by Poppy Dolan
Lorraine leans back in her chair, catching the eye of the suit to her left and flicking him a brief smile.
‘Let me boil this down,’ I rub my hands against my charcoal-grey trousers to absorb some of the moisture I can feel gathering on my palms, ‘you’re looking to Trojan-horse these Wow Wool products into the UK? Through the charity work we’re doing?’
The suit on the right rubs his hand through his uniform hair. ‘Don’t quote us on that, but yes. This company is looking for the route to market, and as the market has resisted we’re looking to own those routes to market for them.’
My fingers curl into fists. ‘And has there been any analysis of just why the market resisted, organically?’
Lorraine blinks. Her smile drops. ‘We look forward here at MCJ. We solve problems. We don’t waste time on the past. We address what our client wants. And then we achieve.’ Her shiny nails tap out a rhythm on the table as she speaks. ‘It’s not something everyone can do.’ She looks me up and down and I completely understand her meaning.
I lean forward over the table. ‘What a client might want is not necessarily what they need. Or did they not cover that on your BTEC in Business Admin?’
The suits gasp as one.
‘I might want to marry Chris Hemsworth and live on a charming houseboat, but it’s not what I need. Your client might want to be a big player in the UK craft market but what they need is to understand why no one wants their inferior product. Because it’s poorly made without a passionate crafter in mind, and because we have the very best yarns produced right here on home soil. We even have alpaca, for Christ’s sake! And it’s warmer and far more breathable than any of your Wow Wools acrylic nonsense.’ I zip up my leather folder in one definitive swipe.
‘I came here to find a worthy investment for a credible business – credible in both its turnover and its ethical drive to help its community. Not to be a puppet for a… a… yarn that I wouldn’t even knit a dog bed with!’
I’m snatching up my jacket when Lorraine says, just loud enough to be heard, ‘Inappropriate. Unpredictable. A liability. Just what I heard. And such a shame too.’
I let the slam of the glass door answer for me.
* * *
My whole body is vibrating with rage. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this angry. Not even when Bella Turnbull in year five said Ant and Dec couldn’t really sing. Not even when my first-year uni boyfriend dumped me for a girl two doors down in my halls and I had to watch them smooch over the toasted sandwich maker for the next month. Not even when Devon fired me. Because none of those things felt this personal. None of those things were trying to push my little brother around, to cash in on his hard work and expertise with so little respect or thought. MCJ aren’t the investment do-gooders they’ve so cleverly painted themselves as – they’re just the same kind of bully-boy idiots so many other big firms are, and they chose to bully the wrong craft nerd. Because his big sister won’t take that shit.
My anger powers my journey back to Fenwild without me so much as noticing a platform number or the miles between London and home speeding by. I’m. Just. So. Mad.
I don’t even properly notice the blue gingham bunting Bob has carefully Sellotaped around the windows and ceiling of Cheeky’s Greasy Spoon. The foil of the It’s A Boy banner hanging in the middle briefly catches my eye as I storm in. With everything going on, Beck’s baby shower has been pushed to the back of my mind, though I made all the preparations and plans for it weeks ago. Becks extended the invite to the rest of the team behind the knitathon, seeing as we’re all a kind of bonkers craft family now, so JP and Patti are sitting at a table with Becks, a lacy tablecloth spread in front of them, a huge sachertorte on a cake stand like a chocolate beacon in the centre. I will switch back to the baby shower, and get a gobful of that cake, just as soon as I get this off my chest…
I stomp over to the counter. ‘Tea, three sugars, please,’ I bark and then stalk off to join the others. ‘God, have I got something to tell you.’
Becks gives a little wave with her one free hand, the other under a muslin draped over her shoulder as she feeds Chester beneath it. ‘Hey! Isn’t this lovely? Thanks for sorting it all. What’s going on? Are you OK?’
‘Nope!’ I flop down into a spare chair and dump my bag beside me.
Patti and JP exchange brief looks.
‘So, long story short – there was an investor interested in backing the business. You remember, JP? And you told me to handle it?’
He nods. ‘Um, yeah.’
‘So I worked on a pitch for them. I got the shop in good order, sorted out the website, made it all more slick and polished. They couldn’t fail but see it as a great prospect – all the hits you’ve been getting, how the revenues have been going bananas since the premmie hat knitting campaign started, really upping the profile and brand recognition. Making people care about our shop as a craft destination. Then the sodding wiring raised its little dodgy head and I couldn’t get them over to see the place itself.’
Bob brings my tea over and I take a scalding glug to ease the scratching in my throat. It doesn’t work. I spend two minutes spluttering.
‘So it’s gone away?’ JP is frowning at me.
