‘Honestly? Cavendish Hall should have done the catering as I’d suggested,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It would have been more appropriate for such a talented chef as Frédéric Lafleur.’
He was totally right, the food at Cavendish Hall was amazing. But Abi hadn’t wanted – as she put it – ‘poncy stuff’. She had wanted normal buffet food. Most importantly, Abi had wanted to stay in control of her own husband’s funeral, not to have Cavendish Hall taking over. Carrie had been torn between helping her friend out and not upsetting her husband. But Abi had begged and Carrie hadn’t had the heart to turn her down.
‘As it was – no offence, Carrie …’ He winced. ‘Well, the food was a bit big and ungainly.’
He could be describing me, she thought wistfully.
‘None taken,’ she lied, swallowing her disappointment.
‘The key to successful finger food is size. A mouthful, that’s all it should be. That’s important for presentation too. Small offerings look so much more attractive. People eat primarily with their eyes …’
At this point, Carrie’s own eyes glazed over while Alex continued to educate his wife on the finer points of catering for a crowd. Again.
‘You were deep in conversation yourself,’ she said eventually, butting in.
‘Well, that was another thing.’ Alex checked his watch and sprang out of his chair. ‘Gin and tonic?’
She shook her head and he strode through to the dining room and poured himself a drink, still talking. ‘I hardly saw you all afternoon.’
‘Hardly saw me? A big girl like me isn’t hard to spot!’
‘I’ve told you before. I like you being cuddly.’ Alex frowned at her on his way back in. ‘I mean that I missed having you at my side.’
Her heart leapt; he might be a bit of a snob where food was concerned, but for some unfathomable reason, he did really seem to love her. God knows why; she was so out of shape that no diet ever made a dent in her weight, she was at home all day so never had anything of interest to tell him and she had a habit of making jokes about herself that she knew he didn’t like.
Carrie twirled her wedding ring round a few times before answering. ‘I missed you too.’
They shared a smile.
Love was so complicated. She loved her husband, couldn’t bear the thought of life without him, but somewhere along the line she had stopped loving herself and now accepting that someone else could still love her was hard.
‘By the way,’ said Alex matter-of-factly, ‘I thought the pastry in your quiche was a bit heavy.’
‘Like me, then.’
He pressed his lips together and exhaled wearily.
It had been a bit heavy. It was always the same with Carrie’s pastry; she wasn’t brave enough to roll it out thinly, just in case it gave way and split. He wasn’t going to like what was coming next. She pushed herself up and walked to the doorway.
‘Sorry, love, but that’s what you’ve got for dinner. Leftovers. I’ll serve it up as soon as I’ve had a bath.’
She scampered out to avoid seeing the disappointment on his face. Alex wouldn’t eat the quiche. He’d rather starve than eat something he didn’t like. Or make an excuse to go back into work.
She had barely trudged up the stairs, when Alex, jingling the keys in his pocket, shouted up, ‘Just going to catch up on some paperwork at the office.’
She turned on the bath taps and lit her bluebell-scented candles. This was the closest smell to real flowers that Carrie had found and she inhaled happily. She loved flowers almost as much as she loved food. She waited until Alex’s car had reversed off the drive before fetching herself a glass of chilled white wine. She ran back up the stairs, paused at the top, then raced back down to retrieve the bottle. He could be a pompous old fart sometimes, but he had excellent taste in wine.
Humming to herself, she left the bath to fill and went into her bedroom to undress. She unzipped her dress and unhooked her bra, letting everything fall to the floor. Tights next. Bending down to unhook her knickers from her ankle, she caught sight of herself in the mirrored wardrobe door.
Oh my Lord. Gravity was not kind to fat girls. She counted three rolls of blubber and then closed her eyes tight. She might be able to make jokes about her size to Alex, but it wasn’t funny, was it? She hated looking at her own body with a passion.
Carrie lay in the bath with tears rolling down her face as the water went cold. That mirrored door was going to have to go.
