B01ESFW7JE

by Cathy Bramley

  She cast an eye over the living room, propped two takeaway menus up in the kitchen and checked that there was plenty of wine in the fridge. Preparations complete, she even had time for a run. It was late May and although there had been some rain that morning the streets had dried up in the early-evening sun. Perfect conditions for running.

  Stripping off to her underwear, she pulled a pair of trainers from her shoe cupboard and took her running gear out of the drawer. She was about to slip into her T-shirt when there was a knock at the door. They were early; she smiled to herself, the run would have to wait. So much for security, she thought idly, someone must have let them in through the main entrance.

  ‘Coming, ladies,’ she called, jogging down the hallway. She squinted through the spyhole to check she wasn’t opening the door to a random salesman. A pair of dark eyes was focused on her door.

  ‘Bloody hell, Patrick! What are you doing here?’ she called through the door, automatically wrapping her arms round herself. ‘Hold on, I’m not dressed!’ She ran back to her bedroom, threw on her dressing gown and dashed back to let him in.

  ‘Bad time?’ he asked, his eyes flicking past her to the bedroom door.

  ‘I was just going running, if you must know.’ She stood aside to let him in. ‘What’s up?’

  He had been here before, to drop her off or pick her up, but never unexpectedly.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news.’

  She studied his face and her heart skipped a beat; his usual good-natured smile was missing and he looked really uncomfortable.

  ‘Patrick, what’s wrong? Is it my dad, has something happened?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She tried not to panic and walked into the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow. Out of habit she put the kettle on, but Patrick declined the offer of a drink. She leaned back on the kitchen cupboards and tightened the belt of her dressing gown.

  ‘Spit it out, McGregor, the suspense is killing me,’ she said with a shaky laugh.

  Patrick raked a hand through his hair and unfolded a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘We’ve had an email from Ed Shaw about the contract for the Josephine Gold collection.’

  Jo let out a harsh breath and relaxed her shoulders. ‘Oh! You had me so worried, I thought—’

  He shoved it towards her. ‘Read it.’

  She held his stare as she took the sheet of paper from him. He was acting very strangely. Her eyes went straight to the bottom of the page where the order value was highlighted in bold. She whistled. That was a big number. Shaw’s had done them proud, ordering more pairs than she’d dared hope for.

  ‘And?’ She looked at Patrick and frowned. ‘This is good, isn’t it?’

  He folded his arms.

  ‘Paragraph three,’ he said quietly. ‘Exclusivity to Shaw’s. Did you agree to this?’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Jo scanned the relevant paragraph, shaking her head in confusion, her pulse racing. ‘Of course not. The bastard!’

  According to this email, Shaw’s was prepared to stock the collection in all its stores, feature it in radio and print commercials and run a special staff incentive scheme. Which was all fantastic except that in exchange they were demanding three months’ exclusivity on the collection. If Jo agreed to this, Gold’s wouldn’t be allowed to sell the range to any other high-street retailer until December.

  The blood drained from Jo’s face. ‘Can he do this?’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘He can ask for anything he likes. But we don’t have to agree to his terms.’

  She felt sick; there was no way she would be going for a run now.

  ‘I need to sit down.’ She brushed past him and dropped on to the sofa in the living room.

  Patrick joined her, perching on the other end, his arms resting on his knees.

  Her father would have a field day with this; making a profit on the new collection was always going to be tight, but at least they had assumed that some of their other customers would take the range too, to bump up the numbers. Making the shoes exclusively for Ed’s stores would be financial suicide.

  She groaned and turned to Patrick.

  ‘We could refuse to abide by these terms, tell him to get stuffed.’

  Patrick rubbed his face, his complexion was grey and he looked as devastated as she felt, which was some small consolation. ‘We could, but he has us over a barrel and he knows it. We’ve invested so heavily in the collection; we’d be idiots to risk losing the contract altogether.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She attempted a smile and punched his arm. ‘Who needs Shaw’s anyway, eh, McGregor? Let’s tell him to bugger off. Look on the bright side; at least we won’t have to have dinner with them again.’

