pulled out my phone to check the time: 4.45 p.m. There was a text from Lucy:
5 minutes away from yours. Lxx
Shit! I was really late for Nora’s arrival.
‘I don’t have five minutes,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve got to get home for my five-year-old niece.’
‘It’s intense out there right now, you’ll have to wait until she’s gone,’ Mike explained.
I looked through the doors; the crowd around the window closest to where Amanda was believed to be shopping was ten people deep.
‘Honestly, I can’t, I beg you, Mike, it’ll take me two seconds to get out. I really need to.’ My mind was racing to come up with a reason why I couldn’t wait. ‘I really need to go to Superdrug because I think I might be getting my period,’ I pleaded. His face reddened. Before I had to elaborate, he surreptitiously opened the door a few inches, indicating I should squeeze through. Behind me, the perfume counters were seeing an unexpected rush, as fans masquerading as shoppers gathered to witness Amanda leave the store and get into her waiting car.
Squeezing out, I found myself in the middle of the throng, still clutching my Selfridges staff pass.
‘Hey, do you work at Selfridges?’ one girl shouted in my direction. I shoved the pass into my pocket quickly. ‘This girl works at Selfridges!’ she continued, ‘I saw her pass. Can you get us in? We want to see Amanda.’
‘Sorry, but the store’s closed,’ I replied, feeling a little intimidated. Fans this close to their idol were a force to behold. In seconds the crowd around me had doubled. Chants of ‘Aman-da! Aman-da!’ filled the air. In every direction were pointing fingers, phones and excited conjecture about when Amanda might be coming out and where she might be going next. I had to admit, I felt buzzed by it too.
I made my way through the tightly packed group, towards the kerb, where a large, blacked-out people carrier was parked. I’d found myself a good vantage position now, and there was a kerfuffle going on around one of the shop doors, so I imagined Amanda might be on her way out. Seeing as everyone else was doing it, I stopped, just a quick look at Amanda in the flesh would make an interesting story for Lucy and Nora this evening; I might even get a photo good enough for Instagram.
Suddenly the window on Amanda’s people carrier lowered and a shrill American voice called out, taking me by surprise: ‘Hey, Amber! Amber Green, is that you?’
I turned around. No, it can’t be. A section of the crowd turned too, camera phones held upwards all clicking, flashing and recording at once. It is, it’s that actress, Poppy Dunn. I’d come across her in LA last year during awards season and now she was sitting in Amanda Sykes’s car, presumably waiting for Amanda to come out and join her.
‘Hey, stranger!’ she said, pointing at me, causing the people with camera phones to turn en masse to capture my shell-shocked face. ‘You’re Mona Armstrong’s assistant, we met in LA last year. No way!’
She used the word ‘met’ loosely; it was more that Poppy had given me evil eyes a few times over canapés and baggage carousels on the awards-season circuit, when she was hanging out with Mona’s nemesis, her assistant before me, Tamara. And now she seemed pleased to see me. Maybe she was enjoying the juxtaposition of seeing me stand in a London gutter, while she was in a megastar’s luxury car. From nowhere, a paparazzo turned up and started snapping Poppy through the window. She immediately produced some expensive-looking sunglasses, swished up her hair and wound the window down lower, beaming madly.
‘Poppy,’ I raised my hand in acknowledgement, moving a little closer to the vehicle and lowering my voice: ‘I don’t work with Mona any more, like Tamara, I saw the light in the end.’
‘Don’t blame you!’ she squealed. ‘She’s a lunatic! So why are you waiting for Amanda?’
‘Oh, I’m not,’ I said, feeling embarrassed to have been spotted ogling, like a teenager. I was now just the other side of the car door to her. ‘I work as a window designer for Selfridges. Somehow, I got caught up in this on my way home. I’ve got my five-year-old niece staying over tonight and now I’m really late to meet her.’
‘Cool job,’ Poppy said. ‘Did you do the Christmas windows? Man, I loved them.’ A frenzy of close-up flashing blinded me momentarily. Poppy had nailed posing through a car window. Chin lifted, she beamed, flashing her whiter-than-white teeth for the photographer. It was quite a skill. When the flashes had subsided, she pushed her glasses down lower on her nose and looked over the top. ‘Would you like a lift?’
My eyes darted round – still no sign of Amanda, but this was her car, surely she wouldn’t be happy to find a random Selfridges employee in it, when she did eventually return, laden with shopping bags.
‘What about Amanda?’ I asked.
‘She’ll be cool,’ Poppy said. ‘She might seem like a diva on TV, but she’s actually the sweetest.’ She leaned forward and the window smoothly rose up. Through the glass, I could just about make out that she was leaning forward, talking to someone. Seconds later, a man I hadn’t even noticed sitting in the front passenger seat jumped out and opened the door next to Poppy. He was wearing a head set and looked really stern, like some of the personal bodyguards I had come into contact with last year.
‘Quick! Get in,’ Poppy instructed.
And then I was sitting on the back seat of Amanda Sykes’s giant car. It was a thrilling place to be. The car had a sleek matt-black interior and an enticing smell of brand new leather upholstery.
‘How do you know her?’ I asked Poppy, once my breathing had steadied.
‘We share an agent in LA,’ she revealed. ‘There’s talk of me appearing on her show, it’s going to be rad.’
Suddenly an almighty cheer ripped through the crowd. A video camera had appeared and a second opportunistic paparazzo had joined the first, waiting by the car ready to capture Amanda getting into it, ideally displaying a glimpse of her gusset. The guy from the front seat received something through his headset and hurtled out of the vehicle, clearing a route towards the shop as he went.
‘Must be on her way,’ Poppy remarked, craning her neck to look out.
‘I think I’ll split,’ I said, seizing the moment to exit the car while everyone’s attention was turned. ‘I don’t think Amanda will especially want me here.’
‘Give me your number,’ Poppy asked, ‘I’m going to be in London for a while working. I’d love to keep in touch, I might need some styling.’ She pulled out her phone and, as I hurriedly told her my digits, she punched them in.
‘Thanks for the offer of the lift!’ I yelled, a bit gutted that I didn’t have time to tell her about my move to New York. I quickly stepped out of the car and slammed the door.
And then a tunnel opened up in front of me and Amanda came into view at the end of it, flanked by security guards laden with Selfridges bags. Samantha was right, she was wider than I imagined, her ample curves flaunted in a figure-hugging black dress. Her famous feet were encased in heeled black sandals with at least ten buckles going halfway up her calf. More flashes erupted and yells of ‘Mandy! Mandy!’ rang out from every direction.
If I wasn’t mistaken we locked eyes for a second or two – maybe she saw me jump out of her car and wondered who on earth I was – but her lips seemed to turn up and she flashed me a smile.
I darted across Oxford Street, heading in the direction of Bond Street tube, thankfully narrowly missing being run over by a double decker – even the bus driver was distracted by the fuss. Once across the road, I turned back briefly but Amanda had disappeared behind the blacked-out glass of the car. I continued dodging people and shopping bags as I became lost in the hordes of shoppers who constantly packed Oxford Street’s pavements and didn’t stop rushing until I was through the barriers and safely on a tube train.