Chapter 3
It was a cold February afternoon and Jo’s teeth were chattering as she lugged her sample bag and briefcase across the cobbled street towards Shaw’s in Nottingham’s Lace Market. It was her first meeting with the new owner and she was already steeling herself for some tough negotiations. Ed Shaw had done nothing but make demands since taking over from his father, hinting that there would be a big order in it for Gold’s at the end of it.
So today, buster, it was make-your-mind-up time; she’d had enough of the carrot-dangling. On the other hand, of course, she couldn’t risk losing a customer.
She stopped short outside the Nottingham shoe shop and her breath caught in her throat. Bloody hell! It had changed beyond recognition. She checked the name above the door to be sure she had come to the right place. A stylish new black sign with Shaw’s picked out in a white, capitalized fine font told her as much. But what a transformation.
The windows on either side of the doorway were stunning: feminine shoes displayed on Perspex plinths and oversized red props of gift boxes, hearts and flowers gave a playful twist to a Valentine’s Day theme. Last time she was here, the windows had been shielded with a yellow plastic sun protector and crammed full of clumpy, frumpy shoes.
She couldn’t wait to see what had been done to the interior. Her eyes widened as she pushed open the door. Gone were the 1950s wood panelling, the fluorescent overhead lighting and the two parallel rows of wooden chairs down the centre of the shop.
Now, glass shelves clung to the white walls displaying footwear by collection: heels, flats, boots and slippers. Small recesses, artfully lit, highlighted key styles. Stands displayed purses and handbags, adding splashes of colour. Jo’s eyes followed the light wooden floorboards towards the end of the store where three squishy leather sofas were arranged around a low magazine-laden coffee table.
It was more Notting Hill than Nottingham and she loved it. This was a store that invited customers to browse, to sit and make their purchasing decisions in comfort. There was even a coffee machine in the corner.
A tall rangy man with trendy stubble joked with a member of staff at the till. Expensive brown brogues declared him to Jo as a man who knew shoes. Her sort of man. That had to be Edward Shaw. She approved; this was going to be fun.
Her earlier resolve to tell Shaw’s that the size of their account with Gold’s didn’t warrant the concessions they were demanding waivered. The store looked fantastic; it was exactly the sort of retailer Jo longed to do business with. And as for the man himself … Jo couldn’t wait to get to know him better.
He noticed Jo immediately, excused himself from his conversation and crossed the shop floor in three long strides to meet her, hand outstretched.
‘Jo Gold? Ed Shaw. Good to meet you at last.’
He held her hand in both of his as he shook it. Jo smiled and a wave of attraction vibrated through her. There was humour behind his eyes and he had a confidence that she found extremely sexy.
‘What do you think? Bit different to last time you came, I bet. Assuming you’ve been before, of course?’ He grinned at her expectantly, hands on hips. He was like a big puppy; full of bounce and energy and looking for attention.
She smiled. ‘I have been before. Several times. The refit is great, just what the store needed, and I approve of the rebranding too.’
No need to go over the top with the compliments. Jo wasn’t one for gushing. Let’s see what he was offering Gold’s first.
He nodded. ‘Don’t know what Dad would have tho
ught about it, though.’ His face clouded over for a moment. ‘He had very set ideas about what Shaw’s stood for.’
He scrunched up his face and wagged his finger. ‘It’s all about the shoes, lad,’ he said in a deep voice, mimicking his father, Jack. ‘No gimmicks, no distractions.’
‘I was very sorry to hear about your dad,’ said Jo, feeling a pang of sadness. For all his domineering ways, she would be devastated if anything happened to her own father. ‘He and my dad went back a long way.’
‘Thanks.’ Ed smiled grimly. ‘It’s had quite an impact on the family, as you can imagine.’
Jo nodded. ‘Business was different in the seventies. Now it’s all about the shopping experience, giving people a reason to leave their computer screens and buy face to face. I’m sure your dad knew that. He’d be proud of you.’
A couple of women nudged past them, loaded down with carrier bags.
Ed gestured towards the back of the shop. ‘Come on through to the office and I’ll get us some drinks.’
