by Daisy James
‘Sound great. Count me in!’
Chapter Seventeen
A week later, having found no suitable jobs in the perfume industry, Gabbie sat down at her laptop and made a start on putting together a business plan. It was harder than she had initially thought, even after taking her own advice and adding a couple of drops of rosemary oil to a diffuser. After two hours, a headache threatened and so, against her better judgement, she succumbed to the temptation to google Jules Gasnier to see what he’d been up to recently, if there was any news on next season’s fragrance, and whether there was any mention of her departure for pastures new.
Of course, there was nothing. She hadn’t been important enough. That was how things were when you worked for a multinational company – she was just a small cog in a huge machine. Whereas, here, in Devon, at Andrews Autos, she was an integral part of the business and, now she was home for good, a significant member of the village community – including its book group! She had been back six weeks and already she had made new friends and created lots of interesting connections, not to mention a potential relationship on the horizon, a thought that filled her with a sudden splash of excitement.
She forced herself to finish the first draft of her business plan, promised she would revisit it before their appointment with the bank, snapped the lid of her laptop shut, and leaned back in her chair, massaging her neck to alleviate the accumulated stiffness. After a few minutes of glorious peace, Wil’s voice floated through the connecting door, loud and clear above the jangle of the radio.
‘Can I persuade you to come with me and Max for a drink at The Pear Tree, Gabbie?’
She checked her watch. Gosh, was it six o’clock already? Where had the time gone?
‘Count me in!’
She rushed up to her bedroom to freshen up, brushed on a little blusher and mascara, and made her way to the village pub, its façade offering a cheery welcome to its thirsty patrons with old-fashioned lanterns spilling pools of amber light onto its front steps.
‘What can I get you?’ asked Max as he propped up the bar with Wil and Owen.
‘We’re having cocktails!’ interrupted Clara, appearing at Gabbie’s side to drag her off to the table next to the roaring log fire before she could order a glass of her favourite Merlot. ‘Here, what do you think of this?’
Gabbie stared at the lurid green sludge Clara handed her before taking a long sniff.
‘It’s not one of your luxury French perfumes, you know!’
‘Hey, none of my perfumes look like washing-up liquid!’ She took a tentative sip – it tasted exactly how it looked, except with a generous twist of lime and a soupcon of crushed mint. ‘Disgusting. If you don’t mind, I’ll stick with wine.’
‘I’ll get that!’ announced Felicity, wearing a wide smile as she approached their table next to the fireplace, her black curls as wild and untamed as ever. ‘It’s good to see you, Gabbie. I was actually going to pop over to the garage to see you tomorrow.’
‘You were?’
‘I just wanted to let you know Eddie passed his drama exam! With distinction, would you believe? I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help. I hadn’t realised about…’ Felicity cast a swift glance at Clara, uncertain whether she should continue. ‘Well, I didn’t know about the origins of the summerhouse and why it was there. I shouldn’t have barged in like that, asking for your help.’
‘Felicity, it’s okay…’
But Felicity was on a roll, clearly keen to push on with what sounded to Gabbie like a well-rehearsed speech.
‘Eddie’s been offered a place at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art and it’s all thanks to you, Gabbie, and what you did for a desperate mother in her time of need. I’m so grateful, so I… well, I hope you don’t mind, but well… here’s the evidence of my appreciation.’
Felicity handed Gabbie a flat, square package wrapped in recycled brown paper and decorated with what looked like potato stamps, all tied up with a piece of string that had been threaded with wooden beads.
‘What is it?’ asked Clara, leaning forward to get a closer look, her eyes shining.
Gabbie laughed. Clara had always loved presents and made a huge fuss about making sure every birthday and Christmas gift was wrapped in the most sparkly of paper and adorned with as many ribbons and bows as she could find, telling everyone that, if it was the thought that counted, a beautifully packaged gift meant the person thought the world of the lucky recipient.
‘Only one way to find out,’ suggested Max, arriving at the table with Owen, taking a sip of his pint with practised nonchalance, but Gabbie knew he was as curious about the contents as Clara was.
