‘Like it?’
‘I think I might go blind if I looked at it long enough,’ she told him frankly.
He laughed. ‘You’d better get used to it. It’s here to stay. It’s a Gino Severini,’ he added proudly.
Elaine had never heard of Gino Severini but she loved the bright colours. She also loved the glorious disorder of the flat. It looked as though no one ever washed up or did any housework. The only thing wrong with it was that there were too many people in it. She hadn’t been alone with Patrick once all day. A quick kiss when they set off for home was all she had to sustain her through the weeks that followed. That and the promise of letters and the time they would spend together at Christmas.
The eagerly awaited letters had been few and far between; full of excuses about long hours of study and lack of privacy. The weeks had dragged interminably till the end of term.
She had arrived early on the day of the party, ostensibly to help Zoe with the preparations, but really because she wanted to be there when Patrick arrived. Zoe had been busy working on a commission of two children’s heads. They were to be a Christmas present for their grandparents, so it was essential for her to finish them, and stopping to prepare food for the party seemed to have put her in a bad mood. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth and her Indian silver bracelets jangled aggressively as she worked in the cluttered kitchen, snapping like a Jack Russell terrier at anyone who got in her way.
‘Can I do anything?’ Elaine ventured.
‘Yes.’ Zoe looked up from the pile of sandwiches she was cutting, her eyes squinting against the smoke rising from her cigarette. ‘You can go and see where that lazy sod of a husband of mine is,’ she said caustically, knowing perfectly well that Red was in the studio next door and could hear every word. He appeared now in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with folded arms, a negligent smile on his face. Winking at Elaine he asked: ‘Did I hear someone tenderly whisper my name?’
‘Yes, you bloody did,’ Zoe said over her shoulder. ‘I hope you’ve got the drinks organised.’
‘Not to panic. Everything’s done, blossom,’ Red told her calmly. He called her ‘blossom’ to annoy her. It worked.
‘Then take this sodding lot to the dining room.’ She thrust the plate of sandwiches at him, ‘And don’t forget to cover them with a cloth. We don’t want them curling up, do we?’
‘I’ll do it.’ Elaine stepped forward and took the plate from Red. ‘Er — what time are you expecting Patrick?’
Zoe shrugged. ‘Who knows? He was planning to hitch a lift home. He could be here at any time.’ When Elaine was out of earshot she said, ‘Is Patrick sleeping with that child?’
Red looked startled. ‘Good Lord, how should I know?’
‘I thought men were supposed to have an instinct for that kind of thing — especially where their sons were concerned,’ she said, brushing crumbs from the table.
He laughed. ‘I should think sons are the last thing any father has an instinct for,’ he remarked. ‘I haven’t a clue what they’re doing — either of them.’
‘Maybe you should try to find out,’ Zoe said thoughtfully. ‘She’s a nice girl, but terribly young. I wouldn’t like to see her getting hurt — or worse still, pregnant.’
‘Patrick’s no fool.’
Zoe turned a baleful eye on her husband. ‘Where women are concerned, all men are fools,’ she said.
Alison arrived with an armful of records and she and Tom went off upstairs to sort them out. Elaine, finding that there was nothing much she could actually help with, found her way up to Patrick’s room. Standing in the doorway she looked around. It looked oddly clean and un-lived in. Zoe had made up his bed with clean sheets. It looked unnaturally tidy and neat — almost clinical. She sat down carefully on the edge of it to wait.
Her first term at college had been quite enjoyable. She and Alison enjoyed most of the subjects, but while Alison was especially good at cookery, Elaine excelled more at sewing. To eke out her grant Grace had let her do alterations for the shop, which helped them both. But she had missed Patrick even more than she had expected to. His letters were scrappy and told her little. Sometimes she lay awake at night thinking about the girls he must have met. Wondering if there was anyone he liked better than her. Sometimes, especially when he didn’t write, she was so convinced he had found someone else that she cried herself to sleep. There would never be anyone she loved more than Patrick. If only she could believe that he felt the same way about her.
