The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  Bev and Stephanie got The Financial Times. Pretty handy, what with Bev being an accountant and all. They did really well. How To Claim Back Your Bank Charges, Tax Tips For The Self-Employed, Securing Your Child’s Financial Security, and Look After The Pennies and The Pounds Will Look After Themselves. They ran out of time to come up with a fifth idea, but I think Sheila was too impressed to notice.

  And Cathy and Audrey?

  Poor Cathy.

  How can you possibly get How To Turn Your Flowerbed Into a Herb Garden from The Dolls’ House Magazine?

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  “I need an idea,” I tell Katie when I get home. I’m fresh out of them after my fifteen minutes of inspiration. I need her help. Because I have a plan.

  “Any idea in particular?” she asks, as I take my coat off and throw it over the sofa.

  A few minutes later she dumps a pile of magazines next to me on the sofa.

  “So we need to come up with an idea for a feature?” she asks. “One which you can pitch to a bunch of magazine editors? To show them what they would be missing by not employing you?”

  I nod, hesitantly. She doesn’t sound convinced

  In fact she sounds like she’s not entirely sure what message it is we’re actually aiming for – that I’m crap and they won’t be missing much at all, or that I’m fabulous and they’d be missing a heck of a lot.

  As her best friend, I’d like to think it’s the latter. But you can never be sure.

  Just because Katie happens to be one of my two closest friends, does not necessarily mean she thinks I’m a great writer. Besides, how would she really know anyway? She has little more to go on than a couple of postcards and the odd Post-It note left on the fridge at uni telling her I’d pick up some Pralines and Cream Haagen Daas ice cream on the way home from the pub.

  “I read that thing you wrote at Penand Inc about Fliss and everyone,” she says, reading my mind. “That was great. You could send that along with your feature idea as an example of your work.”

  That’s not a bad idea actually.

  The plan is to send the ‘idea’ out to loads of magazines and at least one will love it of course, though ideally a war will ensue where they each outbid the other and I end up being offered thousands of pounds to write it. Okay, maybe not thousands, but at least enough to buy the odd Boots Meal Deal for lunch – I’m getting a little bored of my homemade cheese and pickle sarnies.

  It’s a great plan.

  All I have to do now is come up with an amazing idea.

  Matt is at the pub with some friends from work, so we spread out in the living room and flick through magazines looking for a good idea to pinch.

  Sorry, did I say pinch? Obviously I meant inspire – a good idea to inspire us.

  “You open the wine and I’ll start flicking,” Katie says.

  “The Mother-in-law survival guide,” she reads out loud, so I can hear her from the kitchen.

  “How to handle the other woman in your man’s life. Ha! I should read that later. Matt’s mum is getting right on my tits at the moment. If she’s not trying to take over the bloody wedding, she’s dropping hints about grandchildren. I’m not even up the aisle yet, never mind up the duff.”

  Flick. Flick.

  “Should you really be with your first love? Dig out your little black book and you may just find Mr Right.”

  “As if!” I shout from the kitchen, easing the cork out of the wine bottle. “My first love was Jeremy Hipkiss. Like he’d be my Mr Right!”

  “Is he the one that turned out to be gay?”

  I put two glasses of wine down on the coffee table and plonk myself down next to her.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. Yeah, they probably should have added a paragraph telling you to cross out the ones who turned out to be gay first!

  “How to bounce back after a break-up,” she says, opening up a different magazine and glancing at me cautiously. “You’ve got Gloria Gaynor on repeat and a pile of soggy tissues in your lap. But give yourself some time and a bit of TLC and ‘you will survive.’”

  “You don’t have to worry, you know,” I tell her. “Have you noticed any shortage of Kleenex in the flat? Or any Gloria Gaynor CDs? I’m fine. I’m just not ready to go out with anyone else yet. Anyway – we’re not getting anywhere. These have all been written already. We need a new idea.”

  “Right. We need to find something you know a lot about,” Katie says.

  I’m not sure I like the implication that this ‘something’ will take some finding. But I let it go. She is supplying both the research materials and the refreshments, after all.”

  “Well, I really know nothing about getting a job on a magazine,” I say, the defeatist in me taking over.

  “Or how to be sensible and keep the perfectly good job I had in the first place.”

  Katie shoots me a warning glance before grinning and returning her attention to the magazines in her lap.

  I carry on, undeterred.

  “I do, however, know quite a bit about getting paint off children’s hands, and out of their ears, and nostrils, and hair; how to fit the entire alphabet around the edge of a plate; how to prise a paintbrush out of two warring toddler’s hands and how to convince a seven-year-old that I don’t watch Mister Maker and therefore have no idea how to draw a clown riding a unicycle on the side of a mug. Will any of them do, do you think?

  “I know nothing about love,” I continue, back onto the list of subjects on which my brain is a gigantic void.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Katie laughs.

  “I’m serious. All I seem to know is how to mess up every relationship I’ve ever been in.”

