I stop brushing.
A bad smell?
Now there’s an idea …
A quick hunt through my bag confirms what I thought.
I make a gleeful face at myself in the mirror.
Do I dare?
No, I can’t!
Yes, I can!
When I go back out, Carol and Charlie are standing waiting for me by the door. We walk back along the High Street and Carol engineers it so she’s in the middle. She completely ignores me and talks to Charlie the whole way about the décor at his London hotel, which of course I know nothing about.
I walk with them to Carol’s Merc in the car park. Charlie has left his overnight bag in the boot, ready for her to drive him to the airport.
As Carol slides elegantly into the driving seat, I casually slide a hand inside my bag and feel around for the packet. It’s so tempting.
I can’t.
But it would serve her right!
Carol winds the window down and gives me her ‘sucking lemons’ look. ‘Don’t let us hold you up. I’m sure you’ve got work to do?’ Her sugary tone is purely for Charlie’s benefit. ‘We’re in rather a hurry, you know.’
Charlie smiles at me from the passenger seat, blissfully unaware she’s practically baring her teeth at me.
‘Um … how’s that awful stomach upset of yours?’ I ask.
She looks puzzled. ‘What stomach upset?’
‘You know, that little problem you were telling me about earlier?’
She looks momentarily adrift without a life raft. Then she laughs nervously and shoots a glance at Charlie, who’s looking diplomatically ahead, trying to pretend he hasn’t heard.
‘Oh, God, sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ I say.
‘You haven’t!’ She finds her voice at last. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us.’ I smile understandingly. ‘Oh, hang on, your back door isn’t shut properly.’
I open it and can’t believe how easy it is to drop Tim’s stink bomb in the well, and then, on the pretext of untangling the seat belt, to surreptitiously puncture it with my heel.
I open Carol’s door, mainly so I can sample the stink.
It’s developing nicely.
A vigorous mix of bad eggs, rotting fish and cess pits.
Marvellous.
‘Phew!’ I say cheerily. ‘Still, better out than in. Safe journey!’
I catch Carol’s horrified, screwed-up nose as she accelerates off.
The car moves slowly out of the car park as the drama unfolds within. I would love to be a fly on that dashboard.
I’m trembling with the audaciousness of what I’ve just done. I’ve never set off a stink bomb in my life. But I’m not sorry.
She crossed a line today. And so did I.
The gloves are well and truly off.
But I can’t help worrying what horrors lie ahead …
Chapter Twenty-One
A Christmas Fayre in a month?
That’s four weeks. Twenty-eight days.
And one gigantic challenge.
I’m praying it doesn’t turn out to be mission impossible.
My first step is to identify local producers of crafts and produce that would be suitable to sell at this kind of event. I spend a whole day, looking through leaflets and phone books at the library and trawling the internet – and I end up with a long list of small companies that might be willing to rent a stall.
And then the fun starts. Phoning every outfit on the list – from local farm shops and suppliers of high-end party cakes to a gifts-for-pets outlet and a business producing luxury chutneys and sauces.
It starts off well.
Most of the people I talk to think it’s a great idea and I find myself really buoyed up by their enthusiastic response. Quite often, it isn’t the boss who picks up the phone, though, so I receive many promises of return phone calls.
If even half of the people on my list sign up for the event, it will be a good turn-out, I think happily.
By the end of the week, however, I’m getting a real sense of these small businesses being run off their feet as they gear up for their busiest time of the year. A local Christmas Fayre isn’t exactly top of their priority list.
On Friday afternoon, I sit at my desk, looking through the dog-eared list of potential exhibitors with all its crossings-out and little scribbled additional notes. So far, our only ‘definites’ are a butcher wanting to promote his new range of spicy sausages and a girl called Gillian who makes Christmas greetings cards. Even with the bric-a-brac and refreshment stalls, and a range of Christmassy games for the kids, this would still be one very sad event.
Biting on my pen, I get up and stare out of the window, hoping for inspiration.
I suppose I should get Mum involved.
But since the payday loan bombshell, we’ve been sort of giving each other a wide berth. The Fayre is my excuse for being too busy to call round. It’s no big deal. I just think we need time for the dust to settle then we’ll be fine.
I could call Auntie Sharon, who’s a great knitter. She lives on the South coast, though, and there’s a limit to the number of Christmas jumpers she’d be able to turn out in three weeks.
But things aren’t that desperate.
Are they?
After work, Fez cooks me risotto and I spend the entire evening bending his ear about the only thing on my mind. To his credit, he doesn’t complain once about being bored. In fact, he comes up with some great ideas, including getting the fire brigade along.
‘A few hunky guys in uniform for the mums, a big red truck to climb on for the kids.’ he points out. ‘Happy days!’
We discuss how to make the hall look Christmassy and after half a bottle of wine, I hit on the idea of a painting competition for local primary schools. ‘They could design a Christmas bauble.’ I raise my glass of red in excitement, throwing most of it on the table. ‘The more glittery and colourful, the better. And we could display them along the walls, like a gigantic frieze.’
Fez, who’s halfway through an intensive carpentry course, offers to make some simple wooden stalls, which will save us loads of money on hiring costs.
