Deborah Klée KLÉE

Chapter one

Twenty-nine shopping days to Christmas

If it wasn’t for the flier that had glued itself to Bea’s shoe, she might never have found out about Declan. It was one of the three Santas that had been dining at Bea’s usual table who brought it to her attention. There were other tables in Hartleys’s staff canteen but Bea was a creature of habit. She peeled the flier from the sole of her shoe. Damp and dirty, it stayed intact as though refusing to be ignored. Still she paid it no heed.

‘Wait. You’ve a little speck of ketchup there.’ Bea waggled an index finger at Santa’s luxurious beard. The Santas employed by Hartleys were required to be impeccable in appearance at all times.

‘Thank you. You will definitely have all of your wishes granted this Christmas.’ Santa winked, and for a magical moment Bea imagined that he was the real Santa Claus. Then, the table was hers and she had thirty blissful minutes alone, a respite from having to think. Bea needed these breaks so that she could retreat into her own world. Like going backstage after a performance, shedding the costume and wiping away the face paint. Bea the stylish and competent sales assistant could become just Bea. It was exhausting being Bea.

The flier might have been cleared away by the catering staff, and she would never have known. But, it clung to the edge of the table. It was only as she gathered her things to leave that Bea saw the photograph of Declan with his impish face and dimpled grin. Bea detached the flier and sank back into a chair. Missing. Declan Connor of no fixed abode, but known in the Kings Cross area. If you have any information on his whereabouts call this number…

It couldn’t be – not Declan. Declan, with his funny sayings and silly jokes. The photograph must have been taken before he became homeless, because he didn’t look sad, or the way she thought homeless people would look. Starved and grey. The colour of pavements. How many times had she walked past a homeless person without even glancing at them? She could have walked past Declan. He would have called after her. Wouldn’t he? Bea bit her lip to suppress feelings that she didn’t understand: a lump in her throat and a prickling of tears. Of course she was sad, but this response was more than concern for a missing boy. There was something else, a dark demon, an emotion that threatened to engulf her. A recognition that she was responsible for this. Oh God, what had she done? Bea closed her eyes to try to block out the sights and sounds of the restaurant. She wanted to run away and hide, bury her head under her duvet. She took deep breaths; she couldn’t fall apart here.

Bea pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, but the images kept coming: Declan packing his bag. The way he looked at her before leaving. If only she could wind back time and do things differently. A chair scraped as someone sat down opposite her.

‘Mrs Barone said I could go to lunch as you were due back.’ It was Sophie, one of the junior sales assistants.

Bea uncovered her eyes and flinched at the brightness of the lights. Sophie rolled her eyes.

‘A migraine,’ Bea lied. She stood on shaky legs and attempted a smile. White Christmas, came around again on the playlist. ‘I’d better be getting back then.’

She was responsible for Declan becoming homeless. When Bea discovered that he had been sleeping in the store overnight, she had told her manager. It seemed like the right thing to do, but evidently not, because she became even less popular than before. The junior sales girls and delivery boys talked about her, not bothering to lower their voices when she was in earshot. Following her allegation, Declan had lost his job and the temporary roof over his head. Bea had no idea that he would become homeless – that she had made him homeless.

And now he was missing. Anything could have happened to him and it was her fault. What had she done?

Mrs Barone’s gravelly voice startled Bea. ‘We have a VIP shopper this afternoon, Suki Dee. Miss Licious will be received in the Exclusive stylist suite with her assistant. I’ve asked Mrs Jackson to take a selection of undergarments to the suite when we get the call.’

‘Thank you for informing me, Mrs Barone. I will make sure that all runs smoothly whilst Jemima is upstairs.’

‘I know you will, Miss Stevens. Mr Evans has two excellent senior sales assistants from which to choose my successor.’

Head of department was what Bea had been working towards for the past three years. It was in her first year at Hartleys that she had ratted on Declan. Blood rushed to her face as she remembered that day.

Mrs Barone frowned and Bea realised that something was expected from her. She felt sick and a little dizzy. It was important that she say the right thing. Bea closed her eyes to concentrate and then said, ‘When do you think we will hear who he has chosen?’

‘Well, it will have to be before Christmas when I retire.’

Pippa, who was waiting to ask Bea something, overheard and supplied the one thing that Bea should have said. ‘Mrs Barone, nobody could replace you. We’re going to miss you so much.’

‘Nobody could…’ Bea parroted, but Mrs Barone had turned away, her attention now on the boys in black, so called for their uniform of black T-shirt and jeans, who had arrived with armfuls of silk and lace garments held high above the floor to stop them trailing.

Somehow, she had to try to forget about Declan, at least until she finished work. Bea followed the boys in black to see that the supplies were displayed to their best advantage. Pippa was laughing and chatting with the boys.