He held open the door for her and she brushed past him to enter his tiny office. He smelt divine. Limes. It suited him perfectly; exhilarating and lively. Her pulse quickened. Focus, Jo, she reminded herself, this is business.
She arranged her sales brochures and samples on the desk while Ed set two cups of coffee in front of them and met his eyes with a smile.
‘I’m very impressed with the new look, Ed. Especially as you weren’t in the business before your father died. How did you come up with the scheme?’
‘I’m a designer by trade. Branding, corporate identity mostly, a bit of retail. So it wasn’t too big a leap to join the family firm and hoick it into the twenty-first century.’
‘And you find yourself running a chain of seven shoe shops. How’s that going?’
Ed took a sip of coffee, apparently using the time to scrutinize her face. Jo hoped she wasn’t blushing. An intimate moment passed between them as Ed seemed to be deciding whether to confide in her or not. He stood and closed the door. Jo took a deep breath and gazed brazenly into his blue eyes. He was gorgeous. This was ludicrous; her heart was pounding; she wondered whether he could sense her attraction and decided she didn’t mind if he could.
He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. ‘When Dad died, the plan was to put the business up for sale immediately – to take the money and run. But then I thought what if we rebranded first – created a chain of stores selling beautiful, stylish footwear that real women want to wear? That, I thought, would be a really viable business to sell. And with my design background, not impossible to achieve.’
‘So the business is up for sale?’
Ed grinned. ‘Nope. Seems like the shoe business is in my blood after all. Now I’ve got this far I want to see it through, see how far I can push the concept.’
‘We seem to have quite a lot in common.’ She flashed her eyes at him over the top of her coffee cup.
‘So … Tell me about Gold’s.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘In fact, tell me about you.’
‘Like you, I’m a chip off the old block. I’ve got shoes running through me like the proverbial stick of rock. Started at the bottom in the warehouse, then time in admin, sales, buying … until Dad decided I was ready to fly solo. Then three years ago he buggered off to a life of golf, bridge and long-haul travel.’
Ed nodded sadly. ‘That’s my biggest regret. That Dad died before he could enjoy any retirement. My mum had been badgering him to sell up for the last five years so they could spend some quality time together.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jo softly. She slid her hand across the desk between them to touch his fingertips. A beat passed between them before he withdrew his hand and picked up Jo’s catalogue.
‘Anyway,’ said Ed, ‘Gold’s Footwear.’
Jo sat up tall, conscious she’d been brushed off. That was the worst thing about her short hair: her ears always turned red when she was embarrassed and they had nowhere to hide.
‘That’s our new summer range,’ she said, pulling herself back together.
‘How is business for you?’ he asked, flicking through the pages.
He might have been open and candid with her, but she wasn’t about to reciprocate. He seemed to be well on the way to turning his father’s business around. Jo was still trying to figure out how to revive her dwindling order book.
‘The Gold’s brand is about comfort but it stands for quality too,’ she recited. ‘We’re proud to manufacture in Britain with a reputation spanning forty years. We too focus on shoes that “real women” would choose to—’
Ed swallowed a mouthful of coffee and held up his hand.
Rude.
‘When we talk about “real women”,’ he drew apostrophes in the air, ‘we’re really targeting the thirty-five-year-old-plus market. It’s a fictitious age bracket now, isn’t it? A woman at thirty-five isn’t ready to be palmed off with a stout pair of slip-ons with a cushioned sole, is she?’
Jo chewed the inside of her cheek. She’d never given it much thought. Comfort footwear was always aimed at the over-thirty-five market. But now that he mentioned it …
Ed peered over the desk at Jo’s legs. Her buttery-tan leather boots had pointy toes and spiky heels.
‘Not what I’d call comfortable.’ He grinned boyishly at her.
‘I’m not thirty-five.’ Her eyes blazed back at him, making him throw his head back with laughter.
