B01ESFW7JE

by Cathy Bramley

  Her insides quivered as she smiled and took a deep breath.

  ‘Morning, everyone.’

  A loaded silence descended.

  ‘I’ll be as brief as I can,’ she said, shooting Patrick a teasing look, ‘seeing as Patrick has chosen the North Pole for our meeting.’

  Patrick bit his lip comically and smiled back. His adoring fans in the sales team giggled. How did he do it? He managed to have the whole company eating out of his hand and still keep a professional distance. Whereas although they all seemed to respect her, at least she hoped they did, she didn’t get the same warmth from them. Apart from Liz. She caught her secretary’s eye and Liz gave her a reassuring half-nod.

  ‘OK?’ murmured Patrick. ‘I’ve got all the figures here, if you need them.’ He tapped a finger on his notepad. She gave him a sideways glance. Perhaps it was that soft Scottish lilt to his voice that they all loved; there was something musical about it even when he was being serious.

  She nodded and tried to channel her father; he was always good at this sort of thing – putting a positive spin on even the most depressing results.

  ‘It’s been a mixed start to the New Year,’ she began. ‘We’ve launched the new collection and early signs are encouraging from some of our oldest customers. Sadly, this isn’t translating into sales …’

  Jo was maintaining a brave face but it broke her heart to watch her employees as she delivered the bad news. Most of the staff had been with Gold’s for years. It wouldn’t come as a shock to many that redundancies were now almost a certainty. They had seen the order book fall, the leather delivery dwindle, the courier collect ever smaller pallets of shoes to distribute to struggling footwear retailers.

  Jo wanted to be honest with everyone; there was no use making promises she couldn’t keep.

  Gold’s still retained the honour of being a British manufacturer. Just. The bulk of their stock arrived in container loads from the Far East, to be hand-finished and boxed in the Northampton factory. Only a tiny range was still made here. It would be more cost-effective to import these too, but Jo, like her father before her, was adamant that Gold’s would make shoes in Northampton for as long as possible.

  ‘It goes against all my principles to contemplate letting anyone go,’ she said, making eye contact with as many people as she could. ‘But if we can’t trade profitably, the company will go under and we will all lose our jobs.’

  She had her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. Today was set aside for stocktaking, getting ready for the end of the financial year. Jo would be shifting boxes with the rest of them.

  ‘There is a glimmer of hope, though. Although it is a bit of a slow burner, I admit.’

  She spotted Patrick’s cheerful smile with gratitude; he wasn’t fully sold on the idea yet, but she appreciated his public support.

  ‘Shaw’s, most of you will know, has seven stores around the Midlands and the new management are planning to open another six this autumn. The company has rebranded and looks amazing. Ed Shaw has offered us a lifeline.’

  Jo paused in her speech and met Patrick’s gaze. She had to make the next bit sound plausible. In his opinion Ed Shaw’s idea was the long shot to end all long shots.

  ‘It’s a bit of a wild card but if we can come up with a new quirky collection, he’ll stock every single style and promote us heavily.’

  Murmurs of interest rippled round the room.

  ‘There’s one proviso, though.’

  Jo paused and her angular face softened into a cheeky smile.

  ‘It will have to be made here at Gold’s. We are going to create a new British collection, designed and manufactured for the modern woman right here in our factory.’

  ‘Awesome!’ said Patrick, leading the rest of the team in a round of applause. The six-strong team of craftsmen and women even cheered. Liz caught her eye and gave her a dreamy look. Jo looked at her feet to hide her smile. Liz was a good twenty years older than Patrick, but she had a mammoth crush on him.

  ‘It’s early days, but yes, very good news,’ Jo said, gesturing for them all to calm down. ‘Patrick?’

  As she stepped back to let him take over, he smiled at her, his dark eyes twinkling with such pride that she felt a warm glow light her from within. He was a good friend; it was a relief to know he was on her side.

  He ruffled a hand through his fair hair and smiled at everyone.

