Fifi Fuchs Possibly

Set in England

* * *

CHAPTER 1

The opening episode of the new BBC light drama called 'Department Store London' (DSL) ran for two hours and the advance publicity had been intense because some git in British Broadcasting reputedly with a first-class nose for picking 'winners' had read the script, knew the director intimately (more intimately than the director's husband suspected) and had sent his prognosis to everyone who mattered declaring, "DSL will be the runaway drama of this decade."

The Tuesday night it premiered was raining and Tuesday was the night rival channels including satellite TV ran crap. So virtually all of England, Scotland, Wales and parts of Ireland snuggled up to their loved one if they had one, a pillow if they didn't, and watched to see if the promo drivel had any semblance of truth.

Interestingly, DSL rocked the nation. Well most people like to shop and have no idea what goes on behind doors in stores out of sight of the public.

ACTION, CAMERA... time to chew crisps. Here's what viewers saw:

Fifi Fuchs fearfully entered Bradford & Johnston Department store. Normally she was cheerful and confident but arriving on her first day for cadet training thirty-five minutes late had left her on edge.

A junior from Reception took her to the training room. Ex Army sergeant Charles B. Thom swung around scowling at having his class diverted from his authoritative induction.

"Yes?"

"This is Miss Fuchs, your eighth inductee."

"She's late, she's out. Please leave, both of you."

Fifi was not leaving that easily. "Please sir? "

"Yes?"

"I have a valid excuse."

"There's no such thing as a valid excuse."

Fifi stood resolute. "I disagree."

The other inductees looked horrified at the thought of seeing this upstart squashed under Mr Thom's size 12 boot.

"Very well Miss Fucks."

"Miss Fuchs sir."

"Just get on to it."

Fifi explained how she was half a mile from a store when there was a collision between a car and a delivery van at the intersection she was waiting to cross. The impact deflected the van into the rear of a heavy truck. The van caught fire and the unconscious van driver was in peril.

"In peril?"

"Flames were in the cabin sir."

"Go on."

"Well I ran over, opened the door and dragged the driver out, burning my arms and singing my eyebrows. I fell back on to the street and there was an explosion just as the fire department arrived and they doused the flames and treated my arms and the face of the driver."

Everyone went 'Ooooh' at the sight of the scorch marks on Fifi's arms when she pulled up her sleeves.

"It will be on TV tonight sir."

"I still say that's not a valid excuse for lateness and there's no place in one of my classes or in this store for anyone called Fifi Fucks."

"Fifi Fuchs sir."

"Whatever -- away you go."

"It was a Bradford & Johnson delivery van sir."

"What?"

"It was a Bradford & Johnson delivery van sir."

Mr Thom strode over to Fifi. "My dear girl, what a terrible ordeal you have been through. Miss Jones, please take Fifi to sickbay and explain to Nurse Barry the circumstances and say this heroine is a Bradford & Johnson inductee."

"Yes sir. Come this way Miss Fuck."

Mr Thom pulled out his phone.

Nurse Barry was finishing bandaging Fifi's arms when the door open and in strode a man dressed magnificently in an expensive pinstriped suit with fob watch on a gold chain emphasizing his huge belly.

"Miss Fucks?"

"Miss Fuchs," Fifi and Nurse Barry said in unison.

"Er what's your first name sweetheart?"

The curvy blonde with a soft heart smiled sweetly and said, "Fifi sir."

"You mean Josephine?"

"No, my father said short names were coming into fashion so chose the Fifi alternative."

"I'm Mr Anthony Bradford, son of the co-founder of this illustrious store. You have done us proud Fifi, providing us marvellous publicity for our upcoming Early Summer Festival. The van and your filmed rescue will feature in on TV tonight and in the morning newspapers will report the van was carrying new season's swimwear for our festival. Our head of corporate promotions and publicity Sampson here has been advised that fact will be included in the report on TV news. Now, we can't have you being called an inductee -- that is just too lowbrow and common. So right now I am promoting you to assistant manager of corporate promotions and publicity. Sampson will take care of your induction and training."

"But sir, I know nothing about publicity and promotion."

"My dear, that's mere detail. We at Bradford & Johnston provide support for personnel second to none. I also point out we've never had a person engaged in the P&P department who ever thought of promoting one of our festivals with a selfless act of heroism. Thank you my dear and henceforth you shall be the only person on our payroll known exclusively by her first name for reasons of delicacy. Sampson send an email to that effect when announcing Fifi's promotion. And now Sampson, take Fifi to the dining hall for her press conference."

