by Gil McNeil
‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Or coffee? Or juice? I’ve got some apple upstairs, I think.’
So not quite so normal after all then.
‘No, thanks.’
‘I’m even starting to scare myself now.’
She smiles again. Actually I wish she’d stop doing that, because it’s really not helping in the Pull Yourself Together department.
‘I’m not your greatest fan or anything – I mean, I haven’t got a room full of your posters or anything weird like that. It’s just, well, I think you’re great. Sorry, I’m doing it again, I’ll shut up now, but let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.’
Oh, God.
‘Great.’
She walks towards the back of the shop, and stops by the shawl I’ve draped over the dummy.
‘This is gorgeous.’
‘It’s in that mohair on the shelves behind you.’
She turns to look. ‘Great colours.’
‘I know, they’re lovely, aren’t they? There are lots more, only I haven’t got them all in stock. But it only takes a day or two if I put an order in. The shawl takes three balls, so it comes to just over twenty pounds. And you’ll have some left over, for a flower, like these ones, so it’s worth it.’
Oh, my God, I can’t stop. I clench my toes in an effort to stop talking as I pass her one of the knitted flower brooches I’ve made, with the sparkly silver beads in the middle. It took me ages to do the first one, but now I’ve got the hang of them they’re easy, and they’re selling really well.
‘Gorgeous.’
‘I’ve got the shade card here somewhere.’
I scrabble through a drawer and pass her the cream card with all the swatches on it.
She takes her glasses off. ‘I love the names. I think I’ll have the Marmalade, and Candy Girl, Dewberry and Jelly – oh, and the dark brown, and three of the flower brooches, in whatever colours you’ve got.’
Bloody hell.
‘I’ve run out of Candy Girl, but I’ve got all the rest, I think, and you’ll need the pattern. It’s just a sheet of paper because it’s one of our own patterns, but it’s very easy to follow. Have you got needles?’
‘Sorry? Oh, I see. No, I meant ready to wear.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Actually nobody’s asked for anything knitted up yet, but other shops do it, so I’m sure we can.
‘So how much is that? Around a hundred quid?’
She’s probably used to getting massive discounts, but five shawls are going to take a lot of knitting. Still, it will be brilliant publicity, if I can tell people. I wonder if she’d mind?
‘That’ll be fine, but can I—’
‘So that’s five hundred quid in total, yes?’
Christ.
‘No, that’s far too much.’
Somehow I don’t think anyone’s going to be nominating me for a Businesswoman of the Year award just yet.
She smiles.
‘Trust me, it’s a bargain. Add on the flowers too, and actually I’ll want four, including this one.’
She’s wearing jeans and a pretty chiffon top, a bit like one Ellen’s got, only in blues and greens, under a long black coat. She picks up one of the larger flowers in different shades of green, with tiny purple beads in the centre, and pins it on to her shirt.
‘You take credit cards, right?’
‘Yes. I only got the machine last week actually.’
She opens her handbag, which I think I’ve seen in one of those what-the-A-listers-are-queuing-up-for-now features, except I don’t think A-listers do queuing, and she hands me a very smart black wallet with dozens of different credit cards in it, which all look slightly different from the usual ones, and are either black or gold.
‘Is one of these Mastercard?’
She hands me a black card which looks nothing like mine; I wonder if it’s still got a PIN number? Christ, I don’t know how to work the machine if she hasn’t got a PIN number. Please let me not balls this up. Please let it work and not start beeping or eat the paper like it did last week, when I pressed the wrong button and the paper disappeared inside the bloody machine.
‘Do you know your number?’
‘No. But I know someone who does. Hang on a minute.’
She makes a call and enters the number, and the receipt prints out. Hallelujah.
As I’m handing the receipt to her the shop door opens and a man walks in, with a camera.
‘Fuck.’ She turns instantly and walks through to the back of the shop as he raises the camera. I can feel her panicking; it’s just like when I was out with Ellen and there was a rumour that she was having an affair with her co-anchor, who was married with kids, and the snappers were all camped outside her flat. And she wasn’t having any affair with anyone. But he was, with the new girl doing Weather.
Actually I’m not bloody having this.
I step in front of him, and block his way, and there are definite advantages to not being waif like when you’re trying to block someone’s shot; there’s a blur of clicking and flashing, which Ellen says they do to intimidate you, even when they’re not getting any kind of picture. And it’s bloody working.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Out of the way, love. I just want Gracie.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, not right now, and since my shop is private property I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
I take a step towards him, and my knees are shaking so much I feel like I’m walking on stilts, but he starts to back through the doorway, while I try to remember what Ellen said about keeping calm and being friendly but most importantly Keep Moving.
I close the door, slide the top bolt across, and go through to the back.
Grace is standing behind the door to the stairs. ‘Where did you learn to handle snappers like that?’
‘My friend Ellen sometimes has them after her. Not like you, of course, but still, sometimes.’
‘Oh, right. Well that was great.’
‘Not really. He’s still waiting outside on the pavement, and we haven’t got a back door.’
