Summer Daydreams (20 page)
I’m in the shop now, despite the hour. I’ve switched on Petal’s old baby monitor, although I’m sure I could hear her, anyway, if there was a problem. I’m not that far away and my child isn’t generally known for the quietness of her voice.
We’re due to be up and running for business next week, but everything is still utter chaos at the moment. The front is to be open to the general public but, to be honest, this is just as important for me to have as a showroom that will enable me to display my handbags properly for any agents or journalists who want to come and see us. The room at the back will serve as an office and workroom. All in all, we’ll look more like a professional company than a seat-of-the-pants cottage industry. They can’t see how little is in my coffers. Right? What it does mean though is that I’ve given up the market stall on Saturdays and no longer have to subject my only child to hyperthermia every weekend. I suppose I could have paid someone else to stand there and freeze as it had turned into quite a lucrative pitch, but now that we’ve got a swanky shop, does having a market stall give out the right message for a woman who’s going places? I need to try to tidy everything up so that, hopefully, Olly will start to see why this is a good move, in spite of the expense, and stop being grumpy.
I’ve freshened the whole place up with a coat of brilliant white emulsion and I’ve cut out some inspiring pop art pictures from glossy magazines and have hung them in cheap frames. I think it’s starting to look more like it belongs to me. Earlier in the week, I revamped some shelves that I bought on eBay painting them in what’s rapidly becoming my trademark pink. Now that they’re dry, I can arrange a display of handbags on them and I’m taking the few hours I have on my own before I fall into bed to do that. I fiddle and fuss and then stand back, admiring my efforts. Deep in thought, I jump out of my skin when there’s a knock on the window. Turning, I expect to give the finger to some drunks looking for a bit of amusement as they’re wandering home. Instead, I’m surprised to see Tod’s face pressed up against the glass, grinning. Smiling back, I go to open the door.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I’ve just had dinner in town and I saw the light on.’
I don’t ask who he had dinner with.
‘You nearly gave me a heart attack,’ I chide.
‘Sorry.’ He doesn’t look chastised at all. ‘I thought it would be a good opportunity to see how it’s all going.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s OK.’
‘More than OK, Nell,’ he laughs. ‘It must be fabulous to have your name above your own shop door. Glad to see that you didn’t change it to Mrs Meyers when you got married.’
Actually, I did consider it. I know that Olly would like me to and so would Petal.
‘You’re a brand now,’ Tod says. ‘It would be the wrong thing to do. You are and always will be, Nell McNamara.’
A brand. Nell McNamara for ever. It’s a sobering thought. I’m thinking that I won’t even mention that to Olly.
I lead Tod deeper into the shop and show him my handiwork with a ‘Ta-da!’
He gazes around.
‘What do you think?’
‘Looking good,’ Tod says, voice full of admiration. ‘Looking very good.’
‘Through here will be the office and workroom.’ He follows in my footsteps. ‘I’ve got a couple of ladies coming in parttime to help me.’
‘Next year, world domination,’ he teases.
‘Maybe the year after,’ I counter.
He leans against the doorframe, looking way too cool for this small, untidy space filled with boxes that are still waiting to be unpacked. I can’t wait to get this bit of the premises up and running too.
‘I’m really pleased for you, Nell. I love a success story.’
‘I’m not there yet,’ I remind him. ‘There’s definitely a lot more cash going out than there is coming in.’ Never a good situation to be in as my husband regularly points out. Frankly, I’m too frightened to look closely at the bank account.
‘It won’t be for long, I’m sure.’
I wish I had Tod’s unwavering confidence.
‘I was about to stop for some tea. Can I offer you something?’ From behind his back, Tod produces a bottle of champagne.
‘You just happened to have that with you?’
‘On the off chance,’ he admits. ‘I thought we should celebrate.’
‘Shame Olly’s not here.’ Then I wonder if my mentor has deliberately waited until Olly was safely out at work. Why else would he be calling so late at night? Equally quickly, I dismiss the thought. I’m being silly. There’s been no more unexpected intimacy between us since that brief kiss after our evening at the Palace and I put that down to nothing more than the mood, the madness and the moonlight.
‘Come up to the flat,’ I say. ‘I must warn you though, that’s looking distinctly less salubrious.’
We go up the creaky, wonky staircase to the creaky, wonky flat. Dude, from his bed, wags his tail, but clearly is too exhausted to get out and greet us. The dog, at least, has settled well into his new home. I move some boxes out of the way so that we can beat a path to the kitchen. We’ve managed to find the stereo, so I click it on. Very occasionally Olly and I make a nod towards modern music and the dulcet tones of Coldplay and ‘Trouble’ fills the small space.
‘Champagne flutes may be beyond me,’ I say, ‘but I do have some pretty mugs in here somewhere.’
‘Mugs are fine,’ Tod assures me and, expertly, he pops the cork while I rummage in the cupboards to locate two of the best. He lets the bubbles foam into them and hands one to me.
‘Cheers,’ I say and go to knock my mug against his.
‘We should toast like this… ’ He moves in towards me and links his arm through mine, pulling me close. ‘That will enhance the experience.’
We drink and our faces are so close that they’re almost touching. I’m not sure that this is enhancing my experience at all, but it is making me very hot and bothered. My hair falls forward and, before I can pull away, Tod lifts the strand and tucks it behind my ear. It’s a movement so filled with tenderness that it takes my breath away.