"Press conference Bradford?"

"Er my dear I'm known as Mr Anthony and my son is known as Mr Jason and Miss Johnson is known as Miss Elizabeth.

"How quaint."

Everyone looked aghast.

"Fifi, the word for it is 'tradition'."

"That sounds so much better sir. Lead on Sampson."

"Miss Sampson to you Fifi and don't you forget it."

"Fifi, if anyone in our great store gives you a hard time I want to hear about it from you personally, do you understand?"

"Yes Mr Anthony. Do I get a key to the executive toilets and freedom to use the executive lunchroom? I know about that by watching movies."

"Yes of course dear. Action that Sampson."

"Yes Mr Anthony."

As Sampson and Fifi entered the elevator Sampson said, "Now let's get this straight you little bitch..."

"Excuse me for butting in Sampson but am I correct in figuring you talking to me like that comes under the definition of giving me a hard time?"

Sampson paused, and swallowed with difficulty. "Oh yes darling, how silly of me. Under stress as you can see. I apologize Fifi darling. From now on I treat you like my princess."

"Thank you my queen."

"Oooh."

The crowd of seventy journalists and TV and radio crews clapped as Sampson led Fifi into the room.

"Good morning everyone. I'm Miss Elizabeth Sampson, head of this illustrious store's promotions and publicity department and our heroine Fifi here is my assistant manager. Fifi would you please start by giving your potted history and then answer questions from these high profile journalists."

"Hello everyone. Thank you for wanting to hear from me. I'm twenty-five, youngest daughter of industrialist Lord Bacon-Flynn and Lady Anne Fuchs. My parents wanted me to study law and when I said no I wanted to study fashion they suggested after a terrible scene that I must abandon my residency at Cudhorn Estate. I now live with my former nanny, Nanny Smith, who paid for me to attend design school. I design all my friend's clothes, er my female friends that is, and some of them have won fashion awards. I am entitled to be called lady but have dropped the title since being kicked out of home. I don't have a boyfriend -- apparently I'm too competitive -- I'm big into horse riding, play a mean game of pool and was poor at schoolwork but was a champion swimmer at school. I chose to come to Bradford & Johnson Department Store because it clearly is at the cutting edge of women's fashion. That's it."

"Fifi what is your surname and how can we verify what you have just said?"

"Fuchs."

"Is that a snobbish way of saying fuck?"

"No, it's spelt F-U-C-H-S and pronounced FOOKS. Confirm what I have just said with my mother. She is listed in the phone book."

"How long have you been working at this store?"

Fifi heard the sharp intake of Sampson's breath, so said, "Well after this morning's dramatic incident it seems forever. I had my arms singed rather than deeply burned -- see." She held up her bandaged arms and people gasped. "I had been thinking of getting my eyebrows plucked but now don't have to worry -- they've gone?

"Oh you poor darling," cried a woman journalist and other females joined her.

A guy asked, "If you think you're a big into fashion, why are you in promotion and publicity?"

Sampson sucked in breath again.

That cautioned Fifi to proceed carefully. "You're a guy so you wouldn't be aware that fashion lives and dies in a large part on the quality of its promotion and the publicity it receives. Guys are ignorant but at least they like the little black dress because it makes their girlfriend look cute and it's so easy to rip it off her that guys have make the LBD a fashion icon. I love you guys for doing that and all women with great legs and a great arse would agree with me."

"Fifi why didn't you wait for a guy to jump in to rescue the van driver?"

"By the time a guy got around to think what he should do the driver would have been caught in the explosion."

"Were you afraid?"

"I must have been. I wet my pants."

"Did you think of your own safety?"

"I was faced with attempting to save a van driver. No time to waste on frivolous thinking."

"Are you a heroine?"

"Hell no, anyone could have do what I did... they just didn't think about the need to move fast."

"Fifi, from his hospital bed the van driver is calling you a heroine."

"He could be expected to say that. There's probably not much he can remember about his day and you guys would have been asking him were I a heroine. We here at Bradford & Johnson regard something like that as depth of service. I bet that guy will now shop at Bradford & Johnson. Look, that's enough of this crap. Take your pictures and let's have something to eat and drink and then fuck off. We have a fashion fair to prepare. We do very much appreciate your attendance here this morning. Thank you."

