Christmas at Carrington’s Read Online Free

obviously. Don’t want to alert the staff, so they put on an act; it would ruin everything if they were on best behaviour. That’s just boring. And don’t be fooled by Kelly – she may appear all jolly and fun at first, but underneath she’s ruthless, a total ballbuster when it comes to promoting her TV shows and whipping businesses into shape. She really tells it like it is and doesn’t take any prisoners. In her last series, she made them sack five people.’
    ‘What for?’ I ask, instantly feeling sorry for the ones that lost their jobs.
    ‘I’m not sure, just read something about it in one of those celebrity gossip magazines. Sniggering when she was talking, most likely. Wouldn’t surprise me. That’s what she’s like,’ Sam says.
    My mobile rings and, on seeing it’s Eddie, my other best friend and Tom’s personal assistant (well, boy assistant or BA for short), I press to answer.
    ‘Get your tellybox on
right now!
’ he shrieks, totally bypassing the introductions bit and almost perforating my eardrum in the process.
    ‘OK, calm down, it’s already on. Where’s the drama?’
    ‘Dollface. You will not believe this. Gird your ladyballs. S-C-R-E-A-M.’
    ‘What are you going on about? Eddie, have you been at the booze cabinet?’ I laugh.
    ‘Oh darling,
purlease
with the vulgarity … now is not the time to make me out to be some kind of lush. Now, will you just shut up and watch.’
    Doing as I’m told, I stare at the screen. And freeze – motionless like the gold statue that stands on a box outside Mulberry-On-Sea station. I’d know that cherry-wood panelling anywhere.
    I can hear my own blood pumping. The camera zooms to a woman browsing through the Women’s Accessories department, and I know I’m not mistaken. Sam flings herself upright but doesn’t utter a word. She knows it too. It’s Carrington’s.
My Carrington’s!
    It’s the actual department store where I work and I feel clammy with fear. I want to throw up. A rivulet of sweat snakes a path all the way down my back. Sam jumps up. I toss the magazine down on the sofa and Sam clutches my free hand. We stand together in silence. Our jaws hang open as Kelly’s secret camera, which must be secreted inside Zara’s hat, glides around the gloriously decadent Art Deco store before coming to a halt up near the key winter merchandise. And right next to the very display podium that I set up a few weeks ago.
    Annie, one of the sales assistants who works with me, comes into view. She’s lounging nonchalantly behind the counter with her back to the camera and
oh my God
… she’s texting on her mobile, totally oblivious to the woman who is now swinging a gorgeous, caramel-coloured, Billy-the-goatskin or whatever, £900 Anya Hindmarch tote on her shoulder while admiring the view in the long mirror. The very mirror I had installed specifically to entice customers to try on the bags. Because every decent sales assistant knows:
those who try it, buy it
.
    Zara glances in Annie’s direction, and then raises a perfectly groomed HD eyebrow at the camera guy, as if deliberately drawing the viewer’s attention to the fact that she’s being ignored. Now the camera is panning towards the window display and
oh my actual God
. I want to die! Right now, in my shoebox lounge with a lump of partially chewed mince pie trapped inside my gullet. My arse is only gyrating around to that Beyoncé tune, ‘Single Ladies’. I’m even wagging my left hand in the air and pointing to my ring finger. And I swear they’ve put a wide angle on the shot. I know my bum is big, but it ain’t
that
flipping big.
    ‘Boom boom, peng ting! Yo go
girlfrieeend
… get jiggy with it and all that. You are magnificent,’ Eddie bellows, like he’s some sort of badass gangsta boy, and I think I might actually faint. With his voice shrieking in my ear and my wiggling bottom on the screen it’s like a total sensory overload. And my phone hand seems to have gripped itself into a