  I’m exaggerating of course. I didn’t mess up my relationship with Jeremy – he did that himself when he invited Mark Ellis over to do some A level revision with us and tried to kiss him while I was busy working out a particularly tricky algebra question (I saw them in the mirror, if you must know). I still don’t know who was more shocked – me or Mark. And my boyfriend before Alex – Terry – that wasn’t my fault either. I didn’t force him to get drunk, run naked around the grounds of the halls of residence and then shag Molly Mind-What-You-Catch Jenkins at the back of the botanical gardens, did I?

  “You’ve just not found Mr Right yet, that’s all,” Katie says, breaking my thoughts. “But that doesn’t make you any different to half the female population, B. You haven’t found him yet. That doesn’t mean you never will.

  “Oh my god,” she says, a touch dramatically, grabbing my arm and almost sending her own wine – and mine – flying all over the sofa.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got it,” she says. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it earlier.”

  “What?”

  “We had it the other night. When Emma got drunk on custard tarts and locked herself in the loos.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  She sips her wine, pausing for dramatic effect.

  “How do you know when you’ve met Mr Right?” she says, looking dead pleased with herself.

  She’s lost the plot, clearly.

  “But I don’t know how you know you’ve met Mr Right,” I remind her in the same tone you might use to remind someone where their nose is. “I haven’t met him yet.”

  “No. But other people have. You can interview them, ask them how they knew. And when you’re ready, you can go out there and start looking for him yourself. Unless you’re planning on staying single for the rest of your life?” she says, before I can protest.

  I think for a moment. It could work, I guess. And it would be kind of fun finding out about everyone else’s relationships, instead of obsessing over my own love life.

  And Katie’s right. Even if it’s not for a feature, some day I will have to get out there and start dating again.

  Katie’s looking at me. Waiting for some kind of reaction.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  An hour later we have drafted a propo
sal letter no editor could possibly turn down.

  But we decide to wait until the morning to print it and send it off, just in case in the cold light of day we aren’t quite as enthusiastic about assuring the editors at She, Company and Cosmopolitan that although I am a thoroughly lovely person, I wouldn’t think twice about making their lives a living hell – should they in fact choose not to hire me – by coming back when I am rich and famous, buying out their magazines one by one and sacking the lot of them.

  And, as we anticipated, when the cold light of day does arrive, some considerable editing is required before I am able to send out fifteen copies of the letter, each with a copy of the piece I wrote at Penand Inc.

  “If this doesn’t work I’m phoning Malcolm and begging him for my job back,” I tell Katie as I drop the envelopes into the post box the following evening.

  “And are you going to phone Alex and beg for him back too?” she asks, ever so slightly sarcastically, but with good reason.

  “It’ll take time to find your feet, B,” she reassures me. “But you will. Going back is not the answer. You can stay with Matt and me for as long as you like. And it sounds like you’re doing okay at the café.”

  “Yes, but I can’t spend the rest of my life watching kids paint pots all day.”

  “You won’t need to. It’ll all work out, I’m sure.”

  “I know. Thanks Katie. You’re a great friend.”

  “Takes one to know one,” she says, linking her arms through mine as we walk back to the flat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  The postman thinks I fancy him.

  He must do.

  Why else would I pounce on him wearing my Little Miss Naughty pyjamas and pink fluffy slippers and whisper ‘have you got anything for me this morning Mr Postman?’ like I did on Saturday morning.

  I didn’t whisper intentionally, I had a frog in my throat. But the postman doesn’t know that, does he?

  It gets worse.

  When he came yesterday, it wasn’t until he had handed me the electricity bill and the free sample of Always Ultra that I realised I was actually holding onto his arm. I swear it was a look of genuine fear that crossed his face.

  Today, though, it’s a look of pity, as he hands me a bundle of mail held together with an elastic band. At least I’m dressed this morning.

  For a brief moment I allow myself a flicker of hope, until I realise that the top four items are cards addressed to Katie and Matt – the latest in a flood of wedding invite replies.

  There are four other envelopes – two junk mail, one bank statement – no doubt informing me there has been an unusually meagre amount of money entering my account of late, and one letter – addressed to me. It’s from Girlfriend – a magazine for teenage girls – sent from the editor, Patricia London, pp’ed by her assistant Melissa Curtis (I’m obviously not important enough to warrant her own limited-edition signature) explaining that although they don’t doubt I was once a teenage girl myself, they just don’t feel I have the necessary experience required by a magazine of their calibre. Okay, so it wasn’t my best letter, but still… Calibre?! I had never even heard of them a fortnight ago.

  Shoving the letter in my jacket pocket and pulling the front door behind me I head for the tube station, telling myself not to be too despondent. After all, this hasty decision was clearly made before the powers that be at Girlfriend had had the opportunity to read my magnificent proposal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  It’s parents’ evening at the school tonight so we’ve been booted out of Room 11B. We are in Room 11C instead. Why they couldn’t use that room themselves, I don’t know, but whatever.

  It’s a better room actually.

  It’s got a white board, instead of a black board. And the desks are covered in graffiti, which gives me something to read when Sheila starts waffling on about research. Don’t get me wrong, I am interested, just not about reference books in libraries, periodicals and legal journals. Yawn.

