Summer Daydreams (15 page)
‘Want some Chinese food, Petal?’
My daughter nods her acquiescence. She’s getting restless and cranky. My heart goes out to her. Normal mothers would be taking their daughters swimming or street dancing or putting them through stage school so that they can become the next
X Factor
fodder. My child has to hang round a market stall in the freezing cold getting told off.
‘When can we go home?’ she wants to know.
Now, I think to myself, but in all honesty, I know that I mustn’t give up so easily.
‘Later,’ I say. ‘First we’ll have something to eat. That’ll make us feel better. Mind the stall while I go and queue up.’ I point at the takeaway food stall. ‘I’ll be right next door. Don’t move. I can see you from where I’ll be.’
I leave Petal behind our stall and go and get us two cartons of sweet and sour chicken and rice. When I return, Petal sits on the one stool we have and spoons the food gratefully into her mouth with a plastic fork. It’s delicious and warms me up at least down to my knees. Beyond that, I have lost all feeling and may never get it back.
‘Better?’ I ask Petal.
She nods, smiling again.
Then a miraculous thing happens. A young, trendy woman moves down from the vintage clothes stall that I so often frequent and works her way towards me and, more importantly, my handbags.
‘Wow,’ she says as she sees them. ‘They’re totally gorgeous.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Would you like a sweetie?’ Petal says. ‘I’m not allowed one.’
‘You can have one more,’ I say to my child, who instantly helps herself and then offers the jar to the woman.
‘I’d love a sweet,’ she says, and takes one from Petal, ‘and I’d love a bag too.’
I nearly fall over in a dead faint. ‘Really?’
She laughs. ‘Really.’ She pulls her purse out of her handbag. Old, tatty. Not a patch on mine. I should ask her if she’d like to wear it now and I can bin that one for her, but I’m not bold enough to do so.
The woman counts out the cash for me.
I allow Petal to help me slide the bag into its protective cover and I hand it over. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ and she swings away, oblivious to the admiring stare from the fruit and veg man.
I feel like crying with joy. My daughter offers up her hand and I high-five her. ‘Daddy will be so proud of us. We made our first sale, Petal!’
It is, of course, our one and only sale of the day. All that cold, that standing around for a few pounds’ profit. Can I put my daughter through that every weekend? Can I put myself through it?
Maybe I’m not cut out for business. I just thought I could set up in business easily, making great handbags and although I didn’t expect the world to fall at my feet, I thought it would all go reasonably smoothly. I hadn’t quite bargained on the relentless slog for precious little reward.
I’m in two minds whether to cancel my stall for next week and just stay at home licking my wounds. But when I have my now weekly coffee session with Tod, he urges me on. Later, I find myself sketching out new designs, in response to my realisation that I need a larger range to offer.
Then, a week after my fabulous trip to Buckingham Palace, the local papers hit the mat. I’m all over them. To my delight and surprise, I even make the front page on one of them. LOCAL GIRL MEETS PRINCE is one headline. FROM FISH AND CHIPS TO THE PALACE is the other and there’s a picture of me shaking hands with Prince Charles that I had no idea was taken. Tod is smiling serenely in the background.
‘Look at Mummy!’ Petal cries with delight. ‘She’s a famous lady like Cheryl Cole.’
Praise indeed.
Olly comes and peers over my shoulder. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘So you should be,’ I tease. ‘Not everyone’s girlfriend rubs shoulders with royalty.’
‘Great photo,’ he says, taking the paper to read the write-up. ‘Wish I could have been there.’ There’s something in his voice that I can’t put my finger on – a touch of jealousy, sadness or even some resentment.
‘This won’t change me,’ I assure him teasingly. ‘I’ll still be the same down-to-earth girl you met and fell in love with.’
‘I know,’ he says. But he doesn’t sound like he means it.
‘Sometimes I’ll have to do things without you.’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’ll be the stay-at-home husband while you get all the glamour.’
One event, I think. That’s all it’s been, one event.
Olly stares up at me and frowns. ‘I’m worried that you’ll be up, up and away and you’ll forget about us.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I do that?’
The phone starts to ring as other friends start to get their papers delivered and it’s red hot for the rest of the day. I get dozens of emails from well-wishers and my spirits lift once more. The text messages never stop. Olly brings me tea, on the hour, every hour, and something to eat for dinner. I can’t even remember what. I can’t even remember eating it. And I don’t get time to address the strained atmosphere with him and what it’s really all about.
I rush out of my house with a brief kiss for Olly and a bear hug for Petal, and run down the road to the town centre so that I’m not late for my shift. When I reach Live and Let Fry, I see a familiar figure waiting outside.
Slowing down, I try to compose myself and fail. My mentor is waiting for me and as I approach, he drops his usual cool demeanour and, instead, he picks me up and twirls me round.
‘Woo hoo! Well done, Nell,’ he says breathlessly as he spins me back down to the ground. Somewhat reluctantly, it seems, he releases his tight hold on me.
This is the reaction that I’d hoped for from Olly.
‘I’ve been out all day,’ Tod explains. ‘I didn’t have a minute to call you. Fabulous coverage. You can’t buy that sort of publicity.’
‘Thanks to you,’ I acknowledge. ‘I’m so grateful that you asked me to go to the reception with you.’
‘It turned out well,’ he admits. ‘I hoped that you might get some column inches, but front page? Wow.’
‘So what now?’