Fifi looked across at the wings where Mr Anthony was surrounded by his executives. One guy stood out and she looked at him again -- tall, blonde with a magnificent chest. She murmured, "Could he be Mr Jason?"

The chairman's entourage had obviously been aghast at her telling the media to fuck off soon but then they were looking in awe at the media laughing themselves legless. Fifi murmured, "Don't the silly twits know how to handle the media?"

Sampson hugged Fifi. "Except for the F-word and saying crap you were marvellous dear. The media was obviously impressed by you and you even managed to work in mention of the Early Summer Fair and the name of our illustrious store, more than once I seem to remember. Twice I was about to die when you were under questioning but you played above your weight and excelled. A truly remarkable performance my dear."

With the media largely ignoring the food to demolish the beer, wine, gin and whisky that tall blond guy brushed against Fifi.

"Oh hello. I noticed you amongst the big wigs. Since you are by far the youngest guy I assume you are Mr Jason?"

"Yes Miss Fifi."

"Oooh."

"Was that the truth your father is Lord Bacon-Flynn?"

"Yes. Are you attempting to rub shoulders with the nobility?"

"You're too cute to be noble."

"Oh thank you squire. Are you attempting to bed me?"

"Fifi please."

"Okay -- in that case I've lost interest in you so shove off."

"Fifi, please."

"No you shove off."

A burly cameraman moved up to them. "Is this stuff-shirt annoying you Fifi?"

"No, but thanks for checking."

The cameraman said, "My wife has one of your dresses, given her by Lady Elsmere who found it about too racy for her -- she mainly lives in trousers."

"Ah yes, Susie Elsmere. She paid eleven hundred pounds at it at a charity auction. She shouldn't drink so much."

Fifi called, "Goodbye Mr Jason" to the departing son of the chairman but he appeared to have a hearing problem.

* * *

Sampson had eight people working for her including the demoted assistant manager who had to make way for Fifi but by mid afternoon she had left, collecting her pay, crying.

"Fuck, I relied on Janice..."

"It's Fuchs."

"No Fifi, I was using the F-word. Janice was my graphics designer and we needed her to prepared the posters and..."

"I'm competent in computer graphics design. Here let me show you my website."

Sampson looked at the clothing fashions, many of them styled separately on creative computer-generated backgrounds and the graphics artistically arranged.

"It's all my own work Elizabeth."

"Oh fuck goodness we have Fuchs."

That evening on the way home Fifi called in on her occasional provider Timmy Worth. He obliged and they were underway when his mother walked into the dimly lit family room. Timmy was giving it to Fifi standing up and Fifi who'd been holding her skirt hem in her teeth, leaving her hands free to pull Timmy in hard against her by his butt let her skirt drop and that quickly covered most of the exposed bare flesh.

"Good gracious, what are you two doing," called Mrs Worth, her voice rising in panic infused with shame.

"Er...." Timmy said but halted helplessly.

"Looking at the tropical fish," Fifi said, looking at the backlit display in the fish tank beside them.

Timmy went to pocket Fifi's panties but too late.

"Are those Fifi's panties in your hand young man?"

"Er...."

"It's experimental Mrs Worth. I read today that Lycra is great for cleaning the exterior glass of a fish tank."

"Oh. Well hurry up and then I want you out here to be of some use to me Timmy."

"Oh I want him to hurry up too Mrs Worth. We need to ejaculate."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said we must do an immaculate job... meaning with the glass. You know, with Lycra."

"Oh yes, of course. Timmy you should have borrowed a pair of my panties from my underwear drawer."

"But you have forbidden me from going near that drawer again mother. Last time..."

"That's enough Timmy. Quickly finish what you're doing but do it properly."

"Yes mother."

A few minutes later Fifi, with a satisfied expression, left the Worth's home.

Fifi sat with Nanny Smith and watched the TV news. Nanny Smith was drinking sherry and of course had the perfect answer the time Fifi had challenged and said, "Yuk, no one drinks sherry these days."

"I do."

That taught Fifi it's impossible to change people's drinking habits when they are obstinate and defend themselves pragmatically.

"Oh, there you are on telly," said Nanny Smith.

"Yeah, had to help a guy out of the crap on my way to work this morning."

"Dear, crap is vulgar. Please say shit."

"Yes Nanny."

The next camera shot was at the press conference with Fifi identifying herself and then holding up her bandaged arms and the women journalists oohing sympathetically followed by a shot of a journalist asking, "Where you frightened?" and Fifi replying she'd wet her pants.

"The van driver is calling you a heroine."

