Chapter 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.
I first came to Oxford Street when I was little, clinging onto my mum and dad’s hands, overawed by the bustle and lights and the array of shops, and without any concept of how much money you needed to buy any of the pretty things I saw in those shop windows, never mind live in this city too.
Since that moment, I wanted to live in London and dreamed of working somewhere so iconic.
Today, the street is alive with tourists and traffic.
The magic and bustle that I once loved has been replaced by exhaust fumes, the air brakes of endless buses, impatient taxi drivers honking, and tourists who either ram past you with fists full of shopping bags or stop for selfies in inconvenient places.
I can’t bring myself to go home straight away, because Brian, Mira’s husband, works from home and will be surely unimpressed to see me back this early, and I haven’t quite worked out what I’m going to tell them.
Getting a job at somewhere as prestigious as Calloways was the highlight of my career, something I never felt good enough for, and it seemed inevitable that I was always going to lose it, sooner or later.
Maybe if I walk for longer, I can form a plan…
or find my way to the nearest Job Centre.
As tempting as it is, I can’t wander the streets all day, hoping to stumble across a shop with a ‘window dresser wanted’ sign pinned up, preferably one with ‘previous disasters not taken into account’ under it too.
I get the first of two tubes and a bus back to Mira’s house, hole myself up in the room I rent from them, and open my laptop.
There has to be another job out there, somewhere, and I am going to find it.
Instead of job hunting, I can’t resist a masochistic peek at social media and glance at the local trending stories that all say things like ‘Calloways have lost their heads – and their customers!’
The social media replies range from angry parents to people who have seen the funny side, and I start to realise how bad this is. My name is still on their website, and every mention of Calloways to potential employers is going to bring this to mind. I am never not going to be associated with this.
What am I going to do? My bank balance is running dangerously close to my overdraft limit, and apart from the couple of weeks’ wages that Patricia still owes me, I have no other money coming in, and I can’t take advantage of Mira’s kindness more than I do already.
I feel like this is the last chance saloon.
If I can’t find another job, and fast, I’m going to have to accept that I can’t afford to stay in London and give up my lifelong dream of living and working here.
I jump onto a job listing site, and scroll through it with mounting anxiety.
There is nothing even vaguely suited to me.
At this point, anything will do, even if it isn’t suited to me in any way, but even the temporary Christmas jobs have been filled by now.
There would’ve been something appealing about forgetting all things Calloways for a month and pretending to be an elf in Santa’s grotto or some such.
I have to find something, even if it is elf-related.
My phone beeps with a text from Mira. It’s a forwarded gif of Santa eating Paddington’s stuffing, and the attached message reads:
Please tell me this isn’t the teddy bears’ picnic window you were working on!
I don’t reply because I can’t tell her that. I don’t want to tell her anything until I’ve got a plan in place. I pull the duvet over my head, partially because I’m cold, and partially because I want to hide inside it and never come out.
I open job site after job site, widening my search with ever-increasing desperation.
Retail? It’s the closest thing to visual merchandising, but I don’t have the experience they’re looking for, never mind the qualifications.
After four years at Calloways, I don’t even have an up-to-date CV, and the few positions I click on have already been filled.
After a few hours of scrolling, my eyes are stinging and the screen is blurring in front of me.
Mira will be home any minute and I’m going to have to explain myself to her, and I’ve grown more and more demoralised as the day has worn on.
I already feel like I take advantage of her kindness, and I should have moved out months ago, and I have no idea what I’m going to—
Decorator wanted: Castle in Scotland.
I almost scroll past it because it’s strangely worded, and I assume it’s to do with the construction type of painting and decorating, and I only stop to read it because the word ‘Christmas’ catches my eye.
Looking for an experienced decorator to ‘deck the halls’ of a castle in Scotland. Important visitors coming for Christmas. Castle needs to SHINE. Must be completed before 23 December, accommodation provided, generous compensation.
I even like the capital letters of the word ‘shine’.
There’s an air of desperation about it, which I relate to all too well.
And a castle in Scotland! Who wouldn’t want to spend December at a castle?
The one thing I could really, really do with right now is getting out of London for a bit – and you can’t get much further from London than Scotland.
This would be perfect for me. To spend most of the month away from here, then the Christmas holidays, and by the time I’m back to job hunting in January, the hoo-ha about the window will have blown over, companies will be hiring in the ‘fresh start’ haze of a new year, and whoever owns this castle will hopefully give me a reference that won’t involve a single mention of aardvarks.
All right, it’s a slight stretch from visual merchandising, but what do I spend my life doing if not Christmas decorating?
Christmas is the most important time of year in my job, the time when all windows must have an extra wow factor, and decorating is a huge part of that.
Making things shine at this time of year is literally my speciality, and the idea of decorating a castle is like something from a fairytale…
My hands are shaking as I type an email to the contact address, sending a wish into the universe that this position hasn’t already been filled too.
I attach my portfolio and hit send with my fingers crossed.
This has to be the answer. This is exactly what I need.
Time away, a chance to do something different.
And what better time to do it than the most magical time of year?
Even so, I’m convinced I won’t be this lucky.
Things never work out the way I hope they will, and I’m certain the castle owner will have already found an actual decorator who’s far more experienced than me, so I’m surprised when an email pings into my inbox less than ten minutes later from someone called Oliver Bracewell.
I like your work. Can we arrange a Zoom call for tomorrow?
I let out another squeal and muffle it in the duvet so I don’t disturb Brian. The position must still be open. This is for me, I can feel it. It’s like the universe knows my luck is about to change.
* * *
‘Will you be my wife?’
I choke on my own intake of breath. I’ve been asked many questions in job interviews over the years, but until now, that has never been one of them.
Oliver Bracewell, the owner of Hollybrae Castle, is (a) gorgeous, (b) endearingly nervous, (c) completely deranged.
I should have known it was too good to be true. Of course the ideal job for me popping up at exactly the right moment is nothing but a joke from the universe, and the proprietor is some kind of unhinged weirdo who thinks ‘decorator’ is code for God-only-knows what.
‘Sorry, that wasn’t meant to come out like that.’ Oliver Bracewell backpedals quickly from the other side of my laptop screen. ‘I’m in a bit of a pickle and you’re perfect.’
‘I’m perfect?’ I echo. I should have slammed the laptop lid down immediately, but I’ve been on the call with him for ten minutes and this is the first time it’s ventured out of completely professional territory, and he doesn’t look like a weird pervert.
Even though it’s a Saturday evening, Oliver Bracewell looks like he’s just stepped out of an office.
Smart suit, matching tie, brown hair parted at one side and smoothed down with styling cream.
I don’t know why I was expecting someone older, but I didn’t expect the owner of a castle to be a guy who looks my age, and I definitely didn’t expect a proposal.
He drags a hand through his hair, stuttering as he tries to find the right words. ‘No, I mean, you’d be perfect. You’re the answer I’ve been looking for without realising what I was looking for.’
‘I think it’s time I ended this video call. Goodby—’
‘Don’t, please.’ He puts both hands up like he can somehow stop me through the laptop screen. ‘I’ve got myself into a situation and talking to you is the first time I’ve felt like I’ve got a chance of getting out of it. Hear me out, please?’
I’m intrigued enough to hover over the ‘leave meeting’ button on the Zoom call without actually pressing it.
So far, Oliver has complimented my portfolio and given me a run-down of the castle he owns in Scotland, and how he’s got important visitors staying for Christmas and needs it decorated for the season, and I’ve had the sense that there was something he wasn’t saying, and this makes me realise I’m right.
This is exactly what people warn you about when it comes to strangers on the internet. ‘Go on…’