I Owe You One (Page 28)

There’s silence, broken by Jake giving a sudden snort of laughter.

“Sorry, Nicole,” he says. “But that is gibberish.”

“It’s not gibberish!” says Nicole hotly. “It’s inspirational! What do you think, Fixie?”

“I think it’s got a really good message,” I say carefully. “Only, is it a mission statement? It sounds more like, you know, the brochure to a spa.”

“You’re so narrow,” says Nicole, eyeing me with disapproval. “Both of you. That’s your trouble. You have such tricky personality types. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re an Adder,” she says to Jake. “And that’s not good, by the way.”

“Bring it on,” says Jake unrepentantly. He hisses at her across the table, and I can’t help smiling.

“That’s one of my other ideas,” adds Nicole, looking offended. “I want to profile everyone in the company. Then we can use people’s skills better. It’ll add real value. And I want to major on Instagram,” she adds. “We don’t do enough.”

“OK, that makes sense,” says Jake with grudging approval.

“Yes!” I say, relieved to find a point of agreement at last. “We could do far more with baking tips, we could share photos of customers’ cakes.…”

“Always with the bloody homespun, aren’t you, Fixie?” says Jake impatiently. “Instagram isn’t about a few old ladies’ Swiss rolls.”

“It is!” I say. “It’s about community and connection! What do you think, Nicole?” I lean toward Nicole, trying to engage her, but her eyes are absent.

“I think we need a face of Farrs,” she says. “It was you mentioning Burberry made me think of it, Jake. Remember when Emma Watson was the face of Burberry? She was everywhere.”

“Burberry,” echoes Jake with a loving sigh. “Awesome brand.”

“And the face of Farrs should definitely be me,” Nicole adds. “Because I have been a model.” She looks around as though daring any of us to point out that she only ever did one shoot, for the local paper. “We could take photos of me in store. In fact, I’m happy to take over social media. That can be my area.”

“I’ll focus on partnerships,” Jake chimes in at once. “Build up connections with some aspirational names.” He drains his glass and looks around. “Shall we get some more wine?”

“And you, Fixie?” says Uncle Ned. “What will you focus on?”

I stare at him, thoughts swirling furiously round my head. I want to say, “None of you get it! You don’t understand what Farrs is!”

But who will listen to me? No one except Mum. And I’m not bothering her with this; I’m not.

“Fixie, you’re so good in store,” says Nicole kindly. “You’re great with customers. You should focus on, like, sales and stock and running the staff and all that.”

“OK,” I say. “OK. But, listen, why don’t you two come into the shop? Actually come in and see the customers and, you know, remind yourselves of what it’s like?”

“Yeah,” says Jake thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea. What about tomorrow morning first thing?”

“I could do that.” Nicole nods.

“The only thing is, Bob’s coming in for a meeting,” I say, consulting my phone.

Bob is a rock. He runs all the payroll, collates sales figures, discusses big financial decisions with Mum, deals with the accountant, and basically helps with everything to do with money. Their partnership works well for Mum, because when she’s being asked to spend money she doesn’t want to, she says, “That’s a good idea, but I’ll have to ask Bob.” And everyone knows that Bob is as adventurous as a pair of elasticated beige trousers. (Which also happens to be what he wears.)

“All the better,” says Jake. “I haven’t talked to old Bob for ages. It’ll be useful to touch base with him.”

“Great!” I say eagerly. “I’ll text the staff to come in early.”

“I’ll pop along too,” says Uncle Ned. “Don’t want to neglect my duties!”

“Perfect,” I say. “Can’t wait.”

I pick up my spoon and start on my soup, trying to feel optimistic. Once Jake and Nicole really look at the shop, really remember it, really think about it … surely they’ll understand. After all, we’re siblings. We’re Farrs. We’re family.

—

The next morning I get to the shop extra early. I hurry around, wiping surfaces, adjusting displays, and smoothing tea towels. I feel like a nervous parent—proud and protective all at once. I want Jake and Nicole to feel the way I do about Farrs. I want them to get it.