Footsteps on the stairs brought her to her feet, her heart drumming. The door opened and there he stood in faded jeans and denim jacket, looking taller, fairer and more handsome than ever. He shrugged off his heavy back-pack, dumped it on the floor and held out his arms to her.
‘Patrick!’ She rushed into them, and the next moment he was kissing her as though he would never stop.
‘God, I’ve missed you.’ He hugged her so close she could scarcely breathe.
‘I’ve missed you too. You didn’t write much,’ she admonished gently, looking up into his eyes.
‘Writing isn’t what I do best,’ he said dismissively. ‘I loved your letters though. Now if I could only send you pictures instead...’
‘Never mind. You’re here now.’ She looked up at him. ‘You know there’s a party for you?’
He laughed. ‘I’d have been surprised and most offended if there hadn’t been. God, I seem to have been on the road for ever. I suppose I’d better get out of these filthy clothes and have a bath.’
‘Love me first.’ She wound her arms around his neck. ‘Please.’ Laughing he encircled her waist with his hands and pulled her against him. ‘There isn’t really time,’ he whispered, nuzzling his lips to her throat. ‘But you’re very hard to resist in this mood.’
She pressed close to him, her lips against his ear. ‘I’m glad. We’ll make time, won’t we? It’s been so long, Patrick.’
She had slipped off her shoes and was twining one bare leg around his. He kissed her, his lips smiling against hers as he felt her eagerly undoing the buttons of his shirt.
Later, as she lay drowsily in his arms, she asked: ‘How many other girls have you made love to since summer?’
He glanced at her. ‘How would you feel if I asked you the same question?’
‘I wouldn’t mind. There hasn’t been anyone, Patrick. There never will be.’
He hugged her close. ‘There hasn’t been for me either as it happens. But never’s an awful long time, sweetheart.’
His words might have disturbed her but for a sudden hammering on the door. Tom’s voice rang out, startling them both.
‘Hey — why is this door locked? As if I didn’t know. Folks are beginning to arrive for the party, just in case anyone in there is interested.’ They heard his footsteps clatter away downstairs again and Patrick twisted his head to look at her.
‘I suppose we’d better get dressed and go down.’
She sighed regretfully. ‘I suppose we had.’
*
Grace and Morgan were shown into the bank manager’s office, Grace bearing a briefcase containing a file of figures showing ‘Style ‘N’ Grace’s’ takings for the past five years, plus a separate set of figures for the sale of Morgan Knitwear. Mr Fry, the manager, motioned them to two chairs opposite and peered at them over the tops of his spectacles; a trick he had discovered was guaranteed to intimidate prospective borrowers.
‘Ah — it’s Mrs Wendover and Mr — er... He looked at the notes on his desk. ‘Mr Owen. Good morning. Now, what can I do for you?’
Briefly Grace explained that she and Morgan wished to buy the business trading as ‘Style ‘N’ Grace’ and go into partnership, selling Morgan’s product. She showed him the figures, carefully pointing out the rise in her takings since she had been selling Morgan’s knitwear.
Mr Fry peered at the figures before him and then up at the two expectant faces opposite him. ‘Mmm. Mr Bostock seems to be asking an inordinately high price
for the business.’
‘We’re hoping to make him a lower offer,’ Morgan said.
Mr Fry looked doubtful. ‘Are you quite sure you wish to purchase?’
‘Of course,’ Grace assured him.
‘Mmm.’ He looked at Morgan. ‘This — er — venture of yours, what other orders have you apart from Mrs Wendover’s, Mr Owen?’
Morgan glanced nervously at Grace. ‘Well — none, as yet. But I have some sketches of my designs here if you’re interested.’ He produced his own briefcase, a brand new one Grace had advised him to invest in, and opened it. ‘And here is a swatch of my newest shades.’
‘Morgan Knitwear is very new. We were just about to launch it as a joint project,’ Grace put in quickly. ‘We’re planning to have a fashion show and invite people from the fashion houses I deal with in London. But if I’m to lose my shop...’
Mr Fry was still looking somewhat sceptically at Morgan’s sketches. At one point he even turned one of them upside down. ‘Mmmm — don’t you think perhaps you’d better see how that goes before you commit yourselves further?’
