by Lilian Peake
She nodded. “These clothes are all on the expensive side, Mr. Pascall. In this price range you would expect the turnover to be slower than on stock which appeals to the middle to lower income bracket. Perhaps Miss Grierson, being a model and accustomed to costly things—”
”Catered for her own tastes? You’re wrong, Miss Stuart.” Now he spoke sharply. “This store has a name for quality, a name it prizes. She was merely observing the established policy of the firm, which is what I shall expect you to do.” Should she tell him of her idea to introduce a cheaper range of summer wear as an experiment? She studied his face as a few moments earlier he had studied hers. He seemed a little impatient of her scrutiny, No, in his present edgy mood, if she did so he would probably refuse to allow her to do such a thing. So she kept her ideas to herself.
“Miss Grierson,” Ewan went on, “was an experienced saleswoman as well as an expert buyer. Her sales figures were excellent despite the high price of the goods she sold. Although you, by comparison, are relatively inexperienced, I shall expect you to learn quickly. I admire—and require—high achievement in the buyers I employ in this store. So take warning, although I said I would make allowances in the initial stages, don’t expect me to have limitless patience where your progress and success in your job is concerned. I can’t allow you too much time before your standards, both of buying and selling, are equal to hers.”
He strode away from the fashion department towards the swing doors. As Gayle watched him she thought about his final words. They sounded so much like an ultimatum they frightened her.
CHAPTER THREE
Gayle told her father that evening about her intention to introduce a less expensive line of dresses into the department.
The fire burned in the grate, warming them both. They sat on opposite sides of the hearth, Herbert in his favourite wing chair, Gayle on a fireside chair, leaving the other armchair free for Rhoda when she came in.
Gayle had often wondered how her father would react if one day his kindly, warm-hearted neighbour did not appear. Would he notice her absence? Was she, in his eyes, as much a part of the house as the rather dull paper on the walls? As long as his basic needs were catered for by his devoted daughter, would he ever feel again the need for the companionship of a woman of his own age and with whom one day he might share his life?
Gayle felt sorry for Rhoda. There was Mel, of course, her steady, rather studious son to keep her company. But what would happen when Mel married? Gayle corrected herself quickly, when Mel and I are married? Would Rhoda continue to live alone, with Herbert, of whom she was so fond, also living alone, next door?
Herbert was saying, “Have you got the boss’s permission, love?”
Gayle shook her head. “I nearly mentioned it this afternoon, but—well, he seemed in an odd mood, so I didn’t dare.”
Her father smoothed back his hair thoughtfully. “You’ll have to, before you take any action. I doubt if it’s a step you should take on your own. It’s against store policy to start with.”
“So Mr. Pascall said. ‘Quality is the watchword for Pascall and Son.’ “ She intoned the words as if they were a solemn oath. “And, as far as I could gather, whoever goes against store policy is out. True?”
Herbert nodded. “Mr. Pascall never has been one to stay his hand when it comes to throwing out employees who refuse to toe the line.”
“Nice man,” she said sarcastically.
“Oh, he’s pleasant enough, handled properly. He’s been good to me. Personally,” he heaved himself into a more comfortable position, “I like him.”
“Well, I don’t. Every time he comes near me, I—well I prickle!”
Her father looked at her sharply. “You should be grateful to him. He’s been good to you, what with promoting you and giving you all that responsibility, although you’ve had precious little experience in that particular field.”
Gayle lifted a shoulder. “It remains to be seen how long his ‘goodness’ lasts. He gave me a sort of ultimatum today. He hinted that my ‘honeymoon period’ in the job would be short-lived and that if I didn’t come up to his standards within a certain unspecified but short time, I’d be looking for another job.”
Herbert gazed into the fire. “Your predecessor was good, no doubt about that. You’ve got a lot to live up to.”
Gayle laughed uncomfortably. “I’ve got an over-large inferiority complex as it is, Dad. Don’t make it worse!”
Rhoda came in. “Mel’s working. He says will you excuse him tonight, dear?”
