Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto

prince, got frog. #Cinderella

WelshWitch, [+] Wed 1 Dec 17:01

It had already been replied to by dozens of people. Rupert was going to be furious, but since this—unlike all her other social media stuff set up by his PR team—was her personal account, there wasn’t a thing His Frogginess could do about it. At least not while she managed to stay out of his way.

What he might do if he caught up with her was something else. She shivered involuntarily as she continued to scroll through the tweets.

There was another one from Jen.

@LucyB If you need a bolt-hole, DM me.

#Cinderella

jenpb, [+] Wed 1 Dec 17:03

In a moment of weakness she almost did send her a direct message. But then she came to her senses and shut the phone.

That was what was so horrible about this. It wasn’t just Rupert she couldn’t trust.

She’d chatted daily on Twitter. She had nearly half a million ‘followers’, an army of fans on Facebook, all apparently fascinated by her story, her amazing new life. But who were they really?

Jen had seemed like a genuine friend, one of a few people who, like WelshWitch, she constantly tweeted with, but suppose she was just another of Rupert’s people? Someone the PR company had delegated to stay close. Be her ‘friend’, guide her tweets, distract her if necessary, steer her away from anything controversial? She was well aware that not everyone in the Twittersphere was who or what they seemed. Logging into her appointments, she scrolled down and, under the crossed-through entry for Dinner at Ritz, she added another entry—

Rest of life: up the creek.

And then her thoughts shifted back to the man on the stairs. His face forever imprinted on her memory. The strong jaw, high cheekbones, the sensuous curve of his lower lip…

‘Can I help?’

She jumped, looked up to discover that everyone else had moved off and she was being regarded by a young elf.

‘Oh…um…one adult to the North Pole, please,’ she said, closing her phone and reaching for her purse, wondering belatedly how much it would cost. She didn’t have that much cash. With a fistful of credit and charge cards, she hadn’t needed it. ‘A single will do,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I can walk back.’

He grinned appreciatively but said, ‘Sorry. This flight has closed.’

‘Oh.’ It hadn’t occurred to her that there wouldn’t be any room. ‘How long until the next one?’

‘Forty minutes, but you have to have a pre-booked ticket to see Santa,’ he explained.

‘You have to book in advance?’ Forty minutes! She couldn’t wait that long. ‘Where’s the magic in that?’ she demanded.

‘There’s not much magical about dozens of disappointed kids screaming their heads off,’ he pointed out.

‘True…’ She had enough experience with screaming children not to argue. ‘Look, I don’t actually want to have a one-to-one with the man himself. I just need to get to the North Pole,’ she pressed as the doors to the ice cave began to close. ‘It’s really urgent…’

It occurred to her that she must sound totally crazy. That, shoeless and apparently raving, she was going to be escorted from the premises.

It didn’t happen. Apparently, someone who could cite ‘elf’ as his day job took crazy in his stride because, instead of summoning Security, he said, ‘Oh, right. I was told to look out for you.’

What…? Nooooo!

‘You’re from Garlands, right? Pam’s been going crazy,’ he added before the frantic message from her brain to flee could reach her feet. ‘She expected you ages ago.’

‘Garlands…’

What the heck was that? The department responsible for store decorations? Did a snowflake need straightening? A tree trimming?

Whatever.

She was up for it, just as long as she was out of sight of the lift.

‘You’ve got me,’ she said, neither confirming nor denying it. ‘So, now do I get a ride on the sleigh?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, grinning. ‘The sleigh is for paying customers only. Staff have to put on their snow shoes and walk. Both ways,’ he added with relish. Clearly this was a young man who enjoyed his job. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m kidding about the snow shoes.’ He looked at her feet and, for a moment, lost the thread.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

‘Er…right. Well, you’re in luck. There’s a short cut.’ He opened a door, hidden in the side of a snow bank and tucked behind the kind of huge Christmas tree that you only ever saw in story books. Smothered with striped candy canes, toys, beautiful vintage decorations. ‘Turn left, ask for Pam Wootton. She’ll sort you out.’

‘Left…Pam…Got it. Thanks.’

Better and better. She’d be much safer behind the scenes in the staff area.

Forget Pam whatever-her-name-was. She’d keep her head down until closing time and then leave through the staff entrance with everyone else. By then, she might even have worked out where she could go.

‘She’s not in there, Mr Hart.’

‘Are you sure? She hasn’t locked herself in one of the cubicles?’

‘All checked. That’s what took me so long.’

‘Well, thanks for looking,’ he said, outwardly calm.

‘No problem.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘The lifts are right opposite the stairs. If she got lucky with the timing, she might have doubled straight back down to the ground floor and left the store.’

‘It’s possible,’ Nat agreed, although he doubted it. He had her shoe and no one with a lick of sense would choose to go barefoot from the warmth of the store into the street. She was still in the store; he was certain of it. And, with nine sales floors, she had plenty of places to hide.

