Mini Shopaholic

As I arrive at work I’m feeling quite jittery. I’ve never asked for a raise before. But Luke always says it’s perfectly normal and appropriate. He says he respects people who value their own worth correctly. Well, I value my own worth at precisely £7,200 more than I’m getting at the moment. (That’s how much I’ve worked out I need for the party. Maybe I’ll ask for eight, to be on the safe side.)

I’m not going to throw a tantrum about it. I’m just going to be firm and to the point. I’ll say, ‘Trevor, I’ve assessed the market rate, and I calculate that a personal shopper of my calibre is worth an additional eight thousand pounds. Which I would like advanced today, if possible.’

Actually … let’s make it ten thousand. That’s a nice round number.

And what’s ten thousand pounds in the scheme of things? The Look is a massive department store with a great big turnover and they can easily afford ten thousand pounds for a valued employee and potential board member. I mean, Elinor spent way more than ten thousand pounds in my department in about five minutes flat. Which I might mention, if things get a bit sticky.

As I’m heading up the escalator my BlackBerry buzzes with two new emails. The lighting company and the security firm have both finally got back to me. I read both of their quotes in turn – and when I’ve finished I feel so wobbly I nearly trip over the top of the escalator. They both want four-figure sums beginning with ‘4’, with a 50 per cent deposit payable immediately, due to the lateness of the booking.

So let’s work this out. In total, I now need …

OK. Don’t panic. It’s very simple. To put this party on properly, I need … fifteen grand.

Fifteen grand? Am I seriously going to ask my boss for fifteen thousand pounds? With a straight face?

I want to laugh hysterically, or maybe run away. But I can’t. This is my only option. I have to stay bullish. I have to believe I’m worth another fifteen thousand pounds. Yes. I am.

As I reach our department I duck into one of the dressing rooms, lock the door, take three deep breaths and face myself in the mirror.

‘Trevor,’ I say as confidently as possible. ‘I’ve assessed the market rate and I calculate that a personal shopper of my calibre is worth an additional fifteen thousand pounds. Which I would like today, if possible. Cheque or cash is fine.’

I did it quite well. Apart from the shaky voice. And the gulping when I got to ‘fifteen thousand’.

Maybe I should start off asking for ten thousand. And then say, ‘Actually, I meant fifteen,’ just as he’s about to write out the cheque.

No. Bad idea.

My stomach is turning over. This is where I wish I had ‘people’, like Danny does. He never has to ask anyone for money. In fact, he behaves as if money doesn’t exist.

‘Becky.’ Jasmine is knocking on the door. ‘Your customer’s here.’

OK. I’ll just have to wing it. Or hope someone gives me a really, really big tip.

*

On the plus side, it’s a really good morning. As I grab a coffee at ten thirty, the place is full. Both Jasmine and I are in the middle of one-to-one appointments, and there are a few dropin customers too. We always let our regular clients come and use the nice dressing rooms, even if they haven’t made a consultation appointment. There’s a cappuccino machine, and sofas, and bowls of sweets, and the whole place is feel-good. I even have a few customers who regularly meet here for a chat, instead of a café.

As I look around, listening to the familiar noises of hangers and zips and chatter and laughter, I can’t help feeling proud. The rest of the store may be struggling, but my department is warm and happy and buzzy.

Jasmine is packaging up a load of Paul Smith shirts, and as she rings up the till she arches her eyebrows at me.

‘Look what I got online.’ She pulls out a plastic tabard reading ‘OFFICESUPPLIES.COM’. ‘I wear it when I deliver clothes. No one ever gives me any gip.’

‘Wow,’ I say, impressed. ‘That’s thorough.’

‘My delivery name is Gwen.’ She nods. ‘I’ve got a whole second personality going on. Gwen doesn’t smoke. And she’s Pisces.’

‘Er … great!’ Sometimes I worry that Jasmine has gone a bit far with the whole cloak-and-dagger bit. ‘Hi, Louise!’

Jasmine’s client has arrived at the till. It’s Louise Sullivan, who has three kids and her own online food company and is constantly stressing over whether to have a tummy tuck or not, which is ridiculous. She looks great. It’s not her fault her husband has zero tact and likes making crass jokes. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">