Chapter Twenty-Nine
I lay back on the bed and stretched out my arms, revelling in the luxury of the super king-sized bed, with the most comfortable mattress I'd ever slept on. Seriously, it was like falling asleep on clouds. I yawned and blinked, staring up at the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, and wondered how I would top this experience.
Mum had been adamant that I'd be scared in London, all on my own, and when she discovered that I'd booked into Fenbrooke's Hotel, not far from Oxford Street, she'd warned me that I'd find it far too posh and overwhelming. ‘Them sort of places aren't for people like us,’ she'd advised. ‘You'll feel like a fish out of water, our Marley.’
"You would, perhaps," I acknowledged. "I intend to revel in every moment of my stay. Besides, it's just a stone's throw from all the best shops, and I want to visit them all. I'm going to have the time of my life."
I meant it. It would be the experience of a lifetime. I was going to have such fun. Of course, when I’d booked it, I hadn't known that Carroll's Confectionary was in such dire straits. That, I thought gloomily, had really taken the gloss off the whole thing. Still, I wasn't going to think about that. Not today.
I sat up and looked around me, at the room that was almost as big as my entire flat at home. It was Christmas Eve, and I had—I glanced at my watch—five hours to make the most of Oxford Street, Regent Street, Bond Street, and anywhere else I could manage. Yesterday afternoon, I'd had a fun time at Carnaby Street, then afternoon tea in the hotel, served by staff who treated me as if I was royalty. Today, it was time to hit the department stores, and I didn't have that long left to do so. Time to get on with it.
The doorman touched his hat in deference, as I sailed past him on my way out. I smiled and nodded, and after ascertaining that I didn't need a taxi, he wished me a pleasant day.
London was a picture—a thing of beauty. Maybe it was the festive lights, and the noise, and the excitement. Maybe it was because Christmas was within touching distance, and everyone was looking forward to it, but there was a feeling of expectation and joy in the air. My previous shopping experience had been limited to small cities like York and Oddborough, and I'd thought they were busy enough, but London was something else entirely. I'd never seen anything like it, and I could only gasp in astonishment at the sights and sounds and smells of the capital on Christmas Eve.
It was difficult, however, to window shop. The streets were packed, and it was hard to get close enough to browse. I kept a tight hold on my handbag, mindful of my mother's chilling advice that London was full of muggers and nutcases and that I should keep my wits about me, or suffer the consequences. Even Don had warned me to concentrate, avoid eye contact with anyone, and to make sure I always looked as if I knew where I was going and what I was doing.
‘If they get the scent of fresh blood, they'll swoop. You mark my words. Northerners are easy prey down there.’
I'd laughed at them both, but swamped as I was by wave upon wave of shoppers, I began to feel a bit nervous, and their warnings suddenly didn't sound so farfetched. Gripping the strap of my bag very tightly, I tried to look as if I made this journey every day, and strode determinedly down the street, dodging people who looked as if they were on a mission, and trying to fight the tide of flesh, in order to make my way inside at least one of the department stores.
Three hours later, I was washed up on the steps of Rochester's, exhausted and drained. I could have wept with relief. Here, at last, was something familiar. The Oxford Street branch was far larger than the one in York, but it was recognisable.
I fought my way inside, landing in the warmth and calm of the perfume department, where desperate-looking men were seeking advice from smart sales assistants as to which scent their partners would be thrilled to find under the Christmas tree the following morning.
The gentle strains of orchestral music soothed my frazzled nerves, and I headed to the coffee shop, where, after queueing for almost twenty minutes, I finally managed to buy a caramel latte and a mince pie, for the price of a three-course meal at The Blue Lamp, and sank into a chair, grateful to take the weight off my feet. Classy and expensive my new boots may have been, but it had definitely been a mistake to go shopping in them when they were less than a week old.
At the next table, a young couple were discussing their plans for the evening.
"I'll make sure she has a bath around seven, then she can watch The Polar Express. By the time that's finished she'll probably be sleepy, anyway, so we should be able to get her to bed. If we allow two hours for her to fall asleep, that should give us just enough time to retrieve the presents and get them set out before midnight."
