Summer Daydreams

by Carole Matthews

  ‘No need to be nervous, Nell,’ he says. His mouth curls into a warm smile. ‘Just relax. Kick back.’

  I fiddle with my handbag. Kicking back won’t happen. Bolt upright is going to have to suffice.

  ‘We’re just going to have a chat,’ he explains. ‘Find out what makes each of us tick. See if we can work well together.’

  I nod. Come on, voice, make a reappearance!

  ‘Shall I start by telling you about myself? How I came to be an advisor for Best of Business?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I squeak.

  ‘Well, I’ve been in the fashion industry for longer than I care to remember. For the last fifteen years I was a buyer in the trade,’ Tod tells me. ‘Before that, I was a designer working with people like Brit Connection, Nikki Dahly, Made with Love.’

  All big designer names. I’m impressed. And not a little over-awed.

  ‘I’m semi-retired now,’ he goes on.

  I think he can only be late forties, early fifties at a push. Young to consider retiring.

  ‘I wanted to get out of the rat race. You know how it is.’

  I can only nod. I think I may actually be trying to get into the rat race.

  ‘I have a house in the South of France that I like to spend time at, so I do some consultancy work now and I usually mentor one or two people here at Best of Business at any one time. We should all give something back, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I echo. But I think that first I would actually like to take something out.

  ‘I like to think that I could help you to avoid making the mistakes that I did when I started out.’

  That’s music to my ears. I’m so naive that I don’t even know what mistakes I can make.

  Tod Urban spreads his hands expansively. ‘So,’ he says. ‘I’m all yours.’ His smile is very disarming and I think I’m getting a bit hot under the collar. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking to start a business,’ I tell him, ‘and really have no idea where to begin.’

  He glances at the folder on his lap. ‘Designing handbags, it says on my notes.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Any experience?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not in that line.’

  ‘But you do work now?

  ‘In a chip shop.’

  He roars with laughter. ‘Quite a change then.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Well, I admire your ambition, Nell. If you want to know, I started out as a welder. It was the other blokes on the site who persuaded me to try something else. They could see that my heart wasn’t in being on a building site for the rest of my life.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what the guys I work with in the chip shop have done with me,’ I admit. ‘I gave the shop a makeover and they all said that I should try something else. Something more creative.’

  He makes a steeple of his hands and studies me over it. ‘As well as being creative, you know that you’re going to need a lot of grit and determination.’

  ‘I think I have that.’

  ‘Plus some cash to get you going.’

  ‘That I don’t really have,’ I confess. I only want to tap into Phil’s money as a very last resort. If I can give it back to him now, so much the better.

  ‘Luckily, that’s where I come in. I’ll go through your business plan with you and see if we can’t get you a grant or two as a kick-start. Times are tough but, if we look hard enough, there’s money to be had.’

  I risk a smile. Is it really that easy?

  ‘You have your business plan with you?’

  Oh, I’ve been a busy little bee in the last few days. There’s a track worn from my house to the central library and back. The computer I’ve been using there is probably still smoking. Olly has been a trouper – as always – and has kept Petal entertained while I’ve put together my business plan. How grand does that sound! Business plan, eh?

  The internet has been a godsend. What did we do before it? Sure enough, as Constance had predicted, I found that there were a million different sites all telling me how to not only buy handbags, but also how to make handbags, where to buy handbag supplies – in fact, everything I ever needed to know about handbags but was afraid to ask.

  This morning, on eBay, I managed to find a man – only a few miles away from us – advertising a surplus of finished handbag frames for a sum that, even to me, seemed as cheap as chips. They look as if they might suit my purpose just fine. Currently there are no bids on them and there’s a mobile phone number listed. I jotted it down with a view to calling him later to see if I can buy them outright.

  As Tod waits patiently, I rummage in the depths of my voluminous bag and pull out the folder I’ve taken such care in preparing.

