by Daisy James
Her next client was a teenage girl, dressed from head to toe in black, with a tangle of silver jewellery around her neck and wrists, and a penchant for the liberal use of patchouli-based perfume. She explained to Gabbie that she had won a place in the final of a talent contest at her local high school but had been suffering from a raging sore throat all week and was devastated that her chance to shine would be over before she could belt out her favourite Cher track.
‘You’re my last hope,’ Zara declared, not without a touch of melodrama.
Gabbie knew immediately what to recommend and set about creating the perfect solution, her mood elevating with every drop of essential oil, every whiff of uplifting fragrance, every direction she gave Zara for its safe use.
‘I can’t promise you’ll win the star prize, but why don’t you gargle with this half an hour before you go onstage? It’s a solution my mum used to make from honey and a few drops of eucalyptus, peppermint and lemon oil. Let me know how you get on, won’t you? Good luck.’
‘I will, and thank you. If it works, I’ll dedicate my first album to the Summerhouse of Happiness. This is an amazing place, you know. Just sitting in this chair, watching you work, makes me feel so relaxed. It’s got good karma!’
Gabbie accepted the handful of crumpled notes Zara gave her. She couldn’t help but smile when she looked out of the window and saw her actually skipping down the garden path, waving her fingers at the remaining people in the queue as though she was already well on the way to becoming a famous rock star.
Her next two consultations were dealt with easily; both women were in their early fifties, complaining of similar symptoms and adamant they had no intention of resorting to the use of medication until they had tried everything else first. After carefully checking their medical histories to assess any risk factors, and giving precise instructions on the necessity of diluting the essential oil before use, she had no hesitation in preparing a blend of clary sage, geranium and lavender. Her mother’s best friend, Luciana, had suffered from frequent hot flushes, day and night, and had sworn by a few drops on a tissue or in her diffuser at her bedside.
Before she knew it, it was lunchtime. Jeff apologised to the next person in the queue and slid inside the summerhouse with a doorstep sandwich and flask of coffee to keep mind and body together. She gulped down the food, feeling immediately rejuvenated and ready to tackle the remaining five people who had been waiting patiently all morning, although her father had told her that two of them had spent most of it in The Pear Tree.
Two hours later, she took a few moments to straighten up the wad of twenty-pound notes sticking out of the Tupperware box she was using as a makeshift cash register. After every consultation, she had diligently written out receipts and entered the name of her client and the amount of her fee into a ledger. A quick tally told her she had made almost two hundred and fifty pounds. Her spirits soared and hope poked its head above the parapet.
Her penultimate consultation was with Jenny McLean, the president of Oakley WI with the friendly smile and talent for producing amazing Victoria sponge cakes, not to mention the homemade whisky marmalade her father swore was one of the reasons he got up in the morning.
‘You might think this is a strange request,’ she began, her blue eyes crinkling with warmth as she made herself comfortable in the consulting chair. ‘But one of the WI’s causes this year is the reduction of harmful chemicals in the kitchen and I was wondering whether you could rustle up a spray we can use that would make our kitchen floors and workbenches sparkle without costing the earth?’
‘That’s an excellent mission, Jenny,’ smiled Gabbie, already reaching for the perfect combination of oils. ‘My mum used to swear by white wine vinegar, a few drops of rosemary and tea tree oil, a splash of washing-up liquid and a generous tablespoon of bicarbonate of soda. Here are the oils you need – see what you think. If it’s not quite right, we could try rose geranium oil instead of the tea tree next time. It’s a natural deodorant as well as being slightly astringent and antiseptic.’
‘Thank you, Gabbie. You know, we’d love to see you at one of our meetings. We get together every third Wednesday in the village hall next to the church. In fact, do you think I could book you in your professional capacity to come and give us a talk on the various uses of aromatherapy oils? Maybe bring a selection with you for our members to sample, hand out a few of your business cards? Isn’t targeted marketing the cornerstone to the success of a fledgling enterprise?’
‘Yes, yes, it is. I’d love to come. Thank you, Jenny.’
When Gabbie eventually sent the last person away clutching a bottle containing oil of evening primrose, she stretched her shoulders and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been one of the strangest days of her life, and yet she had enjoyed every single moment, especially the effusive thanks she had received from everyone eager to try out her suggestions.
However, the biggest surprise was that she had made more money in one day than she had earned at House of Gasnier! Clearly, with some forward planning and a well-thought-through business and marketing plan, she could make a living from her skills as an aromatherapist until she was able to expand into bespoke perfumes, possibly even soaps and bubble baths – she’d need to do her research, but that was nothing new. Maybe when she was established, she could expand into hen parties, birthday pamper parties or pre-holiday treatments, as well as giving the occasional talk at the Women’s Institute to add to her coffers.
However, what she didn’t know was whether what she made over the next ten days would be enough to persuade the bank that her business model had the potential to be profitable, so that they would agree to the loan to pay off the outstanding invoice due to Groves Autoparts Ltd and stop them pursuing the court proceedings they had threatened. She could only hope and pray that it was.
