by Poppy Dolan
I run my index finger over the baldy little chick. ‘Um, well…’
‘Be totally honest. Don’t overthink. Just, happy. When?’
‘Getting drunk in the pub that night, after CraftCon. Looking out at the lush countryside around Sunny Farm. Eating Jaffa Cakes on the sofa with JP, like we were kids again. Holding Chester for the first time, when you got home. Actually, just hearing you’d got home was a high point.’
‘Ohhh!’ She clamps her hands over her mouth as her eyes go twinkly with tears. ‘But ignore me – go on.’
‘I suppose, I’ve been happy to be here, to be home more.’
She nods. ‘And from that list you just gave, how many moments were from the time you still had your job?’
She’s got me there. And for a weird moment I see how lucky I am, strangely, to have this time here: to be a part of Chester’s life from the start, to see JP’s goals get bigger and brighter (and even to see him find a new major crush), being able to cheer Mags on as she re-enters the dating world, to realize that Ben isn’t the B-movie villain I assumed but actually a really good friend. If I’d carried on with the status quo, these are things that I might only have known from texts or Facebook updates between meetings or waiting in departure lounges. I wouldn’t have been part of the here and now, only the distant after. My career might have been a few months further down the line, and my bank balance would have looked a damn sight healthier, but my life would have passed me by. But enjoying life doesn’t pay mortgages.
I let out a long, slow breath and rub one of Chester’s perfect but tiny feet through his sleepsuit, printed all over with green stars. ‘OK. So my old job wasn’t making me happy. I don’t want to go back there, I know that, but I have to do something, Becks. I can’t not earn money. I know enough about myself that I need stability, I need to know the roof is staying firmly over my head. That it’s not going to be cardboard boxes on the pavement.’
She frowns. ‘But it’s never going to get that bad – you have the shop, your parents have a spare room, there’s even lovely Mags. And us! People love you – no one’s going to let it get that bad.’
‘But it can happen. We lost everything when my parents’ business had to fold and they… they were so sad, for so long. For months Dad hardly got out of bed. We don’t talk about it now but I just remember thinking, I won’t let this happen again. And then when JP had his breakdown, I realized it’s not just enough to have my own back-up plan, but I need to keep my eye on him too.’
‘So that’s what this whole shop makeover thing has been about?’
I shrug. ‘It makes me happy to know he’s OK for the long term. I can relax then. And without a job, I kind of need the shop to make money for my finances, as well. But now I’m just really glad I’ve been here to see everything going on, to lend a hand.’
She lets out a soft, short laugh. ‘You lend a hand to something the way a conductor lends a hand to an orchestra – with a baton in it. You’ve made a mega difference. There’s this whole extra boost of energy to the place, and to JP now. I think he’s a lot more confident with you around.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. That, and his cool new squeeze. Oh God, listen to me – “squeeze”! I sound like someone’s mum!’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘You are someone’s mum!’
She pokes my leg, hard. ‘Yes, but I don’t want to sound like it. I wanted to be twenty-three for ever, naturally. Though with so little sleep and only eating digestives in the five minutes I get for lunch, I feel more like a hundred and three. Oh, I’ve nearly finished my blog post, by the way. Writing it, like, fifty words at a time and then rereading them to find they’re nonsense or a bit of my shopping list has crept in, but I will get there.’
‘Can’t wait to read it. Thanks.’
‘Well, it’s just me wittering on about premature babies, happiness and breast pumps and—’
I wave my hands quickly to cut short that worrying sentence. ‘Not just the blog, but for listening. And being so wise. I’m just going to focus on the little, good things for now.’
And hope that I can figure out a new future while I’m eating Jaffa Cakes and washing baby hats.
Chapter 19
It’s not an official thing, but I think JP has moved in with Patti. I assumed he’d come with me and temporarily move in at Mum and Dad’s when I told him about the situation with the wiring. I even went so far as to offer to pack his shower gel, some socks and pants, and the latest issue of Modern Knitting, to put in the boot of Mags’s car, along with my laundry bag of bits and pieces.
He was eerily quiet on the phone as I went through what happened with the fridge and Keith’s warning about the wiring. The electrician he recommended is coming next week – fully booked until then – so that means the shop is shut indefinitely for now. All I heard in response was the long, slow release of a sigh and then JP say, ‘Hang on,’ followed by a muffled sound like he was putting his hand over the microphone. When he came back a few minutes later, his voice was level. ‘I’m cool here, actually. I need to have a bit of a think, Dee. About what to do next. Call you later, yeah?’