  He takes it from me and scans the pages carefully. ‘Looks good,’ he says, a few minutes later. ‘We’ll go through this together carefully, step by step. But it certainly seems as if you’re on the right track.’ He tosses the folder with my name on it to one side. The second time that has happened to me in a week. But this has a very different feel to it. ‘Now on to important things.’ My new mentor slides his armchair next to mine and rubs his hands together. ‘You have some designs with you?’

  ‘Just a couple.’ Nervously, I delve into my bag again and find my initial sketches. I feel sick at the thought that Tod might not like them, that he might tell me I’m rubbish, that I’m not good enough. Clearly, Amelia Fallon’s barbs have got stuck under my skin.

  I’ve sketched out a large, rigid-framed handbag with a diamanté clasp and detachable shoulder strap, something simple and something very like the ones I’ve found on the internet this morning. On the first one there’s a drawing of a juicy piece of battered cod on one side and on the other some chips in a bit of newspaper.

  Both bags are silver and have hot-pink satin lining and a Nell McNamara tag. I thought I’d finish both bags with little sparkles of diamanté. I pass the sketch to him.

  Tod laughs again when he sees them, but in a good way. ‘Fabulous,’ he says. ‘Really fabulous. This should give you a nice start.’ He holds up the designs. ‘Pop art meets commercial irony.’ He nods his approval. ‘I’m liking it.’

  I have no idea what he means but, clearly, he thinks it’s good.

  My other idea is a different design on the same basic frame – already I have an eye on the costs. This one has a pink cupcake on one side with ‘Eat Me!’ written above it and on the flip side a blue beaker with ‘Drink Me!’

  ‘Fun,’ Ted says. ‘A lot of fun.’ He puts the drawings down. ‘I certainly think you’re on the right track here.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Without doubt.’ He rubs his chin. ‘I think you’re going places, Ms McNamara. Great name by the way. Are you planning to use that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say uncertainly. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m thinking Anya Hindmarch, Loren Taylor, Orla Kiely. Nell McNamara is a name that says “designer handbags”.’

  It is?

  His eyes rove over my outfit. ‘The image is great too.’

  I can’t help but grin. Not only does he like my name but he seems to like everything about me. Up yours, Amelia Fallon!

  ‘Now, let’s have a proper look at this business plan and see if we can’t get you some funding.’

  So from art college reject to budding entrepreneur in one fell swoop. I think I like this mentor much better than the last one.

  Chapter 19

  Olly is already dressed in his punk gear ready to do his gig tonight and is wearing more eyeliner and mascara than I am. His face is pale, his lipstick red. Clearly, it’s not only Petal who likes to play with my make-up bag. I’ll be lucky if I get a look in soon. There’s a ragged black wig on his head. He currently appears to be channelling Robert Smith of The Cure and, strangely, I quite like the style.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  I smile at him. ‘I was just wondering if I could love a man who wears more lippy than me.’
<
br />   ‘Needs must. As long as I don’t start teaming it with a twinset and pearls and calling myself Olive at the weekends, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for doing this.’

  He shrugs. ‘There are worse jobs. I’m just hoping that no one I know sees me.’

  ‘Daddy, I like it when you look like a lady,’ Petal pipes up.

  ‘There you are,’ Olly says. ‘Seal of approval from the Petalmeister.’

  I chew at my fingernail as he, Petal and I finish our plates of beans on toast. ‘Promise you won’t want to kill me’ – Olly looks as if he doesn’t want to commit himself – ‘but I really want to go and get those handbag frames from the eBay man before someone else nabs them.’

  The cheque for the refund from my college course came in today and it’s already banked and in our joint account. I was planning on handing it straight back to Phil, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up and now the thought of it is burning a hole in my hot, little hand.

  ‘They’re a bargain,’ I remind Olly, in case he’s forgotten in the five minutes since I last told him. ‘What if they’ve already gone?’

