Chapter 30
The next morning, Petal and I are curled up in bed together. My daughter has been wriggling since the break of dawn and I’m hugging her close to me, which I hope she interprets as a sign of maternal love, when all I’m really trying to do is keep her still.
I hear the front door close quietly and the sound of Olly tiptoeing into the kitchen as he comes back from his night shift. Reaching for my phone, I text him: We R awake!
He texts back, T? xx
To which he receives a row of kisses in return. As we live in a terraced house and we’re trying to encourage Petal not to shout, Olly and I spend a lot of time texting each other even though we’re often in the next room.
Moments later he comes up the stairs and I rouse myself enough to take the mug of tea from him.
‘Hi,’ he says as he sits down next to me and kisses me.
‘Good night?’
‘Not that you’d notice,’ Olly says. ‘Sitting at a conveyor belt for eight hours putting mushrooms and peppers on pizza isn’t the most exciting way to spend a night.’ He raises his eye-brows at me. ‘I can think of better ways.’
‘I would like to spend a night eating candyfloss,’ Petal pipes up.
‘I’d like you to spend a night in your own bed,’ I add.
‘You, young lady, can go and get your breakfast,’ Olly says. She pulls a face. ‘You make it for me, Daddy.’
‘I have. It’s all set out on the table. I’ve poured your juice, and your cereal is already waiting in the bowl. All you have to do is put milk on it.’
‘OK.’
She bounces out of the bed and I spread out into my rightful space. ‘Ah, bliss.’
‘I heard that, Mummy,’ my child says.
‘Pour the milk carefully,’ Olly advises. ‘Make sure it doesn’t go via the floor.’
‘What does “via” mean?’
‘It means that the milk goes into the bowl, not on the floor or the table.’
‘I’m not a baby,’ she tuts before disappearing out of the door.
‘Remind me,’ I say, ‘why are we thinking of having another one?’
‘We are?’ Olly queries as he lies down beside me. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘If you’re very quick and very quiet, we could make a start now.’ I try to look seductive even though I probably have a severe case of bed-head.
He shakes his head. ‘Too tired,’ he says, which is unusual as Olly tries never to miss an opportunity because we’re never quite sure when our next one might be. ‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘I’ve got something I’d like to ask you.’
‘Oh.’ I hope he’s not going to grill me about my relationship with Tod. I don’t want to start this fine and unsullied morning with an argument.
Olly rolls onto his tum and stares up at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. He takes my hands in his. ‘Nell McNamara,’ he says, ‘would you do me the very great honour of marrying me?’
It’s a good job that I’m not drinking my tea, otherwise I would spit it out.
‘Marry you?’ I can’t stop myself from blinking. ‘Just like that?’
‘It can’t be so much of a surprise.’
‘Olly, we’ve been together for ten years and you’ve never really mentioned it before.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’ve always been OK as we are before.’
‘And we’re not now?’
He shrugs. ‘I just thought the time was right.’
I don’t know why I suddenly feel so nervous. I’ve known Olly for ever. We were little more than children when we started going out together. I always hoped this day would come. Perhaps it’s just that being together for so long has taken the edge off the excitement. Or maybe if Olly had whisked me away to Paris for the weekend to propose it would feel more special. But in our own bed when I’m barely awake? It’s just so out of the blue and why now?
‘What do you reckon?’ Olly, while I’m musing, is waiting patiently for my answer.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
He comes and snuggles up next to me, taking me in his arms. ‘Good.’ He kisses me in a long and leisurely fashion and, finally, the excitement starts to rise in me.
Right on cue, Petal appears in the doorway. My child is the best contraception known to man. ‘I’ve finished my breakfast.’
‘Come here, Petalmeister,’ Olly says, clearly feeling much more charitable than me. ‘How do you fancy being a flower girl?’
‘A flower girl?’ She climbs onto the bed. ‘What’s that?’
‘Mummy and Daddy are going to get married. You get to be the most important person on the day because you carry the flowers for us.’