‘No! Well, yes! So, Ben helps me refine the pitch – I’m the Queen of closers and all that. So I go in there and say, “This is a profitable business with a responsible ethos that will get it lots of great PR.” But then they say they only want to invest if you’ll exclusively promote Wow Wools through the campaign. They even put their logo on a picture of Chessie from the site! And you’d have to talk them up on your vlog.’
‘Which I won’t do!’ spits JP, making Patti flinch. She’s probably never seen him anything other than calm, the Zen master of knitting that he is.
‘I know! I know! I told them to shove it.’ I slump backwards into the chair, the last puff of anger escaping my ears and evaporating into thin air.
‘The hats campaign was part of your pitch?’ Becks asks in a small voice.
‘Yes. It’s been great for exposure.’
Her cheeks blanch. ‘What did you say?’
‘Well, just that—’
JP leans forward in his chair. ‘This campaign was never about exposure. Brand building. Any of that,’ I can tell he’s biting back a swear word, ‘stuff. Dee, it was about a real community, helping real people. Families, babies. Babies like Ches.’
‘My baby,’ Becks says in barely more than a whisper. ‘And he is not a marketing tool. I can’t believe… you take my blog post down, and all my photos, OK? Take it all down! And you can forget about your free poster boy from here on in.’ In one movement she whips Chester up from under his gauze curtain and lays him in the bright buggy. Torn abruptly from his tea, he lets out a monster shriek of contempt. Becks sorts out her feeding bra and top, then starts wheeling towards the door.
‘Becky, hey! No, you don’t understand… it wasn’t like that. Come back! We haven’t even cut the cake. The meeting, it… it just happened and I… made a good opportunity from it.’ Even as the words leave my lips I know they are awful and empty.
‘And there was me thinking you’d changed, Dee. You went off and got all serious, all fancy on us, forgot all your friends. I thought you being back meant you were different. And you certainly made a good show of it. Coming back here with your tail between your legs, saying that you want to spend time with people, not big piles of cash. Buying me a fancy cake for my “baby shower”. But you’re just the same, aren’t you? You’re just about the money. It’s all you’ve been able to talk about from the minute you stepped foot in here. Well, consider yourself one customer down now.’
She backs out of the door before Bob can get there and hold it open for her. I look to my brother. He’s holding Patti’s hand under the table; I can just about glimpse it.
‘Where did that come from?’ My voice may not have wobbled back in the MCJ boardroom but it’s on a rollercoaster ride now.
JP keeps his eyes o
n the Formica tabletop. ‘Take a moment, Dee. Think about it from Becks’s point of view. It sounds like you were cashing in on what she went through, like this whole campaign was about her story helping us – rather than us helping her.’ He rubs his hands down his face slowly. ‘I’ve got to say, I’m with her. It makes me feel pretty shitty. I thought getting some investment money would be about doing more of what we do, not… selling out.’
‘Yes, exactly – that’s why I told them to get lost!’
‘But you told them. Because you went alone. I said I was OK with you following up on the investment people, to check them out. I didn’t think you were going to swan into their office and offer them my entire life on a silver platter!’
‘That’s not what it was. I’m not a bad guy here, JP! I was trying to get you some security, for the future. I was trying to look out for you.’
His eyes finally find mine, but I can’t read them. ‘I’m not a kid anymore, Dee. And I’m not the guy you found on the sofa, unable to move or talk for the shit in his head. I don’t need you to worry about me like this. It’s not right.’ He turns away again, looking out of the cloudy cafe window. ‘I… I think I need a bit of time, sis. Bit of head space, yeah? Just to work out where we all stand.’
Patti bites her bottom lip, smudging the lilac lip tint that offsets the new orange streaks in her hair. How I wish this conversation wasn’t happening like this, in front of other people, in a public place. I want to spontaneously combust into nothing, just to get away from the cold, rolling feeling in my stomach. How I wish this conversation wasn’t happening, full stop.
Did I really get it so wrong? Why can’t they see I’ve been doing it all for the right reasons?
JP stands up slowly and Patti stands next to him.
‘So, everything for the knitathon is pretty much sorted. Supplies, social media, location. So we’re set, yeah? You can get back to your job search. Back to where you’re at home.’ His jaw is clenched and I can tell he’s fighting something very angry inside. ‘We don’t need you at the knitathon if you just want to change us, telling us what we’re doing wrong so… just keep away. I’ll be in touch, Dee.’ He shuffles out from behind the table awkwardly, and then they’re gone.
I’m sitting there with only four cold cups of tea for company. I want to go back to this morning – when I was full to the brim with energy and confidence, striding into that meeting and doing what I know best. I don’t want to be here: no investment, no job, friends who think I’m a heartless monster and a brother who’s basically told me to stay out of his life for now. He doesn’t want me at the knitathon.
I’ve failed.
My hands are jittery with shock and adrenalin, so I pull out my phone for something to do, something to look down at and hide my tear-filled eyes.