Felicity loitered, waiting for Gabbie to tear off the paper and discover what was inside. Gabbie picked it up, gently eased off the string, and slid her fingernail along the join, surprised to see a printout of an article from the local Devonshire Lifestyle magazine’s website.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but Eddie was asked to give an interview about securing a coveted place at LAMDA by one of his old school friends, Rachel Bardon, who’s an intern at Devonshire Lifestyle – and he happened to mention the summerhouse in your back garden. We, erm… we did call round to see you last week to ask if you had any objections to my taking a couple of photos to send to her for the piece. Wil said it would be okay and left me to it – the poor guy looked a bit stressed out actually. Anyway, I thought you’d like to have a copy when it was published. Everyone likes to see their name in lights, right?’
Felicity smiled and left them to their drinks.
‘Read it out! Read it out!’ squealed Clara, her cocktail abandoned as she jiggled in her seat, excitement bubbling to the surface, and only just managing not to snatch the sheet of paper from Gabbie’s hands so she could read it out herself.
With her heart hammering a melody of apprehension, Gabbie flicked her eyes quickly over the article that had been entitled ‘The Summerhouse of Happiness’ and was accompanied by a very flattering photograph of the cream-painted wooden cabin. The bunting around the eaves flapped in the breeze and on the veranda stood a very handsome Eddie, beaming into the camera, holding up an official-looking certificate which Gabbie assumed was the result of his drama exam because the word ‘Distinction’ had been highlighted in red.
Clara couldn’t contain herself any longer and snatched the paper from Gabbie’s hand, taking her time to read every word before turning back to her friend, eyes wide with elation.
‘Oh my God, Gabbie. You’re famous! What if Vogue or Elle get their hands on this story? Next stop will be a spot on This Morning, maybe even a place in the jungle or the Big Brother house!’
‘Oh, shut up, Clara,’ giggled Gabbie, sliding the printed paper back into the wrapping and returning to her cocktail. ‘You do know the magazine has a circulation of about fifty, don’t you?’
‘Fifty-one now!’ Clara declared. ‘I’ll be the first in the queue to buy the print edition of Devonshire Lifestyle when it comes out. So, does this mean you’re definitely starting your own fragrance business?’
‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘Well, that’s fabulous news! You’d be crazy not to give it a go – I mean, how many people came up to you in one of those glitzy French cafés on the Cȏte d’Azur to shower you with their grateful thanks for the fragrance you created? Look what you can achieve with just one simple act of kindness!’
‘Carla, Eddie passed his exams on his own merit – all I did was give him a ball of cotton wool with a drop of oil on it.’
‘You gave him much more than that! You gave him confidence in his abilities. He was already a fabulous actor – I know that because I saw him in last year’s pantomime in the village hall. All he needed was the belief that he could produce the performance of his life when he needed to and with your help he did. You could have changed his whole future!’
‘Whether you like it or not, Gabbie, I think your business just got launched!’ chuckled Owen.
Gabbie exchange
d a blank look with Clara.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you don’t have to be Einstein to work out that there’s bound to be queues of people wanting something similar to what you gave Eddie. You’re a qualified aromatherapist, Gabbie. All you have to do is fling open the doors and start charging a fair price for dishing out your random bottles of happiness!’
Was Owen right? Would people be interested enough in Eddie’s story to seek her out and actually pay the market rate for a consultation or a treatment? God, if that were true, she had to give it go, at least until a position at one of the perfume companies came up! If she could contribute some cash towards reducing Andrews Autos’ debt, and persuade the bank to reconsider its refusal of financial assistance, she might be able to buy them some time to work out why they were in the red in the first place and save the garage from closure.
But then her spirits took a nosedive. What was she thinking? Even with the extensive supply of essential oils on the summerhouse shelves, there was no way she could generate an income of twenty thousand pounds before the appointment with the bank the following week. Fortunately, her sympathetic inner voice was poised to shout down her doubts – maybe twenty thousand pounds was unachievable, but if she could provide evidence of a viable business proposition, surely that would count for something?
