cool outfit to wear on my first day — and eventually settle on black trousers from Jigsaw, a little cashmere (well, half cashmere) T-shirt, and a pink wraparound top, which actually came from Ally Smith.
I’m quite pleased with the way I look, and am expecting Danielle to make some appreciative comment when I arrive at the shop — but she doesn’t even seem to notice. She just says, “Hi. The trousers and T-shirts are in the stock room. Pick out your size and change in the cubicle.”
Oh, right. Now I come to think of it, all the assistants at Ally Smith do wear the same outfits. Almost like a. . well, a uniform, I suppose. Reluctantly I get changed and look at myself — and, to tell you the truth, I’m disappointed. These gray trousers don’t really flatter me — and the T-shirt’s just plain boring. I’m almost tempted to ask Danielle if I can pick out another outfit to wear — but she seems a bit busy, so I don’t. Maybe next week I’ll have a little word.
But even though I don’t like the outfit, I still feel a frisson of excitement as I come out onto the shop floor. The spotlights are shining brightly; the floor’s all shiny and polished; music’s playing and there’s a sense of anticipation in the air. It’s almost like being a performer. I glance at myself in a mirror and murmur, “How can I help you?” Or maybe it should be “Can I help you?” I’m going to be the most charming shop assistant ever, I decide. People will come here just to be assisted by me, and I’ll have a fantastic rapport with all the customers. And then I’ll appear in the Evening Standard in some quirky column about favorite shops.
No one’s told me what to do yet, so — using my initiative, very good — I walk up to a woman with blond hair, who’s tapping away at the till, and say, “Shall I have a quick go?”
“What?” she says, not looking up.
“I’d better learn how to work the till, hadn’t I? Before all the customers arrive?”
Then the woman does look up and, to my surprise, bursts into laughter.
“On the till? You think you’re going to go straight onto the till?”
“Oh,” I say, blushing a little. “Well, I thought. .”
“You’re a beginner, darling,” she says. “You’re not going near the till. Go with Kelly. She’ll show you what you’ll be doing today.”
Folding jumpers. Folding bloody jumpers. That’s what I’m here to do. Rush round after customers who have picked up cardigans and left them all crumpled — and fold them back up again. By eleven o’clock I’m absolutely exhausted — and, to be honest, not enjoying myself very much at all. Do you know how depressing it is to fold a cardigan in exactly the right Ally Smith way and put it back on the shelf, all neatly lined up — just to see someone casually pull it down again, look at it, pull a face, and discard it? You want to scream at them, leave it alone if you’re not going to buy it! I watched one girl even pick up a cardigan identical to the one she already had on!
And I’m not getting to chat to the customers, either. It’s as if they see through you when you’re a shop assistant. No one’s asked me a single interesting question, like “Does this shirt go with these shoes?” or, “Where can I find a really nice black skirt under ?60?” I’d love to answer stuff like that. I could really help people! But the only questions I’ve been asked are “Is there a loo?” and, “Where’s the nearest Midland cashpoint?” I haven’t built up a single rapport with anyone.
Oh, it’s depressing. The only thing that keeps me going is an end-of-stock reduced rack at the back of the shop. I keep sidling toward it and looking at a pair of zebra-print jeans, reduced from ?180 to ?90. I remember those jeans. I’ve even tried them on. And here they are, out of the blue — reduced. I just can’t keep my eyes off them. They’re even in my size.
I mean, I know I’m not really supposed to be spending money — but this is a complete one-off. They’re the coolest jeans you’ve ever seen. And ?90 is nothing for a pair of really good jeans. If you were in Gucci, you’d be paying at least ?500. Oh God, I want them. I want them.
I’m just loitering at the back, eyeing them up for the hundredth time, when Danielle comes striding up and I jump guiltily. But all she says is “Can you go onto fitting room duty now? Sarah’ll show you the ropes.”
No more folding jumpers! Thank God!