"Great." The man laughed. "That should give us all of four hours to sleep, before she wakes up and shrieks at us that Father Christmas has been, and it's time to get up."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Aw, well. It's Christmas. What do you expect? I bet you were the same."
"I was," he admitted. "Although, I already knew what I'd got. I used to sneak into Mum and Dad's bedroom every year and check out the presents hidden in their wardrobe. They always stuffed them in there before they got around to wrapping them. I never had a single surprise after the age of seven."
"Serves you right," she said. "If Anastasia did that to us, I'd throttle her."
"We wouldn't be so stupid as to keep them in the wardrobe," he pointed out.
"Gosh," she said suddenly, "you don't think she's ever looked in the sauna, do you?"
They looked at each other, clearly horror struck, and I smiled wistfully before taking another sip of my coffee. That could have been Kit and me, discussing getting our child's presents ready for the morning, if only things had worked out differently. I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of parents we’d have made. Not the sort who'd keep toys in a sauna, for a start. Not ones who'd even have a sauna, for that matter.
I found myself half wishing that Anastasia had enough wits about her to check in there, then reproached myself for being so mean.
Glancing at my watch again, I pulled a face. I didn't have long, and there was one thing I really had to do. I'd promised myself this treat for long enough. I wasn't going to be thwarted at the last minute.
Gulping down the rest of my latte, I grabbed my bag and pushed my way out of the heaving café towards the escalator, passing the confectionery department as I did so. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a display of chocolates. All the leading brands were there. I wondered if, one day, Carroll's chocolate would be on sale in the York branch. I could only hope.
Pushing the thought away, along with all the other thoughts it led to, I headed downstairs to the one place I'd been determined to visit. The handbag department.
There they were—Jenny Kingston handbags, in all their glory. That was what I'd dreamed of. A Jenny Kingston handbag, I'd decided, would be the start of everything. It was the first thing I'd determined to buy when I finally got some money. After that, it would be new clothes, a new car, a complete refurbishment of Fox Lodge, and a trip to New York. I'd had it all planned for such a long time. And finally, there I was, standing in Rochester's swanky London store, with the pick of those bags before me, and enough money to achieve my first goal, but everything had changed.
There were so many to choose from, but I quickly fell in love with a simple cream bag with a tiny blue butterfly in one corner, and JK stamped on the front in gold lettering. I flinched a little when I handed over my credit card and parted with the best part of six-hundred pounds, but told myself I was worth it. I deserved it. If I deserved nothing else, I was going to get this handbag and I would not beat myself up about it.
After fighting my way back to the hotel, my new handbag safe in its Rochester carrier bag that I vowed to never throw away, I hobbled back to my room. I sank onto the bed, pulled off my boots, and rubbed my poor, aching feet. It had been a day to remember, but with it done, I had more important things to worry about.
Rummaging in my pocket, I pulled out a piece of paper and scanned the number written on it. For a moment, I held the paper to my chest, a million emotions tugging at me. Then, taking a deep breath, I leaned over and picked up the receiver. Time to make someone's Christmas very happy indeed.
The concierge very kindly booked me a taxi to the station, just half an hour later. "I'm very sorry you had to cut short your stay, Madam," he said, sounding as if he actually meant it. These hotel staff certainly knew about customer service, I'd give them that.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm afraid it couldn't be helped. Still, it's not all bad. It's snowing back home, according to my weather app. Looks like we're having a white Christmas, after all."
He smiled at me. "Then, I wish you a very merry, white Christmas, Madam."
A few minutes later, the doorman held open the door of the taxi for me. "I hope you enjoyed your stay here, Madam."
"Oh, I did," I assured him, as I climbed into the back seat. "It's been the experience of a lifetime."
"I'm very glad to hear it. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," I said, closing the car door.
As we drove away, I realised, with sudden horror, that I hadn't tipped either him, or the concierge. Was I supposed to tip them? I had no idea. I guess I wasn't as knowledgeable about such matters as I pretended to be. Not that it mattered, anymore. I was leaving London well behind me. It was Christmas Eve—and I was going home.