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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 favourite shops. Perhaps I'll even get my own TV show.
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 begi
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! I mean, what is her problem?
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. 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 towards 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 size 12. 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 on to 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 11.30, 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 towards my bank balance. I just can't wait to put them on. I get a break at 2.30, so what I'll do is nip to the reduced rail 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 towards the fitting rooms. Oh my God. She wants to try them on. But they're mine!
'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 ca
'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 give her my best unhelpful shop-assistant smile.
This is quite a power trip, actuality. You can just stop people trying on clothes! You can ruin their lives!
'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, and give the unhelpful smile again. 'Sorry about that.'
Thank God for bolshy 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. Quickly, I stuff the zebra-print jeans out of sight behind the curtain and stand up again with an i
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, and flash her a confident smile.
'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?'
Oh my God, it's the girl, back again. How can she have tried on all those other things so quickly? Is she bloody Houdini?
'Hi!' I say, ignoring the last bit of what she said. 'Any good? That black skirt's really nice. 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, I might add. 'It was really the jeans I wanted. Can I have them?'
My heart starts to thump hard.
'What jeans were they?' I say, wrinkling my brow sympathetically. 'Blue ones? You can get them over there, next to the…'
'No!' says the girl impatiently. 'The zebra-print jeans I had a minute ago.'
'Oh,' I say blankly. 'Oh yes. I'm not sure where they went. Maybe someone else took them.'