Gayle went into the kitchen to make some tea, feeling oddly relieved that she wouldn’t be seeing Mel. She had a lot to think about—Mr. Ewan Pascall, his impossibly high standards and what would happen to her, and her job, if she failed to rise to them.
“There’s something wrong,” Gayle said to Mrs. Carrington next morning. “It’s too quiet.”
“Perhaps it’s because it’s early, dear,” Mrs. Carrington soothed.
“I don’t think it’s that. There’s a feeling...” Gayle gazed around. “Look over there. Coats are busy, so are Co-ordinates. And remember I worked in this section under Miss Grierson. We even had a junior assistant, although she left a couple of weeks ago. We were much busier than this.”
“You mean you were rushed off your feet?”
“I wasn’t. The customers usually insisted on Miss Grierson serving them. She had her ‘pets’. She told me she had to deal with these people herself because she went out of her way to get them exactly what they wanted.”
“You mean like the dress she got the boss’s mother?”
Gayle nodded. “She ordered model gowns from London and sold them to her ‘specials’ without putting the clothes on the racks. She was always boasting about the high profits she made and how pleased with her her fiancé was.”
“Small wonder, if that’s the sort of thing she did,” Mrs. Carrington commented scathingly.
The sales representative was on time for his appointment. His manner was persuasive, his height short, his well-filled outline making up for what he lacked in stature.
“Mr. Archibald.” He held out his hand.
Gayle said, taking it, “I’m Gayle Stuart.”
“My catalogue, Miss Stuart. Late summer and early autumn models.”
“But, Mr. Archibald,” Gayle indicated the fashion department through the doorway of her office, “out there I’ve got racks of winter dresses.”
The representative shook his head. “Give up trying. It’s too late now. Customers are looking for the spring fashions. You’ll have to mark those down. You’ll make a loss, you know that?”
Gayle sighed. “Only too well.”
“Well, take my advice, have an end-of-winter sale now, while there’s still a chill wind outside. Get the marked down dresses into the window at once, otherwise you might as well give the lot to a rummage sale!”
He laughed, but Gayle could not laugh with him. She asked, “I know your merchandise is mostly on the expensive side, but do you manufacture a cheaper line?”
“We don’t, but I know of a firm that does. Why?”
“I’m interested, Mr. Archibald.”
“New store policy, eh? That’ll cause a stir.”
Gayle coloured slightly. “Not exactly, but—well, I just thought I’d try an experiment.”
He shrugged. “It’s your department, dear. Name of the firm in question is ‘Goodbuy.’ They do a line called ‘Goodlookers.’ Phone the sales rep, if you’re sure you’re interested.” He consulted his diary and wrote a line of numbers on Gayle’s blotter. “Their stuff is a good deal cheaper than ours. Quality-wise,” he made a face and shook his head. “Now,” he pushed a catalogue towards Gayle, “your autumn stock. Take your pick.” Gayle turned the pages, exclaiming at the prices. But Mr. Archibald said, “They may look expensive to you now, but in a few months the prices will rocket. ‘Buy now, cheer later’, that’s what I tell all the store buyers.”
“What’s the use,” Gayl
e asked ruefully, “if the goods just stay on the racks?”
“Going through a bad period,” he said soothingly. “The winter was cold, so all the ladies opted for suits instead of dresses. You’ll find that as you go along. In the spring and summer you’ll order tweeds and furs. Come the winter, it’ll be as mild as a spring day. But if you take a chance on a mild winter and stock up with dresses, it’ll be a freezer like this one was, and you’ll have had it. Buyers can be thrown out of their jobs simply through bad luck. Or it could be the economic situation that stops people buying; or a sudden change in public taste. It might be a particular colour the public doesn’t go for and you thought they would. So you’re left with the goods on your hands. Wrong fashion forecasting’s caused a lot of buyers’ heads to roll.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Archibald, but—well, could I think about it?”