Before locking up for the day, she ran her eyes around the familiar wooden room, breathing in the lingering fragrances she’d used during the day, waiting for the sadness demons to ambush her. But instead, a swathe of satisfaction washed over her, eradicating the scorching agony her previous visits to the summerhouse had caused. For the first time since her mother’s passing, she was able to think of it in a positive light, a place where she could offer a little slice of happiness, or at least contentment, to others, and in the process find her own.
Chapter Nineteen
‘So you’re still insisting on coming with me to the bank on Friday, eh?’ asked Jeff the following Monday night as they sat at the kitchen table, listening to the gentle cadence of the rain lashing down on the windows. The aroma of freshly ground coffee hung in the air, the fragrance Gabbie had to admit was one of the most enticing in the world.
‘I am.’
She smiled at her father, observing him from beneath her lashes as he toyed with the vegetable chilli and green side salad she had assembled for their supper that evening. His hair remained as thick and bouffant as always, except there were now more streaks of silver than the original chestnut-brown. His eyes were brighter and his skin less drawn than on that dreadful day when she had arrived unannounced on the garage forecourt at the beginning of September. To Gabbie, he had always been invincible, her rock, and it was painful to see the physical reminders that he was growing old. All she wanted at that moment was to be able to suspend time, to ask it to divert its attention elsewhere, just for one day, one hour.
She had decided not to confide in him about her intention to deposit every penny she had earned from her fledgling aromatherapy business over the last week into the Andrews Autos account before their appointment with the bank’s small business manager. Every day a queue had formed outside her summerhouse, every day she had tallied up the total of her takings, and every day a little piece of optimism had been chipped off the block of hope.
Her goal, which she knew had been ambitious, had been to try to accumulate half the amount of the outstanding invoice, but with only three days remaining she had to accept that it was unlikely she would even rea
ch a quarter of the amount needed, which meant, if her father was refused the loan at the second time of asking, they were looking at bankruptcy and the closure of the garage.
‘Will anyone else be joining you and Clara at The Pear Tree tonight?’
She knew her father was referring to Max. She wished she could have confirmed his suspicions, but when she had tried to engage Max in conversation that afternoon while he finished working on a decrepit Cavalier fit only for the junkyard in the sky, he had barely been able to meet her eye. She had asked him if he fancied joining her for a run out to the lake, and then a couple of drinks at The Pear Tree, but he had simply said ‘another time’. She had put his evasiveness down to anxiety over the future of the garage, and she couldn’t blame him. Wil was sloping around the forecourt as if he’d lost his beloved pet dog, Freddie, and been offered a hamster instead.
‘No, it’s just the two of us. Owen’s playing rugby then going for a curry with the men, so it’ll be a night of girly gossip.’
‘Well, have fun, sweetheart.’
Gabbie climbed the stairs with little enthusiasm for the night ahead, and pulled on a pale-lemon sweater and pair of skinny black jeans. She plugged in her straighteners, smoothed down her waves and spritzed them into place, before dusting on a bit of blusher, adding a flick of mascara and finishing the relaxed look with a little bit of nude lipstick. She snatched up her bag, checked her phone and returned to the kitchen to kiss her father goodbye. She had just stepped out of the front door when she saw Max hovering on the garage forecourt.
‘Sure I can’t persuade you to come for a drink?’
‘No, thanks, Gabbie, there’s something I need to do tonight.’
For some reason, when she saw the look in his eyes, her heart gave a nip of alarm. While caring for her mother, she had learned how to tune into people’s unspoken emotions and she knew in an instant that Max was hiding something. She was about to ask him what it was when he turned his back on her and strode to the rear of the garage where he’d parked his car.
‘Max?’ she called after him, confused by his actions.
But he didn’t look back so she meandered towards the pub, her steps heavy, just like her spirits. She knew working with her father at Andrews Autos was the route to Max achieving his dream of owning his own garage one day, so there was no wonder he was devastated at its imminent demise. What would it mean for his hope of running a classic car restoration business?
The convivial welcome of the bar and Clara’s lighthearted chatter helped to improve Gabbie’s mood, but she couldn’t get Max’s strange behaviour out of her mind. Until that morning, he had been right behind her as she had welcomed as many visitors to the summerhouse as possible, helping her tot up her daily takings and calculate how much she still needed if she was to have any power of persuasion with the bank. What could have happened to change his mood so dramatically?
She decided to have an early night, so she made her excuses to Clara and promised to catch up with her on Friday night to fill her in on what happened at the bank. The rain had morphed into that fine drizzle that soaked the ill-prepared within minutes, and the breeze whipped the trees above her head into a swirling frenzy.
An oblique flash of light caught her eye and, as she glanced over to the churchyard, she thought she saw a shadowy figure disappear behind one of the gravestones. She was in the process of talking herself out of a full-blown panic attack when a bird launched itself from a branch above her head and she, too, took the flight option, not stopping until she reached the garage forecourt.
