over to the customer service desk.
“Hi, do you have any vacancies?” I ask.
“Yes,” says the smiling assistant. “We’re currently looking for customer service personnel and shelf stackers.”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Very competitive,” says a voice behind me. I turn round and find myself looking at Bernie Greengrass, the store manager. He needs no introduction - his picture is in the local paper just about every week.
“But I’d have thought junior manager would be more suitable for you, Isabel?”
“You know my name?”
“I make it my business to know,” he says with a smile. “If you’re really interested in a position here, just let me know. Our pay and conditions are very generous.”
He hands me his business card.
“Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
“You do that. We have an excellent fast-track programme, and just think - you wouldn’t have to work for that idiot, Stu, any more!”
He flashes a cheeky grin, then he’s gone, his attention diverted as a local TV news crew walks through the door.
* * *
I race back to Robertson’s to tell Stu and Sonya all I’ve discovered - well not quite all - I don’t mention Bernie Greengrass’ job offer. Sonya looks riled enough.
“It’s just a stunt,” I reassure her. “They can’t keep that up for long, unless they’re looking to bankrupt themselves.”
“But what else have they got up their sleeves?” she wonders, grasping at her hair with her hands. “Don’t you remember, when Filbert’s first opened, a lot of people said Queensbeach was only big enough for one supermarket. What if they were right?”
“I can’t believe we missed this,” I say, shaking my head. “They must have advertised on the radio and in the papers.”
“Not in the papers I read,” Stu says.
“No, well they probably didn’t advertise in the Beano,” Sonya mutters, flicking through the newspaper stand. “Here it is, front cover of the Queensbeach Echo. No wonder this place is deserted.”
The store is so quiet that Sonya lets me leave early, despite my late start. It makes a pleasant change to get out while it’s still light. I head for the High Street, intending to make a start on my Christmas shopping, but a shimmering green dress immediately catches my eye. It’s in the window of a little boutique I’ve never been in before. Curiously, I push open the door and walk inside.
The predatory eyes of the shop assistant watch as I finger the cool, silky fabric.
“That’s a lovely dress,” she says approvingly. “Would you like to try it on?”
I glance at the price tag. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself nodding and following her to the fitting room, where it takes less than a minute to shimmy out of my black tailored suit and into the dress.
I admire myself in the communal mirror. The material hugs my figure in all the right places, neither too tight nor too loose.
“Oh, my!” The shop assistant gasps. “It looks like it was made for you!”
I know that they’ll say anything to make a sale, but I can’t help feeling she’s right on this occasion. The colour complements my complexion perfectly, as does the shape.
“Would you like to take it?” she asks.
My conscience tugs at the hem of the dress. It is both expensive and elaborate, so there won’t be many occasions when I could wear it. But Kate and Deacon get complimentary tickets to a posh ball run by the hospital every year. It would be perfect for that.
“What shoes do you have?” I ask.
As it turns out, not only do they have great shoes, but also stoles and handbags. I leave the shop with parcels tucked under each arm, my face flushed with guilty pleasure.
“Hi Isabel, can you get me a beer?” Deacon asks, when I arrive at the Beach House for dinner.
“Nice to see you too,” I mutter, opening the fridge. “Anyone else?”
“Yes, please,” Kate says.
As I shut the fridge, I notice a familiar cream coloured invitation card pinned to
“Hi, do you have any vacancies?” I ask.
“Yes,” says the smiling assistant. “We’re currently looking for customer service personnel and shelf stackers.”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Very competitive,” says a voice behind me. I turn round and find myself looking at Bernie Greengrass, the store manager. He needs no introduction - his picture is in the local paper just about every week.
“But I’d have thought junior manager would be more suitable for you, Isabel?”
“You know my name?”
“I make it my business to know,” he says with a smile. “If you’re really interested in a position here, just let me know. Our pay and conditions are very generous.”
He hands me his business card.
“Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
“You do that. We have an excellent fast-track programme, and just think - you wouldn’t have to work for that idiot, Stu, any more!”
He flashes a cheeky grin, then he’s gone, his attention diverted as a local TV news crew walks through the door.
* * *
I race back to Robertson’s to tell Stu and Sonya all I’ve discovered - well not quite all - I don’t mention Bernie Greengrass’ job offer. Sonya looks riled enough.
“It’s just a stunt,” I reassure her. “They can’t keep that up for long, unless they’re looking to bankrupt themselves.”
“But what else have they got up their sleeves?” she wonders, grasping at her hair with her hands. “Don’t you remember, when Filbert’s first opened, a lot of people said Queensbeach was only big enough for one supermarket. What if they were right?”
“I can’t believe we missed this,” I say, shaking my head. “They must have advertised on the radio and in the papers.”
“Not in the papers I read,” Stu says.
“No, well they probably didn’t advertise in the Beano,” Sonya mutters, flicking through the newspaper stand. “Here it is, front cover of the Queensbeach Echo. No wonder this place is deserted.”
The store is so quiet that Sonya lets me leave early, despite my late start. It makes a pleasant change to get out while it’s still light. I head for the High Street, intending to make a start on my Christmas shopping, but a shimmering green dress immediately catches my eye. It’s in the window of a little boutique I’ve never been in before. Curiously, I push open the door and walk inside.
The predatory eyes of the shop assistant watch as I finger the cool, silky fabric.
“That’s a lovely dress,” she says approvingly. “Would you like to try it on?”
I glance at the price tag. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself nodding and following her to the fitting room, where it takes less than a minute to shimmy out of my black tailored suit and into the dress.
I admire myself in the communal mirror. The material hugs my figure in all the right places, neither too tight nor too loose.
“Oh, my!” The shop assistant gasps. “It looks like it was made for you!”
I know that they’ll say anything to make a sale, but I can’t help feeling she’s right on this occasion. The colour complements my complexion perfectly, as does the shape.
“Would you like to take it?” she asks.
My conscience tugs at the hem of the dress. It is both expensive and elaborate, so there won’t be many occasions when I could wear it. But Kate and Deacon get complimentary tickets to a posh ball run by the hospital every year. It would be perfect for that.
“What shoes do you have?” I ask.
As it turns out, not only do they have great shoes, but also stoles and handbags. I leave the shop with parcels tucked under each arm, my face flushed with guilty pleasure.
“Hi Isabel, can you get me a beer?” Deacon asks, when I arrive at the Beach House for dinner.
“Nice to see you too,” I mutter, opening the fridge. “Anyone else?”
“Yes, please,” Kate says.
As I shut the fridge, I notice a familiar cream coloured invitation card pinned to
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