“I gave this assistant a pair of jeans to look after because I had four items, which is apparently too many,” the girl begins explaining.

“Four items?” says Danielle. “But you’re allowed four items in the fitting room.” And she turns to look at me with an expression which isn’t very friendly.

“Are you?” I say innocently. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought it was three. I’m new,” I add apologetically.

“I thought it was four!” says the girl. “I mean, you’ve got tokens with bloody ‘Four’ written on them!” She gives an impatient sigh. “So anyway, I gave her the jeans, and tried on the other things—and then I came out for the jeans, and they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” says Danielle sharply. “Gone where?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, trying to look as baffled as the next person. “Maybe another customer took them.”

“But you were holding them!” says the girl. “So what—did someone just come up to you and whip them out of your fingers?”

I flinch at the tone of her voice. I would never speak to a shop assistant like that, even if I was cross. Anyway, how can she be so obsessed with a pair of jeans?

“Maybe you could get another pair from the rack,” I say, trying to sound helpful. “Or some capri pants? I bet you’d look really nice in—”

“There isn’t another pair,” she says icily. “They were from the reduced rack. And I don’t like capri pants.”

“Rebecca, think!” says Danielle. “Did you put the jeans down somewhere?”

“I must have done,” I say, twisting my fingers into a knot. “It’s been so busy in here, I must have put them on the rail, and . . . and I suppose another customer must have walked off with them.” I give an apologetic little shrug as though to say “Customers, eh?”

“Wait a minute!” says the girl sharply. “What’s that?”

I follow her gaze and freeze. The zebra-print jeans have rolled out from under the curtain. For a moment we all stare at them.

“Gosh!” I manage at last. “There they are!”

“And what exactly are they doing down there?” asks Danielle.

“I don’t know!” I say. “Maybe they . . .” I swallow, trying to think as quickly as I can. “Maybe . . .”

“You took them!” says the girl incredulously. “You bloody took them! You wouldn’t let me try them on, and then you hid them!”

“That’s ridiculous!” I say, trying to sound convincing—but I can feel my cheeks flushing a guilty red.

“You little . . .” The girl breaks off and turns to Danielle. “I want to make an official complaint.”

“Rebecca,” says Danielle. “Into my office, please.”

I jump in fright at her voice and follow her slowly to her office. Around the shop, I can see all the other staff looking at me and nudging each other. How utterly mortifying. Still, it’ll be OK. I’ll just say I’m really sorry and promise not to do it again, and maybe offer to work overtime. Just as long as I don’t get . . .