  ‘If anyone can get us through this sticky patch it’s Jo. But we’re a team, aren’t we? We’re like family.’ He flicked both his hands like a compere at a comedy club and was rewarded with a small sea of smiling faces. Liz put her hand to her chest and made an ‘ah’ face.

  ‘We welcome all your ideas for this new collection,’ he continued. ‘We’re still designing for the same customer, but apart from that, anything goes. Please come forward with any suggestions, however off the wall you think they might be. That’s it, everyone. Thanks very much.’

  Liz gave them both the thumbs-up as people started to move away in small groups, murmuring to each other.

  Probably all going back to print off their bloody CVs, thought Jo glumly.

  ‘Post-match debrief?’ said Patrick, jerking his head towards his office.

  Patrick’s office was next to hers and identical in size but whereas hers was devoid of clutter, his had stacks of paper on every surface. Jo sat at the table opposite him, chin in her hand, as he added the final details to the summer marketing plan. She was trying to focus on what he was saying but her thoughts kept drifting back to the staff meeting and what her employees would be saying behind her back.

  ‘So it’s between that promotion or the three-month magazine subscription with every purchase over fifty pounds, which is a good offer,’ he said. ‘I think that’s quite tempting. Are you listening to me, Gold?’

  ‘What? Oh sorry.’ She shook herself from her reverie and sniggered.

  Years ago, they had spent a brief spell working together in the warehouse at Gold’s for an ex-army sergeant who insisted on calling everyone by their surname, including the boss’s daughter. It never failed to raise a smile.

  She and Patrick had started at the company together, fresh out of university, and had hit it off straight away. Then when she had taken over from her dad, Patrick had had to report to her. All a bit weird to start with but they had soon reverted to taking the mickey out of each other. The only thing that had really changed was that she couldn’t always confide in him like a friend any more. With the threat of redundancies, it wasn’t impossible that he might lose his job. Jo didn’t even want to think about that. Sometimes having the top job was crap and very lonely.

  A sigh escaped and she met Patrick’s eye.

  ‘Look, you were ace in that meeting,’ he said, pointing a pen at her. ‘Your dad couldn’t have put it any better himself.’ He leaned forward in his chair and smiled. ‘After lunch, I’ll go through the file of suppliers, see if I can find any freelance designers for Mr Shaw.’

  ‘Do you really think we can design this new collection, Patrick?’ She studied his face, willing him to share her hopes.

  ‘Yup. Or at least die trying.’ He grinned. He dropped his pen on the table and sat back, linking his fingers behind his head confidently.

  Jo tried not to shiver. That was what she was afraid of.

  There was a knock on the open door and they both looked up.

  ‘Come in, Cesca,’ said Patrick, waving her towards a seat on the other side of his desk.

  Francesca, from the sales office, glanced at Jo and closed the door behind her. She had an artist’s sketchpad clamped in front of her like a shield.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said timidly. ‘I can come back later if you like?’

  ‘No, you’re fine,’ said Jo. ‘Love the hair, by the way.’

  The twenty-four-year-old was part Italian, with strong dark eyebrows and long thick hair. The bottom third was dip-dyed a striking cyan blue. Jo always felt boring by comparison. And old. />
  ‘Thanks.’ Cesca flicked her hair back over her shoulders and laid her pad on the desk.

  ‘Sales query?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Um. No. It was just an idea I had about the new collection. For Shaw’s.’

  Jo poured herself and Patrick coffee from the cafetière and held up a mug for Cesca, who shook her head.

  ‘All suggestions gratefully received.’ Jo was intrigued. She looked at Patrick, who shrugged, apparently none the wiser.

  ‘I wanted to show you some designs I’ve been working on.’

  ‘Designs for shoes?’ asked Patrick in surprise. ‘Should I have known about this?’

  Cesca’s job involved collating orders sent in by the sales agents and taking replenishment orders over the phone from retailers. It was standard office stuff.

  ‘It started as a hobby,’ she explained. ‘My dream has always been to be a shoe designer. Even more so since working here.’ She smiled shyly at Jo. ‘I’m doing a foundation course in art and design in my spare time.’