Grace bit back her impatience. ‘But I’ve been given three months’ notice to take effect when my quarterly rental agreement runs out in two weeks’ time,’ she said. ‘I’d like to have a more secure future before I make any plans I might not be able to fulfil.’
He looked up at her in surprise. ‘If I might say so, it seems rather odd of Mr Bostock to treat you so arbitrarily. Did he not warn you that he might be selling?’
‘No, he did not,’ Grace said crisply.
He peered at her over the spectacles again. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Wendover, there is something strange about all this. If you want my opinion you’d be better advised to seek the help of a solicitor at this stage.’ He took another look at Morgan’s sketches. ‘Surely it would make better sense to find some other premises to rent?’
Grace sighed. It wasn’t going at all as she’d visualised. ‘Mr Fry, my business has taken almost six years to build. If I moved to another location — and traded under another name — as I would have to, I would lose many of my customers. ‘Besides...’ She glanced at Morgan. ‘I — we — want to buy. We feel that the time is right.’
There was a long pause during which Mr Fry looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That may be so, Mrs Wendover, but in my opinion the right time to buy is when you have the necessary potential for success — and the wherewithal.’
Red-faced, Grace stood up. ‘I see we are wasting our time and yours, Mr Fry, so we’ll bid you good morning.’ At the door she turned. ‘I think you’ll be sorry you didn’t lend us the money. Morgan Knitwear is going to be a big name in the fashion world. A very big name indeed.’
Outside in the street Morgan looked at her. ‘You were magnificent.’
‘I didn’t get us the loan though, did I?’
Morgan took her arm. ‘He had a point about things looking fishy, you know. The more I think about it, the more I agree with him on that. There’s something distinctly odd about Bostock deciding to sell up. I’m sure there’s more behind it than the reason you gave. Maybe we should try to find out.’
*
They had left Elaine in charge of the shop and when they got back she was busy serving Lilian Davies, one of Grace’s best customers and Morgan’s greatest fan. The moment she saw Morgan her face lit up.
‘Ah, I’m in luck. My favourite designer. I’m looking for a sweater as a Christmas present for my daughter-in-law and it seems you’ve sold out of her size. I suppose you wouldn’t be an absolute angel and...?’
Grace saw that Morgan was about to agree and put in quickly: ‘Special orders do carry an extra charge, I’m afraid, Mrs Davies.’
‘My dear, of course they do. I’d expect that.’ Lilian smiled archly at Morgan. ‘And if you could make it an exclusive... After all, I was your very first customer, don’t forget.’
‘I’ve been working on some new designs,’ Morgan told her eagerly. ‘As a matter of fact I happen to have some of the sketches with me — and my newest colours. Would you like to have a preview?’
‘Have you really? That would be marvellous.’
Elaine, who had been looking on with interest, said: ‘Perhaps Mrs Davies would like a coffee? I’ve got the kettle on. I knew you’d both be dying for one after your battle with the bank manager.’
Grace winced inwardly as she saw the woman instantly pick up on-the remark.
‘Bank manager?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘I do hope everything is all right.’
‘Oh, quite all right, thank you,’ Grace said dismissively.
In the back room Lilian raved over Morgan’s new designs and quickly chose one for her daughter-in-law. Elaine brought in coffee for the three of them and then went back into the shop.
‘I do hope you’re not thinking of heading for the bright lights now that you’re becoming so successful,’ Mrs Davies said, looking enquiringly at them over the rim of her coffee cup.
Grace made a quick decision. ‘The fact is, Mrs Davies, that my landlord has put the shop and business up for sale,’ she said. ‘Morgan and I would like to buy it.’
‘And as the sitting tenant, you should get it for a favourable price,’ Mrs Davies remarked. Grace and Morgan exchanged glances, but Lilian was frowning. ‘Just a minute though — surely...?’ She shrugged. ‘But it’s none of my business, of course.’ She picked up her bag and gloves. ‘Thank you so much for the coffee and for the special order. I know Natalie will be thrilled with it. You’ll ring me when it’s ready, Grace?’
‘Of course.’
