by Kris Webb
Andrew’s week wasn’t going any better. One of his biggest corporate clients had been taken over by an American company, and word had it that all ‘non-essential’ expenditure was to be reduced, or eliminated completely.
As a result, Saturday’s cafe session was a subdued affair. With the exception of the employment section, which both Andrew and Debbie had trawled through, the thick piles of newspapers remained unopened and the conversational tone veered from miserable to pathetic.
Only Karen, fuelled by a white chocolate muffin with double cream, and Anna, nursing a coffee, attempted to remain positive.
‘You can’t just give up!’ Anna insisted. ‘There must be something else you can look into – what about trying the baby wear shops?’
‘Good idea,’ Karen agreed. ‘At least you’d know for sure that you’re reaching the right market. I can’t imagine who would be in a baby wear shop other than people with babies.’
‘Friday,’ was all Debbie managed in response.
‘Friday?’ asked Anna, obviously sensing that she and Karen were fighting an uphill battle.
‘On Friday, I visited or rang every babywear store in Sydney. They’ll only take the books on consignment and even then I would have shifted a grand total of fifty. Not really enough to solve our problem,’ she added miserably.
Andrew looked up from his latte thoughtfully. ‘You know, I read an article a couple of weeks ago in BRW about a guy who had been backpacking around Asia and bought a whole heap of stuff home, thinking he could sell it for a quick profit to a retail chain. Similar sort of story, really. He couldn’t get anyone to stock it for him so he took over an empty shop and sold it himself. I think the article said he now has something like twenty outlets around the country and is making megabucks. His big thing is that he starts work at five in the morning and finishes by one, so that he can concentrate on the other stuff he’s doing. At the moment he’s raising money for some charity by running the London Marathon. Maybe he’s the kind of person you could talk to.’
‘So what’s the name of this guy’s business?’ I asked, thinking maybe we’d missed an opportunity.
‘Um . . . I can’t remember.’
‘It wasn’t House Arrest, was it?’ I said. ‘They sell all kinds of homewares and have a baby range. But if it was, we can forget about it. They have the scariest receptionist in Sydney, who wouldn’t even tell me the managing director’s name, much less put me through to him.’
‘I really can’t remember, but I should still have the magazine somewhere. I’ll check it out when I get home. It’s not like I’ll have anything else to do,’ he added gloomily.
‘Come on,’ I said, trying to remain positive even though it was the last thing I felt. ‘You don’t even know yet if your business will be affected. I thought Americans were all into proactive workplace programs. Max tells me his company has a permanent tab going at the bar across the road. They maintain it keeps up morale. Maybe the new company will think the same way.’
Andrew didn’t seem convinced, but Ben arrived with more coffees as I finished speaking. Max was a topic I always avoided around Ben, not wanting him to feel he had to take sides, and I was sorry now that I’d mentioned his name.
‘So what do you think of Max’s news?’ Ben asked.
The others looked at me inquiringly so I filled them in.
‘Max is going to live on a goat farm in the country?’ Andrew asked incredulously.
I smiled. ‘Not exactly. He’s done a deal with his company to work four days a week and he’ll spend the other day and most weekends out there. He’s really fired up about it all. He’s taken a couple of weeks holiday to sort everything out before he heads back to the States to pack.’
‘What do you think about it?’ Anna asked quietly.
I couldn’t be bothered being anything but honest. ‘I don’t know, really. He seems keen to see Sarah, which I guess is a good thing.’
‘C’mon, Sophie, don’t be modest. It’s not just Sarah he’s been showing an interest in,’ Debbie piped up. ‘I don’t think he bought Manchetti cheesecake for her benefit.’
Sometimes I wondered why I ever told Debbie anything. It would be more efficient to just cut out the middleman and take out an ad in the newspaper.
Anna looked at me intently. ‘Do you think Max wants to get back together?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I hedged. ‘He is Sarah’s father, after all, and it’s perfectly natural that he’d want to be around.’
