The council needed a building to house some people and a few filing cabinets, so they could have built something plain and ordinary. Instead, they created this neo-gothic masterpiece oozing beauty and strength to tell the world they were a force to be reckoned with. You can either be splendid and noticed or ordinary and overlooked, it seems to say.
It’s a frosty November evening but the weather seems to complement the architecture. As we stroll through the cloisters admiring the stained-glass windows and world-renowned carvings, I give Charlie a little pinch.
‘Can you believe we’re here?’ I whisper.
He nods. ‘I can. We’ve come a long way this year.’
Rather than consuming us with fear of being ousted as fakes, this place does inspire a sense of belonging. The building was created by ordinary people doing their best and it’s now filled with local businesses trading their wares, making a living and building their legacies. The jobs they do might be a little different but the intoxicating buzz of enterprise remains the same, I imagine.
There are a lot of people patting each other on the back asserting a type of camaraderie and belonging. The scene isn’t very different to what I expected except there are more women than I’d thought; every group of four or so men seems to have a woman holding her own at the centre. Of course they’ve made far more of an effort to dress up; whereas some of the male entrepreneurs think badly pressed shirts or poorly fitting suits are just fine, there isn’t a woman here who hasn’t agonised over what she’s wearing. We may be making millions for the economy but we still care what others think.
It’s all very well standing on the sideline critiquing the crowd, but at least they’ve had the guts to socialise and I need to do the same. If I’d come along a few months ago when sales were very slow, I wouldn’t have had the courage to talk to people. Everyone will tell you ‘yeah, business is good’, but I’m no good at faking it, so I’m relieved that I can say those words with conviction now.
I make Charlie promise that he’ll stick by my side.
‘I don’t know how to mingle,’ I tell him.
‘Let’s just walk up to other people who look lost and introduce ourselves,’ he suggests.
And so it starts. ‘Hello there, we’re from Mercury Travel and it’s our first time here. What about you?’
The lost people are very glad to have someone make the first move and soon we’ve created a newcomers sub-set who busily introduce themselves to each other.
I meet the owner of the hairdressing salons responsible for my original transformation. He tells me that I look fantastic, although in fairness, he has to say that if the person responsible for it was trained by him. I also meet a specialist baker who tells me that her cakes are far superior to Amanda’s and a marketing guru who assures me she can grow my business exponentially.
I express interest in what they have to say and am awarded with business cards. The currency here seems to be business cards: the more you manage to give away, the more successful you’re likely to be, or something like that. I’ve collected many but given away few.
Charlie calls me over to meet a guy who runs a law firm and is interested in us pitching for his company’s annual overseas conference, so I finally get to hand someone a business card. In the background, I hear a Spanish accent and make a beeline for the speaker. They run a language and cultural centre, perfect for another business-card giveaway. This is quite easy now that I’ve picked up momentum. I make my way into one of the cliques and adopt the persona of Patty. I have a little flirt, tell them who I am and give away half a dozen cards. If I’ve got the laws of networking correct, we should be multi-millionaires by next year.
No one here seems to have entered the business awards – or at least no one confesses to it. They all tell me that awards are ‘too much work’ or ‘not worth anything in the real world’. It could be that they did enter but weren’t shortlisted or it could be that they’re not as needy as I am. I disagree with them.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘if I were an actress, I’d want an Oscar. If I were an athlete, I’d want a gold medal.’
There are a couple who agree with me but more who tell me that the local entrepreneur awards are hardly the Olympics. I don’t care, I’ve always loved a gong; from getting my first badge at Brownies to Zoe’s bronze for swimming, I’m proud of them all. I think I even put my MOT certificate on the fridge door once. Well, passing that was quite an achievement with my old banger.
The keynote speaker moves to the podium and the room settles to listen to him. The speech begins with some statistics about the growth of enterprise within the region since the recession and the need to stick together to sustain that growth. Most businesses fail within three years he tells us, and there are knowing nods around the room.
Stepping back and looking at the crowd, I’m struck by their age. It hadn’t hit me before this but most of these people look like me. The speaker later tells us that over two million businesses in the UK are run by the over-fifties while at the other end of the spectrum, running your own business is also one of the top career choices of the under-twenty-fives. Both age groups face age discrimination at work, are at higher risk of redundancy and quite frankly don’t see why they should answer to anyone else.
The speaker ends by encouraging everyone to speak to someone new, to make a commitment to helping that person in some way. I guess I could have my hair done again.
I approach some of the younger people and having spoken to them, I can picture them living in one of those loft apartments – they belong there. They’re more confident than the oldies and talk with the passion and conviction I hear from Zoe all the time; it’s not bluster, it’s conviction. I wonder when we lose that self-belief. Perhaps some people aren’t born with huge reserves, but I doubt that.
The businesses oldies and youngsters have quite different approaches. We oldies are more traditional and we swap cards with ‘Managing Director’ or ‘Partner’ written on them. Our counterparts hand us cards hailing such professions as ‘Ink Artist’, ‘Skate Beast’ or ‘Pooch Pack Leader’.