  It’s the 21st century, I want to tell Sheila. We can do our research on the Internet. On our new laptops. That our friends at Penand Inc bought us.

  I don’t, of course.

  I jot down a few notes instead. What I need from Tesco on the way home, for example.

  I told Sheila about my idea. “It has potential,” she said. I think she hated it. Oh well, what does she know?

  I am so engrossed in my list of interviewees, that I almost miss the most vital part of the class.

  How to Interview Sources.

  There are three important stages, apparently. Preparing for the interview, the interview itself, and digesting the information from the interview.

  And there was me thinking all I had to do was ask a few questions.

  “We are all shy from time to time,” Sheila tells us. “We all get nervous occasionally. But an interviewee does not need to know that. It is simply about being prepared and being professional.

  “Never go to an interview unprepared,” she says, waving her index finger at us like we’re naughty children.

  “Set up the interview well in advance. Then follow up with a phone call a few days before.

  “Prepare your questions. Coming to an interview with a list of questions will help it go well. And whatever you do, don’t forget your notepad and pen.”

  Seems simple enough. I think even I can manage that lot.

  “The interview itself is the most important part of the process,” Sheila tells us, rummaging in the drawer of her desk as she does so.

  She pulls out a dry-wipe marker and scribbles on the white board. It comes out red, which seems to offend her, but it’s the only pen there is.

  “These are my tips for making it run smoothly,” she says.

  She looks at us and smiles, pausing for dramatic effect before she writes a number 1 on the board, followed by a full stop.

  “Number one – start casually,” she says. “Ask how their day has gone. Talk about the weather. Mention something you’ve seen in the news recently. A casual beginning will put you both at ease.”

  “Number two,” she shouts this time. I think Georgina and Tara are playing rock paper scissors.

  “Take notes. You won’t be able to catch everything they say, so try and develop some form of shorthand. Develop abbreviations for key words, for example. And if you find a quote particularly interesting, don’t be afraid to ask them to repeat what they said.

  “When you do take notes, try to do so unobtrusively. Try to give the impression that you are simply having a chat. Make eye contact, nod your head, then write it down.

  “If you tape a conversation, it’s a good idea to take notes too. Tape recorders can break. Batteries can run out. And if you are writing notes, you can mark a particularly significant comment in the margin.

  “Number three – be observant.” She looks at us all closely for this one, as if demonstrating her point. Jo shuffles uncomfortably in her seat next to me. Audrey fiddles with her book of quotations.

  “Don’t just listen to what they’re saying,” she says. “Watch their facial expressions, their hand gestures. If you are in their home, look around you. Do they have any pets? Any particular pictures hanging on the walls? Any trophies on the bookshelf? Look out for anything that could tell you something about them.

  “And number four – stay in control. Ask the question, get your answer, and then move on to the next one. Don’t let them take you off on a tangent.

  “Right,” she says. “Let’s have a go.”

  I turn my chair so that I’m facing Jo. I want to laugh, but that would be childish. So I cross my legs and try to look professional instead.

  We’ve got three minutes to find out three things about each of our fellow students. And they have to be completely different things about each person.

  We’ve blown tip number one already. We haven’t set the interviews up in advance. We haven’t phoned our interviewees to remind them several days in advance. And we haven’t prepared a li
st of questions.

  I’m okay with number two. I have a notepad. I have a pen.

  “Are you married?” I ask Jo.

  Bollocks.

  Sheila has told us not to ask closed questions – questions that allow a simple yes or no.

  “You only have three minutes on each person so you don’t want to waste them getting yeses and nos, now do you?”

  “No,” Jo grins, in answer to my rubbish question.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask.

  Damn. If this were a game show I’d be doing very badly.

  “Yes,” she says.

  I look at my watch.

  “How did you meet him?” I ask.

  “Speed-dating,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” she laughs.

  That closed question doesn’t count, by the way. I was just curious.

  After three minutes Sheila bangs her pen on the edge of the desk and the interviewer swaps places with the interviewee. And after another three minutes she bangs it again and we move to the next desk to start all over again with someone else. It’s a bit like speed-dating, actually, except there’s no wine on the tables – and there’s definitely no chance of a date at the end of it.

  After forty five minutes we all feel like we know each other a little bit better than we did before.

  “Who wants to go first?” Sheila asks.

  We have to share our information with the rest of the class, apparently. But we’d also quite like to go to the pub, so we’ve agreed to give one fact about each student.

  Audrey puts her hand up. Teacher’s pet.

  “Bev’s favourite vegetable is sprouts,” she tells us, reading from her list, “but everyone else in her family hates them.” Isn’t that two facts?

  “Cathy is allergic to mushrooms; Stephanie’s husband grows four types of potatoes on his allotment; Jo once ate seventy four sweet corn kernels in under a minute using only a tooth pick; Tara won her school Halloween apple bobbing contest when she was eight; Georgina’s favourite fruit is apples, but only if they are served in a pie with custard, and Becky once served up a vegetable spring roll with ice cream and raspberry sauce when she worked as a waitress.”