‘Yay!’ she shouts and bounces up and down excitedly.
‘Yay!’
Olly holds her hands as she jumps and they both chuckle with delight. ‘Yay!’
‘Yay!’ I echo, but the bouncing up and down feeling doesn’t quite come.
Chapter 31
After my shift at Live and Let Fry, I sit having a cup of tea with Phil, Jenny and Constance. The sign on the door reads ‘closed’ and we all heaved a sigh of relief after the lunchtime rush. The steady stream of customers beating a path to Phil’s door after the makeover looks like it has no intention of returning to a trickle.
‘You’ve been quiet today, Nell, love,’ Constance notes. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yeah.’ I nurse my tea.
‘Tired?’
I smile at my friend. ‘Always.’
‘But this is something more?’
‘All is well in the world of big business, isn’t it?’ Phil looks anxious.
‘It’s fine,’ I assure them. ‘More than fine. One of the contacts I met at Buckingham Palace asked me to send her a sample handbag. I sent her the Fish & Chips one.’ I can only sit and hope that Della Jewel likes it.
In the meantime, every spare moment this week has been spent making up my new designs. I’m particularly pleased with one that says Ms on one side and Mrs on the other, and is trimmed with lace. Perhaps that should have been an omen for what was about to come? I wonder if it was seeing them laying around that put the idea into Olly’s head. ‘Tod told me that she’s really well connected, so keep your fingers crossed for me.’ I take a deep breath and they all wait. I muster a smile. ‘Oh, and Olly has asked me to marry him.’
‘Oh, love,’ Constance says, her face breaking into a wide grin, ‘that’s marvellous.’
‘Lucky bitch,’ Jenny says.
I flinch inside at the hard edge to Jenny’s voice. It’s unlike her.
‘Jen!’ Constance admonishes.
‘Well,’ Jen tuts, ‘she is.’
But I don’t have time to dwell on it as Phil pumps my hand heartily.
‘Congratulations, Nell.’ He crushes my fingers. ‘Congratulations.’
Constance studies me. ‘So why the sad face?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit.
Jen frowns. ‘You have said yes?’
‘Yes. Of course, I have. It’s just that… ’ I’m at a loss for words. Exactly what is my problem? Is it the timing of this that’s all wrong? I want all my attention focused on building my business, but perhaps that’s what Olly is worried about. Is this his idea of a distraction? Does he think that this is a way of pinning me down? Olly says that he’s enthusiastic about my fledgling business, but is he really? Is it some sort of threat to his manhood that I want to be the high-flyer? Does he think that by marrying me, I’ll be content to go back to being the little woman at home again?
‘It’s a big step,’ Constance says, ‘but you’ve already got a child together, Nell. There’s no bigger commitment than that.’
‘I know.’ Petal loves that we’re getting married. She’d already started to ask why we weren’t. We gave her Olly’s surname – Meyers – and it’s sometimes complicated that I have a different name to her. The practicalities of getting married far outweigh the reasons not to.
‘It’s
just a piece of paper,’ Jen adds with an attempt at a careless shrug.
But it’s a piece of paper that I know Jen desperately wants – so much more than I do, it seems.
‘I’m being silly.’ I shake my concerns away. ‘It’ll be wonderful.’ If Olly is worried about business changing the status quo, I’m worried that marriage will do the same thing.
‘We’d better all be invited,’ Jen says.
‘I’d love to get a new hat.’ Constance pats her hair.
‘I’ve got a suit that never gets an airing these days,’ Phil adds.
‘Get the kettle on again, Phil,’ Jen says. ‘We need a toast.’
‘Righto.’ Off Phil goes.
‘Have you set a date yet?’
‘Soon,’ I tell Constance. ‘Now that we’ve finally decided, Olly says there’s no point in waiting.’
‘It is your decision, too,’ Constance points out.
‘I know. And I am happy. Really, I am.’