  ‘Then what?’ said Jo, unable to take her eyes off the sketchpad and itching to grab hold of it.

  ‘The London College of Fashion to study footwear design. If I get in.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Not that I want to leave Gold’s. But …’ Cesca blushed and looked down at her lap.

  Jo’s heart sank. So she’d been right. She guessed that very little work was being done this morning, despite the Shaw’s opportunity. Everyone must be too busy planning their next move. Except Cesca, evidently. The girl certainly had a flair for fashion. Jo felt a stirring of hope. Imagine if Gold’s had its very own fledgling designer. She mentally crossed her fingers that Cesca had talent as well as fashion sense.

  ‘You’re right to have ambitions,’ Jo said, seeing the young woman in a brand-new light. ‘And you never know, your designs could be just what we need. So what’s in the book?’

  ‘I used my mother for inspiration. But it was when you said quirky; it made me think perhaps some of them could be useful for Gold’s. I have to warn you first, though.’ Cesca’s mouth twitched. ‘My mother is, er, quite flamboyant. Let’s just say beige doesn’t feature in her wardrobe.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. I can’t wait,’ said Jo, and she meant it. Not quite the quintessentially British combination that would first spring to mind. But interesting certainly.

  Cesca gave a nervous laugh and opened up her sketchpad.

  Five minutes later, Jo had passed in and out of the speechless stage and was fizzing with ideas. Patrick looked impressed too. Cesca had drawn pages and pages of shoes; some were fully finished colour sketches, others were just rough outlines. Most of them were way too over the top, but enough of them showed promise to get Jo excited.

  ‘Cesca, you’re a genius,’ she murmured. ‘Not to mention the darkest horse ever.’

  Patrick was still flicking through the pages. ‘There’s some potential here, Jo, do you agree?’

  She nodded, keen to make a start. ‘Would you be happy for us to select, say, twelve styles and get Len to see if he can work them up into samples in the workshop?’

  Cesca’s olive skin had blushed an even darker shade. ‘I can’t believe it. I thought you’d laugh at them.’

  ‘If we can make use of them, we’ll sponsor you to go to uni,’ said Jo spontaneously. Cesca’s face lit up.

  ‘But we will need to make them quirkily English.’

  Jo didn’t want to offend her, but the emphasis had to be on British heritage and not on Cesca’s Italian roots.

  This would be the first brand-new collection that Jo would have had anything to do with. Designed and made in Northampton, the heart of the British footwear industry. And it might just save their souls, thought Jo happily, or should that be soles.

  Carrie hummed as she finished unpacking the supermarket shopping, amazed at where the morning had disappeared to. Usually she just raced along the aisles, thoughtlessly tossing food into the trolley. Today’s trip had taken for ever; checking every label for calories and cross-referencing it with her menu sheet. This diet malarkey was a full-time job. It was a good thing she didn’t work, or she wouldn’t have time to lose weight. She paused, holding two digestive biscuits that didn’t fit into the tin in her hand. Of course, if she had had a job she might not have got so big in the first place.

  She set one biscuit aside to have with her morning coffee. She had been so good today, she reasoned, snapping the other in half, popping one piece in her mouth and the other in the bin. Now that was real progress; before going on this diet she would never have thrown good food away.

  The post clattered through the letterbox on to the tiled floor. Carrie fetched it, set the boring stuff aside and opened the only interesting-looking item. A free sample of a new breakfast bar fell out of its packaging, fat free and packed with calcium, apparently. She turned it over in her hands and read the calorie content. The edge of the wrapper was slightly torn. It wouldn’t take much to open it. If it was nice, she could swap it for tomorrow’s breakfast of porridge made with water, which she wasn’t looking forward to one bit. Maybe she should just try a mouthful now in case she didn’t like it. She popped a piece in her mouth and chewed. Not bad.