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning Gabbie woke with a gang of carpenters hammering nails into her brain. She and Clara had ditched the soapy cocktails and moved on to the house red, which had initially tasted like liquid cardboard but improved with every glass until it was declared to be one of Chile’s finest exports.
She groaned and pulled the duvet over her head to block out the stray rays of early morning light pushing through her rosebud-bedecked curtains. If she could get another half an hour of sleep, she might just be able to make it down to the kitchen to ensure her father stuck with the prescribed bowl of porridge instead of resorting to a round of his favourite bacon sandwiches.
‘Gabbie? Gabbie, darling, are you awake?’
‘Ergh,’ she replied.
‘I think you’d better come downstairs. I’ve got the coffee on, but I have a feeling you might be needing something a little stronger.’
Gabbie suspected her father had heard her crashing through the door the previous night and a spasm of guilt shot through her veins. She crawled out from under the covers, forced herself into a tepid shower and emerged feeling almost human again before pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie and following her nose in the direction of the promised coffee.
‘I’m not sure what’s going on, Gabbie, but you might like to take a look out of the window.’
‘Why?’
Gabbie raised her eyebrows in confusion before following her father’s extended finger. She blinked, hoping her red-wine hangover was causing hallucinations.
‘What’s going on?’
‘You tell me. I came downstairs to make my porridge ten minutes ago and imagine my surprise when I looked out of the kitchen window and saw three strangers in my garden.’ Jeff joined Gabbie at the sink to reassure himself he wasn’t mistaken. ‘Oh, it looks like another two have arrived. Gabbie, would you like to explain what five random strangers are doing loitering furtively outside our summerhouse?’
‘I have no… oh.’
The fogginess that had been rolling around her brain cleared and she remembered the magazine article Felicity had shown them the previous night – and how Owen had teased her about people queuing up for consultations. His prediction had come true! Oh God! What was she going to do? She wasn’t ready to fling open her doors to the public yet. She wanted to prepare first, to refresh and update her knowledge of aromatherapy, rearrange the jars into alphabetical order, decide on a pricing structure, print off medical and consent forms… She would just have to go out there, explain the situation, and ask them politely to leave.
‘You don’t look as shocked as I expected, darling. Do you know something I don’t?’
She saw the confusion scrawled across her father’s kind features and smiled, her heart squeezing with gratitude that he was taking the invasion of their privacy in his stride. She reached into her handbag, extracted the printout of the Devonshire Lifestyle feature, and handed it over for him to read.
‘Oh, sweetheart, this is amazing! Your mum would have been so proud of you, and so am I! What you did for Eddie, and for Jacob and Andrea, not to mention Mike, was so thoughtful, compassionate even. It’s exactly what Sofia would have done.’
Jeff stepped forward and enveloped Gabbie in his arms, holding her so tight against his chest that she could feel his heart beating with the upsurge of emotion. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the lemony cologne she had designed especially for him as a gift for his sixtieth birthday in April.
‘Erm, Gabbie, I don’t want to worry you, but there’s eight people out there now!’ said Jeff, who had been facing the kitchen window as they hugged. ‘What do you plan to do?’
Panic started to coil around her stomach. Was she crazy to have thought she could do this?
‘Ask them to leave. I’m not ready to…’
‘But these people think you can help them.’
‘You’re right. I’ll make them an appointment…’
‘Gabbie, listen. You know I’ll go along with whatever you want to do, but would you humour me just this once? Find out what they want – if you can’t help them, fine; but if you can, imagine how fantastic that would be!’
Gabbie stared at her father, unsurprised to hear him arguing the case for helping people if you had something to offer. He was a man who cared for everyone who strayed across his path, not just their vehicles.
‘Dad, I love you so much.’
‘As Clara would say, right back atcha, sweetheart.’
Jeff tried to perform a complicated gesture with his thumb and index finger that didn’t quite work and Gabbie giggled as she extracted herself from his arms and saw the glint of pride in his eyes.