‘Of course he is. Don’t worry about it. He’ll be joined by his mates any minute – they never go away until they get something. But at least this way I get to do my face. Have you got a hairbrush?’ Her phone beeps and she answers. ‘Yes, I know. Wait there.’
She turns to me. ‘The car’s outside. Hairbrush, and a mirror?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘What’s upstairs?’
‘Our workroom, and the kitchen.’
Thank God it’s not still full of crap.
‘Is the light better up there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then lead the way.’
It’s completely fascinating. We go upstairs and she sits at the table and I hand her the mirror from the hook over the sink in the kitchen, and she gets a black nylon make-up bag out of her bag and there’s a flash of little brushes and tubes and she’s transformed: her eyes seem huge, and a much darker brown, and her face is more defined, somehow. And her lips look fabulous. I’m tempted to ask her what kind of lip gloss she’s wearing, but thankfully I manage to restrain myself.
‘If you don’t give them something, they just make you look like shit. Christ, my hair’s gone really weird since I’ve been pregnant.’
I can’t believe she’s just told me she’s pregnant. All the papers have been full of is-she-or-isn’t-she? pieces for weeks.
‘That’s why they’re after me, we’ve just released it. It’s been all rumour up to now – fed by my agent, no doubt; he’s such a bastard – but I wanted to wait until I’d had all the scans, just in case.’
She suddenly looks vulnerable as she puts her hand across her tummy, which looks pretty flat to me, with only the slightest hint of a bump.
�
��It worked out better not to confirm anything officially, for obvious reasons.’
I’m guessing she means her on/off relationship with Jimmy Madden, the bad boy rock star who most women under thirty would like to shag senseless, according to a recent poll for Channel Five. And who most men would like to actually be – or at least know, so they could go to his parties. But it’s all definitely over now, if the papers have got it right, and after a series of Graceless and Shameless headlines they’re all running pieces on Our Gracie, now putting her back up on the pedestal they spent so long knocking her off, while simultaneously monstering Jimmy.
‘Do you have kids?’
‘Yes, two boys.’
‘I keep having the weirdest dreams. Did you do that?’
‘Yes, especially with Archie.’
‘Really horrible dreams?’
‘Yes, flippers, Siamese twins, aliens, everything.’
She smiles. ‘And they’re fine?’
‘Yes. Noisy, and incredibly messy, but absolutely perfect.’
She smiles again. ‘And is their dad around?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry. It’s just I’ve been wondering what the single-parent thing might be like. For obvious reasons.’
‘I think it’s pretty much the same as the two-parent thing, if you’re not desperate for money, and if you’ve got family to help you.’
We both smile this time, because if she started counting all her money right now I doubt she’d be finished until the middle of next month.
‘It’s bloody hard work, and they can be incredibly annoying sometimes, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.’
‘Did he bugger off?’
‘No. He was about to, but there was an accident. A car crash, actually.’
‘Serves the bastard right, then. Oh fuck, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so sorry. Fuck.’ She looks completely mortified.
‘You’re pregnant: blame it on your hormones. I was always blurting things out when I was pregnant. I still do, especially when I’ve got a major film star in my shop. You might have noticed?’
She laughs and unties her hair and brushes it with my manky old hairbrush which I keep by the sink. ‘How do I look?’
‘Absolutely beautiful. Stunning.’
‘I’m liking you more and more. Right, well, let’s get this over with. Oh, and give me a bag, will you? Actually, a couple would be great, then they can do Amazing Grace, out shopping for her baby.’
‘Right. Bags. With wool in?’
She looks at me like I’m slipping back into loon territory again.
‘Yes. I’ll pay for it later, or get someone to bring it back. Only no pink or blue.’
‘Okay.’
Somehow I don’t think this is an elaborate ruse for shoplifting. Blimey. Grace Harrison is going to be photographed coming out of my shop, carrying two of my new carrier bags with McKnits on them in pink lettering. Thank God I got the paper ones instead of the nasty cheap plastic, although I wish I’d gone for the thicker paper ones now.
We go downstairs and I put a selection of pretty cottons into two bags while she waits out of sight at the foot of the stairs.
‘Pale yellows and peppermint and lots of white?’
‘Great. And don’t stay by the door when I go out, go straight back in. They’ll come in as soon as I’ve gone, and ask you what I bought. Say baby wool, and I knit like the clappers, have done for years. Actually, do people knit like the clappers?’
‘Not unless they’ve got a machine, which rather defeats the point.’
‘Well I’ve been knitting for years and I haven’t just started since it got trendy, and you’ve known me for ages, and I’m very happy, and excited about the baby. But nothing else, okay?’ She gives me a rather fierce look.
‘Sure. Got it. Long-term advanced knitter, old friends, no idea about anything else.’
‘And when the shawls are done you can come to the house – I’ll get someone to call you. Thanks, you’ve been great.’
She kisses me, without actually touching my cheek, and she smells lovely, and then she’s gone, into a blur of flashing lights. I think I can see Mrs Davis out there, but there’s quite a crowd, and a massive black jeep with tinted windows. Elsie’s going to be furious when she finds out what she’s missed; I’ll never hear the end of it. A young woman and an older man come in and ask me exactly the questions Grace said they’d ask, as soon as the car drives off. Bloody hell.