"He could be expected to say that. You guys would have been asking him were I a heroine. We here at Bradford & Johnson regard something like that as depth of service. I bet that guy will now shop at Bradford & Johnson. Look, that's enough of this crap. Take your pictures and let's have something to eat and drink and then [bleep] off. We have a fashion fair to prepare. Thank you for coming."

Nanny Smith sighed. "Undoubtedly you were a brave girl but you spoilt it by your common manner of speaking. I always said you never would be a lady like your mother. She's not even aware of the existence of that F-word. But your employer will be pleased with you giving the upcoming fashion fair a plug on TV news. That will be a first for them."

Early next morning her father called. "I have just read about you in the Telegraph. Good show."

"Thank you daddy. How's mummy?"

"Still up herself. She wouldn't read any more of the story of your heroism after reading the quotation of you saying you wet your pants. Apparently it is shameful because all of England and Scotland and Wales know you pee."

"Oh daddy, how terrible for you to also be expected to bear that burden. I'll survive."

"Have you found a decent man yet or are you still fucking anything on two legs?"

"I'm using discretion daddy."

"Good girl. Your attitude has cheered me up because today I'm sending eighty head of cattle off for slaughter."

"Just think of them being relieved of their monotonous diet and staid lifestyle daddy."

"Oh I say, that's the ticket. Thank you darling. I'll tell your mother you asked how was her garden, that you hope her other children were keeping in touch and that you love her."

"As you wish daddy."

When Fifi stepped through Nanny Smith's gate on to the footpath a blonde guy in an Aston Martin sports car called to her, "Get in."

"Oh good morning Mr Jason. No thank you, I don't ride with bossy strangers."

He leapt out of the car, or more correctly painfully extricated his long frame.

"Good morning sweet Fifi. I'm just off for coffee before heading on to the store and would be delighted if you'd accept my offer to join me."

"Why Mr Jason, how kind. Yes I will."

Jason wound back into his car and then used the F-word explosively, having to unwind and go around the car to hold the passenger door open for Fifi. "Or would you prefer to drive?" he asked facetiously.

"Oooh yes, thank you," Fifi said, rushing around, opening the driver's door and jumped in unassisted while Mr Jason was still standing at the passenger door gaping.

"This is the coupe with the 48 valve V12 engine isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mr Jason, belting in nervously. "It is recommended you undertake an advanced driving course before even sitting in the driver's seat of this vehicle. With a 470 horsepower engine bolted to such a lightweight body it goes like the clappers, taking only 4.6 seconds to go from zero to 60 mph."

"Frankly I don't believe it," Fifi said, moving the vehicle to the middle of the street and stopping. "Well, there's one way to find out."

"No!" screamed Mr Jason.

The car leapt forward under violent acceleration and Fifi yelled "Oh yeah" as they flashed up to 70mph in the suburban street before she de-accelerated. They were still doing 40 as she hurled the car to the right at a T-section, flicking past a cyclist and squeezed between two passing lorries. She then slowed to the speed limit.

"She's nicely tuned," Fifi said to the white-faced owner. "One of my brothers has this model. They are fucking useless going over anything but flat paddocks and are hopeless if the grass is damp."

"You take a car this expensive over paddocks?"

"Well only to race."

"Oh god."

"Obviously you don't have a tolerant and generous father Mr Jason?"

At the tearooms they conversed cheerfully, colour returning to Mr Jason's face. And then he said, "Father and I were talking about you last night.

"Oh for giving the store such a good plug on TV and in newspapers?"

"Well that too. It's just that we've never had the privilege of employing anyone like you before... you just don't appear to fit any know category of employee."

"I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize. We are not absolutely certain you are a total misfit."

"Oh charming."

She was ignored. "Father wonders if you should be placed in charge of induction."

"Oh no, that would be a mistake. I'm too appealing as a person. Mr Thom is perfect there, scaring the shit out of inductees. He represents the worst that inductees will ever meet face to face with customers. If they can't stomach Mr Thom they never will cope with the vilest customer."

"God, that's brilliant. We've never thought of that."

"But isn't that why you employ him there?"

"No, he'd just retired from dad's old regiment and came looking for a job. Inducting new recruits was the only manager's position open at the time."

"Christ, no wonder England lost its Empire. No, leave me where I am for the moment. I'm young and need to acquire business experience. If you think about it promotion and publicity will give me business experience, a taste of business politics and experience in interacting with more senior people and demanding people."