‘I think you’d better get started soon, darling, because two more people have arrived. Come on, I’ll be right behind you!’
When Gabbie stepped out into the garden, every eye swivelled in her direction, causing her to pause in her tracks like a deer caught in the headlights. For a few scary moments, her heart flayed against her ribcage and her brain was washed of all thought as panic rained on her parade. As always, her father stepped into the breach.
‘Hello, everyone!’ Jeff announced jovially, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to find ten complete strangers queuing up outside your garden shed. ‘I assume you’re here for a Summerhouse of Happiness consultation? You know, personally, I always preferred the title the Happiness Apothecary – much more apt – but inevitably I was overruled. Now, let me introduce you to my wonderful daughter, Gabriella Andrews, who I want to reassure you is a fully qualified aromatherapist. I see you have already formed an orderly queue, so who would like one of our speciality Andrews Autos coffees while you wait?’
Gabbie smiled at her father as she unlocked the little wooden shed he had built one hot summer with the aid of Mike and a couple of other friends from his archery club – along with several crates of beer. When they had finished, she and Clara and Wil had whipped out the brushes, painted it a lovely cream colour and attached the pretty pastel bunting and a string of solar-powered lights that twinkled in the darkness and gave the place a magical feel.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, needing a few seconds alone to compose herself. She dropped down into the chair she had so often sat in, her mother by her side as they chatted about how she was feeling that day and decided which oils and massage techniques she wanted to try that might alleviate a little of her suffering. A pinch of sorrow reared its head above the parapet but didn’t stay for long. She could almost feel her mother’s smiling approval cascading down from above, telling her this was the right thing to do.
With a sweep of
confidence, she opened the door, hung her father’s handmade wooden sign on the handle, and invited her very first paying customer into the Summerhouse of Happiness. She ushered the rather nervous young man into the consultation chair and met his dark, charcoal eyes.
‘Hi. I’m Gabbie Andrews. Welcome to the Summerhouse of Happiness. What can I help you with today?’
‘Erm, well, hi, Gabbie. Yes, well, I’m Jack Hobbs. I’m a friend of Wil’s.’
After a rather circuitous conversation, Jack eventually divulged the reason he had been waiting on her doorstep since dawn and Gabbie had to work hard at keeping a straight face. She should have guessed! She reiterated that the fragrance she had created for Wil was not a love potion, but a cologne to help mask the scent of engine oil, or, in his case, screen wash. When a look of pure dejection crept across Jack’s face, and what looked like tears appeared at the corners of his eyes, she took pity on him. She opened a drawer in the pine cabinet at the back of the room and found a tiny sample of one of House of Gasnier’s bestselling men’s colognes.
‘Thanks, Gabbie. I won’t forget this. How much do I owe you?’
‘You can have this one on me, Jack, provided you promise me you won’t advertise it to all your friends as a love potion!’
‘My word is my bond!’ grinned Jack, clutching his little bottle of fragrance as if it contained the elixir of love as he exited the summerhouse, a new bounce in his step.
Gabbie sighed. If her consultations continued along similar lines, she would never be shortlisted for a Businesswoman of the Year award, or achieve her dream of handing over a sizeable sum towards the garage’s debt. However, financial considerations aside, her meeting with Jack had reaffirmed her delight at being able to witness firsthand the pleasure her perfumes gave people – wasn’t that exactly what she had craved when she had quit House of Gasnier? Jack Hobbs had inadvertently delivered her a timely reminder that she was on the road to achieving her dream!
Her second consultation was swift; her client, who introduced herself as Mrs Griffiths, required only a tiny bottle of lavender oil. She informed Gabbie that she had used the fragrance regularly throughout her seventy-five years, but had been unable to source it for the last few months as her son, who ordered the oil for her over the internet, was away on a foreign sabbatical. Once again, Gabbie had been about to refuse payment, but Mrs Griffiths had told her haughtily that she would be offended if she was treated like some kind of charity case. After that, Gabbie mentioned her fee before each consultation and no one batted an eyelid, so keen were they to talk about why they were there.