As soon as they’ve gone I ring Ellen. ‘You’ll never guess who’s just been in the shop?’
‘Captain Birds Eye?’
‘No. Even better.’
‘Dovetail Martin with a special plank to show you?’
‘No. Grace Harrison.’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘I know.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Lovely.’
‘Bugger. I hate it when they’re lovely. It’s so much better when they’re complete arses and then you can hate them. Is she stunning?’
‘Breathtaking.’
‘Damn. They’ve just confirmed she’s five months pregnant, like we didn’t know already. Is she huge?’
‘No.’
‘This is just getting worse. No word on Daddy, I suppose? Still off availing himself of all the Class A’s he can get his hands on, by all accounts.’
‘I know. She said.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That she’s pregnant.’
‘Everybody knows that, darling. What did she say about Jimmy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, if she pops in again bloody ask her, would you?’
‘No.’
‘Charming. She didn’t happen to tell you if it’s a boy or a girl, did she?’
‘No.’
‘God, this could be fabulous for you, darling. A VIP customer, just what you need. And then you can pass me top snippets.’
‘I’ll have to knit the shawls first, and then I’ve got to take them to her house. Her people are going to call me, apparently. It’s so exciting. And I’m not in the snippet game any more, remember?’
‘Oh yes you bloody are, if they’re for me. Look, I’ve got to go, darling, I’m late for a meeting – some bollocks about maintaining standards in the modern news environment. Or why we shouldn’t run live links to lying-bastard junior reporters on destroyers in the middle of war zones before we’ve checked that they’re not actually still in dry dock. But get cracking on the knitting and call me the minute you’re done, so I can prep you for your next meeting. And when her people call you, ask them if you can release it, the shawl thing, I mean. It’ll be great; you’ll get features on it, for sure.’
‘I think I’d better wait until I’ve knitted them before I ask anyone about releasing anything. She might change her mind or something, and then I’d look like a complete idiot.’
‘That’s my girl, always look on the bright side. Bye, darling.’
As I’m putting the phone down Gran comes in, shaking with excitement.
‘Betty rang me. Is it true? Grace Harrison? What did she buy? Betty said she’d got bags. Was she nice? Oh, those pepperonis are awful.’
‘I think you mean paparazzi, Gran?’
‘Yes, horrible people, making people look silly. What a terrible way to make a living. And look what they did to Princess Diana. Mind you if she’d stayed at home it would never have happened – everybody knows they drive like maniacs in France. Mrs Marwell was over there last year with her son you know, and it took them four hours to get out of Calais and she said she’d never been so frightened in all her life. She got some lovely biscuits, though, like little pancakes, in blue packets.’
By the time I’ve sorted her out Elsie arrives, furious at having missed out, but desperate for every last detail, so I have to go through it all again, and then the three of us sit knitting shawls while Gran and Elsie hold court in the shop, entertaining a stream of customers who pop in for a mini-purchase and a m
ega-debrief; Elsie even temporarily suspends hostilities with Mrs Davis, because she stood right by the car and can provide fascinating details like how long it took before she stopped having black spots in front of her eyes after all the camera flashes.
I escape for a quiet moment upstairs by the fire. I’m meant to be doing a supermarket shop, but I can’t quite face it, not after my Hollywood moment. It feels like someone else should be doing mundane things like buying sausages for tea, so I sit knitting and try to calm down. That’s one of the best things about knitting: once you get past the mystery dropping-stitches stage, it’s brilliant at helping you relax. Even your breathing starts to slow down, and I bet if you were hooked up to one of those inflatable armband things your blood pressure would be going down too. Whenever I feel out of control I find myself wanting to knit, and the rhythm of the rows and the feel of the wool through my fingers usually sorts me out; even when I’m knitting a shawl for a major movie star, and I’ve got to finish it as quickly as I can, so I can pop round to her country mansion and collect useful snippets for Ellen. Actually, maybe I should just try to forget about that for a while. But still. Bloody hell. Grace Harrison, in my little shop. Bloody hell.
Chapter Five
Divas Don’t Knit
I’ve spent the past few days frantically knitting shawls, and being glared at by Annabel Morgan in the playground while assorted parents come over to ask me what Grace Harrison was really like, and did I get her autograph, and is it true that she’s got eight bathrooms inside her house, like I’m her new best friend and have all sorts of secret information to share: although if I was, the last thing I’d be doing would be blabbing about it to all and sundry, unless I wanted to set a new world record for being a former new best friend. It’s amazing what one minimoment with someone famous can do for you; the shop gets a mention in most of the papers, with pictures of Grace holding her carrier bags, and Elsie and Gran are both keeping copies in their handbags, ready to show people. But since there isn’t anyone within a five-mile radius who hasn’t already seen them, they’re having to make do with knitting leaves and making pom-poms for the new autumn window display, because Gran says we’ve got to keep our standards up now we’re famous.