  ‘Jo.’ His voice was serious and it worried her. ‘By September the company won’t be able to trade profitably. The cash flow is stretched as it is and so far autumn orders are OK but not as good as I’d like.’

  And she would be vacating her office to make way for Bob Gold’s return. She nodded, the miserable reality sinking in. She dropped her head into her hands.

  ‘Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to Liz – it’ll get straight back to my dad and I need to get my head around it first before he comes barging in.’

  ‘Promise.’

  She looked at him and they shared a rueful smile.

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear this but …’ He let out a long breath and held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. ‘Well, redundancies are now the only option.’

  ‘Shit. I know you’re right but … it stinks.’

  Jo felt her throat constrict. How was she going to break it to her staff? They would hate her. She was a total failure. Three years at the helm and all she had succeeded in doing was lose money. So much for her fresh new direction, the sub-brand that was going to herald a new future for the firm. She clasped her hands round her knees and willed herself to stay strong in front of Patrick, blinking hard to ward off any tears.

  Maybe it was time to wind up Gold’s and strike out on her own. Maybe she could start a new venture. Perhaps Patrick might even consider joining her; after all, they made a good team.

  Patrick cleared his throat and looked down at the floor.

  ‘There’s something else.’ He puffed out his cheeks and turned to face her. ‘Ed Shaw has offered me a job as his General Manager. I think it’s best, under the circumstances, if I accept.’

  Time seemed to slow down, the air in the room grew heavy and Patrick’s face drifted in and out of focus. Jo shook her head to clear her vision. Did she just hear that right?

  ‘You’re not serious. I thought you hated him?’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She stood up from the sofa, holding the edges of her dressing gown together, and willed him to say it was a joke.

  ‘He’s a good businessman. Shaw’s is a sound company.’

  ‘Yeah, look what he’s done to us!’ She threw her hands up in the air.

  ‘Be honest, Jo.’ He got to his feet and took a step towards her. She backed away. ‘We both know my job will be on the line if sales continue to fall. I have myself to think of, and Holly.’

  She was too het up to think about his financial security just now. First her dad, then Ed Shaw and now Patrick … Did none of the men in her life have any faith in her?

  She refused to meet his eye and picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. ‘Do the words rats and sinking ship mean anything to you?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Patrick inched closer to her and gently placed his hands on her arms.

  Jo held her breath. In all the years she had known him, he had never really touched her. She wasn’t sure whether to collapse on his chest and hope he’d give her a hug or kick him in the balls.

  ‘I’m on three months’ notice,’ he said, looking into her eyes. To be fair, he looked as dreadful as she felt. ‘I’ll do whatever I can in that time to try and turn the busine
ss round.’

  Except retract his resignation presumably. Jo shrugged off his hands. She felt exhausted, drained and incredibly, inexplicably sad. ‘Just go away, Patrick.’

  He hesitated for a few seconds and then walked to the living-room door.

  ‘I do think it’s the right decision.’

  ‘For you maybe,’ she muttered, turning her back to him and looking out of the window.

  She heard him walk to the front door and open it. Then there was a yelp and the sound of women laughing. Bloody marvellous; Carrie and Sarah had arrived.

  She could hear them giggling in the hallway – Patrick must have let them in.

  ‘Look at me! I’ve even got it on my feet. I’ll make the floor sticky!’

  ‘Take your shoes off then. Hurry up, Sarah. I want to find out who that man was. Jo?’ Carrie called. ‘The door was open, can we come in?’

  Jo squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, sure. I’m in here,’ she called in a wobbly voice.

  Sarah poked her head into the living room, closely followed by Carrie, hidden behind a huge bunch of flowers.

  Sarah was holding a dripping plastic carton.

  ‘I’ve made fruit salad. For dessert.’ She appeared to be wearing it too; her floral tea dress had a wet stain all down the front. ‘Except I’ve had an accident.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry. That man came out of your flat and made us jump. The lid must have been loose.’

