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 …”
“Er … maybe,” I say diplomatically.
“Jesus, this place,” says Jake, coming toward us, a scowl on his face. “It gets more low-rent every time I see it. What’s that?” He lifts a packet and peers at it disparagingly.
“Muslins for making jams and jellies,” I tell him.
“Jams and jellies?” he echoes in tones of utmost scorn. “Who the hell makes jams and jellies?”
“Our customers do! It’s a really popular hobby—”
“So, is everyone here?” Jake cuts me off without even listening. “All the staff? Because I think we should have a word.”
“Hi, Morag!” I wave as Morag comes in through the door. “OK, we’re all here,” I say to Jake. “At least, everyone who works today. Christine’s on the other shift, and—”
“Whatever,” says Jake impatiently. “Let’s begin. Right.” He raises his voice. “Gather round, people. As you know, my siblings and I are running the show while my mother’s away, and we want change. Wholesale change.” He thumps a fist into his palm and I see Stacey’s eyes widen. “This place needs a boot up the backside. We want upselling. We want cross-selling. We want profiteering.”
I open my mouth to protest—does he actually know what profiteering means?—but Jake’s on a roll.
“This is a game changer, guys,” he’s saying. “This is where the rubber hits the road. We want to turn this place into a must-have, high-end, desirable store. Where tastemakers come. Where the beautiful people hang out. The Abercrombie and Fitch of lifestyle stores. And that’s the image I want you all to project. Stylish. Hip. Sexy.”
“Sexy?” says Morag, looking alarmed.
“Yes, sexy,” snaps Jake. “On-trend. Modern. With it.”
I can see his eyes ranging over the assembled staff with increasing dissatisfaction. Greg is gazing gormlessly at Nicole with his bulgy gray eyes. Stacey is leaning against a display, chewing gum. Morag is still bundled up in her sensible padded coat, her gray hair rumpled from the breeze. To be fair, you wouldn’t walk into the store and think, Wow, what a hip and sexy staff.
“My turn! Let me say something now.” Nicole gives Jake a little shove, and he scowls but lets her take the floor.
“I’m excited,” Nicole begins. “Who’s excited?”
There’s a baffled silence, then Greg says, “Me!” in a throaty voice, and Nicole beams at him.
“There are so many possibilities here. The sky’s the limit. But are you all maximizing your potential?” She eyes Morag, who shuffles backward nervously. “I want to help with that, with the use of specialized psychological profiling and teamwork. Let’s use your personal qualities. Let’s achieve more, letting our imaginations lead us.” She makes a broad, sweeping gesture, nearly knocking a jug off the shelf behind her. “Let’s use Instagram. Let’s use mindfulness. Let’s make change. Let’s climb that mountain. Because we can do it. Together.”
She breaks off into an even more baffled silence. I can see Stacey mouthing What the fuck? to Greg, and I should reprimand her, I suppose, but the truth is I feel exactly the same. What is my sister on about?
“Right!” I say, as it becomes clear Nicole has finished. “Well, thanks, Nicole, for that … er … inspiration. I think that’s it for speeches,” I add, “but basically we’re looking at how to improve the store, so any ideas you have, please share them. Thank you!”
“Wait!” comes Uncle Ned’s voice, as the staff begin to disperse. “I may be an old buffer …” He laughs self-consciously. “But I have been asked to keep an eye on this outfit, and I have learned a few tricks along the way.…” H
e gives another stagy chuckle.
“Absolutely, Uncle Ned,” I say politely. “Please go ahead. For those of you who don’t know Uncle Ned,” I add, “he was Dad’s brother and has a lot of experience in business. Uncle Ned, what are your ideas?”
“Well, I must echo Jake. It’s all about appearance. Appearance, d’you see?” He wags a roguish finger. “My first impression is this: You girls should be wearing more-attractive costumes. A pretty blouse and heels—that’s what customers want. Let’s see more lipstick, perfume … let’s see some flirting with the customers.…”
My face feels paralyzed. He’s saying this? To the staff? Aloud?
