Page 2 of Winter Magic at Hollybrae Castle

‘Don’t blame Santa for this!’ She gives me such a withering look that I can’t complete the sentence. ‘Santa’s one of our product lines. How do you think that reflects on us?’

‘Like the manufacturers have sent out a product that’s clearly not been tested properly!’

She repeats the withering look, but somehow manages to make it even more withering. And it’s not like she’s wrong, is it? Whether Santa malfunctioned or not, I should have been here early enough to check everything before opening time, and I wasn’t.

Patricia Calloway is the fifth generation of Calloways to run this shop since it was founded by her great-great-grandfather 150 years ago. The kind of person who’s never had a disaster in her life, and as a boss, makes Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada look like a cupcake.

She has a bouffant hairstyle held together by enough hairspray to kill a small planet and gigantic shoulder pads. If I dressed like that, I’d look like I was going to a 1980s fancy dress party, but she looks effortlessly chic and timeless, like she’s just stepped out of an episode of Absolutely Fabulous but in a non-ironic way.

I always feel like I get spontaneously scruffier every time I talk to her, like my shirt buttons start undoing themselves and my hair escapes its ponytail of its own accord just by standing here. I grow more frazzled simply from being in the presence of someone so un-frazzled.

But then again, Patricia Calloway has never had to do the mad dash across London at rush hour. Patricia Calloway has a private chauffeur and I doubt she’s ever even seen a bus, much less been stuck on a broken-down one.

‘You had one responsibility this morning, Lula. Get here in plenty of time to ensure everything was perfect before the grand unveiling. And instead, you decide to swan in late without a second thought for that carnage in the front window.’

‘Swan in’ implies a peaceful, meandering stroll rather than the frantic somersault as I tumbled into the shop, and ‘decide’ really does not reflect the series of disasters that have beset my morning so far.

‘I’m so sorry. It’s been one of those mornings where everything that can go wrong has gone wrong, you know the ones?’ I don’t think she does know the ones at all, but I have nothing left to lose at this point, and maybe she’ll appreciate complete honesty. ‘I didn’t leave here until 4 a.m. this morning, by the time I’d got home, had a shower and something to eat, it was late. Or early. Actually, it was early. And this morning, I’d had so little sleep that I slept through my alarm. I couldn’t find the right clothes. In trying to scarf down breakfast, I dropped my cereal bowl all over the carpet. The bus was late, and then the tube stopped randomly, for no reason, and left us all stuck in a tunnel for ten minutes. I got here as fast as I could.’

‘Excuses are unbecoming on you.’

‘They’re not excuses. I’m telling you what happened. The faster you need to get across London, the more things go wrong, it’s a law of the universe. It shouldn’t be a sackable offence. I’m not usually late, I just happened to be late on the worst day possible.’ Slight exaggeration there. I am often late, but I feel invisible to people most of the time so no one ever notices.

Panic is building. This is the worst time of year to be unemployed, especially in this expensive city, and I’m trying to cling onto my job with a clenched-claw grip. I worked for years to get here, and Oxford Street is the best stage that anyone in visual merchandising could dream of. Surely she’ll understand. Even Patricia Calloway must’ve had a bad day once in her life.

The look on her face doesn’t change at my impassioned plea, so I try again. ‘There are lots of people in the shop, so it must be having the desired effect…’

‘You think the desired effect is to make small children cry? Or to become a laughingstock on social media? Because our accounts are already pinging through the roof. This is getting more traction than the latest John Lewis advert in all the wrong ways! You’ve ruined Christmas by turning Santa into a crazed killer. That’s impressive, even by your supremely unimpressive standards, Lula. You’re not trying to suggest I should be dazzled by your forward-thinking in combining a delightful festive window with every child’s worst nightmare, are you?’

‘It was an accident! I can get it repaired within the hour with a new Santa and a hoover!’

‘No, thank you, I don’t want you on my premises for another hour. Consider your employment terminated with immediate effect. The board of directors are going to be up in arms when they hear about this, which they soon will, because look at how many people are talking about it!’ She taps a long fingernail onto the screen of the phone that’s been constantly vibrating on her desk, and then glares back at me. ‘And yes, there are lots of people in the shop. Most of them are journalists who want to know who’s behind this. Don’t worry, I won’t give them your name, but you’re listed in the staff section on our website, so it won’t be long until they work it out. Good luck getting a job in visual merchandising again after rampaging through an opportunity like this. And if you think you’ll get a good reference from me, you can think again. In fact, if I am ever asked about your employability, I will strongly suggest that any potential employers hire an aardvark instead. It would surely do a better job and could probably even manage to get itself to work on time! In fact, I would replace you with an aardvark immediately if it wouldn’t be so distracting to the customers.’

If that isn’t a vote of confidence, I don’t know what is. I only got this job in the first place because I’m marginally less interesting than an aardvark, but at least she hasn’t made me question my self-worth or anything.

‘Will there be anything else?’ Patricia barks as the spiky toe of her pointed stiletto taps against the floor, the kind of shoe that makes you wonder how any real person can possibly fit their feet into them.

My brain races to come up with something clever and witty. I can’t lose this job, especially at this time of year. I can’t afford to live in London as it is, and I only do manage to afford it because my sister Mira has taken pity on me and, after an unexpected rent increase from my last landlord, let me rent the spare room in her family’s home. It was supposed to be for a couple of months while I found a new flat, but now it’s been a year and a half and I still haven’t found anywhere reasonably affordable to live. Without a job, I can’t even afford the reduced rent I pay her, never mind somewhere that’s mine where I’m not the unwanted third wheel in her marriage and her husband and young son are just too polite to complain.

‘Let me fix it. This is my fault – I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll tell the journalists it was an accident, a display gone horribly wrong. Please, Patricia, I love this job, I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this.’

She peers at me and a spark of hope ignites. She understands a desperate woman when she sees one. She’s all about championing women in business. If I take responsibility, she’ll give me a second chance. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it one da⁠—

‘Desperation is even more unbecoming on you. I don’t believe in second chances. After a cock-up this monumental, how could I ever trust you again? I need full confidence in my staff, and if you can’t get to work on time, even on a day as imperative as today, I simply don’t have that in you. So, will there be anything else before you collect your belongings and get out, or are you going to allow me to get on with damage control before this gets any bigger?’

My knees were knocking before, but now my hands are shaking too. I’m doing nothing but making this worse for myself. Why do I go to pieces in front of this woman? I’m good at my job, despite this morning’s unforeseen homicidal issues, and yet in Patricia’s presence, I do genuinely feel like an aardvark could do it better. The longer I stay in her office, the angrier she’s getting. We have long since passed the point where there is anything I could say to get my job back.

‘No. Thank you for this opportunity. It’s been…’ Exhausting. Stressful. Demanding. ‘…a joy to work for you.’

I slope off with my metaphorical tail between my legs, ready to do the ultimate walk of shame towards my desk while colleagues watch on with sympathetic grimaces on their faces – a look that says, ‘I’m sorry it was you, but thank God it wasn’t me this time.’ It’s a look I’ve given other staff many times, after they’ve been humiliated by Patricia Calloway, and now I’m one of them. ‘And I’m sorry about…’

I wave a hand in the general direction of the shop front. There’s no good way to apologise for accidentally murdering Paddington Bear, is there?

2

Oh, God, what am I going to do?

I wander listlessly down Oxford Street with my ‘I’ve just been sacked’ box in my arms. It contains a rapidly dying poinsettia that Patricia gifted every staff member last week, and sketches for potential window displays that Head Office would certainly have turned down, but I’d hoped to gain more creative freedom after the surefire success that today’s Christmas window would bring.