  Carrie nudged past Sarah and laid the flowers on the coffee table. She bent and pressed a kiss to Jo’s cheek.

  ‘Thanks,’ mumbled Jo.

  ‘He had ever such a sexy voice,’ said Carrie, taking her cardigan off and fanning her face. Then she noticed Jo’s stricken expression and her face fell. ‘Oh, love.’

  ‘He only said one word.’ Sarah was still hovering, looking for somewhere to dump her fruit salad. ‘But, yeah, I admit, even that was sexy. Who is this sound and vision of gorgeousness, Jo?’

  Carrie stared at Sarah, who was in turn staring at Jo, with a mischievous grin on her face.

  ‘Aye, aye? Have we just interrupted something?’ said Sarah, pointing at Jo’s dressing gown.

  Jo’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yeah. The worst day of my entire life.’

  Carrie took one look at Jo’s pale face on the verge of tears and dropped on to the cream leather sofa to give her a hug. Sarah reached for her voluminous handbag. She rummaged through it, muttering that she was sure she had some tissues somewhere. She produced a battered packet of Kleenex and handed one to Jo.

  ‘This is the beginning of the end,’ Jo said between sniffs, ‘for me and for Gold’s, and it’s all my fault. Dad was right all along.’

  Carrie’s heart went out to Jo; she’d never seen her look so vulnerable.

  Sarah squeezed herself on to the sofa on the other side of Jo and took hold of her hand. ‘Come on, it can’t be that bad. Want to talk about it?’

  Jo swiped at her face angrily with the tissue, as if cross with her own weakness. ‘Where do I start?’ she mumbled glumly.

  ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ said Carrie, ‘and find a vase for these.’

  She bustled off to the kitchen, cross with herself for reverting to type: as soon as things got tough, Carrie Radley headed for the kitchen.

  Jo would probably have asked for a glass of wine, given the choice, but what she really needed was a cup of reviving tea. It felt a bit odd being in someone else’s kitchen, but if Jo could rummage through her cupboards, Carrie could do the same. Besides, Sarah was probably much better at wheedling out the problem than she would be.

  The kitchen was all black and white and glossy. White cupboards beneath an unbroken run of black granite counter tops and a black-and-white tiled floor. There were no wall cupboards and aside from the built-in hob and oven, no obvious appliances either. She located the kettle without problem. White canisters labelled tea and coffee sat on the worktop next to two takeaway menus. That would be dinner, then; she wondered whether Chinese or Indian food had the fewer calories.

  She opened a cupboard looking for mugs. With the exception of six tins of soup, it was bare. Further investigation led her to a cupboard containing crockery and glassware. A meagre pile of plates was outnumbered considerably by an impressive collection of glasses for every possible alcoholic drink. Carrie bit back a smile; Jo might not be a cook but she was definitely a party girl. She couldn’t help but contrast it to her own fragrant kitchen stuffed with herbs, spices and every possible baking ingredient you could ever need. She selected the largest glass in lieu of a vase and arranged the flowers.

  In the fridge, which was cunningly disguised as another cupboard, she found milk along with six Granny Smith apples and a mini Stilton cheese still in its Christmas packaging. Carrie couldn’t resist checking the freezer when she eventually found it. Just as she thought: empty except for a bottle of vodka, some ice cubes and a gel-filled eye mask.

  By the time she returned to the living room with the tea, Jo was a little bit livelier. Carrie put mugs down on the coffee table. The room was minimalist to say the least. Just a sofa, TV and coffee table. But oddly, three cardboard boxes sat in the corner.

  ‘Is everyone having fun?’ Jo asked with a wry smile. She let out a heartfelt sigh and picked up her tea.

  Carrie settled herself back down and peered at her two friends over the rim of her mug as a warm rush of affection for them washed over her. Something had clearly upset Jo, and that was terrible, obviously. But at least they were all together and on speaking terms. The last time they’d met at the pub had been awful and Carrie had been really worried that she might never see them again.

  ‘OK, Miss Gold. We want details. Like who was the mystery man we almost met?’ Sarah demanded.