“Sorry!” I gasp, finally finding my voice. “Let me clarify what my uncle is saying, to avoid any … uh … misinterpretation. “By ‘heels’ he meant ‘any heel appropriate for your general foot health.’ And by ‘lipstick’ he meant ‘lipstick is optional for employees. Male or female,’ ” I add hurriedly. “And by ‘flirting with the customers,’ he meant … ‘cordial relations with customers are advised.’ ”
Uncle Ned looks outraged by my interruption, but too bad. Family first is trumped by Don’t get sued.
“So, that’s it!” I conclude breathlessly. “Again, thank you, everyone! That’s all. Let’s open up.”
“You should wear lipstick,” I hear Stacey saying to Morag as they head to the main entrance to open up. “Or, like, lip gloss. Or, like, lip pencil. Or, like …”
“Uncle Ned, I’m sorry I interrupted you,” I say. “But you can’t tell the staff they have to flirt with the customers. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Oh, all this ‘health and safety’ nonsense,” says Uncle Ned impatiently. “I haven’t the time for it!”
“It isn’t health and safety,” I say, trying even harder to remain polite. “Telling a staff member they have to flirt with the customers is basically, you know, sexual harassment.”
Uncle Ned peers at me for an uncomprehending moment, then makes a harrumphing noise, turns away, and picks up a basket.
“Might as well pick up a few things while I’m here,” he says. “Now, where can I find an iron?”
Uncle Ned heads off in the direction of the laundry section, and Nicole produces a sheaf of papers from her bag.
“Here’s your psychological-profile questionnaire,” she says, handing one to Greg. “It’s scientifically based on, like, research, so …” She trails off.
“You are invited to a party,” Greg reads aloud. “Do you attend? Depends on the party,” he says after a moment’s thought. “If it’s a Dungeons and Dragons party, I’m there. If it’s a stag do, I’m there. If it’s a garden party with old ladies in fancy dresses, I’m not there. If it’s a—”
“It’s just a party,” Nicole cuts him off. “A great, fun party. The issue is, do you want to go? It’s a simple question. Party or no party?”
Morag and Stacey have returned to the group by now, and we all wait for Greg to answer. He thinks for a while longer, his brow deeply furrowed, then looks up. “Is there booze?”
“Yes!” says Nicole, clearly losing her patience. “There is. Look, don’t overthink it. Just write. I’m pretty sure you’re an Owl,” she says as she hands Morag a questionnaire. “And you’re probably a Lynx,” she adds to Greg. “Which means you need to work with a Fox.”
“D’you think I’m a Fox?” queries Stacey, taking her questionnaire.
“No,” says Nicole. “Definitely not. You’re more of an Albatross.”
“Then who’s Greg supposed to work with?” Stacey opens her eyes wide, with that faux-innocent look she has. “I’m only wondering, because it’s all so scientific and we haven’t got any Foxes,” she adds blithely. “Should we hire one?”
For a moment Nicole looks caught out, then she makes a sound of annoyance.
“Just do the questionnaires,” she says. “I’m going to do some Instagramming. Greg, you can help.”
As Nicole leads Greg down one of the aisles, Jake looks around the shop critically.
“We need to redo this place,” he says. “It needs a total refit. We should have better flooring, spotlights, some awesome artwork—” He breaks off, staring at the shop door in horror. “Give me strength,” he breathes. “Who is that repulsive wreck?”
“That’s not a repulsive wreck!” I say indignantly as I follow his gaze. “That’s Sheila!”
OK, so maybe Sheila isn’t one of the “beautiful people.” She’s overweight and shabby, with her woolen hat and ancient carrier bags. But she’s a regular. She’s one of us. She waves at me cheerfully and heads to the back, where I know she’ll spend hours examining cake liners and piping bags.
“She has to go,” says Jake firmly. “She’s not a good look.”
“She’s a customer, not a look!” I retort, but Jake’s not listening.
“We need to redo the whole place,” he says again, prodding at one of our functional shelves. “We should hire an interior designer.”
I feel a familiar tweak of anxiety. Why does Jake always have to be so grand?
“I don’t think we’ve got the funds for that,” I say.
“How do you know?” he shoots back.
“Well, I don’t know, but—”
“You know how ridiculously cautious Mum is. I’m sure we’ve got a big cash reserve.” Jake eyes Sheila again with distaste. “She looks like a bloody tramp.”