‘The hosiery shelves need restocking,’ Bea told her.

Pippa flashed angry eyes at her, but Bea was too preoccupied to care. How had the flier come to be on her shoe? It couldn’t be a coincidence that she lived in Kings Cross and…that’s right. A man, a homeless man, had thrust a piece of paper at her outside the station. It must have fallen out of her bag when she retrieved her purse to pay for her lunch, and then she stepped on it.

‘Miss Stevens?’ Mrs Barone interrupted Bea’s thoughts. ‘Please could you take over from Mrs Jackson as she’s wanted upstairs?’

Bea jumped to attention. ‘Of course, Mrs Barone.’

Jemima was gathering a flurry of gowns: feather trim, satin and lace, a cloud of cream, white, and coral. She arranged them on a rail, waiting for the completion of her sale.

‘Sorry, but you’re wanted in the Exclusive stylist suite,’ Bea said.

‘I know. I’ll just finish here.’

Jemima’s party of Arab ladies had meandered away and were now looking at bra and panty sets. They both knew that customers needed time and could spend thousands more, so long as they weren’t rushed.

‘I’ll look after them,’ Bea said to Jemima with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

An hour later, Bea rang up twenty-six thousand pounds on the till and took her commission of the sale. Jemima would be disappointed, but it wasn’t Bea’s fault. Sales staff were not allowed to interfere with the commission process. Whoever rung up the sale took the commission; it was Hartleys’s rule. One of the junior sales girls was staring at her, making an ugly face. Was she meant to ignore the rules? Other people seemed to know when to bend them, but it didn’t make sense. Why have rules if there was another set of unknown rules about when to ignore them? However hard she tried, she never seemed to get it right.

Mrs Barone left her station in the corner of the department and approached Bea with a frown. ‘Could you go and help Mrs Jackson? Our VIP has a wardrobe malfunction.’

Bea took her department manager to one side. ‘Could you be more specific?’

‘Apparently, the bodysuit that Mrs Jackson thought would work under the dress that our VIP plans to wear at an awards ceremony is not to her liking. It gives the appearance of nudity in all the right places, but our VIP was hoping for a little more cleavage and lift.’

‘Understood.’ Bea selected a silicone skin cleavage enhancer and as a backup a voluptuous silicone lift bra in a double G.

Jemima sighed audibly when Bea arrived with the garments. They could hear Suki Dee’s meltdown from the expansive consulting area out front. The dressing room was almost as big as Bea’s entire flat – more like a penthouse suite, without a bed.

‘I thought the U-plunge, backless body was perfect, but apparently it’s not.’

‘I know. Not enough cleavage. If you want to get back to the floor, I can take it from here,’ Bea said.

Jemima’s face lit up. ‘Oh, would you? I was hoping to be quick.’

‘Yes, go.’ Bea hurried her away before realising that she might be hoping to complete her sale. ‘Jemima, I’m sorry but…’ Too late – the door had swung shut.

Bea handed both of the garments to Suki Dee’s dresser with an explanation as to how they should be fitted. ‘I think that the cleavage enhancer is the best solution, but if Suki Dee isn’t comfortable wearing it, the bra might work.’

More wails and cries of despair. Then, the dresser reappeared red-faced. ‘I can’t seem to get the hang of these. Would you mind?’

Bea took the silicone mounds from her. ‘Well, you sort of do this and this.’ She demonstrated how the cups enclosed each breast and then the tape was adjusted to create cleavage. ‘It’s tricky to get a good grip; you have to kind of anchor it down and then pull it over –’

‘I read the instructions but it’s not working and Suki is going mad in there. Please.’

Bea went hot and then cold. She searched for someone – anyone – to step in and offer to help. There was no way that she could fit silicone cups onto the celebrity’s naked boobs.

‘Please.’

Suki Dee was a customer and it was Bea’s job to serve her.

‘Okay.’ Bea took a deep breath and prepared to enter the sacred chamber.

It wasn’t hard when you knew how, and Bea had become something of an expert. Suki Dee was thrilled with the effect of the adjustments and Bea had to admit that she looked amazing in the backless and almost frontless dress. It had been a bit embarrassing coming into such close personal contact with the star, but she managed to complete the task sparing Suki Dee’s dignity. And Bea noted she had gone a whole hour without thinking about Declan. Then she felt guilty for not thinking about him.

Chapter two

Twenty-eight shopping days to Christmas

Bea’s shift was midday until eight in the evening. Then, there was Mr Evans’s Christmas reception for the fashion floor sales staff. On any other night anxiety about an impending social event would have kept her awake, but last night all she could think about was Declan.