Surprised to see the doors were slightly ajar, she slipped inside and leaned against the door to catch her breath. As she waited for the pounding of her heart to calm, she became aware of a burble of voices coming from inside the office. A low amber light filtered through the blinds and she realised with a jolt that she wasn’t alone.
A slow smile tugged at her lips, followed by a surge of gratitude that Mike had called by for a nightcap. When she had been tidying the office, she had stumbled across her father’s bottle of Laphroaig, but had put it back where she found it for just such an occasion. She took a step forward, intending to join them until the voices became clearer. Unless Mike had a secret he’d been keeping for over fifty years, it definitely wasn’t him talking to her father. The high-pitched inflection left her in no doubt that her father was with a woman, and a younger woman at that.
A spasm of surprise rang through her. She glanced across at the connecting door to the house, wondering if she could tiptoe the length of the workshop without her presence being discovered. Her father hadn’t mentioned his plans for the evening and now she knew why. She didn’t want to invade his privacy and assumed, from the fact they were holed up in the office, that he wanted to keep it that way.
She experienced a frisson of something she couldn’t immediately identify when an image of her father with an unknown woman floated across her mind, but she was saved from further emotional torment when a raised voice interrupted her tentative bid to reach safety behind the kitchen door. She quickly shot to her right and crouched down behind Max’s tarpaulin-bedecked Jaguar, her heart in her mouth as she realised she was about to eavesdrop, albeit unintentionally, on their conversation.
‘Why won’t you even consider it, Max? It’s a fantastic opportunity.’
‘Scarlet…’
‘Giles is offering you three times what you earn here! And you’ll be working on some amazing projects, not just in London, but in Dubai as well! Please, Max, come back to London with me, talk to Giles, then maybe we can have one of our quiet dinners at Antonio’s, rounded off with a few sambucas. Dad says we can use his penthouse in Pimlico for as long as we want. How can you resist that?’
There was a pause while Gabbie tried to piece together what was unfolding. Now she understood why Max had been distracted that afternoon and had refused her offer of a drink at The Pear Tree. Clearly he had been expecting his girlfriend to arrive.
Disappointment swirled through her veins. When she tried to swallow, her throat was dry and her head started to spin as her thoughts bounced through a kaleidoscope of possibilities. What if Max went with her? He’d be a fool not to now he knew there was a high probability the garage wouldn’t survive its financial problems, which meant, inevitably, that he and Wil would be made redundant. If Max had to find another job, whatever this Giles was offering him had come at the perfect time, not to mention the convenient add-on of a roof over his head with Scarlet.
‘Is this really all you want out of life? Working in some crummy garage, covered in oil and grease and dirt all day long? Ew! Giles owns a luxury-car dealership in Chelsea! You’ll be working with Aston Martins, Bugattis, Lamborghinis, not these tin-can roller-skates!’
Gabbie could hear the derision in the young woman’s voice and she pictured her scrunching up her nose as she scanned the workshop and inhaled the faint smell of turpentine and bleach.
Max laughed. ‘I’ve told you before, Scar, a little bit of dirt never hurt anyone. Look, you might enjoy all the razzmatazz of the bright lights in the city, all those celebrity parties you’re always being invited to, fashion launches, PR stunts, film premieres, whatever, but that’s never been my idea of fun, and you know that. I happen to love it here in this crummy garage workshop – there’s something really satisfying about coaxing old engines back to life, getting stuck in with my hands instead of fiddling with a computer dashboard.’
‘You always did have great hands, Max,’ purred Scarlet, adding a little giggle that caused goose pimples to skitter over Gabbie’s forearms. ‘Come on, what harm is there in having a chat with Giles? Just find out what he has planned. Maybe you could persuade him to invest in a few classic cars to do up in your spare time – some of his wealthy customers might even fancy buying something like that.’
‘Scarlet, Devon is my home – it’s where I want to be. You know why.’
‘But is it really enough? Whatever it is you do here?’
‘I
t’s more than enough.’
‘I don’t think so. Okay, so you’ve always been obsessed with cars, like lots of guys, but if you want to know what I think, I think you’re just scared of taking a leap into the unknown. That’s not meant as a criticism, and I do understand why you crave stability after everything you went through with your mum. But you’re wasting your talents in this little village garage when there’s a whole world out there waiting to be explored.’
Gabbie heard Scarlet pause to take a deep breath before delivering her coup de grâce.
‘And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I hear a rumour that Andrews Autos might be about to close?’
‘Scarlet…’
‘Ah, I’m right! The timing’s perfect! Let me help you take the plunge into a better future, Max. We can do this together, just like we always do.’
Scarlet’s voice had dropped an octave and taken on a smooth, persuasive timbre. Gabbie imagined them standing a mere six inches apart, Scarlet’s eyes fixed on Max’s as she tried to coax him into joining her in the capital.
‘Scarlet…’
‘Ssshh…’
Silence rolled into the corners of the workshop and reverberated through Gabbie’s ears. She didn’t have to be a psychic to know they were kissing – it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room and she couldn’t breathe. Suddenly she didn’t care whether they discovered she’d overheard their conversation – she just needed to get out of there.