“Well, let’s introduce a dress code, shall we?” I say with a flash of sarcasm I don’t usually dare use with Jake.
“Yes,” says Jake with emphasis. “That is actually not a bad idea. Ah, Bob!” he adds, looking over my shoulder. “Just the man.”
I turn to see Bob entering the store, in his sensible slacks and jacket, looking slightly disconcerted at Jake greeting him.
“Hi, Bob,” I say. “My brother and sister are in store today.”
“I want to talk to you about money,” says Jake without any preamble. “Can we go somewhere? The back room?”
He sweeps Bob off, and I look around the store to check that all is as it should be. Uncle Ned is still roaming the aisles, filling a basket with items. He’s got an iron, a teapot, and one of our wipe-clean tablecloths, and I feel a sudden warmth that he’s supporting us so generously.
Then, as my gaze sweeps round, I blink, disconcerted. Nicole has taken off her coat and is in tight jeans with a very revealing crop top. She’s draping herself over a rack of saucepans and instructing Greg to take photos of her with her phone, while her opened-up wheelie case blocks the entire aisle.
“I need to look sexy,” she says, playing with her hair. “Do I look sexy?”
“Yeah,” says Greg in a strangled tone. “Yeah, you do.”
“Can you see the saucepans?” I say, hurrying over. “Can you see any products in the shot?”
“It’s not about saucepans,” says Nicole, rolling her eyes. “It’s about who’s the face of Farrs?”
I’m about to reply when I see two women in jeans and cardigans coming in. I wait for Morag to greet them, but she’s sitting on a stool, frowning bewilderedly over her questionnaire. She hasn’t even noticed the customers. I’m about to go and greet them myself, when Stacey comes sidling up.
“I just asked your uncle if he wanted me to start ringing up his purchases,” she begins. “But he said he doesn’t have to pay anything because he’s a temporary director?”
“He what?” I say, before I can stop myself.
“That’s what he said.” Stacey shrugs. “Reckons it’s all a freebie. He’s having me on, right?”
I stare at her dumbly. We’ve always done a friends-and-family discount of 20 percent. We haven’t said, “Help yourself to anything in the shop.”
Family first, I’m reminding myself frantically. I can’t criticize Uncle Ned to Stacey, even though I’m secretly thinking, How dare he?
/> “Um … well …” I say, playing for time. “We haven’t worked out all the details.…” As I’m speaking, I watch the two women in cardigans approach the display of pans where Nicole is posing. They peer round Nicole at the pans for a few moments, then one of them says, “Excuse me? Can I have a look?”
“Sorry, I’m in the middle of a photo shoot,” replies Nicole impatiently.
“Oh,” says one of the women, looking discomfited. “Well, could we just—”
“It is quite important,” Nicole cuts her off. “Could you go and look at something else first?”
My jaw sags in horror. That’s a customer! I’m about to hurry over and say to Nicole, “What do you think you’re doing?” when I see Uncle Ned behind me.
“I’ll just take a few more bits and pieces,” he says happily, reaching for an eggcup. “Now, Fixie, do you stock such a thing as a toast rack?”
“Um, Uncle Ned, about the friends-and-family discount—” I begin, but I’m cut off by Jake striding back onto the shop floor.
“The whole place clearly needs a rethink,” he’s saying airily to Bob, who looks a bit freaked out. “I think the priority has got to be a hardwood floor, don’t you?”
A hardwood floor? A priority?
“Greg!” Nicole suddenly screeches. “Not like that. Don’t you know anything about Instagram?”
“You fancy the guy next door …” Morag is reading aloud from her questionnaire, looking utterly perplexed. “What do you do about it? One: Look him up on Tinder.…”
Blood is thumping through my temples as I look from Morag, peering at her questionnaire, to Nicole, who’s trying to balance a saucepan on her outstretched fingers while Greg takes a photo. I turn to gaze at Uncle Ned, still contentedly filling his basket up with our stuff, and then Jake, who is now talking to Bob about the “Ralph Lauren look.”
I don’t know where to start.
I think I’m going a bit mad.
“Hey, Fixie,” comes Stacey’s sardonic voice in my ear. “I know they’re your family and all.” She pauses and leans closer. “But they’re shit.”
I Owe You One: A Novel Page 15