I pause by the wipe-clean oilcloths and stroke them fondly. They’ve been such a winner—we’ve already reordered three times. They’re all in cool Scandi prints which our customers love. As I’m standing there, admiring the designs, I remember the night Mum and I sat with the catalog, choosing them. We both knew they’d sell, we knew.

“Morning, Fixie.” Stacey’s nasal voice greets me and I swing round. I need to talk to Stacey quickly before anyone arrives. “What’s the big deal?” she adds sulkily, sweeping her bleached-blond hair back with silver-painted nails. “Why did we have to come in early?”

“My brother and sister are coming in,” I say. “We wanted to have a quick meeting before we open. But there’s another thing I need to talk to you about first. A sensitive matter.”

“What?” says Stacey discouragingly. “Can I get a coffee?”

“No. This won’t take long.” I beckon her aside, even though there’s no one else in the shop, and lower my voice. “Stacey, you mustn’t give sex tips to customers.”

“I don’t,” says Stacey seamlessly.

I breathe out and remind myself that Stacey’s basic default position is denial. I once said, “Stacey, you can’t leave now,” and she said, “I wasn’t,” even though she was halfway through the door with her coat on.

“You do,” I say patiently. “I heard you with that girl yesterday afternoon. Talking about …” I lower my voice still further. “Clips? Clamps?”

“Oh, that.” Stacey rolls her eyes dismissively. “That just came up in conversation.”

“In conversation?” I stare at her. “What kind of conversation?”

“I was explaining the product,” she says, unperturbed. “Like we’re supposed to.”

“Those clips are for sealing plastic bags!” I hiss. “They’re for kitchen use! Not for …”

There’s silence. I’m not finishing that sentence. Not out loud.

“Nipples,” says Stacey.

“Shhh!” I bat my hands at her.

“You think everyone who buys those clips is using them on plastic bags?” she says dispassionately, chewing her gum, and my mind ranges swiftly over our customers.

“Ninety-nine percent, yes,” I say firmly.

“Fifty percent, if that,” she counters. “What about the spatulas?” She eyes me meaningfully. “You think every spatula purchase is an innocent spatula purchase?”

I gaze at her, my mind boggling. What on earth is going through Stacey’s head every time she rings up a sale?

“Look, Stacey,” I say at last, “you can imagine what you like. But you can’t discuss any of this with customers. It’s totally inappropriate.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes again, as though making a huge concession. “I sold two Dysons yesterday,” she adds. “One for a mum, one for her daughter. Talked them into it. The mum’s recently moved house. Divorce. She’s coming back to kit out her whole kitchen.”

This is the thing with Stacey. The minute you’re thinking she’s gone too far, she pulls a rabbit out of the hat.

“Well, that’s great,” I say. “Brilliant work.” I can hear a commotion behind me and turn to see Uncle Ned, Greg, Jake, and Nicole, all arriving together. Nicole is talking to Greg intently about something as he gazes at her, lovestruck. (Greg’s always had a bit of a thing for Nicole.) Meanwhile, Uncle Ned is peering around as though he’s never been here before. To be fair, it’s been a while.

“Welcome to Farrs, Uncle Ned!” I say. “Do you know Stacey? And Greg?”

“Ah yes,” says Uncle Ned as he looks around. “Very good, very good.”

“I was wondering if we could turn the temperature up,” Nicole is saying earnestly to Greg. “Then we could do hot yoga.”

“Hot. Yeah.” Greg gulps, his gaze fixed adoringly on Nicole. “Hot sounds good.”

“What’s that?” I say, suddenly noticing the wheelie case that Nicole is dragging.

“Makeup for the Instagram shoot,” she says. “Next time I’ll hire a makeup artist.”

A makeup artist? I’m about to reply when Uncle Ned taps me on the arm.

“Now, Fixie,” he says, gesturing at the leisure section. “This is where you could introduce a fishing department. Rods, nets, waders …”