care what my sister says, it’s perfectly understandable that I’m not quite there yet. Besides, since we broke up I’ve been focusing on other aspects of my life. I mean, I don’t live with my parents any more, for a start. OK, so I do live with my big sister, Delilah, and her husband, Will, in the converted attic in their house overlooking a gorgeous square in Primrose Hill, but it’s different because I’m independent. Like a 28-year-old woman should be. Well, independent apart from the fact that in exchange for my lodging I have to look after my 3-year-old niece, Lola, and 2-year-old nephew, Raffy, before and after work. It’s not ideal, but I can’t complain.
I inhale deeply and gaze around me wondrously. How could I fail to feel positive on a day like this? The roofs of the grand Regency houses on Chalcot Square are covered in white, as if a big scoop of vanilla ice cream has melted all over the peppermint, orange, raspberry and lemon sorbet-coloured houses. And the pretty garden that they surround looks like a Christmas cake that’s just been covered with a thick layer of royal icing. I push off, wobbling a little as I weave round it and cycle on to Regent’s Park Road.
I cross the road and head over to Primrose Hill, pedalling hard to break through the thick layer of snow that crunches under my wheels. Then I stop for a moment and just cruise downhill, feeling the wind whip against my cheeks, throwing my head back and closing my eyes so that I feel like I’m suspended in space and time. I open my eyes, grip the handlebars tightly and pedal furiously again. Because today, for once, I’m determined to go somewhere.
It feels as if I have been magically transported back in time as I cycle into Portland Place. No vehicles are on the streets and I can’t help but imagine them when they were cobbled and filled with horses and carriages. I’m just picturing myself in full Victorian costume, when I swing off down New Cavendish Street and onto Great Titchfield Street, past the unlit pubs and restaurants, and then I swerve down a smaller road, skidding to a halt as I pull up in front of Hardy’s department store: a place that has been my daytime home for the past two years and where, today, all my career dreams will finally come true.
C HAPTER 2
H ardy’s sits elegantly on the corner of two streets just north (or, as many people say, ‘the wrong side’) of Regent Street. Over the other side is Soho, home to numerous famous theatres, legendary restaurants and cool, destination bars. But here, in ‘Noho’, we’re like Soho’s less famous but much prettier sibling. Officially classed as in Fitzrovia, Hardy’s is too far from the big shops on Regent and Oxford Street for the crowds who flock there every day. Tourists don’t know we’re here, and Londoners would far rather visit salubrious Selfridges, quaint Liberty or just-plain-useful John Lewis than schlep all the way over to us.
The small but perfectly formed store seems to rise up before me now like a pop-up picture in a children’s Christmas book. I sit back on my saddle and glance up at it fondly, panting a little from my uncharacteristic race to the store. I’m not usually this desperate to get to work but today is different: the Big Announcement is happening at 9 a.m. My manager, Sharon, came into the stockroom last week and told me that they’re looking to promote someone to be assistant manager of the shop floor. She said that they had their eye on someone who’d been with the company for a long time (hello! Two years!), who knew the stock inside out (I’m only the stock room manager) as well as the customers (I can name all of our regular customers off the cuff). Then she’d said they wanted someone who was passionate about the store. And if that wasn’t the biggest ever hint in the universe, then I don’t know what is. There isn’t anything I don’t know about Hardy’s. And Sharon knows how much I’d love to be out
I inhale deeply and gaze around me wondrously. How could I fail to feel positive on a day like this? The roofs of the grand Regency houses on Chalcot Square are covered in white, as if a big scoop of vanilla ice cream has melted all over the peppermint, orange, raspberry and lemon sorbet-coloured houses. And the pretty garden that they surround looks like a Christmas cake that’s just been covered with a thick layer of royal icing. I push off, wobbling a little as I weave round it and cycle on to Regent’s Park Road.
I cross the road and head over to Primrose Hill, pedalling hard to break through the thick layer of snow that crunches under my wheels. Then I stop for a moment and just cruise downhill, feeling the wind whip against my cheeks, throwing my head back and closing my eyes so that I feel like I’m suspended in space and time. I open my eyes, grip the handlebars tightly and pedal furiously again. Because today, for once, I’m determined to go somewhere.
It feels as if I have been magically transported back in time as I cycle into Portland Place. No vehicles are on the streets and I can’t help but imagine them when they were cobbled and filled with horses and carriages. I’m just picturing myself in full Victorian costume, when I swing off down New Cavendish Street and onto Great Titchfield Street, past the unlit pubs and restaurants, and then I swerve down a smaller road, skidding to a halt as I pull up in front of Hardy’s department store: a place that has been my daytime home for the past two years and where, today, all my career dreams will finally come true.
C HAPTER 2
H ardy’s sits elegantly on the corner of two streets just north (or, as many people say, ‘the wrong side’) of Regent Street. Over the other side is Soho, home to numerous famous theatres, legendary restaurants and cool, destination bars. But here, in ‘Noho’, we’re like Soho’s less famous but much prettier sibling. Officially classed as in Fitzrovia, Hardy’s is too far from the big shops on Regent and Oxford Street for the crowds who flock there every day. Tourists don’t know we’re here, and Londoners would far rather visit salubrious Selfridges, quaint Liberty or just-plain-useful John Lewis than schlep all the way over to us.
The small but perfectly formed store seems to rise up before me now like a pop-up picture in a children’s Christmas book. I sit back on my saddle and glance up at it fondly, panting a little from my uncharacteristic race to the store. I’m not usually this desperate to get to work but today is different: the Big Announcement is happening at 9 a.m. My manager, Sharon, came into the stockroom last week and told me that they’re looking to promote someone to be assistant manager of the shop floor. She said that they had their eye on someone who’d been with the company for a long time (hello! Two years!), who knew the stock inside out (I’m only the stock room manager) as well as the customers (I can name all of our regular customers off the cuff). Then she’d said they wanted someone who was passionate about the store. And if that wasn’t the biggest ever hint in the universe, then I don’t know what is. There isn’t anything I don’t know about Hardy’s. And Sharon knows how much I’d love to be out
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