The owner of ‘Heels on Wheels’ introduces herself; she runs a mobile pedicure business, which I imagine is quite useful for people. I always fear that I’m going to ruin any work done by shoving my huge feet back into my trainers after I’ve made the rare visit to have them beautified. There’s the added bonus that no one else can either stare at or be horrified by the unkempt nails and bunions. Patty always tells me that I have feet like a Hobbit – still, what are friends for?
‘How can I help your business?’ I ask and she asks me to email my customers just prior to going on holiday and in return she’ll give them a discount and recommend Mercury to her customers.
We shake hands on the deal, then say goodbye and I step out into the fresh air to wait for Charlie. I recognise one of my fellow networkers and wish him a good evening.
‘I liked what you said about the business awards,’ he says, ‘and I wish you luck, they should go to people who care.’
I thank him and imagine my desperation to win must be written all over my face.
Charlie sneaks up on me and links arms.
‘Look at you Miss “I don’t know how to mingle”,’ he says. ‘Who was he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, ‘but he seemed very nice.’
Welcome Back
There are times in your life when you welcome the peace and quiet of your own industry and then there are times when you crave something a little more salacious.
After several weeks being sensible Ms Shepherd, I long for my partner in crime and the re-emergence of Bo Peep.
‘Ta-dah! Did you miss me?’ Patty bursts into the shop scaring several customers, but I rush up to greet her.
‘How on earth did you do that? I was just thinking about you,’ I say hugging her to death.
Life at sea is suiting her; she looks tanned and relaxed and, well, taller. It’s one of those strange facts of life that when peopl
e are doing exactly what they should be doing, they grow a couple of inches, or at least they seem to.
‘You look fabulous,’ I tell her as she does a twirl for me.
‘I always did,’ she replies. She hasn’t become more modest then.
‘Tonight, my place, bring wine and I will tell you all,’ she promises blowing kisses to Charlie and vanishing as quickly as she appeared.
Only the puff of smoke and swirl of the cape were missing.
Buoyed by the evening of gossip that lies ahead, I get on with the business of selling holidays. I make an appointment with Heels on Wheels for myself and Josie, just to make sure that we’re happy to recommend them, and make sure that everything is in place for the New York trip next week. It doesn’t seem two minutes ago that we were in our BIN session inventing this trip. The Big Apple around Christmas is a bucket list trip for many people. Buoyed by the movie scenes of people skating in Central Park and Miracle on 34th Street, it holds an allure that other cities just can’t match. I’m probably looking forward to spending time with Patty more than anything; I miss her more than I’d ever confess.
The business day over, I stop at the off-licence and get two bottles of wine, having never known a Patty and me session stopping at one. I wonder if the doctor did turn out to be the one prophesied by mystical Cleo.
Patty greets me with a bottle of perfume in hand.
‘Come in, Bo,’ she says, ‘I’m fumigating the house.’
‘With Chanel?’ I ask.
‘Whatever I spray into the air will ultimately land on me,’ she explains. ‘I’d rather not smell of pine forest.’
‘Good point,’ I reply sniffing at my jacket, which should smell of Ocean Breeze if her theory is correct. It doesn’t.
‘The house smelled unloved and unlived in,’ she explains. ‘The neighbour kept a look out and dealt with the mail, but it’s not the same as being here every day.’
‘I never thought...’ I feel guilty now. ‘I could have popped by, but the time has flown – or at least it had until this week when I realised I was dying for you to come back. It is so good to see you again. How was it? Come on spill.’
She makes me wait while she pours a glass of wine and makes herself comfortable.
‘Brilliant, there’s just no other word for it.’
She pauses as if reflecting on the memories.
‘I know how you feel now when you’re arranging all of the holidays and looking at new opportunities to build the business. You’ve found the thing you’re good at.’
‘I think I have,’ I say.
‘And although loads of people would say this is a ridiculous thing to be good at, I’m starting to think that my calling is to make people laugh,’ adds Patty.
‘Joan Rivers did rather well from it,’ I say.
‘I was compère every evening pre-dinner,’ she starts explaining. ‘I hosted the karaoke competition then one night I had an idea to turn it into a version of Popstars. I told the audience that my fellow Granny-Okes had to go in for hip replacements and that I was looking for new band members. I got the singers to audition for a place in my supergroup and the audience voted for who they wanted to see in the finale.’
‘Sounds great fun,’ I say.
‘It was, we had some good singers but also some atrocious ones who just liked dressing up. The audience loved it and kept voting them in.’
We’re through the first glass so I top us up and get the olives out to make sure we get one of our prescribed five-a-day. I presume olives count.
‘I dressed the winners up in Granny-Oke wigs and cardigans and we closed with “Like A Virgin”. That seemed to work best with the non-singers, although every night I had to pretend I hadn’t seen a septuagenarian thrusting away in a purple wig before. Men don’t half love dressing up.’
She takes another glug.
‘I tell you, they loved me. Do you realise that some people thought I was a man in drag?’
I shrug, not confessing that I’d heard it too.
‘Quite a compliment I suppose; men in drag always have better legs.’ Patty examines her own as she says this.