‘Touché,’ he said. ‘But gone are the days when women stopped following fashion at thirty-five – or fifty-five, for that matter. I’ve brought Shaw’s bang up to date. But our customer profile hasn’t changed at all. We’re still catering for a slightly older, less trend-driven market. And I need to fill the store with shoes that are going to send their hearts racing.’
He sat back, eyes dancing with excitement. ‘Comfort footwear can still be sexy, can’t it?’
He was sexy: his smile, his attitude, his eyes. She couldn’t help but be infected by his energy.
‘What about this range?’ She took the catalogue out of his hand and pointed to Gold’s new Athena collection.
He inclined his head to one side. ‘Hmm.’
Jo’s heart sank. Not impressed, then? Undeterred, she took the actual sandals out of her bag.
He picked one up, turning it round in his hand, examining the stitching, pressing his thumbs into the cushioned insole.
‘Lovely quality, it’s a pretty shoe, for sure.’ He set the sandal down and sat back, bouncing against the back of the chair. ‘Leaving summer to one side for a moment. Too late to do anything now but …’
Her stomach dropped a notch; this wasn’t going as planned.
‘Here’s my dilemma.’ Ed picked up a pencil and tapped his cheek with it. ‘Gold’s shoes cater for an older customer: someone looking for quality, comfort and durability. Perhaps at the expense of style? Is that fair?’
Jo narrowed her eyes. Athena had been designed with style in mind, not just comfort. She had even considered wearing them herself. Ed had put her off now.
‘Maybe. But those qualities are what made us such a good fit with Shaw’s,’ she said.
‘But we’ve moved on. Your product is good and solid. But it hasn’t got the X-factor.’ He leaned forward in his seat and nudged the shoe towards her. ‘It doesn’t exactly scream, Take me now or lose me for ever.’
Take me now? As if she needed any encouragement. Breathe, Jo. She tried to meet his eyes, but he had picked up that bloody pencil again.
The dismissal of her new range hit home and she bristled.
He had been in the shoe trade all of five minutes and suddenly he was an expert. Jo had heard enough. After the run-around Ed had given them – requesting endless samples, querying colours and quibbling over costs – it was clear that he wasn’t going to stock Gold’s anyway. If there was one thing she hated it was time-wasters, even devilishly attractive ones.
She snatched up the samples and gave him a tight smile. ‘Thank
you for your feedback, Ed. I’ll bear that in mind for our winter collection.’
‘Wait.’ Ed leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm. She stared at it, heart pounding – from attraction and frustration. ‘I’ve offended you. Which means I haven’t explained myself very well.’
‘Not offended, no. You’re not obliged to stock our brand. I’m disappointed after all the to-ing and fro-ing with samples.’
‘Listen. I didn’t ask you here under false pretences. Honest.’ Ed released Jo’s arm and started to sketch, continuing to talk as he did so.
‘I’m looking for a manufacturer to partner with closely.’
Closely? That could work.
She relaxed back on her chair. ‘I’m listening,’ she said, perhaps a little too sharply.
‘Someone who can help us to fill a gap in the market and bring new shoppers into our stores. Having squishy sofas and coffee machines isn’t enough on its own.’
Ed waved his pencil at her. She remained silent, still smarting from his X-factor comment.
‘Look at the UK’s best-sellers! Sheepskin boots are still huge and premium-priced.’
Jo exhaled and shook her head irritably. Surely he wasn’t suggesting she join the flock and bring out a copy of the leading designer brand?
‘And aimed at a younger market than both of our customers; kids with more money than sense,’ she countered.
Ed looked up at her, seemingly amused by her reaction. ‘You can’t deny they’re comfortable, though.’
He had a point but she wasn’t about to admit it.
‘What about designing something desirable, that you – when you eventually reach the ripe old age of thirty-five,’ he grinned at her, ‘would be proud to wear. I’m thinking quirky, sexy and irresistible.’
‘Next birthday, then.’ She smiled back. ‘So we’d better get a move on.’
Everything he said was true. The so-called older market did need a shake-up. And the way business was at the moment, it was either do or die. Maybe Gold’s could create something different, a new sub-brand, and launch it through Shaw’s?
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