He nodded and gathered his belongings. “Don’t leave it too long, though. Prices go up these days even as you stand and look at them. All the stuff we’re selling now will seem cheap to you in a year’s time, mark my words.”
He picked up his briefcase.
“I’ll contact that representative,” Gayle said, pointing to the numbers he had written down.
“You’ll have Madam Carla on you like a ton of bricks if she ever comes back. All for quality, she was.” He held out his hand. “Don’t forget, get going on that stock out there. Slash the stuff to half price if only to get it out of the way.”
The display department allocated a window for the marked-down dresses. “You can have it in a couple of days,” one of the display staff told her. “Let’s say Monday, shall we?”
Next day Mrs. Anastasia Pascall paid the fashion department another visit. She swept across the carpeted floor, walked uninvited into Gale’s small office and without a word of greeting, said, “I want a day dress, Miss Stuart.” She took from her shopping bag a glossy magazine, flicked through the pages and showed Gayle a photograph. “This is the one I want.” It was the product of a famous fashion designer.
As Gayle rose from her chair, she tried to remember her customer’s son’s words of advice. ‘Don’t be browbeaten,’ he had said. ‘You don’t salaam, you soothe. Pacify, don’t cringe.’ She took a breath. “I agree, Mrs. Pascall, it’s a beautiful dress and—and I admire your taste, but—” another breath, much-needed, “but, Mrs. Pascall, this,” indicating the photograph, “is not an advertisement. It’s a picture of an exclusive design. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible for me to get it for you. I’m really sorry, but—”
”And why not?” her distinguished customer snapped. “Carla would have done. She would have picked up the phone and said, ‘I want that dress’.”
“But, Mrs. Pascall,” Gayle tried again, “that dress is not obtainable in this country. The designer is Italian. He—”
”That would not have stopped Carla. She used to telephone all over the world if necessary to get me something I really wanted. In the circumstances, and knowing it was for me, my son did not object to paying for the calls.”
Gayle could only shake her head, secretly congratulating herself on her simulated calm. “Miss Grierson had so many contacts. She was—is—famous model. She knew hundreds of people in the fashion world, whereas I—”
”Know no one. Good heavens,” she picked up her handbag and gloves, “I cannot see why my son gave you this job. I simply cannot deal with you. When I think how Carla used to put herself out to please me—and not only me, Miss Stuart, other customers, too, other wealthy customers who would not touch this—stuff,” she looked round disparagingly, “which you have on your racks...” She turned away. “I shall see my son. I don’t know what I’m going to do about my clothes now Carla has gone. There will be many people disappointed, Miss Stuart, many md valued customers...” Her voice faded into the distance as she walked across the fashion floor towards the escalator.
Gayle looked hopelessly at Mrs. Carrington. “What can I do with her?”
“It’s not your fault, Miss Stuart. It was Miss Grierson’s fault for carrying on like she did, doing people favours—and no doubt doing well out of it herself, too.”
All day Gayle waited for the call summoning her to the owner’s office. It did not come. In the end, when she could not stand the strain any longer, she phoned the owner.
“Yes,” Miss Potter said, “he’s still here and he’s available. I’ll put you through.”
There was a weary, “Yes, Miss Stuart?” from the other end.
“Mr. Pascall, I’m sorry to trouble you when you’re so tired—”
”Who said I’m tired?”
“Well, you—you sound tired, Mr. Pascall.” There was a short, taut silence. “Mr. Pascall?”
“I’m still here, Miss Stuart.” The voice was back to normal, brisk, businesslike, incisive.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your mother, Mr. Pascall. I’m sorry I had to disappoint her, but there was nothing I could do. Your fiancée knew so many people, she just had to lift up the phone and—”
”Spare me the explanations, Miss Stuart. I’m only just recovering from my mother’s onslaught. It may please you to know that she advised me to fire you on the spot.” Well, Gayle thought, was it coming? Was she out of a job? “Aren’t you going to ask me whether I’m taking my mother’s advice, Miss Stuart?” There seemed to be a smile in his voice.