In her shoes—or, rather, lack of them—where would he go? What would he do?

If it was serious—and her fear suggested that this wasn’t just some rich woman wanting a little time out—changing her appearance had to be the first priority. Not a problem when she had a store full of clothes and accessories to help her, except that would mean exposing herself while she stood in line to pay for them.

Maybe.

Just how desperate was she?

Desperate enough to grab something from a rail, switch clothes in one of the changing rooms? When they were this busy it wouldn’t be that difficult and she could rip out the security tags without a second thought. It wouldn’t matter to her if the clothes were damaged, only that they didn’t set off the alarms when she walked out of the store.

‘I’ll put the shoe in Lost Property, shall I?’

‘No!’ Realising that he’d overreacted, that she was looking at him at little oddly, he said, taking the shoe from her, ‘I’ll do it. I’ve already wasted enough of your time. Thanks for your help.’

‘No problem, Mr Hart. I’ll keep my eyes open.’

He nodded, but doubted she’d see her and, more in hope than expectation of finding some clue, he retraced his steps back down to the first floor, where he stopped to take another look out over the busy ground floor.

As the afternoon had shifted into evening and offices had emptied, it had become even more frantic, but he would have spotted that black dress amid the madness, the pale blonde swish of hair. That was a real giveaway, one that she should cover up as quickly as possible.

She’d need a scarf, he thought. Or a hat. A hat would be better. It would not only cover her hair, but throw a shadow over her face where a scarf would only draw attention to it.

And once she’d changed her appearance she could risk the shoe department. He’d wait there.

As he started down the stairs, he noticed a display slightly out of alignment, stopped to adjust it and saw a lace-trimmed handkerchief lying on the floor.

He bent to pick it up and caught again that faint, subtle scent that hadn’t come out of any bottle.

Had she dashed in from the street to take cover, bolted up the stairs, paused here for a moment to catch her breath, get her bearings?

Where was she now?

Famous last thoughts.

The minute Lucy opened the door to the staff area she was leapt upon by a flushed and harassed-looking woman wearing a security badge proclaiming her to be Pam Wootton, Human Resources.

‘At last! The agency said you’d be here an hour ago. I’d just about given up hope.’

Agency? Oh, good grief, the elf hadn’t been talking about Christmas garlands but the Garland Agency. The suppliers of the crème de la crème of secretarial staff. She’d had an interview with them when she was looking for a job but she didn’t have the kind of experience it took to be a ‘Garland Girl’.

There was a certain irony in being mistaken for one now, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from grabbing the opportunity with both hands.

‘I’m soooo sorry. The Underground…’ She didn’t have to say another word. It was the excuse that just gave and gave. ‘And it’s started to snow,’ she threw in for good measure.

‘Snow! Oh, great,’ Pam said. ‘That’s all I need. Getting home tonight is going to be a nightmare.’ And she pressed her hand to her forehead as if trying to keep her brain in.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked, forgetting her own worries for a moment. The woman looked flushed and not at all well.

‘Ask me again in February,’ she replied with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘When the January sales are over.’ Then, pulling herself together, ‘It’s just a bit of a headache. I’ll take something for it when I get back to the office. Come on, there’s no time to waste. Let’s get you changed.’

‘Changed?’

‘Into your costume,’ she said, opening a cupboard and revealing a rail of short green tunics. Then, glancing back at her, ‘Didn’t they tell you anything…’ she looked at her clipboard ‘…I don’t seem to have your name.’

‘Lu…’ Noooooo!

Pam looked up. ‘Lou? As in Louise?’

Gulp.

‘Yes! Louise.’ Whew. Pam was still waiting. ‘Louise…Braithwaite.’ It was the first name that came into her head.

‘And you have got a CRB Certificate, Louise?’ Pam asked, pen poised to tick boxes, going through the motions.

‘A CRB Certificate?’

She sighed. ‘You can’t work in the grotto without a criminal records check. I did explain the situation to Garlands. If you haven’t got one…’

Grotto?

The penny dropped.

Pam had mistaken her for an elf.

Out of the fairy tale frying pan, into the…um…fairy tale fire…

Chapter Three

‘DIDN’T Garlands explain?’ Pam asked.

‘It was a bad connection…’ so bad it was non-existent ‘…I must have missed that bit. But I have been CRB checked,’ she said. ‘I worked in a day-care nursery before…Well, until recently.’

Oh, boy, Lucy Bright. The ability to look someone in the eye and tell a big fat lie had to be catching. His Frogginess would be proud of her.

Not that she’d lied about having a CRB Certificate. It wasn’t under the name Louise Braithwaite, of course, but it was the real deal. She’d had to have one for the day job at the nursery while she’d been studying at night school. She’d worked as a waitress in the local pizza parlour on her free evenings and at the weekends to earn the money to pay for her course.