‘Nell,’ he whispers.
The bedroom door crashes open.
‘Bang-Bang is being very naughty,’ Petal announces as if she’s addressing the back of the stalls. Her favourite doll, the one with very little spiky hair – as a result of my child’s lack of hairdressing skills – and no clothes, is thrust at me. ‘You’d better come and sort her out, Mummy.’
Bang-Bang is given over to my tender loving care. I have no idea why the doll is called Bang-Bang. Nor why Petal’s rather threadbare teddy is called Razzle Dazzle.
Tod, rather smoothly, steps away from me. ‘Well, hello, little lady.’
Petal looks slightly disgruntled at being addressed thus. Normally, I’d be equally disgruntled that she had interrupted a rare romantic moment. In this case, I’m very glad that she did.
As it turns out, the shop is a huge commitment. Bigger than anything that I’ve ever taken on before. Bigger than anything I could have ever envisaged for myself. Although it’s proved to be a good separation of home and work space, the fact that work is just below me when I’m at home, means that I never really stop thinking about it.
Today I’m working on new sketches. These are retro designs of pop art-inspired and psychedelic images and, even if I do say so myself, they’re coming along nicely. Ideally, I’d like to increase the range of products available to include coin purses, make-up bags and, perhaps, umbrellas – but that would involve a whole new world of expense in commissioning samples. Everything is made in China now, so I’d have to find a factory out there: a daunting prospect.
When the bag frames I bought on eBay ran out, we managed to find out who’d supplied them from a delivery note left inside one of them. We’ve been buying them direct from this warehouse ever since, but as my designs are getting more and more out there, I can’t just keep customising existing bag frames. Now the time has come to get them made to my own specification, which involves more money and I can’t even bring myself to raise that matter with Olly.
Petal is with me today playing, as usual, on the floor in the office. She probably spends way too much time in here when she should be playing out in the park or learning to swim or doing something entertaining or educational. But I keep telling myself that it is only a short time until she starts school and then my conscience will be in the clear. I try not to think of the precious quality time that I’m missing out on. It could be worse. How many mothers have to go out to work now and leave their children in the care of others simply to make ends meet? At least Petal is here with me, even though she’s grubbing around on the floor while I try to concentrate on my designs.
The phone rings and at the end of the line, there’s a very sexy male voice with a heavy, and inordinately attractive, French accent.
‘I am Yves Simoneaux,’ he explains. ‘I am an agent based in Paris and I have heard very much about you. I would be interested in representing your designs if you do not have already your interests in France covered.’
I hope that he can’t hear my heart thumping down the phone.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We haven’t got representation in France yet.’ It hadn’t even occurred to me. Despite joking with Tod about world domination, I’m paddling so fast to keep my head above water here, that I haven’t even considered anything else. But Europe is a massive market. Just think how we could grow there.
‘May I come to visit with you?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I look round at the showroom and am glad, at this moment, that we bit the bullet and moved here. How could I have had a sexy French agent come to my tatty old house?
‘This afternoon?’ he continues. ‘I can be with you by two of the clock.’
‘You know where we are?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Yves says. I can almost hear the shrug. ‘I am very well organised. I can get a train to you from Kings Cross station, yes?’
‘Yes. It takes just under an hour.’
‘That is excellent.’
‘I’ll see you at two, then.’
‘At two,’ he agrees. And he hangs up.
I reward myself for my good fortune by jumping up and down on the spot. Petal abandons her crayoning and we jump together for a bit.
‘Now,’ I say. ‘You must be a very good girl this afternoon as we have a very important visitor coming.’
‘Another one?’ She rolls her eyes.
‘Yes.’
My child looks unimpressed by this. But then, of course, she doesn’t realise that this could make the difference between her living in a flat above the shop for the rest of her formative years or moving into a four-bed detached place in one of the more posh areas of town, complete with her own swing and top-of-the-range trampoline.
I fly round and tidy up, rearranging the bags time and time again, somewhat needlessly. An hour later and this place looks like a slick, professional operation or as near as, damn it. Only the somewhat surplus child detracts from it slightly. I think about trying to farm Petal out for the afternoon and call Olly, Constance and Jen, but I’ve once again left it way too late. They are all busy, busy, busy. So Petal stays and Mr Yves Simoneaux will have to take us as we are.
At the appointed time – by two of the clock – the bell chimes and the most handsome man I’ve ever seen swings in, ducking through the low doorway as he does. If this is Yves Simoneaux, then I have lost my heart and, more than likely, my senses are about to follow too. He’s tall, slender, mid-thirties at a guess. His black suit hangs on his frame and he’s wearing a white shirt with a black tie. A black leather man-bag is slung across his body and rests on his hip.
‘
Bonjour
,’ he says and his heavy eyebrows lift and a slow smile spreads across his face. His dark hair has a curl to it, but is swept back from his face and gelled into place. There’s a fine line of designer stubble outlining his chin, a soul patch beneath his lip. He holds out his hand to me. ‘I am Yves.’
When I take it, I notice his fingers are long, slender. Despite his hand being cool to the touch, it gives me palpitations. ‘Nell.’
Petal clings to my leg and Yves kneels down in front of her. ‘Who is this lovely little
mademoiselle
?’