get another pair from the rack,' I say, trying to sound helpful.
'There isn't another pair,' she says icily. 'They were from the reduced rail.'
'Rebecca, think!' says Danielle. 'Did you put them down somewhere?'
'I must have done,' I say vaguely. 'It's been so busy in here, I must have put them on the rail, and I suppose another customer must have walked off with them.' I give an apologetic little shrug as though to say 'Customers, eh?'
'Wait a minute!' says the girl sharply. 'What's that?'
I follow her gaze and freeze. The zebra-print jeans have rolled out from under the curtain. For a moment we all stare at them.
'Gosh!' I manage at last. 'There they are!'
'And what exactly are they doing down there?' asks Danielle.
'I don't know!' I say. 'Maybe they . . .' I swallow, trying to think as quickly as I can. 'Maybe
'You took them!' says the girl incredulously. 'You bloody took them! You wouldn't let me try them on, and then you hid them!'
'That's ridiculous!' I say, trying to sound convincing – but I can feel my cheeks flushing a guilty red. Oh God, why do I have to be someone who blushes? Why?
'You little—' The girl breaks off and turns to Danielle. 'I want to make an official complaint.'
'Rebecca,' says Danielle. 'Into my office, please.'
Hang on a minute. Isn't she going to back me up? Isn't she going to defend her staff to the public? What happened to a united front?
'Now!' she says sharply, and I jump in fright. As I walk slowly away to her office (broom cupboard, more like), I can see all the other staff looking at me and nudging each other. Oh God, how embarrassing. Still, it'll be OK. I'll just say sorry and promise not to do it again, and maybe offer to work overtime. Just as long as I don't get . . .
I don't believe it. She's fired me. I haven't even worked there for a day, and I've been kicked out. I was so shocked when she told me, I actually became almost tearful. I mean, apart from the incident with the zebra-print jeans, I thought I was doing really well. But apparently hiding stuff from customers is one of those automatic-firing things. (Which is really unfair, because she never told me that at the interview.)
As I get changed out of my grey trousers and T-shirt, there's a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it's even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I've done today – and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.
It's all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably, I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—
'Rebecca!' My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It's . . . it's . . . it's . . .
'Tom!' I exclaim in the nick of time. 'Hi there! What a surprise!'
Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. What's he doing here? Shouldn't he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?
'This is Lucy,' he says proudly, and pulls forward a girl holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don't believe it. It's the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying. Surely she didn't mean . . .
'You're going out together?' I say stupidly. 'You and her?'
'Yes,' says Tom, and grins at me. 'Have been for some time now.'
But this doesn't make any sense. Why haven't Janice and Martin mentioned Tom's girlfriend? They've mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.
And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!
'Hi.' says Lucy.
'Hi there,' I say. 'I'm Rebecca. Next-door neighbour. Childhood friend. All that.'
'Oh you're Rebecca,' she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.
What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.
'That's me!' I say brightly, and give a little laugh.
'You know, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before,' says Lucy thoughtfully – and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. 'You work at Ally Smith, don't you?'
'No!' I say, a little too sharply.
'Oh,' she says. 'I thought I saw you—'
God, I can't have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They'll think I've been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I'm broke and living in a squalid bedsit.
'Research,' I say coolly. 'I'm a journalist, actually.'
'Rebecca's a financial journalist,' says Tom. 'Really knows her stuff.'
'Oh right,' says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.
'Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,' says Tom. 'Dad was talking about it just the other day. Said you'd been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.'
'I do what I can,' I say modestly, and give Tom a special, old-friends smile. Not that I'm jealous, or anything – but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom's wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what's going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.
'Anyway,' he says. 'We must get going.'
'Train to catch?' I say patronizingly. 'It must be hard, living so far out.'
'It's not so bad,' says Lucy. 'I commute to Wetherby's every morning and it only takes forty minutes.'
'You work for Wetherby's?' I say, aghast. Why am I surrounded by City high-flyers?
'Yes,' she says. 'I'm one of their political advisers.'
What? What does that mean? Is she really brainy, or something? Oh God, this gets worse and worse.
'And we're not catching our train just yet,' says Tom, smiling down at Lucy. 'We're off to Tiffany first. Choose a little something for Lucy's birthday next week.' He lifts a hand and starts twisting a lock of her hair round his finger.
I can't cope with this any more. It's not fair. Why haven't I got a boyfriend to buy me stuff in Tiffany's?
'Well, lovely to see you,' I gabble. 'Give my love to your mum and dad. Funny they didn't mention Lucy,' I can't resist adding, a little spitefully. 'I saw them the other day, and they didn't mention her once.'
I shoot an innocent look at Lucy. Hah! Now who's got the upper hand?
But
she and Tom are exchanging looks again.
'They probably didn't want to—' begins Tom, and stops abruptly.
'What?' I say.
There's a long, awkward silence. Then Lucy says, 'Tom, I'll just look in this shop window for a second,' and walks off, leaving the two of us alone.
God, what drama! I'm obviously the Third Person in their relationship.
'Tom, what's going on?' I say, and give a little laugh.
But it's obvious, isn't it? He's still hankering after me. And Lucy knows it.
'Oh God,' says Tom, and rubs his face. 'Look, Rebecca, this isn't easy for me. But the thing is, Mum and Dad are aware of your . . . feelings for me. They didn't want to mention Lucy to you, because they thought you'd be . . .' He exhales sharply. 'Disappointed.'
What? Is this some kind of joke? I have never been more dumbfounded in all my life. For a few seconds I can't even move for astonishment.
'My feelings for you?' I stutter at last. 'Are you joking?'
'Look, it's pretty obvious,' he says, shrugging. 'Mum and Dad told me how the other day you kept on asking how I was, and all about my new house . . .' There's a slightly pitying look in his eye. Oh my God, I can't stand this. How can he think . . . 'I really like you, Becky,' he adds. 'I just don't
'I was being polite!' I roar. 'I don't fancy you!'
'Look,' he says. 'Let's just leave it, shall we?'
'But I don't!' I cry furiously. 'I never did fancy you! That's why I didn't go out with you when you asked me! When we were both sixteen, remember?'
I break off and look at him triumphantly – to see that his face hasn't moved a bit. He isn't listening. Or if he is, he's thinking that the fact I've dragged in our teenage past means I'm obsessed by him. And the more I try to argue the point, the more obsessed he'll think I am. Oh God, this is horrendous.
'OK,' I say, trying to gather together the remaining shreds of my dignity. 'OK, we're obviously not communicating here, so I'll just leave you to it.' I glance over at Lucy, who's looking in a shop window and obviously pretending not to be listening. 'Honestly, I'm not after your boyfriend,' I call. 'And I never was. Bye.'