‘After the Fayre, I could sell them online,’ he says, making me a black coffee before he walks me home. ‘And I’ll donate the money to the fund.’
Fez is great, I think woozily, as I say goodbye and let myself into the flat.
Maybe I should … no, no, no! He’s just a friend. And a great friend, at that. A while ago, he offered to pay for Tim to have his operation and I was so overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of it, I immediately said no, that I couldn’t possibly allow him to. I said it so forcefully, he probably thought I was offended and he hasn’t mentioned it again.
I wasn’t offended. Not at all. I thought it was incredibly generous of him.
But it’s my job to look after my family.
No one else’s.
I walk into the office after lunch the following Wednesday to a full-scale shouting match coming from Carol’s room. Actually, it’s not a ‘match’ – it’s more The Boss yelling at some poor unfortunate (who isn’t Shona or Ella because they’re on the safe side of the door with me).
Shona winces. ‘I don’t know what’s happened but she’s in a really foul mood today.’
I nod at Carol’s office door. ‘So who—?’
‘It’s Alan. She’s trying to hammer down the printing costs.’
‘What?’ I don’t believe it. ‘But I’ve already agreed a really good deal. His costs were pretty low as it was.’
Alan is our contact at the print company we use. He’s never been a fan of The Boss and much prefers to deal with me. And as far as I was concerned, the agreement for him to produce our Christmas Fayre banner was already a done deal.
‘Just who’s organising this event anyway?’ I mutter.
Beyond the door, Carol’s voice soars into the rafte
rs.
Shona groans. ‘She’ll not be happy until he does the job free of charge.’
At that moment, Alan himself bursts through the door, briefcase in hand, face dark with fury.
‘What a cow!’ He stops by my desk. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you can work for her. She’s forced us down so low we’ll be lucky if we make any profit at all.’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Alan.’
He shrugs. Then he pushes back his hair and gives a bitter laugh. ‘Actually, I don’t know why I’m bothered. It’s my last job before I bugger off to Australia and a brand new life.’
‘Oh.’ I stare up at him in surprise.
‘My brother’s got a bar in Sydney.’
‘Great.’
‘Yeah. Can’t wait to see the back of this dump.’ And off he storms.
Angry Alan heading for pastures new.
Lucky man.
By ‘this dump’ does he mean our premises in particular or the UK in general?
Next minute, Carol’s yelling for me.
‘You’ve got to be tough with these people.’ She slams her hand on the desk. ‘Show them who’s boss. Don’t agree with their price just because you want them to like you. You have to haggle. Beat them down.’
I fight to remain calm. ‘But Alan gives us a great service at a very reasonable price. I’ve built up a good working relationship with him over the years and I really don’t see the need to beat him down just for the sake of it.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ she barks. ‘There’s a great need. It’s what business is all about. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen. Anyway, it’s sorted.’ She jabs her finger at me. ‘And next time, refer him to me, please, because it’s quite obvious you’re not up to the job.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m dumping my rucksack on the bench after my regular Saturday afternoon supermarket trip, when the phone rings.
It’s Charlie, wanting to know if I have any plans for the next few hours.
My mind goes into panicky overdrive.
Plans? Why does he want to know? Do I really want to admit I’m spending Saturday night at home alone with only a DVD for company? Trouble is, if I say I’m getting ready for a date or that I’m cooking up a storm for a dinner party with friends, I won’t get to do whatever it is he wants me to do …
‘I’m – erm – free at the moment.’
‘Great. Get ready and I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes.’ He rings off without even mentioning what we’re doing.
Eek! Twenty minutes? Typical bloke.
Doesn’t he know I’ll have to dive in the shower, wash my hair, dig out some make-up, find something half decent to wear, ponder whether I should be smart or casual, tear off what I’m wearing and try on at least three other outfits before wrenching on my first choice again and laddering my tights and having to spend precious minutes unravelling another pair from my chaotic underwear draw? And paint my nails if I’ve got a spare twenty seconds?
Half way through this exhausting ritual, I stop and stare at myself in the bedroom mirror, mascara brush in mid-air. He only asked what I was doing for the next few hours. And it’s only four-thirty. Which means his dinner with Carol later is still on.
So why am I treating this like a date when it so obviously isn’t?
I should greet him with a casual smile in jeans and jumper. Because getting all nervous and excited about where we’re going can only end in disappointment.
Yes, jeans and jumper … perfect.
When the doorbell rings and I open the door, he smiles approvingly. ‘You look great.’
‘What, this old thing?’
I glance down at my grey pencil skirt and the silky plum-coloured top I found in the bag of clothes Mum gave me. I’m not sure what strange impulse made me decide to experiment with colour for a change, but I’m glad I did, now.
. ‘You’re maybe a touch overdressed for where we’re going.’ He looks apologetic. ‘Sorry, I should have explained.’
‘Shall I change?’
‘Definitely not.’ He shakes his head firmly. ‘Stay exactly as you are. Don’t change a thing.’
‘That’s a ‘no’, then?’ I smile, relieved I discarded the jeans and jumper idea.