Ben:
HOW did it go? The suspense is KILLING me over here! I’m coming to the village for a drink with JP tonight. Will I see you at the pub? Maybe toast your successes?
I throw down a twenty on my saucer, grab my bags and bolt home.
Chapter 20
I’m in my ancient bottle-green joggers, a blanket slung over my shoulder and I’m hunched over Dad’s creaking PC in my parents’ office, with all the lights off.
JP said I should stay away from the knitathon. But he didn’t say I couldn’t cyber-stalk it. It’s one day until the big event and his words and Becky’s from yesterday are still ringing in my ears. They didn’t stop clanging away in my brain all night, in fact, like bellringers on too much Red Bull.
He is not a marketing tool.
You’re just the same.
Back to where you’re home.
Keep away.
I hardly slept, not helped by the fact that I’d raided Mum and Dad’s cupboards for some kind of instant snack and all I could find was some stale Rice Krispies and the coffee machine. Sugar, caffeine and misery have never been a winning combination for a restful night of shut-eye.
I went over and over everything: what I’ve done, what I’ve said, what could have been different. Eventually I locked my phone in the shed, because manically refreshing it every ten seconds was doing my head in. JP didn’t want to hear from me and I respect that. But the curious cat came back and I found myself logging on to the old computer and going straight to About a (Knitting) Boy’s Facebook page.
A new vlog. My clammy hand slid the mouse across the screen and clicked. In it, JP wasn’t quite at his usual level of energy or bounce, and it strung at my heart to know I’d been the cause. He told his band of crafty followers that they’d soon be switching on to a live-stream feed, so everyone could keep their eye on how the knitathon preparations were going, ahead of the big day.
‘You’ll be there, right?’ JP pointed down the camera, giving a cheeky wink right at the end.
Yes, little brother, I’ll be there. Even if you don’t realize it.
* * *
So since first thing this morning, I’ve been glued to the live stream of JP, Patti, Ben and Becks setting up the school hall: sweeping it, arranging tables and chairs, drawing up big motivational signs and little snack stations with crisps and nuts ready to be opened tomorrow. Becks has taken breaks to change Chester and give him a push in the pram to get him off to sleep. I’ve seen Ben and JP huddled in the corner a few times, Ben putting his arm on JP’s shoulder and talking with his eyebrows lowered, creasing his forehead. At least if I can’t be there to help out, I know Ben is. And he’s kind of like the male me, I suppose. Which is a weird thought. When my eyes take in Ben, I have to admit there are a lot of feelings fighting out behind my ribcage: I’m worried he’ll think less of me too now; I’m so lucky he’s been part of this whole escapade; and I desperately don’t want him to disappear from my life. I think he’s… important to me now.
My stomach rumbles. It’s 11.32 a.m. How did that happen? Last night’s chewy cereals are a distant memory but I certainly couldn’t face them again for lunch. I would call for a pizza but my phone barely gets reception at Mum and Dad’s. And what I really need now, if I’m honest, is something wholesome and homely, something comforting. Something that Mum would make. Or…
‘Cooee! Dee, love, are you here? Ooof, why are all the curtains still closed?’
Mags’s head pops round the study door. She takes in my joggers, my lank, unwashed hair and probably gets a whiff of stale air seeing as I haven’t left the house in nearly 24 hours. ‘My word. What’s been going on here, then?’
* * *
‘I have to teach you to cook.’ Mags is wagging her finger in my direction, but her smile says otherwise – I think a part of her loves having an excuse to cook one of my childhood faves and ‘fix’ me a little.
She slides the macaroni and cheese into the oven to allow the breadcrumbs on top to go all deliciously crispy. My heart is lifting and my mouth is watering, all at the same time. And while Mags has been busy grating, chopping and cooking, I’ve been able to offload the whole sorry tale of the MCJ thing without having to look her directly in the eye. I think I know which way she’s going to sit on this.
‘Hmm.’ She wipes her hands on the back of her flares. ‘A right old pickle, my pickle.’ She fiddles with the tea towels, hanging them just so on the oven door handle. She comes around the kitchen island and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘I know you meant well. You have such a good heart, Delilah. And such a strong brain. Sometimes, it’s hard to juggle the two, I imagine. I wouldn’t know! Cotton wool for brains, here.’ She laughs her twinkly laugh.
‘Rubbish, you’re really smart, Mags. And kind. You’re the most giving woman I know. I was trying to do good things but, but maybe I was… going a bit overboard, doing a bit too much?’
The delicate raise of her eyebrows tells me I’m on to something. ‘Maybe. I think JP wanted to prove something with organizing his knitathon, you know. That he could do it alone. I think that’s why he’s been keeping his cards close to his chest, away from you. He has a different way of doing things and ju
st thinks you’re…’