  ‘We should wait until we know if you’ve got any kind of grant or funding,’ Olly reasons. ‘It’s not a good idea to count your chickens before they’ve hatched.’

  ‘Tod didn’t seem to think it would be a problem at all.’

  ‘But we don’t know if Tod’ – he mimics a girly voice. Not mine, I think! I might have mentioned Tod Urban quite a lot in the week since my excellent meeting with him, but I don’t say his name like that – ‘is talking about two hundred pounds or ten thousand. It makes a big difference to what we can do.’

  That’s true enough.

  ‘We should wait,’ Olly reiterates.

  ‘Constance is coming to babysit.’

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ Petal complains. ‘I’m four.’

  ‘Eat your beans, Petalmeister.’ Our daughter rolls her eyes at her father, but she pushes her fork into her baked beans.

  ‘We’ve got an hour before we have to be at work.’

  ‘I can’t go looking like this.’

  ‘You look fine,’ I tell him. ‘Sexy even.’

  He’s weakening. I can see it in his frown. ‘Where do we have to go?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure. Shall I call him?’

  ‘OK. Do it,’ Olly says, resigned.

  And sometimes I wonder where Petal has learned how to wheedle and whine from.

  I find the piece of paper that bears his number and punch it into my phone. The man answers in three rings and I ask him about his handbag frames and how much they are and, moments later, the deal, it seems, is done.

  ‘They’re mine,’ I tell Olly, hardly able to contain my excitement. Hurrah! My toe has been firmly dipped in the water of the fashion world. ‘But we have to get them tonight. He’s clearing out the warehouse tomorrow.’

  Olly gives me a reluctant smile. ‘You drive a hard bargain, woman. You’d better phone Constance and ask her if she minds coming round a bit earlier.’

  I do just that and my friend is here in a flash, wearing gold satin leggings and a leopard print top for her babysitting duties. Constance admires Olly’s new look and then we both kiss our sitter and our daughter goodbye, dash out of the door and pile onto the Vespa.

  ‘Where exactly are we going?’ Olly shouts out to me and I yell back the address. ‘I hope this helmet doesn’t ruin my hair.’

  ‘I have that problem all the time.’

  ‘I’ll be more sympathetic in future!’ he offers and, with that, we drive off into the night.

  In less than fifteen minutes we find the small trading estate and pull up outside the equally small warehouse. There’s a man outside loading a van and I’m guessing he’s the person I’ve come to see. He looks in surprise at the scooter as we climb off. I slip off my helmet. When Olly takes off his helmet and reveals his Maybelline look, the man takes a further step back.

  ‘I’m here about the bags,’ I say.

  ‘In there.’ The man nods to the roll-up door behind him and with him still keeping one eye suspiciously on Olly, we both follow him inside.

  On a rack at the side of the room the unfinished handbag shells are all lined up. They are the perfect shape. And there are lots of them. I feel myself gulp. ‘All these?’

  The man nods. ‘Tell me you’re not just on that scooter.’

  ‘We’re just on that scooter.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Good luck.’

  I count out the cash into his hands. That has made a serious dent in my college refund and I get a pang of anxiety as I see him pocket it. The man returns to loading his van and leaves us to the rows of handbag frames.

  Olly’s eyes are wide. ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I brought black bin bags,’ I tell him. ‘I thought we could put them in there.’

  ‘There’s got to be six dozen handbags there.’

  ‘A hundred,’ I say. ‘There should be a hundred.’

  ‘This is going to take us at least three trips,’ Olly warns. ‘We can’t pile them all on the scooter in one go. It’ll just fall over. But if we come backwards and forwards to get them in smaller batches then we’ll never get to work on time.’

  ‘We won’t if we hang about yapping,’ I say.

  So with a quick glance at each other, we launch into filling the black bin bags with them. I had no idea that a hundred handbag frames was quite so many. Or how many black sacks they would fill. Neither have I any idea where I’m going to put them all when I get home.

