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copes with all its big sales. Maybe it has extra large tills with safes underneath or something. Well, whatever they have, Carrington’s will need to find out and upgrade, ASAP, as our tiny old-fashioned tills just won’t do at all. Oh no! Not if we’re going to be servicing the shopping requirements of über-wealthy customers from now on.

      And I don’t believe it. I blink again to be sure. Yep. It’s Melissa. The sturdy plain-clothes store detective who used to work here. But how come she’s back? She left to work at the prison. Melissa catches my eye and surreptitiously wanders over.

      ‘You OK, G?’ she mouths discreetly, from behind the Juicy Couture stand. I flick my eyes to the enormous pile of notes in front of me and she pulls out a mobile, presumably to call security.

      A few seconds later, Kelly appears; she’s crawling on all fours as fast as she can towards the Christmas tree for cover. I make big eyes and pray that my customer doesn’t spot her. I bet they don’t have Ronald McDonald lookalikes crawling commando-style on the shop floor at Harrods. But then perhaps Kelly’s behaviour is perfectly normal in the real-but-made-up world. I bite my bottom lip and try to concentrate on counting the cash instead. It’s two hundred pounds over, which I hand back to the woman.

      ‘For you,’ she says, placing her hand over mine and gently pushing the wad towards me.

      ‘Oh no, but I can’t,’ I reply instinctively, holding up my palms.

      ‘I insist.’ The woman smiles. In my peripheral vision I can see Kelly flapping a hand wildly, gesturing for me to take the cash. So I do. I nudge it towards the till, unsure of what to do next. The woman says something in Arabic to the men, who fling the empty briefcases onto the stock trolley and start pushing it across the shop floor. Mick, the security guard, appears and offers to give them a hand, and they head towards the side door, which leads straight out to the directors’ car park. I make a mental note to see about us getting a proper Carrington’s concierge service. This calibre of customer will expect it. We could have a dedicated suite especially for VIP shoppers, park their limos, escort them around the store, load their merch, or we could even deliver to their super-yachts. Fabulous. I’m going to mention it to Kelly.

      Annie is practically bursting with delight, and I’m bent over with both hands flat on the counter, taking a deep breath, when the woman returns. I quickly stand up straight and smooth down my jacket. Annie ducks back into the cupboard.

      ‘One for you, and one for your assistant,’ she says, handing me a small Carrington’s carrier bag.

      ‘Oh,’ I start, but on catching Kelly doing the flapping thing again, I immediately take the bag and thank the woman profusely.

      ‘Take me to the cosmetics hall please.’ She pulls a magazine cutting from her clutch. ‘I want to look like this,’ she adds, tapping the piece of paper. It’s Taylor Swift!

      ‘Of course.’ My mind boggles – never in a million years is this woman going to look like Taylor; she’s a totally different ethnic group for starters. ‘My colleague will escort you,’ I say, hoiking Annie from the cupboard. I figure it best to stay on my section – don’t want the voiceover guy saying I shouldn’t have abandoned the shop floor, with me being the supervisor and all. Annie starts bobbing from one foot to the other with glee, before quickly calming herself down and gesturing demurely as if the woman is royalty.

      ‘CUT!’

      Kelly is up on her feet now, clapping and rushing towards me with her Ronald McDonald hair whipping around like candyfloss in a wind tunnel.

      ‘Bravo. Bravo! Perfect. How do you do it?’ she gushes, grabbing my hand and pumping it furiously.

      ‘Do what? I ask, feeling panicky and euphoric all at the same time.

      ‘Exude the perfect blend of exemplary service with such provincially naive wonderment.’ She wafts a hand in the air.

      ‘Um.’ What’s she going on about? ‘Is that good?’ I raise a tentative eyebrow.

      ‘Oh, you are so divine. Of course it is.’ She squeezes me tight, almost winding me in the process.

      ‘But I just thought she was an ordinary customer – well, not ordinary for Mulberry-On-Sea, but, well … ’ I say, managing to break free, hoping she wasn’t an actor after all. That would be really disappointing.

      ‘And she is. Or will be. I certainly hope she’ll become an “ordinary” customer. Carrington’s can’t be sustained with just the likes of that rain-bonnet woman, whatever her name is, spending a tenner once a year.’

      ‘Mrs Godfrey,’ I prompt.

      ‘Yes, whatever.’ Kelly flaps a hand. ‘Anyway, Princess Ameerah was insistent on not having a camera stuck in her face, hence my covert manoeuvring and the long-lens activity from the filming guys. It was the only way to get her to agree to come here,’ she says, and I’m suddenly conscious of being surrounded by the whole crew. They’re all laughing and stepping forward to shake my hand or kiss my cheek, and my heart lifts. It feels good to have got it right for a change – perhaps this will earn me a reprieve from the YouTube hall of shame this week.

      ‘Right. On to the next scene,’ Kelly commands, and clicks her fingers towards a wardrobe assistant, who immediately steps forward with a sumptuously soft grey cashmere wrap. ‘Put this on and follow me.’ Feeling like a proper celebrity, I swathe myself in the ultra-chic and super-luxurious wrap.

      ‘What about the money?’ I ask as we head off. It’s still stacked up on the counter.

      ‘Security can deal with it,’ she replies, as if it’s mere detail. ‘The extra is yours, the contents of the bag too. You must always accept Princess Ameerah’s gifts with grace and gratitude. Always.’

      ‘But that’s not Carrington’s usual policy,’ I say, despite the fizz of excitement bubbling inside me. I wonder what’s inside the bag and I’ll share the £200 with Annie, of course. She’ll be delighted too.

      ‘Well it is now. It’s etiquette when serving this calibre of customer. Harrods staff have been doing it for years.’ Kelly nods at Melissa as she steps out from her hiding place. ‘You can look after it all until Georgie returns.’

      ‘You’re the boss,’ Melissa says with a hint of sarcasm, and does an exaggerated salute before clicking her heels together and marching over to my counter. I quickly stifle a giggle, hoping Kelly didn’t notice, and make a mental note to catch up with Mel later.

      ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, having to do a gentle jog to keep up with Kelly, which is no mean feat in six-inch-high Giuseppe Zanotti suede ankle boots.

      ‘You’ll see. Don’t want to give too much away, will ruin the spontaneity. But trust me, you will lurrrrrve it.’ She shakes her hands up in the air. I smile hesitantly. ‘And I want you to talk about the council’s plans for the Christmas ice rink.’ Her face changes to serious.

      ‘Err, OK. But what should I say?’ I ask, momentarily thrown by her random flip from wacky Ronald McDonald to serious businesswoman.

      ‘Anything. Just mention it – sure you’ll think of something, you’re a bright girl. And do it before Eddie proposes, I don’t want it getting overshadowed by wedding talk.’ Kelly grabs a bottle of mineral water from a passing catering guy, takes a massive slurp and hands it back. ‘Chop chop. Time is money in this game,’ she says, pumping her elbows up even higher to gather more speed.

      Ten minutes later we’re in Sam’s café, which has been festooned with paper lanterns and flickering tea lights to create a cosy, fairytale atmosphere. Sam is in place behind the counter wearing a new white T-shirt with Cupcakes At Carrington’s emblazoned in glittery gold lettering across the front, and a massive smile on her face. Her eyes swivel to the left, practically bulging with excitement, as if she’s telepathically saying, ‘Look who it is. Right here. In my café! Faints.’ There’s an elegant woman standing next to Sam, with her head down. She looks up. And oh my God.

      It’s

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