‘We try to capitalise on it. I’ll put some ideas together this week.’ He slips a bag from over his shoulder. ‘In the meantime, you can borrow this.’
‘A laptop?’ At least that’s what I think it is. I’m sure he just doesn’t mean the bag, which I have to say is a somewhat utilitarian plastic one. Perhaps I could do a range of fab laptop bags.
‘You can put some of your products on eBay while you’re waiting to start up your website. At least then you’ll have an internet presence.’
‘Absolutely.’ I don’t like to tell him that I’m clueless when it comes to computers. ‘That’s great. Thanks.’
‘How did the market stall go?’
‘Er… slow,’ I tell him, thinking that’s probably all he needs to know, otherwise it will sound like I’m whining. ‘I guess it will take time.’
‘Let’s hope that business picks up for you this week.’
‘I have to go,’ I tell him with a nod towards the shop door. ‘Or I’ll be late for my shift.’
‘I wanted to see where you worked.’
‘Come in,’ I offer. I’d love him to see how great the shop looks and show off my work. ‘You can have some chips on the house.’
He laughs. ‘I’m going out to dinner with friends.’
‘Of course.’ That makes me feel gauche. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘It was a nice offer, Nell,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay.’
A shrug. ‘Another time.’ All the while I’m thinking how stupid it was to offer someone like Tod free chips. I could cut out my own tongue.
I have no idea what Tod’s personal life is like. Maybe there’s a pretty little blonde waiting at home. I don’t know. Maybe there are several of them. He’s never mentioned anyone and, besides, it’s none of my business. He’s just a mentor, nothing more. We’re not even friends. This is his job. He’s looked after dozens of people like me. I wonder how many other people he asked to go to the Palace with him before he got to me?
I watch him walk away and when he gets to the end of the alley, he turns and waves. I puff out a sigh and head for my night’s work.
Swinging inside Live and Let Fry, I’m greeted by a loud cheer. Jenny, Constance and Phil are all holding balloons that say ‘Congratulations!’
‘Aw, guys!’
They come and hug me.
‘Clever girl,’ Phil says proudly. ‘Clever girl.’
‘I just had my photo taken with Prince Charles.’ I think I’m blushing.
‘Oh my word,’ Constance says. ‘Was it all lovely?’
‘It was pretty impressive,’ I admit.
‘We always knew you were going to be brilliant,’ Constance gushes.
‘Yeah, remember us when you’re rich and famous,’ Jenny adds. I think she’s teasing, but it worries me that she’s not the first person to voice that sentiment.
‘They gave a lovely mention of Live and Let Fry,’ Phil says. There are carefully cut out copies of the article stuck on the newly painted wall above each table. ‘There’ll be no holding you back now. You won’t be doing shifts here for much longer.’
I don’t like to tell him that I lost money on the market stall and that Olly was kicked out of a nice little job due to my lastminute jaunt to the Palace. They all have such faith in my abilities that I want them to believe that everything is wonderful. And, as everything is resting on this, I want to believe it myself.
The next morning, Petal and I are curled up in bed together. My daughter has been wriggling since the break of dawn and I’m hugging her close to me, which I hope she interprets as a sign of maternal love, when all I’m really trying to do is keep her still.
I hear the front door close quietly and the sound of Olly tiptoeing into the kitchen as he comes back from his night shift. Reaching for my phone, I text him: We R awake!
He texts back, T? xx
To which he receives a row of kisses in return. As we live in a terraced house and we’re trying to encourage Petal not to shout, Olly and I spend a lot of time texting each other even though we’re often in the next room.
Moments later he comes up the stairs and I rouse myself enough to take the mug of tea from him.
‘Hi,’ he says as he sits down next to me and kisses me.
‘Good night?’
‘Not that you’d notice,’ Olly says. ‘Sitting at a conveyor belt for eight hours putting mushrooms and peppers on pizza isn’t the most exciting way to spend a night.’ He raises his eye-brows at me. ‘I can think of better ways.’
‘I would like to spend a night eating candyfloss,’ Petal pipes up.
‘I’d like you to spend a night in your own bed,’ I add.
‘You, young lady, can go and get your breakfast,’ Olly says. She pulls a face. ‘You make it for me, Daddy.’
‘I have. It’s all set out on the table. I’ve poured your juice, and your cereal is already waiting in the bowl. All you have to do is put milk on it.’
‘OK.’
She bounces out of the bed and I spread out into my rightful space. ‘Ah, bliss.’
‘I heard that, Mummy,’ my child says.
‘Pour the milk carefully,’ Olly advises. ‘Make sure it doesn’t go via the floor.’
‘What does “via” mean?’
‘It means that the milk goes into the bowl, not on the floor or the table.’
‘I’m not a
baby
,’ she tuts before disappearing out of the door.
‘Remind me,’ I say, ‘why are we thinking of having another one?’
‘We are?’ Olly queries as he lies down beside me. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘If you’re very quick and very quiet, we could make a start now.’ I try to look seductive even though I probably have a severe case of bed-head.
He shakes his head. ‘Too tired,’ he says, which is unusual as Olly tries never to miss an opportunity because we’re never quite sure when our next one might be. ‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘I’ve got something I’d like to ask you.’
‘Oh.’ I hope he’s not going to grill me about my relationship with Tod. I don’t want to start this fine and unsullied morning with an argument.
Olly rolls onto his tum and stares up at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. He takes my hands in his. ‘Nell McNamara,’ he says, ‘would you do me the very great honour of marrying me?’