Page 41 of Big Nick Energy
EIGHTEEN
‘Maybe I could give you a quick makeover so you could see the effects of our radiant glow foundation. It’s really good for filling in those fine lines,’ the woman says, scanning my face.
I’m not sure if this is really the best way of making a sale but I look into the magnifying mirror on Elena’s counter and stare deeply into my pores and the lines of my face. I don’t usually care too much about them – Nana always says a face with marks is one that has lived – but I think Elena is trying to tell me it’s one that’s not cared for enough, so I should now buy her products so I can cover it all up.
‘If you buy the foundation today, you get a free lipliner and we can put you into our draw for a £500 beauty hamper.’
‘I was looking for a fun eyeshadow,’ I say.
She looks at me blankly. Fun? Eyeshadow is a serious endeavour. ‘Have you thought about concealer?’
Tell her no. Tell her you’re happy with your face as it is.But I can’t. ‘Merry Christmas,’ I say, before scurrying away. Is it bad that I’m a Londoner and I’ve never been to Harrods before? I think sometimes it can be too intimidating to walk through those hallowed doors, to be deluded enough to think you might be able to afford anything. As I look upon a whole shelf of snailmoisturisers at £100 a pot my assumptions are proved right. This whole beauty section is a mirrored, brightly lit arrangement of counters, leather stools and women with slicked-back hair and strong lips who look like dental hygienists. This is not Superdrug where I can try stuff out on the back of my hand and go, hey, it’s five pounds and not tested on animals, let’s give it a go.
As it’s Harrods, the Christmas music is also strong and orchestral. No Bublé here, and the decorations around this place hang precariously off the ceilings. There are giant glowing reindeer and baubles as big as the moon, the lights glow, and the greenery is real and fragrant. As much as this is way beyond my wallet and usual shopping experience, this place does feel magical. As soon as I walked in, the marble floors, the way the ceilings extend up along striking white pillars, the art deco features, the complete grandeur of it, it’s movie shopping. Something to watch from afar and admire as opposed to partaking in.
‘Rose Chérie?’ a woman says, approaching me.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak French,’ I say politely, wondering if maybe I’m so chic today that I look French. I’ll take that. It’s a vintage checked wool coat, I get a lot of compliments about it.
‘Oh no,’ the woman says, reverting back to a disappointingly snooty London accent. ‘It’s a perfume. It’s Guerlain.’
‘Yeah. I’ll have a…’ I thought she might spritz me but instead she hands me a small white strip of paper and the only place I’ve seen those are in the doctor’s office when they test for urine infections. She watches and I think she wants me to smell it. ‘That’s lovely. I can smell the rose and the… chérie?’
She smiles at me, knowing that I don’t belong, but then her attention seems to be taken with a figure next to me who approaches closely and slips a hand inside my coat and aroundmy waist. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?’ He leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Madam was sampling our new fragrance at Guerlain,’ the lady with the white strips says, simpering.
Old Nick goes to smell it. ‘Wow. That’s insanely good. Did you want it?’
Do I? I think we should look at the bottom of the bottle for the price first. But they both stand there and look at me. ‘I’m undecided for now. I may do a bit more sampling over in…’ I look around. ‘Dior. Thank you though.’
The woman knows I’m lying but she smiles passive-aggressively and lets us walk on. Despite a few minor reservations about Old Nick, there is something very comforting about him at the moment. The way he has no qualms about draping an arm around me or looking for a hand. After ice skating, we spent the night together and had a morning of buying coffees and then kissing each other goodbye at the train station and going our separate ways, off to work. And the way I asked him if he had his keys, and the way he straightened out my scarf felt normal, as if we’re in a relationship even though the terms of what this is haven’t yet been discussed.
‘So is this your regular shopping spot then?’ I joke. ‘Are we here to do a big shop in the food hall downstairs?’
‘Not quite but we can go there later. Peruse…’
I nod. All I was told was to meet him here, in Harrods for three o’clock on the dot, so I do wonder why now. There are restaurants and cafés here. Perhaps we’re having a fancy afternoon tea. Or are we doing champagne and oysters? That is super classy. I really should have worn heels instead of boots for that.
‘I like that coat on you. Suits you,’ I say to Nick, scanning his outfit. He’s wearing a tan wool-style trench today over jeans, boots and a black polo neck.
‘Oh, it was a gift,’ he says, frowning slightly. ‘I never know if it suits me.’
‘You wear it well,’ I say.
He leads me over by the hand to the lifts that again scream luxury with their brass-plated buttons and lit-up store directory. We go inside the lift and he finds my hand again, next to a few other shoppers and excited children. Lower Ground. I guess the food hall it is, to find posh truffles and caviar. He smiles to himself and I do wonder what he’s thinking about because he seems happy, and whilst I feel comfortable in his company, things linger in my mind. Little conversations about my writing and career and, maybe more importantly, New Nick. New Nick who can wrap books and gives me Christmas trees for free but who I think, the last time I saw him, may have referred to me as charity. He feels sorry for me? Yeah, that’s definitely not how I want to feel in any sort of relationship with anyone.
‘Lower Ground Floor,’ a polite voice says as we arrive at our destination, and Nick leads the way, letting me exit the lift first.
‘Come…’ he says but I examine the signs on the wall and we head away from the food hall. ‘You’re still super Christmassy right?’ he asks.
‘Yes?’ I say, confused if he thinks that’s a bad thing.
‘Then we are exactly where we need to be,’ he says, gripping my hand tightly.
He leads me through to another hallway and there are labelled arches, decorated brightly in red ribbons and nutcracker-soldier statues greeting us. Christmas. They have a whole Christmas department. I walk through and it is the sort of magical place I always wanted to go to as a child. Stuffed Harrods bears piled high, toy locomotives whizz through model villages decorated with snowy mountains, and walls of ornate decorations in every feasible colour, stacked like gloriously bejewelled pieces of fruit. Nick notices my mouth is agapeand laughs. Are we here so I can get emotional and stare at everything? Nick cocks his head, telling me to keep walking until we get to a wooden sign, sitting in swathes of white, glowing material made to look like ice.Santa’s Grotto. I look at Nick curiously to see the small queue of children there, and an elf with a clipboard at a lectern ticks off everyone’s name.
‘Maybe we have to book?’ I say. ‘Plus, I’m twenty-seven,’ I remind him, conscious of the small kids in Christmas jumpers and super-cute velveteen dresses surrounding us.