My feelings about Max were still all over the place and I was reluctant to expose them, but these people were my good friends and they were obviously concerned. ‘We had some great times together but it was all over a long time ago and I’ve come to terms with that. I don’t know . . . I mean, he didn’t even call until Sarah was over two months old. I can’t suddenly flip a switch and pretend he didn’t let me down.’
Ben hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘I guess you never know what’s going on in someone else’s head, do you? At least you’re not seeing anyone else, so that’s one less complication.’
At this, Debbie looked gleeful and I glared at her, hoping for once she’d use a little tact and not tell everyone about David.
‘Enough about my relationships,’ I said briskly before temptation overpowered Debbie’s very limited discretion. ‘We haven’t had a man paraded past us for ages. Don’t tell me the amazing Debbie has hit a flat spot?’
Now it was Debbie’s turn to shift uncomfortably. ‘It’s not a flat spot,’ she said. ‘I’m just taking it easy.’
Having known Debbie since primary school, I knew that where men were concerned ‘taking it easy’ wasn’t a concept she understood.
‘And another thing,’ I continued, warming to my ‘attack is the best form of defence’ tactic. ‘I could swear that I’ve seen you wearing that shirt before. Would I be right in thinking that was part of last year’s Donna Karan summer collection?’
Debbie squirmed again. ‘Well, yes . . .’ she admitted. ‘But it’s really comfortable and it seemed silly to give it away when it still looks as good as new.’
Everyone’s eyes widened at this statement. At the end of each season, Debbie ritually bundled up the clothes she’d worn for the previous few months and dropped them into the St Vincent de Paul shop around the corner from her flat, which I was convinced existed solely on her donations. Six months ago she would have regarded any suggestion that she wear a shirt for two seasons in a row as akin to heresy.
There was definitely something different about Debbie these days. Quitting her job and focusing her energies on something she wanted to do had changed her, and maybe she didn’t feel she needed constant male company and up-to-the-minute clothes any more.
But not even the topic of Debbie’s love life and fashion choices, and a fresh injection of caffeine, could raise the spirits of the gathering. After desultorily staring into our coffees for another ten minutes, we paid the bill and headed our separate ways, Karen looking as though she was more than happy to be leaving our suicidal ranks for the infectious happiness of her children.
The following Monday night, Debbie called an emergency business meeting at my place. Fortified by takeaway Turkish pizza and a bottle of red wine we tried to look at the situation dispassionately.
‘So basically we’re in deep shit,’ Debbie summarised. ‘We have four thousand books which we’re going to have to pay for before they’re shipped on Saturday, designer bills for the pages that aren’t even printed yet, and nowhere to sell them.’
‘And I’ve got nowhere to leave Sarah when I go back to work,’ I added flatly.
At about three that morning I’d finally faced the fact that as no one seemed willing to leap in to fill Handley Smith’s shoes, I was going to have to go back to work very soon. My boss was delighted when I called him with the news, which had at least given my ego a much-needed boost.
However, my next call was to the local childcare centre, whose administrator calmly inform
ed me that their waiting list was currently twelve months long. A series of panicked calls to other centres in an increasing radius from my house hadn’t found anywhere with a waiting list of less than four months.
Unless I could somehow do a deal with my boss to work from home, I was going to have to try to find a private child minder until a place in a childcare centre came up. Between those costs and the interest on my credit card, I figured I’d be lucky to have enough money for Saturday coffees.
I tried to find something positive to say about the situation, but failed. ‘If we could just move some of the books, at least we’d be able to cover our costs and be back to where we started before we came up with this ridiculous idea.’
‘By the way,’ Debbie said, ‘Andrew gave me that article he was talking about in BRW. The chain of stores he was talking about is House Arrest. The guy’s name’s Peter Davies apparently.’
‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed. ‘I called them again today, just on the off-chance I’d get someone other than the nasty receptionist. No such luck. She is obviously under strict instructions not to put anyone selling things through. She just told me to put it in writing and they’d get back to us within six to eight weeks. We’ll have starved to death by then.’