‘God,’ Jenny mutters, ‘listen to her. You’d think she’d been asked to a funeral, not a wedding! I’ll have him if you’re not interested.’
But I am interested. I don’t know why I’m being like this. It will all be fine. Absolutely fine.
Chapter 32
When I do my stint the next Saturday at Hitchin market, the sun shines. The handbags sell like hot cakes. I thank my lucky stars for the coverage in the local paper, which is clearly what has brought the punters to my door – or to my stall, in this case.
Petal and I work flat out all day and it makes me smile when I listen to my daughter who is, one day into being a market trader’s daughter, already developing her own line of patter and charming the customers.
After last week’s let-down, I only brought twenty handbags with me – all I could carry single-handedly. Olly has a casual driving job today for a friend, so he’s tied up. As well as the Fish & Chips style and the Eat Me/Drink Me bags, I tried out two more designs. The Ms & Mrs bag for brides was a big hit. So was the one with nothing but big red lips on it. By lunchtime they had all gone. Every single one. What a difference a day makes!
Counting out the money, I’m surprised by how much we’ve taken. By any account, that’s a handsome profit for the day. Next week, I’ll bring much more stock – assuming that I can split myself in two in order to find the time to make it.
Flushed with success, I give myself and Petal the rest of the day off. From my takings, I treat her to a pretty hot-pink scrunchy from the haberdashery stall as a thank you for being a good girl. While I’m there, I pick up a few buttons and bits, determined to try out some more designs. I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon making handbags and having a go at putting up a page on eBay now that I’ve got a laptop on loan from Tod.
But before I do all that, I buy piping hot pasties from the bakery stall for me and for Petal. We take them and sit at our favourite spot by the edge of the market on the steps that overlook the duck pond and St Mary’s Church. We sit quietly together amid the hopeful ducks and Petal stifles a yawn, too tired today to chase after them. There’s probably some law against having your child working at four – even if it is parttime – and I pull my daughter close and she rests her head on me. I don’t even mind that she drops bits of flaky pastry down my coat as she eats. Petal has been an absolute treasure.
When we’ve eaten our lunch and the cold is starting to set in again, we walk towards home, hand in hand. I pop into the printers and collect some of the printed designs that he’s been producing for me. After that, we swing past the library and I help Petal choose some new books to read as she gets through them at a rate of knots. Then, at home, we settle down for an afternoon of handbag production.
Switching on the telly, I find some rubbish for Petal to watch and then I get out Tod’s borrowed laptop. I manage to create myself an eBay account and link it to PayPal – it’s all new to me but it’s not too complicated, even for a committed technophobe. With Phil’s camera, I take a smart picture of the bags and without too much muttering, upload them, then I write a bit of blurb. Sorted. It feels good to finally have the bags up for sale on the internet but I do wonder if anyone will realise I’m actually there.
When I’ve done all that, I join Petal in front of the television and surround myself with bags and trimmings and sketches. Petal shuffles up next to me and I keep her amused with some scraps of fabric and her kiddy scissors. One day, I hope she’ll be keen to help me properly. Nell McNamara and Petal Meyers, handbag providers to the stars! How nice would that be?
It’s coming up to teatime and I haven’t a clue what to cook, but it will be something quick. Pasta again, more than likely. I’m sure that I should have been born Italian. Or I may eventually turn into one with all the pizza and pasta we consume. I wonder what time Olly will be home. I’m not working at the chip shop tonight, so we can all settle down and watch whatever delights Saturday-night telly has to offer together as a family.
In companionable silence, Petal and I watch What’s New Scooby-Doo? and a repeated episode of Come Dine with Me, which I’ve always said that Olly should apply to go on. Petal gets bored with that so we flick over and watch some sort of youth chat show. The first person is someone from one of those popular teen soaps that neither Petal nor I watch. JLS are on singing their new song, which I think my child enjoys far too much, and then we’re back to the studio couch and some other minor celeb who’s talking about nothing of particular interest.