  Right. Food diary. She was religious when it came to recording her food intake. Carrie sat down at the desk in the little bedroom which until recently had been Alex’s territory, and turned on the computer. While she waited for the program to load, she opened a packet of ready-salted low-fat crisps. Chosen because they had fewer calories – thirteen fewer, to be precise – than the cheese-and-onion ones. Every calorie mattered. Carrie was allowed three small meals a day and two snacks at one hundred calories each when she was feeling peckish. Which was most of the time.

  She pulled up her spreadsheet and typed ‘Coco Pops and skimmed milk’ in the box for breakfast and apple for snack. Today was going so well; she marvelled at her own will-power.

  Finding new ways to cut her calories and stick to her daily allowance was Carrie’s new obsession. She took great delight in pulling a fast one on the plan. Why have two Ryvitas and a satsuma when you could tuck into a bag of low-fat crisps? And who would choose a boiled egg and a rice cracker over a two-finger KitKat?

  She felt a brief pang of loss for that jar of peanut butter she’d had to throw away the day before. One hundred calories in only one measly teaspoon! That had been a real blow. She had rarely passed that cupboard without delving in for a scoop. She turned the computer off and glanced at her profile in the mirror. The weight hadn’t really started to come off yet, but with all these sacrifices she was making, it wouldn’t take long.

  She began gnawing through the crisps like a beaver building a dam and went in search of suitable clothes to wear to yoga.

  It was time to go and meet the others but no matter how much tugging and pulling she did, Carrie felt far too exposed in this outfit. The only T-shirt she could find that covered her bum was one of Alex’s with the slogan Hog’s breath is better than no breath at all, which had to be debatable, and her leggings didn’t do her any favours either.

  She would never in a million years attempt yoga on her own. But Sarah had been very persuasive. Apparently it was a great way to get in shape for beginners, it was gentle and relaxing and as none of them had ever done any yoga before, they would all be in the same boat. Until the teacher asked them to touch their toes, and then they would be in entirely different boats, thought Carrie, trying to brush away the mental image of a chubby tug boat. Anyway, she was too scared of Sarah to say no, so that was that.

  Carrie slid a knife along the edge of the cardboard, stabbed the cellophane lid repeatedly and read the instructions on the box: Microwave on full power for five minutes then leave to stand. It was not what Alex normally sat down to on a Friday night, but she had had such a busy day, she hadn’t had time to cook. It felt really naughty, though. She had better go and deliver the bad news.

  Alex glanced up from his
newspaper and she saw his eyes widen. Her hands flew to the hem of her T-shirt and she yanked it until the shoulder seams started to complain.

  ‘You look very,’ he hesitated, ‘casual.’

  ‘I’m off to make a fool of myself at yoga with Jo and Sarah. We might come back here afterwards. You can go out if you like.’

  A bit of a white lie, they were definitely coming back here; she had made post-workout snacks and everything.

  A cloud passed over Alex’s face. ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Just didn’t want to subject you to the intrusion of three sweaty women.’

  Another white lie. Her budding friendship with Jo and Sarah, the whole wish list project, was the first thing she’d done entirely without him for years. She was loath to let him in just yet.

  ‘What about dinner?’ asked Alex.

  The microwave pinged right on cue.

  ‘Sounds like it’s ready.’ She picked up her longest, most shapeless hoody and made for the front door. She pressed her lips together to suppress a giggle. ‘Hope it’s not too salty?’ she called over her shoulder.

  Diet, exercise and leaving her husband to fend for himself. She was getting more confident already. She could do this. She really could.

  Chapter 6

  At Rose Cottage, Sarah was having doubts about her outfit. Carrie and Jo seemed to be taking this seriously and were both dressed in Lycra. Sarah, on the other hand, was wearing black tights, her denim shorts and a Bambi T-shirt. Oh well, too late to change now.

  Whooping and splashing noises were coming from upstairs. She was leaving Dave in charge of bath time this evening and it sounded like they were having great fun.

  ‘Has everyone got a towel for the relaxation bit?’ she said, remembering she still hadn’t got one.

  They had.

  ‘Whose car shall we go in?’ Carrie was peering at her rear view in the hall mirror and trying to stretch her hoody down as far as her knees.