‘Talk about forgetting his roots,’ Debbie scowled. ‘You’d think that if he really did open his own shop because he couldn’t get any retailers to talk to him, he’d have a bit more sympathy for other people starting out.’
The way Debbie was slugging back the wine showed how disheartened she was. At this point I wished I could join her and get outrageously drunk. The way things were going, I probably wouldn’t even be able to afford to do it once I’d weaned Sarah. Now that was a cheering thought.
Debbie spoke again. ‘Maybe he doesn’t know that the receptionist is such a Rottweiler. What about if we try to contact him directly? We must be able to find out where he lives.
‘Hold on,’ she said suddenly. ‘Remember Victor? He’d be able to give us this guy’s home address – even if he isn’t listed.’
Victor was an undercover detective Debbie had seen for about three weeks last summer. I had always had my doubts about him, but when he got horribly drunk one day in a Bondi hotel beer garden and started boasting to anyone in earshot that the police rules didn’t apply to him, even Debbie knew it was time to move on.
‘Well, Deb,’ I said, ‘there are a couple of things wrong with that plan. One is that Victor is a psychopath and it was a miracle he didn’t plant some evidence in our flat so that his team could raid us in the middle of the night for kicks.’ I looked at her meaningfully until she nodded reluctantly. ‘And the second thing is that it’s illegal.’
‘All right, all right. It was just a thought.’
We sat in silence for a while.
‘This might seem like a bad idea . . .’ I began. ‘But if this guy really does start work at five a.m., maybe that’s when we should call him. Surely the Rottweiler couldn’t be there then?’
‘Well anything’s worth a try,’ Debbie said. ‘Better still, maybe we should actually go to his office and show him the mock-ups? The article said that this guy refuses to pay city rents and so their head office is in some little building in Kingsgrove. It’s not like we’ll have to get through security.’
‘You think so? Wouldn’t that have the opposite effect and irritate him?’
‘Maybe. But at least he’d remember us.’
‘I guess . . .’ I said doubtfully.
‘Look,’ Debbie interrupted, ‘we’ve both got our life’s savings riding on this. I’m not going to let it all go just because we don’t want to be rude. What have we got to lose except some dignity?’
‘All right,’ I surrendered, knowing better than to try to oppose Debbie when she’d made up her mind about something. ‘When do you want to do it?’
Suddenly Debbie was very efficient, and at least moderately sober. ‘Okay, here’s the plan. Five o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll meet here. You bring all the samples, I’ll bring all the paperwork.’
‘What about Sarah?’
I couldn’t help but notice my friends had a tendency to assume Sarah would be fine left in her cot with a TV remote control and a packet of chips.
‘Um . . . Well, let’s bring her. She proves we’ve really done our market research. Plus she’s very cute. No one could be mean to her.’
TWENTY-FOUR
When the alarm went off the next morning, I couldn’t believe I’d actually let Debbie talk me into this.
Swearing, I dragged myself out of my warm bed. I’d fed Sarah an hour and a half ago, and thoughts of leaving her with a stranger so I could go back to work to pay off a huge credit-card debt had kept me awake ever since.
Feeling rather like a criminal, I had a sudden desire to don a black catsuit and balaclava. Instead, I pulled on the black trousers, boots and grey knitted polo-neck I’d left out the night before having spent fifteen minutes pondering the dress code for an early morning gatecrashing of a successful businessman.
After all these months, I had come to the conclusion that there was only one unbreakable rule of motherhood. Never, ever wake a sleeping baby. As I looked at Sarah peacefully asleep in her cot I almost decided to call Debbie and cancel this ridiculous escapade.
The situation was desperate, I reminded myself, and once I was ready, I reluctantly picked Sarah up and carried her out to the car. She stirred and let out a cry as I gently lowered her into the capsule. I froze and thankfully she settled back to sleep.