  It takes us ages to bag them all up and, as Olly rightly predicted, we are both going to be so late for work. Still, we eventually load up the first lot. I have a black sack full of bag frames in each hand and Olly piles another load in front of me so that they’re sandwiched against his shoulders.

  ‘We’ll be back for the rest soon,’ I tell the man. He gives me a look that reads incredulous.

  ‘Ready?’ Olly asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I feel decidedly unsteady. ‘Don’t go too fast.’

  ‘I just pray that we don’t see a police car on the way home or we’re dead meat.’

  Olly kicks the Vespa into life. ‘Try to look inconspicuous,’ he shouts over his shoulder to me.

  Impossible. I’m struggling to hold onto the bin bags and they’re flying out like wings into the night. I should have ‘wide load’ stamped on my back.

  ‘Woo hoo!’ I shout.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Olly yells. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too!’

  If this is what being a handbag designer feels like, then bring it on!

  Chapter 20

  ‘Woaw!’ Olly says when he comes into the living room at the end of his late-night punk gig. ‘It looks like a sweatshop in here.’

  He’s not far wrong. A week after we brought them home and the black bin bags filled with handbag shells are still stacked in the lounge awaiting a more permanent home, I’m not sure where. I have all my trimmings and diamanté bits and bobs spread out over the floor. My trusty glue gun is at hand.

  The ever reliable Phil lent me his posh camera and a few days ago I took some photographs of a beautiful, battered cod and some very cheeky chips nestling in newspaper. Today I picked them up from the printer who has transferred the images onto cotton for me. Despite the hour, I just had to make a start on them.

  ‘How did the gig go?’ I ask.

  ‘The landlord is still pissed off with me for being so late last week,’ Olly says as he pulls off his wig and roughs up his own hair.

  That’d be the day we collected the handbag shells.

  ‘I’m trying to win him round again, but it’s a bit of an uphill struggle.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘That was all my fault.’

  ‘It had to be done.’ Olly sighs, and then flops down on the sofa. ‘I just wish there were more hours in the day.’

  His lipstick is smeared, his mascara smudged. My h
eart squeezes for him. I wriggle along the floor with my work until I’m sitting with my back against the sofa where he’s flaked out. ‘It’ll be worth it,’ I promise him. ‘You’ll see. All this hard work won’t last for ever.’

  ‘We’ll both be in an early grave if it does.’ Like his dad, are the words that are left unspoken.

  I know that the premature death of his father still sits heavy in Olly’s heart and I can understand why he likes his life to be as laid-back and as stress-free as possible. But sometimes you have to let the past go and embrace the future, and I see a different future for us. I see one where I’m sitting in the front row at Paris Fashion Week sipping a champagne cocktail and watching a catwalk show featuring my latest, hugely successful, collection with an immaculately dressed Olly and an impeccably behaved Petal at my side.

  ‘I could kill for a Pot Noodle,’ Olly says, breaking into my fantasy. ‘Any in the cupboard?’

  ‘I’m sure there must be. Want me to look?’

  ‘No. I’ll move myself in a minute. I just need to work up the enthusiasm.’

  Olly strokes my hair while I cut and trim and sew and glue.

  ‘Look.’ Ten minutes later, I hold up my first completed handbag. As it’s made from a bought and already finished shell, there’s no diamanté clasp, the lining material is silver rather than the hot-pink of my dreams and the name tag I’d envisaged in cool steel is a hand-stitched, padded star instead, but it’s nearly there. The pukka article will have to come when we have some more cash behind us. ‘Number one!’

  ‘Wow.’ Now he sits up. ‘For real?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I think it looks good. Standing up, I parade the inaugural Nell McNamara signature Fish & Chip handbag round my front room. ‘Think it will sell?’

  ‘I’m no fashion expert,’ Olly admits. ‘But I think it should go like hot cakes.’