*
It was later that evening, when Grace had washed up and Elaine had gone round to Alison’s, that the street doorbell rang. Going downstairs, Grace was surprised to find Lilian Davies standing outside, her smart little red sports car parked at the kerb.’
‘May I talk to you, my dear?’
‘Of course.’ Grace led the way up to the flat, wondering what on earth the woman wanted to see her about.
‘I do hope you won’t take this as interference,’ Lilian said once she was seated on Grace’s settee with a glass of sherry in her hand. ‘It’s just that I love your shop and Morgan’s delicious knitwear so much. I do so admire your business flair and your courage and I’d hate to see you...’ She broke off and took a thoughtful sip of her sherry. ‘As you know, my husband is on the Council — he’s chairman of the planning committee.’ She bit her lip. ‘Oh dear, I really shouldn’t be telling you this, although it’s bound to be common knowledge quite soon anyway. The fact is, my dear, most of this street is scheduled for redevelopment.’
Grace stared at her, trying to take in all the implications of this piece of news. ‘Really — when?’
‘Oh, it may not be for some years yet. On the other hand the plans could go through much sooner. It depends on a number of things. The point is, that the compulsory purchase price would almost certainly be far less than whatever is being asked for it now.’
‘I see.’ Grace’s mind was working fast. Had Bryan known this all along? Had he meant her to buy and lose on the deal? Could he really be that vindictive? Suddenly she felt like giving up. Mrs Davies spoke of her business flair, but it was all very new and difficult — all so complicated that she wondered if she was up to coping with it. She looked up at Lilian. ‘It’s very good of you to tell me this, Mrs Davis. I don’t know what to do now,’ she said helplessly. ‘I know my own business but when it comes to legal matters there seem to be so many snags — so many pitfalls.’
‘Look — my husband is a solicitor,’ Lilian said. ‘Why don’t you come and have a talk to him? He’ll put you right. You’d better tell him you’ve heard a rumour about the redevelopment. He’d be furious if he knew I’d leaked it to you.’
*
‘Why have you waited till now to tell me?’ Morgan and Grace were in the kitchen at the flat. It was Christmas Eve and they were sharing the preparations for the following day. Morgan, we
aring a blue and white striped butcher’s apron, was peeling potatoes while Grace was preparing stuffing for the turkey.
‘The trouble between Bryan and me is my problem,’ she told him. ‘I wanted to get it cleared up before I involved you.’
‘So you’ve got your notice extended to six months? That certainly gives us a breathing space. But what then?’
Grace bit her lip. She’d been sworn to secrecy about the redevelopment, but how could she keep it from Morgan when it concerned him so much? She rinsed her hands under that tap and looked at him. ‘Leave that a minute,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you.’
He dried his hands, searching her face anxiously. ‘All right. Tell me the worst.’
‘It’s good news really. Listen, on the same night we’d been to see the bank manager, Mrs Davies came round and told me a piece of news. It’s classified information for the moment and she only told me because she could see we were about to be cheated out of a lot of money. The fact is, most of this street is scheduled for redevelopment.’
Morgan stared at her. ‘That means they’ll be pulling the shop down, so how can Bostock sell it?’
‘That’s just the point. If I hadn’t been warned off we might have paid what he was asking, only to have the place compulsorily purchased, maybe next year or the year after. We’d have lost a lot of money on it.’
Morgan let his breath out on a long, low whistle. ‘So what happens next?’
‘As I told you, I went to see Mrs Davies’ husband, who happens to be a solicitor. I told him I’d heard a rumour about the redevelopment and asked his advice. He told me I was entitled to apply for another three months’ notice and to threaten Bryan with a tribunal if he refused. He hinted that by then the news of the redevelopment would probably have broken and Bryan will be obliged to accept the Council’s compulsory purchase.’
Morgan grinned. ‘Serve him right. But where does that leave you — us?’
‘Renting from the Council,’ Grace told him triumphantly. ‘Probably at a cheaper rent than I’ve been paying Bryan. And Mr Davies says that situation could last for quite some time. The actual redevelopment probably won’t take place for five or six years yet. By that time we’ll be on our feet and able to buy a place with a really good position somewhere.’
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