He’s looking pretty gorgeous himself. Under his winter coat, he’s wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that emphasises the deeper blue of his eyes.
Since we’re obviously going somewhere casual (he tells me it’s a mystery tour and refuses to reveal anything else), I pull on my coat and some low-heeled boots instead of the high shoes I’d planned to wear.
As we walk down to his car, it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if he’s still going to Carol’s for dinner later. But I stop myself in time. I actually don’t want to know.
We drive for almost an hour through several villages and past house after house glowing with Christmas fairy lights in the dusk. By the time we arrive at our destination, darkness has fallen.
Charlie parks the car in a side street, squeezing into the only available space, then rubs his hands together. ‘Right. Come on.’
We start walking, our hands in our pockets against the rawness of the night air, and my nose picks up the gloriously evocative smell of candyfloss and hot dogs. I’m not familiar with this town but when we emerge from the side street, I remember exactly what it’s famous for.
‘The Victorian Christmas Fayre.’
He nods. ‘They hold one every year. I thought it might inspire you.’
I smile at him. He’s so thoughtful. In fact, I’ve almost forgiven him for the Ronald McDonald humiliation.
Before us, the entire town square is lined with stalls, invitingly illuminated against the night sky like a three-dimensional Christmas card. A red and blue striped helter skelter rises up in the centre and the air is filled with old-fashioned fairground music from a vintage carousel.
‘Couldn’t resist.’ Charlie smiles ruefully. ‘I went to uni near here. Great memories.’
‘Mum would love this,’ I say as we watch people board the carousel and climb onto the gleaming painted horses.
‘She’s a fan of Christmas, then?’
‘Didn’t you notice the droopy tinsel when you were at the house last week?’
‘I thought she was just a bit eager.’
‘No, she celebrates all year round. I think it’s a comfort thing. Other people eat chocolate when they’re down. Mum loads up on fake holly.’
He smiles, his teeth very white in the semi-darkness. ‘I’m with her all the way. People are much nicer to each other at Christmas time.’
As we walk along, we brush against each other occasionally and each time, a tiny shiver shoots up my spine.
He glances at his watch. ‘Listen, do you mind if I leave you here for half an hour? I’ve got some business calls to make. I’ll nip back to the car.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be fine. There’s plenty to look at.’
‘You can get some tips for your own Fayre.’ He looks at his watch again. ‘Meet you at the chestnut stall in half an hour?’
When he’s gone, I stand for a while, taking it all in, absorbing all the sights and smells of a long-ago Christmas – mainly so I can give Mum a blow-by-blow account. She’ll be so jealous.
I drink some delicious, tangy mulled apple juice and sample some plum bread that has been toasted and drips with butter. The brandy mince pies have Mum’s name on them but I manage to resist the stall with homemade Christmas puddings, all ready to steam in their muslin and string.
By the time I spot Charlie weaving through the crowd, I have taken two whirls on the carousel and in my bag is a green box containing a beautiful miniature snow globe. It’s supposed to be a Christmas present for Mum but I love it so much, I’m wondering if I could justify keeping it for myself.
I haven’t spent money like this in a long time. It feels a little reckless and I might regret it later. But for the moment, wrapped in all this lovely Christmas spirit, it feels
good.
Charlie takes my arm. ‘You’re coming on the helter skelter.’
‘Oh no, I’m not,’ I laugh.
‘Why? Are you scared?’
‘No! But I’m hardly dressed for it, am I?’ I wriggle my hips in the tight skirt. ‘Plus, I’m over ten years old.’
He ponders this for a minute, blowing on his hands. Then he says, ‘Wait here,’ and disappears into the crowd.
Five minutes later he returns and hands me a brown paper bag. I open it and pull out a pair of blue jeans that look roughly my size, with naff pink sparkles on the pockets.
‘What?’ I laugh up at him in disbelief.
‘Put them on.’ He shrugs. ‘Then you’ve no excuse.’
‘But how can I … where am I supposed to—?’
He steers me round the side of a building and I manage to get changed, hopping about behind an industrial-sized wheelie bin. The jeans do actually fit, although I have to deduct marks for the sparkly pockets.
Charlie keeps watch at the corner.
He grins when he sees me. ‘They’re not very elegant, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not bothered about that,’ I retort, hitching them into place.
‘No, you’re not, are you?’ He gazes at me with an unfathomable look in his eyes that makes my stomach flip over.
The helter skelter is fabulous fun. And the third time we come down, it actually starts to snow. We laugh at the cliché and watch a woman on a stall transform a pile of foliage and berries into a Christmas wreath, snowflakes floating gently around us. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in forever.
I notice two women looking over at us from the other end of the stall and at first, I think maybe I know them from somewhere. But when they see I’ve noticed them, they quickly turn away. Perhaps they were watching us because we look happy, I think idly.
I’m about to suggest one last fling down the helter skelter, when Charlie touches my elbow and says, ‘Back in a sec.’
I watch him weaving through the crowd – a tall, broad figure in his navy overcoat – and my insides are suddenly full of butterflies, like the excited anticipation you feel getting ready for a special night out. Then I realise I’m not the only one watching him. Both of the women are following his progress with interest.
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 15