Summer Daydreams

by Carole Matthews

  ‘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.

  Chapter 40

  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.’<
br />
  ‘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.

  Chapter 41

  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?’

  My daughter has gone all silly too and I supply, ‘This is Petal,’ while she gapes at him open-mouthed and goggle-eyed. Looks as if Mr Simoneaux has the same effect on four-year-olds as he does on women of a certain age who should know better.

  ‘Come in, please,’ I say and hobble further into the showroom with Petal attached to my leg.

  ‘This is a very beautiful space,’ he says and looks round giving admiring nods.

  ‘We’ve only just moved in,’ I explain. ‘So it’s all a bit raw yet. My company is very new.’

  ‘This I know,’ he says. ‘It is why I think that I can help you.’

  ‘That would be fantastic.’ But, because I’m all of a fluster, I’m forgetting my manners. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I should have gone out and got biscuits, posh ones, or something.

  ‘In a moment,’ he says, holding up a hand. ‘First I would love for you to show me more of your designs.’

  ‘Now, Petal.’ I manage to dislodge my child and grip her by the shoulders as I speak, so I hope she knows that I mean business. ‘Will you play nicely while I talk to Mr Simoneaux?’

  ‘Yes,’ Petal says with look as if to say she never does anything but play nicely all alone.

  Obediently – thank God! – she trots off into the office.

  ‘She is a very beautiful child,’ Yves says. ‘Like her mother.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ I laugh girlishly and flush and simper and generally don’t behave like a rufty-tufty business woman who will stand no messing.

  Yves smiles again. He is clearly well aware of the effect he has on women and has probably been milking it for years. There’s no doubt he has this flirtation thing down to a fine art. This must be the legendary Gallic charm – or garlic charm, as Olly calls it.

  ‘Now, to work,’ he says and steers me towards the rows of carefully arranged handbags as he outlines the work of his company. He goes on to tell me about where he’d plan to place the products and how much commission they take from sales. I try to concentrate and not notice the coolness of his hand on the small of my back.

  What has happened in recent weeks? I’ve never attracted this level of male attention before. Is it because I’m no longer seen as just a housewife and mother with a little (pat me on the head) part-time job? Or have I suddenly become a man-magnet because they think I’m someone who’s going places? I haven’t changed my perfume, so it’s certainly not that.

  Yves takes the handbags and runs his hands over them as if he’s seducing a voluptuous woman. ‘Beau. Très beau.’

  When he finally tires of making love to my handbags, I lead him through to the office.

  ‘I’m just sketching out some new designs,’ I say and pull the relevant papers to the top of my pile.

  ‘They are wonderful,’ he says, but his eyebrows pull together in a frown.

  Maybe he doesn’t like them at all. ‘I’ve literally just been doodling this morning,’ I rush in. ‘Hot off the press. You’re the first person that I’ve had the chance to show them to.’

  One design is for a bag covered in candy-stripe fabric with hearts and stars sprinkled liberally across it. On one side it reads BAG, on the other LADY. Yves strokes his hand across the drawing. Another is covered in psychedelic hearts and flowers and says MAKE LOVE on one side and NOT WAR on the other. The last one has four pouting lips in Andy Warhol style on it and the back reads MY FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME.

  Still no response.

  ‘Perhaps they need more work.’

  A shrug. ‘Perhaps.’ He takes off his man-bag and then rifles through the sketches again, but makes no further comment.

  Before I can ask him any more, Petal appears. I hadn’t actually even registered that she wasn’t in the office. How observant am I as a mother? She’s bearing a pink tray, and two mugs and a teapot are balanced precariously on it. Her tongue is out and the concentration on her face is a sight to behold. For reasons best known to my daughter, she has also found her pink cycling helmet and is wearing it.

  ‘I have maked tea,’ she announces.

  ‘Oh, lord.’ I immediately swoop down and rescue the tray from Petal’s shaky grip as the teapot starts a death slide. ‘Sweet pea, you know you’re not allowed near the kettle.’

  ‘I didn’t go near the kettle,’ she informs me with a scowl.

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I’ll pour,’ she insists.

  I touch the teapot and realise it is, in fact, stone-cold. Oh, dear.

  ‘We can’t have tea now, Petal. Mummy’s busy.’

  ‘You’re never too busy for tea,’ my child says imperiously.

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  I do. Frequently. Even though I’m invariably wrong.

  When, reluctantly, I put the tray down on the coffee table, my daughter manoeuvres herself between me and the teapot and sets about pouring.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouth to Yves.

  ‘It is fine,’ he assures me.

  The pot wobbles and we get a fair amount of Petal’s tea sloshing about on the tray rather than in the cup. That gives me the chance to see that her ‘tea’ seems to involve half a dozen tea bags floating in cold water with the milk already added. She stands and, with every ounce of her being focused on delivering the results of her endeavour, hands the first cup to Yves.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ he says. ‘This is exactly how we French like to take our tea.’

  Petal beams, easily fallen under his Parisian spell.

  Yves winks at me and, above and beyond the call of duty, sips his tea. ‘Délicieux.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say as I take my cup too. ‘You’re a very clever girl.’

  Somehow we manage to down Petal’s cold tea and then Yves says, ‘I am sorry to be rude, but I
must rush away.’

  ‘Of course. You must have lots more to do.’

  His smile says that he has. ‘We have a deal? Yes?’

  I try not to look surprised. Or to leap into Yves’ arms in excitement. I’d fully expected finding an agent to be a lot more complicated than this. Never in a million years did I think that one would just bowl up on my doorstep and take me on straight away. Wait until I tell Olly about this. He’ll be pleased for me. Surely?

  ‘We do,’ I confirm gratefully. Yves and I shake hands again.

  ‘Merveilleux.’

  ‘Again, I’m really sorry we’ve kept you here so long.’

  He takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing it softly. ‘The pleasure has been all mine.’

  Once more, I go into a girly flat spin.

  ‘Here is my card.’

  I gaze at the business card he hands me, slightly goggleeyed.

  ‘We will speak,’ Yves says as he slings his man-bag back across his body. ‘Very soon.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ I sound more breathless than I would have hoped.

  ‘May I?’ My daughter is waiting shyly behind me. He takes Petal’s hand and kisses it. ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle. Thank you for my excellent cup of English tea.’

  Petal is as bewitched as I am.

  With us both safely under his spell, Yves leaves us and I watch as his rangy frame turns heads as he lopes away down the street. I don’t think Hitchin has ever seen anyone as gorgeous.

  ‘Now,’ I say, still all of a flutter, ‘better get back to work before the day slips away from me.’

  ‘He was nice,’ Petal observes.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, somewhat wistfully.

  I go back into the office, settle Petal with her crayons once more and sit myself back at my desk. With a deep and rather shaky breath, I prepare myself to carry on with my new designs. But despite searching the desk high and low, I can’t find them anywhere.