Every day on her way to and from work, Bea had walked past the homeless people sprawled around the entrance to King’s Cross Station, barely taking any notice. Overcome with chagrin, she had taken a good look last night. There were several, huddled in sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. One of the men had a pile of cases and bags strapped together with a bungee cord, and another, a woman, had carrier bags. Bea had taken peeks as she strolled by, searching for a man handing out fliers, as she had no other clue to his identity. It could have been any one of the men; she had paid him no attention at the time.

Bea squirmed as she reflected on her callous disregard for people like Declan. It wasn’t Declan’s fault he became homeless; she knew exactly where to lay the blame. This morning, on her way into work, she would ask about the man handing out fliers. If she was to find Declan and put right her wrong, this was the best place to start. But what would she say?

It was scary enough talking to any stranger but homeless strangers were on a different level.

Before stepping out of her door, Bea checked for the third time to make sure the notes she had made weeks ago were in her bag. If Evans announced the new head of department at his Christmas reception, she might be asked to make a speech. The thought both terrified and excited her. It was as well to be fully prepared. No surprises.

That morning, the sky was blue and the air crisp as Bea, in stiletto heels, navigated the icy pavement, as though walking a tightrope. On the days she had a late shift, it was her morning ritual to buy an Americano and skinny oats from Denny’s and take them back home to enjoy with a magazine. She loved releasing a magazine from its cellophane wrap, the waft of fresh print, the slip and slide of gloss. The December issue of Vogue was waiting for this indulgence, but today it held no attraction.

As she approached the station, Bea’s heart beat a little faster. The man was back, handing out his fliers. She had to speak to him to find out what had happened to Declan, but she couldn’t; she was afraid. Maybe if she googled ‘how to talk to homeless people’. The internet had come to her rescue before, when she had googled ‘how to make small talk’. Ask open-ended questions and show that you are interested in the person, it had said. A homeless person was still a person and so that advice should be good. But how could she start a conversation about Declan?

Just say, Hello, a bit frosty today. No, that wasn’t open-ended. Bea had walked straight past him. She couldn’t do it. But she had to; this man was no different to Declan. Bea pirouetted with tiny shuffles and retraced her steps. Commuters passed him by, ignoring his outstretched hand. Couldn’t they see he was handing out fliers, not begging?

The man looked straight at Bea and her stomach knotted. His gaze was bold and commanding, as though he knew all about her. She had to be brave; this was her opportunity to ask him about Declan. Bea took a deep breath and closed her eyes, willing herself to find the right words. But when she opened her eyes, he was still staring.

‘Why are you looking at me?’ That was the trouble. If she didn’t prepare herself, the wrong things came out of her mouth.

The man dropped his gaze and shook his head. Now she had offended him. Bea tried again. ‘What do you think of this weather?’ She tilted her head and frowned slightly to show that she cared about his reply.

The man looked up through a fringe of matted hair, his face scrunched up. ‘I think that if it gets much colder, it will freeze my…’ He stopped himself from completing the sentence. ‘Don’t you have a pair of snow boots or something?’

Bea followed his gaze; he was staring at her Jimmy Choos. ‘I do, but I always wear high heels to work.’ So that’s why he was staring at her.

He had an Irish accent just like Declan.

‘Why are you handing out those fliers?’ Her heart was beating too quickly.

‘Ah, so you’re going to be telling me I need a licence.’ He shook his head and his eyes crinkled, but she couldn’t see whether he was smiling or snarling beneath his beard.

‘No. It’s just… Well, why are you trying to find Declan? Do you know him?’ It occurred to Bea that he could be giving out fliers on behalf of a charity to earn some money.

The man straightened his back, a look of expectation in his eyes. ‘Do you know something? Have you seen him?’

Now, Bea felt stupid. There was nothing that she could say. To explain how she knew Declan, and why she was concerned for his well-being, would mean admitting to this stranger that she had made him homeless.

‘No. You gave me a flier yesterday and I just wondered.’

‘Wondered why it mattered that a homeless guy went missing, you mean?’ He slumped back against the hoarding. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to bite yer head off.’

‘It’s okay. I just wanted to help.’

The man sighed and went back to handing out fliers.

‘I was just going to get a coffee. Would you like one?’ That’s what she should have said all along. Kind and compassionate and at the same time practical.

‘No thanks.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ So that was that. But Bea was reluctant to walk away. This man was her link to Declan and somehow, she had to find him and put things right. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ryan O’Marley.’ He grinned, exposing surprisingly white teeth.

‘I’m Beatrice Stevens but people call me Bea.’

‘Pleased to be meeting you, Bea,’ he said.

There was something about his expression that Bea couldn’t read. It was as though he was amused by her but she didn’t know why. Feeling awkward and a little snubbed by his rejection of her kind offer, she continued on to Denny’s, all the while sensing his eyes on her back.