And then he hung up. And I was instantly strung up with panic.
I’m pacing Mum and Dad’s living room, staring at my phone in my hands like I can Jedi mind-trick it into buzzing with a call from JP. I need to know he’s OK. I need to know this hasn’t tripped him up, not again. That was a long time ago, granted, and he’s so much happier now but a big sister never stops worrying. It starts with scraped knees and it goes right through to their almost-30s with heartbreak, misery and depression, it seems. But bombarding him with missed calls and messages isn’t the way to go right now, even if I can feel my heart thrumming in my ears with worry: he’s made it clear these past weeks that I can’t overstep, and if I did it would just make him push me away. I have to wait for him to call me. And it’s bloody hard.
But the force is not with me and all I’m doing with my emotions is creating a sweat-dampened phone and a sore hand from such a tight grip. It dawns on me there’s someone else JP has opened up to lately – Ben. JP might have confided in him today about the whole debacle, he might have the inside track through their bromance. I could sneak some reassuring intel that way.
It’s 4.15 p.m. now. I could be in London by the close of play.
Delilah:
Hey, Ben. Fancy a drink tonight?
Ben:
Yes. Absolutely. I could be in Fenwildby 7.30.
Delilah:
I’ll come to you. Would love a chat…
Picking an old post-work bar just below the office was a bit of a rookie move on my part – I’m now constantly twitching and looking over my shoulder, checking for former colleagues breezing through the doors. I’m too highly strung right now to answer questions about what I’m doing and dodge the gossip-fishing they’ll surely do. But it’s only 5.35 and most of my old workmates will still be hard at it till at least 6.30 or 7.00.
To look busy and not at all sad, desperate and unemployed to any passer-by, I tap out a message to Ben.
Delilah:
Here a bit early! I’ll get us some chips. Bottle of red?
I’m just putting my purse back in my bag a few minutes later, when Ben pushes through the heavy chrome doors and walks my way, quickly and effortlessly climbing up onto the high stool next to me.
‘Oh, hey! I didn’t think you’d be out so early. I’ve only just ordered. Slow day, was it?’
Ben shrugs and flips a beer mat. ‘You know.’
‘Well, I used to…’
His eyes flick to mine. ‘Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘I’m kidding! It’s fine. Least of my worries right now. Just surprised you’re able to sneak away on time from all those juicy clients of mine.’ I give him some mock-evils and he smiles.
‘Ah, yes. No, it’s fine. I’m on it. So – what are all these worries you’ve got?’
I start to plough into everything
that’s happened in just a handful of hours since I messaged him about landing MCJ – having a potential powder keg for a premises and what that means for the shop’s performance and the planned knitathon.
‘So I can hardly invite MCJ to come and see our very fabulous, very flammable retail space and having a big looming insurance payout on the horizon won’t get them very excited, either. But I don’t think, in good faith, I can cover it up. That’s not how I do things.’
A bottle of red is put onto the bar in front of us and two glasses clink together as they follow suit.
Ben starts pouring. ‘Agreed. But change the story, Dee. Go to them. Lying about the situation – no. Smoke and mirrors? Always. A “major rejuvenation project”, maybe? Then once they’re fully immersed and bought in, you can subtly reveal the details.’
The wine feels very good as it goes down – warm and almost fiery. I need this. I need a splash of alcohol and someone who really knows us – and the business – to thrash it all out with.
‘But I’m worried, most of all, about JP. The investment I can knuckle down and get it on track again, somehow. But I’m worried about how JP will take it. He must be so, so disappointed.’
Ben frowns. ‘But I thought he didn’t know about how far you’d got with this just yet?’
‘He doesn’t know. But it’s the knitathon, having to cancel it. It’s just the sort of thing that could trigger a dark time for him. And as he’s hanging out with Patti, I haven’t seen him – I don’t know how bad the cancellation has hit him.’
‘He’s not cancelling.’
‘What?’
‘We were texting about it this afternoon. He’s going a hundred miles an hour to find a new location, and maybe even a pop-up shop space for the next fortnight, to keep the tills warm. He didn’t say?’
I rub at my forehead. ‘No. He didn’t say.’
Ben looks down at his shoes for a moment. ‘Maybe he just got carried away in all the momentum. It sounds like he and Patti have set up a sort of crisis HQ in her bedsit and they’re cracking on. I wouldn’t worry ,’ he leans forward and covers my restless hands on the countertop with one of his own. ‘It actually sounds like he’s thriving off it.’