  ‘He’s Patrick McGregor, my right-hand man, without whom I don’t know how the hell I’m going to manage. He came to deliver some bad news.’

  ‘Are you and he …?’ Sarah raised her eyebrows.

  ‘No,’ said Jo emphatically. ‘Although he has just broken my heart.’

  Carrie sent a confused look to Sarah, who responded with an equally confused shrug.

  ‘The footwear business is really tough at the moment and I thought we were going to have to lay off some of our staff. Then at the eleventh hour, Shaw’s – you know – the shoe retailer, came up with a suggestion that I thought would potentially protect our jobs.’

  Jo briefly explained about Shaw’s new image, and the new Josephine Gold collection.

  ‘That all sounds great so far,’ said Sarah encouragingly.

  Jo heaved a big sigh. ‘It was all going so well,’ she agreed. ‘Until about half an hour ago when Patrick came round to deliver the killer blow. Well, double blow, in fact.’

  Jo set down her mug and smoothed out the crumpled email. ‘We went out to dinner to celebrate our partnership the other day—’

  ‘Was that when you had your public panic attack?’ asked Carrie.

  ‘Exactly, more on that later,’ said Jo. ‘But after letting us celebrate, Ed Shaw sent through the contract and he has demanded exclusivity.’

  She dropped her head into her hands. Carrie was confused; that all sounded very positive.

  ‘Exclusivity is a good thing, surely?’ she asked naively.

  ‘It is for the bloody retailer!’ retorted Jo. ‘But Shaw’s has only got seven branches. We can’t produce an exclusive range of shoes for just seven shops. If we can’t sell them elsewhere as well, we can’t afford to make them at all. We might as well just set fire to a pile of cash!’

  ‘What’s your break-even point?’ asked Sarah, frowning.

  Jo puffed her cheeks out. ‘It’s about … we’ll need to sell … they cost …’ She flapped her hand as if she was defeated by the effort. ‘I can’t remember now. That’s Patrick’s department.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Or was.’

  Carrie was filled with admiration and sorrow for the usually intrepid Jo. Most of what she was talking about, quite fran
kly, went over her head and she was at a loss to know what to say to make matters better. She put an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Have you had to make Patrick redundant?’ she asked, tutting with sympathy. ‘No wonder he looked so upset when he left.’

  ‘No!’ Jo cried. ‘That’s just it. He’s leaving me – I mean us. He’s resigned and to make matters infinitely worse, he’s going to work for Ed Shaw.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘That man has got me over a barrel. And to think that only a week ago, Ed Shaw having me over a barrel would have been quite appealing.’

  Her lips twitched into a smile and Carrie and Sarah exchanged relieved looks.

  ‘Anyway, enough about my woes,’ Jo said firmly. ‘I suppose I’d better feed you.’

  ‘Unless you’d rather we left you alone?’ said Sarah.

  ‘No.’ Jo reached a hand out to them both. ‘Stay, please. I want you to.’

  An hour later, they were tucking into an Indian takeaway, which Jo had insisted on paying for. Carrie was balancing her plate on her knees and felt very on edge. Her fingertips were already stained bright orange; goodness knows what would happen to the cream sofa and cream carpet if she dropped so much as a morsel. They always ate in the dining room at home.

  Alex grew up without home-cooked meals and always cherished the fact that they ate together at the table every night. Jo didn’t even own a table, so that was that.

  As Carrie gamely nibbled on her plain chicken tikka, which was far spicier than she would have liked but seemed to be the healthiest option, she remembered that they were supposed to be checking up on each other’s wish list progress.

  ‘How is your plan to get promoted going, Sarah?’ she asked, watching them both tuck into a plate of poppadoms and pickles and bowls of creamy korma – chicken for Jo and vegetable for Sarah.

  ‘Absolute disaster on that front.’ Sarah heaped some lime pickle on to the edge of her poppadom and crunched into it. ‘Wow.’ She dabbed her nose with her napkin, her eyes watering. ‘That one packs a punch! You won’t believe this, but I actually asked to reduce my hours in the office.’