‘Home must feel quite sedate after all that excitement,’ I say.
‘Every entertainer needs a period of resting after a major gig. Oh you’ll love this. One of the tribute band members was telling me that Brighton is so full of lovelies that “resting” is an official employment status on the benefit-office forms; you couldn’t make it up.’
‘Anything else to report? Anything relevant to a certain psychic’s premonitions?’ I hint and Patty springs to life.
‘Of course, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask, how’s Alan?’
‘He’s fine, engaged to Amanda now. He did me the courtesy of dropping down on one knee, without warning, in front of all my friends – old and new.’
‘He always was considerate.’
‘But what has that got to do with the psychic?’ I ask.
‘A row with someone that you don’t get on with – your ex,’ says Patty. ‘A dark moment – it was night-time – and an illness, the heart attack. It was all there. Now he’s recovered she was right about it ending well too, provided you’re well and truly over him that is.’
‘I am,’ I say reconciling all she’s said.
‘Engaged, eh? So what else has happened?’ asks Patty.
‘Zoe has a man. He’s forty so I’ve warned her to keep him away from you.’
She flicks her head back dramatically.
‘No need to worry,’ she declares, ‘I am now spoken for.’
I fill both our glasses and get the next bottle out.
‘Now we’re getting there. Spill,’ I instruct.
‘Well, I was a bit nervous when you all left and I was the last Granny standing,’ she says. ‘I’d planned to keep a low profile: do yoga, eat healthily and preserve the voice like a professional.’
‘I can’t imagine that happening,’ I say. ‘Go on.’
‘Simplee Rouge didn’t work out as I’d hoped,’ she continues.
‘I was trying to get into it but they weren’t very good and the one who played Mick had no charisma. I was convinced that Cleo had it all wrong. Then on the third week, we got the line-up through and there he was, Rock Astley. After everything Cleo said, I was sure that this had to be it and I couldn’t very well let my destiny pass me by.’
‘Something tells me this doesn’t end well,’ I say.
‘Oh it does, but not how I expected. I got all dressed up and went to the gig. I went up to the balcony and was watching quietly from the back, being all nonchalant.’
‘Again – that’s hard to imagine. So what happened?’
‘I only knew one of his songs and he played that at the end, “Never Gonna Give You Up”; you know it. I got quite into it and started dancing along with some of his fans, the Rick-Rollers, they’re called.
‘In the chorus we had a little dance routine. We reach to the sky, then to the ground and finally do a big twirl.’
She gets up to demonstrate these moves.
‘Simple enough, but it was quite good fun and then when he finished the Rollers made a rush for the bar where he was signing autographs.’
‘Keep going,’ I say wondering where on earth this is going.
‘Well, all of my crimson scarves had wound themselves around the railings when I was twirling, hadn’t they? When I ran with the crowd, I damn near garrotted myself and when I yanked them free I didn’t know my own strength and went flying down the steps backwards. They all just ran past me. I tell you, never rely on a Rick-Roller for help when you’re ill; they certainly do “give you up” and at the very first sign of trouble. I ended up in the sick bay.’
‘Finally we get there,’ I murmur. I urge her to continue.
‘I had a sprained wrist and bruised coccyx. I was under the doctor all week after that, literally,’ she taunts.
‘I knew it,’ I exclaim, ‘I knew you’d get the doctor.’
‘Oh Bo, he
’s just wonderful. What he doesn’t know about a woman’s body...’
‘He should probably do some training for,’ I suggest.
‘So Cleo might have been right for you, but she was way out for me,’ says Patty.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘listening to redhead Rock Astley, killing yourself with red scarves – without them you wouldn’t have met him.’
‘It’s a bit vague, I might have worn a blue scarf that night.’
‘No chance, you haven’t worn any other colour for months. Besides which, there was this.’ I pull out my phone and show her the shot of them both bathed in red light.
‘I knew you’d end up with him as soon as I saw that,’ I say.
Patty gazes at the picture then hands me back the phone.
‘And you still let me sit through two weeks of gingers wailing?’ she laughs. ‘Thanks a bunch.’
It is so good to have her back.
‘What’s next then?’ I ask. ‘Is he on leave now?’
‘Yes, he’s divorced but has kids and grandkids that he’s gone to visit. I needed time to think anyway,’ replies Patty. ‘I mean, I haven’t been with a man for over four years – although naturally I haven’t been short of offers.’
‘Naturally,’ I reply.
‘And there’s something else I have to think about...’ She pauses and then says, ‘Bo, they’ve offered me a residency for the season.’
I am delighted for her but sad for me.
‘For how long?’ I ask.
‘The winter season around the Caribbean, so January to March; it’s the perfect time to get away from here and Dr Lurve would be on the same rota,’ she explains.
‘You really call him that?’
She nods and we giggle.
‘It’s a nineties cruise though, so I’ll have to learn some new material,’ she adds.
‘You can still do Madonna,’ I say.
‘Ooh yes, a bit of “Vogue”,’ Patty replies, doing the hand movements, ‘and I thought maybe some Britney.’
The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny! Page 23
