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in the business world are right after all, and he is out of his depth.

      ‘Yep, and that’s not all – guess what?’ Her eyes widen. ‘We’re getting eighty pounds per episode on top of our usual wages. Well, the ones doing the show are … Denise in Home Electricals is well jelz. But I told her, there’s no glamour in washing machines.’ She laughs.

      ‘Is that right?’

      ‘Sure is. Best news I’ve had in ages. And think of all the freebies, designer gear, goody bags, red-carpet invites, PR appearances – they all pay: big money, too! I’m thinking Sam Faiers – move over darling. I can not wait. Amy also said there’s going to be a special end-of-series Christmas wrap party with all of Kelly’s celebrity friends coming. And it’s going to be filmed live! And apparently, she actually knows Will.I.Am! Can you imagine? Faint! I’ve wanted to get close to him for like … ever since he was on The Voice.’ She clutches my arm in glee. ‘It’s going to be epic.’ Annie drops my arm to spread a hand in the air. ‘Bet we’ll get free VIP entrance to the Sugar Hut and everything now,’ she says, full of happiness as she shakes her frosted hair extensions back. ‘Anyway, better jog on, don’t want you bollicking me when I’m late back from tea break.’ She grins and nudges me gently with her elbow before leaving.

      I peer in the mirror to examine my face and quickly perform a tissue repair job on my make-up, cursing myself for having already dropped off my handbag. We used to stash our bags under the counters, but when Tom took over, that all changed, so now we have to stow them in lockers in the staff room upstairs. For our own protection, he said. Shame he wasn’t bothered about that last night when my backside was being broadcast to the whole nation.

      I checked YouTube from my phone when I was on the bus earlier, and my views are up to nearly five hundred now. And some guy even DM’d me on Twitter asking if I fancied joining him and Pu, his new Thai ladyboy bride-to-be, for a threesome. Hideous. Tears sting in my eyes again. I can’t believe Tom and I are over before we even really started.

      After letting out a long, shaky breath, I help myself to a generous spritz of complimentary Cavalli. One of the perfume girls left a couple of bottles as an incentive for us to direct customers to her section, so she can flog more special Christmas gift sets with the matching body lotion. I dab my eyes again and think of Annie’s excitement, Eddie’s too, but I haven’t changed my mind, they’ll just have to film around me. Or put one of those blurry things over my face or something, like magazines do to Harper or Suri when they haven’t got permission to show their pictures.

      After leaving the Ladies, I make my way along the narrow, winding staff corridor that’s like a time warp with its original 1920s faded floral wallpaper. I have to step around a couple of stock trollies piled high with flattened cardboard boxes, to push through the double security doors that lead out to the shop floor.

      It’s lit up like a giant Santa’s grotto full of goodies.

      This year’s festive theme instore is Winter Wonderland. Fake snow covers the normally black, swirly patterned carpet, and sparkly white model seals nestle inside Perspex balls suspended from a twinkly, Arctic-inspired ceiling. All of the display podiums are crammed with festive present ideas, pyjama sets tied up with scarlet satin ribbons, gloriously fragrant Jo Malone candles, glittery woollen mittens, luxury lingerie in tissue-packed boxes and every kind of perfume and aftershave gift set you can imagine. There’s even a pop-up shop selling Santa-shaped gingerbread men, striped candy canes and chocolate tree decorations covered in foil, hanging from lengths of gold thread.

      The magnificent Art Deco marble pillars are swathed in garlands of holly and ivy, mingled with silver, spray-painted pine cones. And the air is filled with a warming, cinnamony-orange scent, pumped from a machine hidden underneath the enormous, ceiling-tall Norwegian Christmas tree that stands in the centre of the floor, in between the two original wooden escalators. Customers are laughing and joking as they touch the merch. Children are weaving in and out of their parents’ legs, eager to get down to the basement to see Father Christmas in his grotto, and hand over their wish list full of presents.

      My mood lifts instantly. It’s really hard to suppress the swirl of excitement on glimpsing the glorious array of festive colours in such a buzzy atmosphere. The run-up to Christmas is my absolute favourite time of the year instore, and it’s not like I haven’t split up with a guy before – I have. So I’m sure I’ll survive. I’ll have to. I think of my freezer jammed with all those mince pies and make a mental note to pop into Masood’s corner shop on my way home for a carton of custard and a soppy film. He always has a stack of DVDs to choose from and you really can’t beat a mince pie or two with a warm custard drizzle. That will cheer me up a bit. I might even get ten Benson too while I’m at it.

      Making my way over to my counter, the best one on the floor, right opposite the main customer entrance and next to the giant, floor-to-ceiling Christmas window display, I make a conscious effort to pull myself together and put on a brave face. It wouldn’t do to crumble in front of a customer. I like to think of the shop floor as a stage to perform on where everything else must be left behind the scenes, upstairs in the staff canteen or in the sanctuary of my cosy flat. Besides, for all I know, Zara, Kelly – or worse still, Tom – could be spying on me via the CCTV. Maybe that’s how they doctored the film footage of Annie, supposedly texting and ignoring Zara. Hmmm.

      I sneak a look around and my pulse speeds up. There! I knew it. Right there on the wall above the Marc Jacobs stand, glaring directly at the counter, is what looks suspiciously like a camera to me. A small, black, domed piece of plastic, and it definitely wasn’t there last week. I know, because I was up there with my feather duster. I make a mental note to climb back up the long ladder and strategically place a weekender bag right in front of it. That should block the view. I could even put one of the miniature Christmas trees on the very top shelf. That will definitely do the trick.

      I’m crouched down behind my counter, sorting through a box full of old Olympic merch from last year – sequinned Union Jack clutches and sparkly London 2012 key rings, couldn’t even shift it during a BOGOF campaign – when a guy, wearing denim board shorts and the biggest funky Afro I’ve ever seen, waves one of those huge grey fluffy microphones in my face. Next to him is an arty-looking woman wearing leopard-print skinnies with blush patent wedges and a floaty vest top. She’s got a red leather folder pressed inside her crossed arms.

      ‘Can I help you?’ I say, shoving the box under the counter with my foot.

      ‘Perfect!’ The woman ignores me and whips out what looks like a paint chart from her folder, and holds it up near my shoulder.

      ‘What are you doing?’ I pull a face and push the chart away.

      ‘This is her. The girl. The one Kelly wants heavily featured,’ the woman says to the guy.

      ‘Hellooo. I am here, you know,’ I say, feeling irked at the mention of Kelly’s name. It’s her fault Tom and I have split up. Everything was wonderful before she came on the scene. I wave my hand in an attempt to get their attention.

      ‘Oh, sorry. How do you feel about cerise?’ the woman says, scrutinising me now.

      ‘Cerise?’ I repeat, thinking it’s a bit random. ‘Err, can’t say I’ve given it much thought of late.’

      ‘Or how about a rich chocolate or silky cream, with, wait for it – ’ she does a massive, almost manic grin, and waves her hand around before glancing at the guy, who nods enthusiastically – ‘a dash of delicate mint green? Oh yes, that would suit you far better. Bring out the gorgeous turquoise of your eyes.’ She fiddles with the chart again. ‘It’s very important that we get the right palette for you.’

      ‘Palette?’ I say, conscious of sounding like a parrot now.

      ‘For your clothes! Hence the light chart.’ She gives the card a quick wave for emphasis. ‘Sorry.’ She puts the chart back inside the folder and stuffs it under her arm before pushing the pen into her messy ballerina bun for safekeeping. ‘Hannah Lock. Production assistant.’ She sticks a hand out to greet me and I notice her

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