His hand feels weird on mine. I mean, the hand itself isn’t weird – it’s not like it’s scaly or covered in slime. But this moment of physical connection, feeling the very real weight and warmth of his fingers over mine, completely throws me and I forget what we’re talking about. It’s not like I haven’t known Ben has hands and the ability to move them around of his own free will, but I suppose I haven’t ever really entertained the idea of them moving in my direction. But he is a guy. I’m a girl. I just don’t think I’ve ever thought of him as a ‘guy’ guy before now.
‘So what’s your move going to be?’ He studies my face closely.
‘Um, sorry?’ I have to shake my head a few times to dislodge the words Ben’s hands, Ben’s hands playing on a loop in my brain.
He pulls back and puts his hands – Ben’s hands, Ben’s hands – into his suit trouser pockets. ‘If the knitathon isn’t cancelled and if you could spin the situation with the shop premises, what’s to stop you pushing on with the investment? Funnily enough, it sounds like now more than ever the cash injection could really work wonders.’
‘Oh. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that angle.’ I take a big glug of wine. ‘I must be getting rusty.’
Ben smiles. ‘There’s no rust on you, Blackthorn. You’re the master of the boardroom, the Queen of the closers.’ He’s distracted by a buzz in his pocket. As he takes out his phone, his eyebrows shoot up. ‘There, see. JP says he’s found a new venue already! It’s all back on, no worries.’
I put my hand to my bag. No echoing buzz of a message for me, then. JP has just chosen to tell Ben, not me. I feel a little pinch behind my ribcage. Why is he keeping me out of this? Is this the first warning sign of an emotional shut-down? Should I call Mum?
‘I… I think I should go.’ I grab my jacket and slide off the stool with as much grace as my jangling nerves will allow. ‘You’re right, I should be pressing on. Get a new meeting booked, get my pitch totally polished.’
‘But, hey—’ Ben puts his hands – Ben’s hands, Ben’s hands – on my jacket sleeve this time, gently tugging me back down. ‘Two heads are better than one, right? I can play devil’s advocate, look for any chinks they might want to expose. Let’s throw things around. We can role-play!’
The waiter, putting our metal bucket of chips down in front of us, tries not to react as he hears this last part.
‘And besides, the chips have only just arrived. Sit down, Blackthorn. This isn’t a solo project, remember? This is for JP too.’
He points down and I sit, oddly obedient for perhaps the first time in my life. I have to admit, the fact that Ben likes my brother so much helps me completely bury the old image of him as a privileged, pompous douchebag. If you’ve got JP’s back, I’ve got yours – end of. And it would help to have a fresh pair of eyes on my pitch. Ben’s become a real core part of everything we’re doing with the campaign, someone I can really talk to. Is 31 too old to be making new friends? Whatever we are now to each other – friends, former enemies turned knitting allies – I’m really glad Ben is around.
He straightens up a little on his stool. ‘So I’m MCJ. You walk into the meeting room, sit down confidently at the table.’ He clears his throat, getting into character. ‘Good morning, Delilah. Thanks for coming in.’
* * *
‘Thanks for having me, Lorraine.’ There’s no wobble in my voice, no telltale shake to my hands. I am the epitome of a cucumber straight from the fridge. I’m owning this. I have to. ‘Shall we get straight to it?’
I open my A4 leather document wallet. My parents bought it for me right after university, to keep my CV looking pristine when I went on my first interviews. Back in my last job, I would have taken my devices to a meeting, with everything I needed on them, but my old iPad doesn’t look too flash so I’m hoping to pull off a classic, refined look with the wallet. It’s more ‘haberdashery’ than an iPad, anyhow.
Lorraine nods, her sharp bob of icy blonde hair swishing forward as she does. Her grin is Cheshire Cat-like in its width and glee. ‘This is what makes us so excited, Delilah, about working with you. With your background we know we can get down to brass tacks – you get it. You know where we’re coming from, after all.’ The two suited blokes flanking Lorraine at the shiny boardroom table nod along with her. They have the identikit haircut of a City guy: short at the sides, just a centimetre longer and tousled on top to give the appearance of personality. And their striped blue shirts and navy suits could have been bought off the same rail, except that they’re probably handmade. But I’m not here to let my inner reverse-snob run amok. I’m here to land this deal.