One of my new designs features a big Jammie Dodger – my daughter’s favourite biscuit. Another is taken from a colourful line of Russian dolls that my parents bought Petal for her last birthday. I cut and stick and glue and embellish like a thing possessed. Looking good. I also need to do some more Fish & Chips and Eat Me/Drink Me bags as I don’t want to make the mistake of running out again next week.
On the television, a famous footballer’s wife pops up. Chantelle Clarke – on here to promote her new ‘young adult’ novels – is all blonde hair and white teeth. I have one eye on the telly, one eye on my bags, so I’m not really paying full attention.
‘Look, Mummy.’ Petal points at the screen.
I look up, and as Chantelle twitters on about her books and how marvellous they are, I suddenly realise what I’m seeing.
‘Oh, my goodness.’
Petal beams at me. ‘It’s your handbag.’
She’s right. There on the sofa next to this high-end, celebrity WAG is my Fish & Chips handbag. In full view of the camera. My mouth drops open. Della Jewel, the PR woman I met at the Palace must have organised this. How else would someone like Chantelle have got hold of it? I could ask for no better endorsement for my handbags.
‘It looks pretty, Mummy,’ Petal says, clapping her hands together.
It does. And I hope that a lot of other people think so too.
Chapter 33
Well, of course, life then goes crazy. In this age of celebrity worship, every woman under the age of sixty seems to want what Chantelle Clarke has and I can’t make stock quick enough to keep up with the orders.
I send flowers to Della Jewel at her PR agency to thank her for the exposure. I can’t believe that she’s been kind enough to do this for me when I hardly even know the woman. Her office calls and asks if there’s been some mistake. I just tell them that I’m really grateful for her input and it’s simply a small token of my thanks, but I wonder if Tod is really behind this. It’s just like him not to take the credit for it.
Christmas came and went with minimal fuss. We stopped for a turkey dinner that Olly made and then I went straight back to making handbags while we watched the ninety-seventh showing of Raiders of the Lost Ark and Mary Poppins – now a firm favourite with Petal.
Within a few short weeks, the money starts rolling in and I soon have enough to commission a website. The web designer that Tod found for me puts it together really quickly so that I can sell directly from there as well as through eBay. As soon as I’m online, the orders ratchet up one more n
otch.
Amid a torrent of tears, I give up my shifts at Live and Let Fry, although I keep the market stall. It’s too lucrative not to. I miss Phil and the gang terribly and try to pop into the chippy whenever I find myself in town. My phone never stops ringing. I don’t even try to pause to answer it now or I’d never get anything finished. At midnight every night, I’m still packing up orders. At six every morning, I’m up and doing it again. As my name starts to spread, I give a dozen different press interviews in trade magazines and, after that, the phone rings even more. Several high-end boutiques call me and ask to stock my handbags. Betty the Bag Lady – who has never contacted me since the day I left my first handbag there – rings and texts constantly. Peevishly, I don’t return her calls.
Then Chantelle Clarke is featured in Heat magazine with my bag over her shoulder and the pressure increases further.
Jen and Constance have been brilliant. When they’ve finished their shifts together at the chippy, they come straight to my house and get stuck into hand-finishing the handbags with me for a bit of extra cash. They both prove to be demons with the glue gun and the hot-fix diamanté applicator. But even that is failing to keep pace with demand and I realise that I’m going to have to take on more staff if I’m to have any hope of keeping my head above water.
Straight from his night shift, Olly has been on the phone all morning taking orders and he comes into the living room while all three of us are working. Petal is at pre-school now every morning, so that gives us some breathing space too.
‘Woaw,’ Olly says as he stands and surveys the wreckage around him. ‘It looks like a small nuclear bomb has exploded in here.’
It’s fair to say that our house is no longer our own. Every square inch of space is filled with boxes of handbags, fabric and trimmings. Cartons with orders ready to be dispatched are stacked in the hall. Even the kitchen table is covered with sketches. Family mealtimes are a distant memory. So is our sex life.
Summer Daydreams Page 11