“I must have done,” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “It’s been so busy in here, I must have put them on the rail, and. . and I suppose another customer must have walked off with them.” I give an apologetic little shrug as though to say “Customers, eh?”
“Wait a minute!” says the girl sharply. “What’s that?”
I follow her gaze and freeze. The zebra-print jeans have rolled out from under the curtain. For a moment we all stare at them.
“Gosh!” I manage at last. “There they are!”
“And what exactly are they doing down there?” asks Danielle.
“I don’t know!” I say. “Maybe they. .” I swallow, trying to think as quickly as I can. “Maybe. .”
“You took them!” says the girl incredulously. “You bloody took them! You wouldn’t let me try them on, and then you hid them!”
“That’s ridiculous!” I say, trying to sound convincing — but I can feel my cheeks flushing a guilty red.
“You little. .” The girl breaks off and turns to Danielle. “I want to make an official complaint.”
“Rebecca,” says Danielle. “Into my office, please.”
I jump in fright at her voice and follow her slowly to her office. Around the shop, I can see all the other staff looking at me and nudging each other. How utterly mortifying. Still, it’ll be OK. I’ll just say I’m really sorry and promise not to do it again, and maybe offer to work overtime. Just as long as I don’t get. .
I don’t believe it. She’s fired me. I haven’t even worked there for a day, and I’ve been kicked out. I was so shocked when she told me, I almost became tearful. I mean, apart from the incident with the zebra-print jeans, I thought I was doing really well. But apparently hiding stuff from customers is one of those automatic-firing things. (Which is really unfair, because she never told me that at the interview.)
As I get changed out of my gray trousers and T-shirt, there’s a heavy feeling in my heart. My retail career is over before it’s even begun. I was only given twenty quid for the hours I’ve done today — and Danielle said that was being generous. And when I asked if I could quickly buy some clothes using my staff discount, she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me.
It’s all gone wrong. No job, no money, no discount, just twenty bloody quid. Miserably I start to walk along the street, shoving my hands in my pockets. Twenty bloody quid. What am I supposed to do with—
“Rebecca!” My head jerks up and I find myself looking dazedly at a face which I know I recognize. But who is it? It’s. . it’s. . it’s. .
“Tom!” I exclaim in the nick of time. “Hi there! What a surprise!”
Well, blow me down. Tom Webster, up in London. He’s just as tall and gangly as ever — but somehow looking slightly cooler with it than usual. He’s wearing a thin blue sweater over a T-shirt and. . are those really Armani jeans? This doesn’t make sense. What’s he doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be in Reigate, grouting his Mediterranean tiles or something?
“This is Lucy,” he says proudly, and pulls forward a slim girl with big blue eyes, holding about sixty-five carrier bags. And I don’t believe it. It’s the girl who was buying all that stuff in Ally Smith. The girl whose boyfriend was paying. Surely she didn’t mean. .
“You’re going out together?” I say stupidly. “You and her?”
“Yes,” says Tom, and grins at me. “Have been for some time now.”
But this doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t Janice and Martin mentioned Tom’s girlfriend? They’ve mentioned every other bloody thing in his life.
And fancy Tom having a girlfriend!
“Hi,” says Lucy.
“Hi there,” I say. “I’m Rebecca. Next-door neighbor. Childhood friend. All that.”
“Oh, you’re Rebecca,” she says, and gives a swift glance at Tom.
What does that mean? Have they been talking about me? God, does Tom still fancy me? How embarrassing.
“That’s me!” I say brightly, and give a little laugh.
“You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,” says Lucy thoughtfully — and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. “You work at Ally Smith, don’t you?”
“No!” I say, a little too sharply.
“Oh,” she says. “I thought I saw you—”
God, I can’t have it going back to my parents that I work in a shop. They’ll think I’ve been lying about my entire life in London and that secretly I’m broke and living in squalor.
“Research,” I say quickly. “I’m a journalist, actually.”
“Rebecca’s a financial journalist,” says Tom. “Really knows her stuff.”
“Oh, right,” says Lucy, and I give her a supercilious smile.
“Mum and Dad always listen to Rebecca,” says Tom. “Dad was talking about it just the other day. Said you’d been very helpful on some financial matter. Switching funds or something.”
I nod vaguely, and give him a special, old-friends smile. Not that I’m jealous, or anything — but I do feel a little twinge seeing Tom smiling down at this Lucy character who, frankly, has very boring hair, even if her clothes are quite nice. Come to think of it, Tom’s wearing quite nice clothes himself. Oh, what’s going on? This is all wrong. Tom belongs in his starter home in Reigate, not prancing around expensive shops looking halfway decent.