I feel a prickle of doubt when Lorraine mentions my background. What has she heard? Who has she spoken to? But she wouldn’t have called me in if she’d thought I was too dodgy to work with. Or a few months off motherhood and stinky nappies. She wouldn’t want to invest in someone she wasn’t 100 per cent sure of. You’re the master of the boardroom. Queen of the closers, remember?
‘Exactly.’ I nod just once, making eye contact with the three of them in turn. They might have the advantage over me with numbers but I’ve got the goods they want – a thriving business with a loyal customer base, combining an event space with an influential social media hub and a charity project garnering plenty of good PR. MCJ are known for their ethical investments – JP’s business is as tasty to them as a mountain of fat free Jaffa Cakes would be to me. Well, lick your lips, fellas, and open that cheque book.
I hand over three sheets of our most recent month’s turnover, the statistics that outline what a huge surge JP has seen in online followers and how that’s given us a 13 per cent bump in online sales too. Tasty.
‘As you can see here, Blackthorn Haberdashery has never been more in demand. My co-founder’s recent launch of a c
ommunity initiative to knit hats for premature babies has driven new visitors to the shop, both in bricks and mortar and in e-commerce. About a (Knitting) Boy is now one of the best-loved and most trusted knitting YouTube channels. And we all know that kind of authenticity can’t be bought or made. It’s grown slowly and with dedication. We feel that now is exactly the right moment to consider outside investment to really grow and show what this business is all about. That is genuine connection with the craft community and supplying them with the best materials.’ My eyes never leave Lorraine’s: I’ve been rehearsing this in my head, in the shower, while running, doing the washing-up; since the days Ben helped me whittle down the pitch to its core essence. He really knew how to challenge me on my approach, without making me doubt myself. All that ‘shadowing’ when we were rivals actually turned out to be a good thing – he knew just how I worked.
Lorraine smiles as I talk, and her two flunkies scribble notes furiously. A schoolboy trick of trying to look like you’re on top of things in a meeting. But I know who I’m really talking to here – the power in this room comes with an expensive bobbed hair-do and flawless manicure.
I pause to take a quick breath and then carry on, seamlessly. ‘In fact, we’re running a knitathon in two days, to benefit our charitable project. In just our local area it’s generated a huge response and I think it could easily go nationwide with the right capital behind us. We’d be delivering much-needed support to families with premature babies as well as strengthening our brand recognition. It’s a strategy that—’
Lorraine waves one finger in my direction, subtly cutting me off. The burgundy polish on her nails flashes with a high shine. ‘That’s all great, Delilah. In fact, we’re well aware of the charity project and how it’s been picking up momentum. It’s one of the reasons we want to move so quickly on this. It’s absolutely great. You know how charity work ticks the boxes for our own brand image – I wouldn’t expect anything less than for you to do your homework on us, after all. But I’m going to level with you here. One professional to another, yes?’ She lowers a blonde eyebrow in my direction. ‘In this case our goals are more profit-related. Directly. We’re looking to invest on behalf of Wow Wools, a very large American company who mass-produce a variety of yarns. They are well established in the US craft market but they’ve struggled to get a toehold in Blighty. What we’re looking to do is parcel together a number of small retail companies for Wow Wools to own a majority stake in, and those stores would then exclusively stock their yarns. What’s exciting about,’ her eyes flick down to the handout I passed her, ‘About a (Knitting) Boy is that Wow would also be getting an influencer in the community, to really push the brand to his audience. As you said yourself, that kind of genuine voice with a loyal following just can’t be bought. Well,’ she laughs a light, tinkling laugh and her cronies quickly join in, ‘in this case we would be buying it, but you know what I mean. All in all, you have just what we want to make up one of our parcel of seven stores so far. Wow Wools could become the exclusive supplier for your hat knitting project. Their branding would appear on all your materials and they’d push things through their own social media channels, of course. They’d supply the words for your brother to use in his blog, all that would be carefully managed. Here, we have a mock-up.’ She wets her lips with a sip of sparkling water and nods to one of her henchmen. He draws a sheet of paper out from his file and holds it up for me to see. It’s one of Becky’s pictures of Chester wearing one of the very first donated hats and they’ve splashed a huge neon-yellow Wow Wools logo along the bottom half of it. I feel a sick twist in my stomach. ‘And with the clout of a huge corporation behind you, supplying the product at a great price as well as all your business strategy and a content plan, you’d both be able to step back from the business and feel the benefits of a generous investment, yes?’