To my relief, this fitting room lark is a lot more fun. Ally Smith has really nice fitting rooms, with lots of space and individual cubicles, and my job is to stand at the entrance and check how many items people are taking in with them. It’s really interesting to see what people are trying on. One girl’s buying loads of stuff, and keeps saying how her boyfriend told her to go mad for her birthday, and he would pay.
Huh. Well, it’s all right for some. Still, never mind, at least I’m earning money. It’s eleven-thirty, which means I’ve earned. . ?14.40 so far. Well, that’s not bad, is it? I could get some nice makeup for that.
Except that I’m not going to waste this money on makeup. Of course not — I mean, that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m going to be really sensible. What I’m going to do is buy the zebra-print jeans — just because they’re a one-off and it would be a crime not to — and then put all the rest toward my bank balance. I just can’t wait to put them on. I get a break at two-thirty, so what I’ll do is nip to the reduced rack and take them to the staff room, just to make sure they fit, and. .
Suddenly my face freezes. Hang on.
Hang on a moment. What’s that girl holding over her arm? She’s holding my zebra-print jeans! She’s coming toward the fitting rooms. Oh my God. She wants to try them on. But they’re mine! I saw them first!
I’m almost giddy with panic. I mean, a normal pair of jeans, I wouldn’t bother about. But these are unique. They’re meant for me. I’ve mentally reorganized my entire wardrobe around them, and have already planned to wear them at least three times next week. I can’t lose them. Not now.
“Hi!” she says brightly as she approaches.
“Hi,” I gulp, trying to stay calm. “Ahm. . how many items have you got?”
“Four,” she says, showing me the hangers. Behind me are tokens hanging on the wall, marked One, Two, Three, and Four. The girl’s waiting for me to give her a token marked Four and let her in. But I can’t.
I physically cannot let her go in there with my jeans.
“Actually,” I hear myself saying, “you’re only allowed three items.”
“Really?” she says in surprise. “But. .” She gestures to the tokens.
“I know,” I say. “But they’ve just changed the rules. Sorry about that.” And I flash her a quick smile.
“Oh, OK,” says the girl. “Well, I’ll leave out—”
“These,” I say, and grab the zebra-print jeans.
“No,” she says. “Actually, I think I’ll—”
“We have to take the top item,” I explain hurriedly. “Sorry about that.”
Thank God for bossy shop assistants and stupid pointless rules. People are so used to them that this girl doesn’t even question me. She just rolls her eyes, grabs the Three token, and pushes her way past into the fitting room, leaving me holding the precious jeans.
OK, now what? From inside the girl’s cubicle, I can hear zips being undone and hangers being clattered. She won’t take long to try on those three things. And then she’ll be out, wanting the zebra-print jeans. Oh God. What can I do? For a few moments I’m frozen with indecision. Then the sound of a cubicle curtain being rattled back jolts me into action. It’s not her — but it could have been. Quickly I stuff the zebra-print jeans out of sight behind the curtain and stand up again, a bright smile on my face.
Please let the girl find something else she likes, I pray feverishly. Please let her forget all about the jeans. Maybe she’s not even that keen on them. Maybe she picked them up on impulse. She didn’t really look like a jeans person to me.
A moment later, Danielle comes striding up, a clipboard in her hands.
“All right?” she says. “Coping, are you?”
“I’m doing fine,” I say. “Really enjoying it.”
“I’m just rostering in breaks,” she says. “If you could manage to last until three, you can have an hour then.”
“Fine,” I say in my positive, employee-of-the-month voice, even though I’m thinking Three? I’ll be starving!
“Good,” she says, and moves off into the corner to write on her piece of paper, just as a voice says,
“Hi. Can I have those jeans now?”
It’s the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she Houdini?
“Hi!” I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. “Any good? That black skirt’s really nice. I think it would really suit you. The way the splits go at the—”
“Not really,” she says, interrupting me, and shoves the lot back at me, all mussed up and off their hangers.