Gayle sighed. “Don’t bother to fire me, Mr. Pascall. I’ll resign.”
“Miss Stuart! Are you still there?” Gayle murmured incoherently. “Don’t worry,” Ewan said, “I never accept advice from a relative, neither where business is concerned, nor in my private life. So take heart, you’re still on the firm’s payroll.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pascall.”
“Don’t mention it, Miss Stuart.”
“Mr. Pascall? There’s—there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
“That sounds interesting. Business—or personal?”
“Business, of course,” she replied fiercely, and he laughed. “You disappoint me, Miss Stuart. Er—” There was a pause. “It’s late. In two minutes the store closes. In fifteen the store should be empty of customers. You told me when we began this conversation that I sounded tired. I am, of my own company. Is this ‘something’ you want to ask me about askable over candlelight and a table for two?”
There was an alarming pause in her heartbeats. “Are you—are you inviting me to dine with you, Mr. Pascall?”
“I am, Miss Stuart. Is there a law against it?”
“Of course not, but—well—”
”Protocol? Owners of department stores don’t usually invite their employees to dine with them? But you’re wrong, Miss Stuart. Buyers are not ordinary employees. They are a cut above the rank and file. I occasionally take my buyers, both male and female, out to dine so that I can get to know them, their ways, their potential, their plans, not to mention their weaknesses—and their faults. So will you dine with me, Miss Stuart?”
“Tonight? Well, I was going out with—”
”With, Miss Stuart?” The voice was edged.
“With—” What was Mel? Her fiancé, her husband-to-be? “With my boy-friend, Mr. Pascall, but—”
”Then forget it.” Unbelievably, he rang off.
Frantically she dialled his number and found herself talking to his secretary. “Would you please put me through to Mr. Pascall again, Miss Potter?”
There was an inexplicable delay before the hesitant request was granted. When Ewan’s voice came through again it was brittle and off-putting. “You wanted me?” as though no conversation had taken place between them only a few minutes before. Had she dreamt that he had asked her to dine with him?
“I—I could put my boy-friend off, Mr. Pascall.”
A pause and Gayle thought, is he all set to humiliate me, to tell me he’s changed his mind?
“I said forget it, Miss Stuart. It’s not my practice to come between a woman and the man she loves.”
&
nbsp; “For heaven’s sake,” she burst out, irritated by his. stubborn attitude, “be reasonable. You’ve invited me to dine with you and I’m accepting. What more do you want me to do, get down on my metaphorical knees and beg you to take me?”
The silence followed made her regret her impetuosity. Why was it that, although normally a restrained person, this man always managed to stir up her aggressiveness and make it rise and float like tea-leaves on the surface? Her words tasted unpleasant in her mouth and she wished she could wipe them away.
“There’s no doubt,” came a murmur in her ear, “about that fighting spirit. All right, I’ll collect you at seven-thirty. That should give you ample time to inform your boy-friend that you’re being taken out by another man, to quarrel with said boy-friend and then to kiss and make up.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Pascall,” she answered with a touch of smugness. “My boy-friend’s not the jealous sort.”
“No? Then he damned well ought to be!” There the conversation ended.
Mel, breaking off his evening meal to talk to Gayle, accepted with equanimity the fact that she was dining with the boss of the firm. Is he so sure of me, Gayle wondered, that he doesn’t feel even the slightest twinge of anxiety? But it seemed to Mel that it was simply another aspect of her new job.
“You’ll talk shop from start to finish,” Mel warned.
“I know that, but what else is there to talk about? Apart from work we have nothing in common.”
“Never mind, love, it’ll only be for an hour or two.” He kissed her and she responded a little desperately because he represented the simple, ordinary things of life. No strain in being with Mel, no tension, no—excitement? The word pushed its way into her mind like someone jumping the queue. It had no right to be there, it should have gone to the back.
The dress she chose to wear was flower-patterned, well cut and touched the floor. It emphasised her youth and added a touch of appeal to the ever-present uncertainty which swam just below the surface of her grey eyes.