What on earth was I doing? Much as Debbie protested that we were just being assertive, what we were about to do was pretty close to stalking. By the time Debbie pulled up, looking even less thrilled about the situation than I did, I had decided to call the whole thing off. One look at her set face, however, and I knew there was no getting out of it now.
‘This had better bloody work,’ she grumbled as she bundled herself into my car.
There were some faint fingerprints of light creeping across the sky as we pulled up outside a building sporting the House Arrest logo. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when I saw the top floor was lit.
‘Well, at least it looks like someone is here,’ I commented.
Debbie didn’t even respond and I looked at her. Her gaze was fixed firmly on a bakery three shops down. Lights were on in there as well and I could detect the unmistakable smell of coffee and hot bread drifting through the cold air.
‘Wait here,’ she ordered and disappeared into the darkness.
Less than five minutes later she returned bearing half a dozen coffees and a bag full of warm bagels and croissants. It smelt wonderful, but I wasn’t in the mood for a picnic.
‘Deb, we hardly have time to stop for breakfast. Let’s just go inside, get humiliated and leave. We can eat after that.’
‘Sophie, have a little faith. I have a plan. There are very few human beings in the world who can resist the smell of coffee and fresh bread, particularly at this indecent hour. At least if we come bearing gifts, he might hesitate before he throws us down the stairs.’
In the absence of any better plan, I agreed with her.
Thankfully the door at the bottom of the building wasn’t locked, so, laden down with our provisions, samples and Sarah, who by some miracle had stayed blissfully asleep during her transfer to the baby sling, we trudged up two flights of stairs. I couldn’t help but think that Peter Davies might not be so cavalier about his security after this morning.
Putting the bakery supplies on the reception counter, Debbie hesitated and then rang a buzzer attached to a sign saying ‘Please ring if desk unattended’.
There was a rustle from behind a partition and then a face appeared around the corner. ‘Hello?’
Feeling particularly silly, I stood frozen to the spot, but Debbie stepped forward. ‘Peter Davies?’
The face nodded suspiciously – clearly he was not used to unannounced visits at this hour.
‘
Mr Davies, my name is Debbie Campbell and this is my colleague Sophie Anderson. We have a product we believe would work really well in your stores and we’d like to show it to you.’
Obviously deciding that we weren’t axe murderers, the man stepped forward. He was about fifty, with the lean, wiry body of a long-distance runner. He didn’t look pleased by the interruption.
‘And you decided that,’ he checked his watch, ‘five-thirty in the morning was the best time to catch me in a good mood?’
I almost turned and ran out the door, but Debbie stood her ground. ‘No, Mr Davies, I don’t believe five-thirty is a good time for anybody. We came this morning because we really believe our product should be in your stores, but we can’t get past your receptionist during conventional hours.’
His expression changed slightly. ‘Susan does have a tendency to be overly protective,’ he admitted. ‘But,’ his face became stern again, ‘that doesn’t give you the right to just waltz in here whenever you like. How did you know I would be here, anyway?’
I thought it was probably time I gave Debbie a hand. ‘We saw the article in BRW. It said you started work early. And,’ I added, as he didn’t respond, ‘we brought you some coffee and bagels.’
He hesitated. For a moment I was certain he was going to tell us to leave, but then his gaze rested on Sarah. ‘All right, you’d better come in. And call me Peter. Mr Davies is too formal for this time of the morning.’
It wasn’t exactly a warm invitation, but at least he hadn’t kicked us out. We followed him to his office, which was surprisingly small, and covered with posters promoting the London Marathon. Debbie and I exchanged glances. This guy made Andrew look unmotivated.
‘I didn’t know what kind of coffee you drink, so I bought every kind I could think of,’ Debbie began, pushing the tray towards him. ‘Take your pick.’
As he selected a flat white, I pulled our samples out of my bag. I figured we had less time than it took to drink a coffee in order to convince him. To add to the pressure, I could see Sarah starting to stir.