Much good it had done her.

She’d applied for hundreds of jobs before she’d got an interview for a clerical assistant post at the Henshawe Corporation. The fact that there had been an interview panel for such a junior position had thrown her, but it had been very informal. They’d been incredibly impressed at how hard she’d worked and encouraged her to talk about her ambitions.

She still remembered the stunned silence when she’d finished telling them passionately that she wanted to prove herself. Make something of herself, be someone. And then they’d applauded her.

When, the following day, they had called her to offer her a job, she’d thought herself the luckiest woman in the world.

‘I realise that Garlands know what they’re doing, but I still have to ask,’ Pam muttered. ‘It’s been so difficult since the new laws about working with children were introduced. We normally get in drama students at Christmas but not too many of them have had the foresight to get a CRBC. I don’t suppose they see themselves doing a Christmas gig as one of Santa’s Little Helpers when they get a place at RADA. That’s why I called Garlands.’

‘They supply elves?’ she asked, which got her an odd look.

‘They place temporary nannies.’

‘Just kidding.’ Whew…

Pam stared down at her feet. ‘What happened to your shoes?’

‘I broke a heel in a grating.’ The truth, the whole truth and almost nothing but the truth…

‘Oh, bad luck.’ They shared a moment of silent mourning, then, pressing on, ‘You’re a bit buxom for an elf,’ she said, looking at her doubtfully, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers. There should be something that fits.’ She held one of the tunics up against her, then thrust it at her, piling the rest of the costume on top. ‘You’ve got small feet. These should do.’ She put a pair of soft felt bootees on top of the pile and then took a small plastic pouch out of a box and added that to the pile. ‘The elf make-up pack. Rouge for your cheeks, a pencil for freckles—you’ll find a picture of what’s required inside. And there’s a pad to remove your nail polish. You can change down here,’ she said, leading the way down a short flight of steps. ‘Find a spare locker for your clothes and be as quick as you can.’

She opened a door and Lucy found herself confronted on one side by a vast locker room that seemed to stretch to infinity and on the other by a room providing not only loos and basins, but showers, too.

She quickly crammed her coat and bag into an empty locker, stripped off her dress, tossed the shredded tights in a bin. There was no time for a shower so she dunked her feet, one at a time, in a basin of warm water to wash off the street dirt, half expecting Pam to burst in with the real elf at any minute.

She didn’t but, until she did, she was grateful for being in the warm and, more importantly, in a very neat disguise.

She dabbed circles of rouge on her cheeks, scattered a few freckles across her nose, then a few more, before removing the nail polish that had been applied at great expense just hours ago. A shame, but clearly elves didn’t have bright red nails.

Finally, she donned the costume, tucking her hair out of sight under the pointy felt hat and regarded herself in a handily placed mirror.

It wasn’t a good look.

The green and white striped tights made her legs look fat and the tunic was doing her bum no favours. Right now, she didn’t care.

Diary update: The day has gone from bad to surreal. I’ve been mistaken for an elf. Not an entirely bad thing since I’m off the streets and I’ve been supplied, free of charge, with a neat disguise. It’s just temporary, of course, like the new name. What I’m going to do when Hastings & Hart closes at eight o’clock is my next problem. But with luck I’ve got three hours breathing space to work on a plan, always assuming the real elf doesn’t turn up in the meantime.

Three hours to get my breath back after a very close encounter with Mr Tall, Dark and Dangerous.

Lucy ran her tongue over her lips to cool them, then shook her head and stuffed her phone and her locker key into the little leather pouch on her belt before presenting herself for inspection.

Pam sighed, adjusted the hat so that a little more of her hair showed. ‘You’ve been a little heavy-handed with the freckles.’ Then, frowning, ‘Is that a bruise?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Someone caught me with a bag,’ she said.

‘The Underground just gets worse…Never mind.’ She took a small camera from her pocket. ‘I’ll just take a picture for your ID. Say cheese…’

‘Cheese.’

‘Great. I’ll log you into the system later. Sort you out a swipe card.’

‘Swipe card?’

‘It’s how we keep track of staff. How we know who is working, how long they’ve worked and that they’ve left the premises at the end of the day. You’ll need it to get out and, hopefully, get in again tomorrow.’

‘Oh, right. Absolutely.’

‘Come on. I’ll take you to meet Frank Alyson, Deputy Manager of the toy department and Chief Elf, and then you can get started.’

She passed her over to a tall lugubrious man wearing a long green tunic. She sort of sympathised with him. It couldn’t be much fun being a middle-aged man with his dignity in shreds, but walking around Santa’s grotto in a suit and tie would undoubtedly compromise the illusion.

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