by Lucy Diamond
Polly turned off the light and stood in the doorway for a few moments listening to them breathing. It gave her a strange feeling inside – a sort of … warmth.
Then she shook herself briskly. Warmth, indeed! She was overtired, that was all. Worn out by looking after those monkeys all evening. She took herself off to bed, hoping to fall asleep before Clare got back and had the chance to quiz her about how the babysitting had gone.
Clare was in a strange mood the next day, and crashed around in the kitchen with a face like thunder, despite it being a sunny Saturday morning. ‘Is it too much to ask,’ she began the second Polly ventured into the room, ‘for you to actually clear up the mess you make in here?’
Ahh. There was the popcorn pan she’d left on the side, along with the unwashed hot-chocolate mugs that she’d dumped in the sink.
‘I mean, I know you’re not used to picking up after yourself; I know you probably had a housekeeper or a fleet of staff to do all that for you in London, but—’
‘Good morning to you too,’ Polly said frostily, stalking over to the kettle. ‘I hope you had a good evening in the pub while I was babysitting your children.’ Touché. Have some of it back, Miss Up-Yourself, she thought, watching Clare falter mid-rant.
Clare’s shoulders sagged. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Fair enough. And thanks for looking after the kids. Were they okay? Leila said you watched Harry Potter with them.’
‘They were fine,’ Polly said, wanting to gloss over the mention of the film and how late they’d stayed up. ‘How about you? Good night?’
Clare began wiping the table, her back turned. ‘Yes,’ she said after a while. ‘Just the usual – the same girls I always meet up with, but – ’ She clammed up and Polly glanced over at her curiously.
‘What?’ she prompted. ‘You’ve gone all mysterious. Did something happen?’
Clare wrinkled her nose. ‘No, not really.’ She paused, then shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Probably had too much to drink, got a bit carried away.’
Polly watched her, puzzled, wondering what Clare was not saying. Was there some bloke on the scene maybe that Clare didn’t want to tell her about? Some juicy village gossip she’d decided not to share? Interesting. Polly would have to keep an eye out for what it could be. Something was going on, that was for sure.
‘We’ve had lots of interest since the open day, although people are saying the price is a little on the high side. Don’t you worry, though, Miss Johnson, I’m sure someone will snap it up very soon. Trust me.’
Polly sighed as she ended the call to the estate agent. Trust him? If only. So now he was saying the price – his price, don’t forget – was too high. Great. She shut her eyes, trying to make the calculations. If she lowered the price a fraction, she would still break even, according to her accountant, but then again no one ever actually paid the asking price, did they? She couldn’t afford to reduce it by much; she’d be left still in debt. Bloody hell. She leaned back in the deckchair, trying not to wail out loud.
The garden was providing solace at least, even if Vince hadn’t been able to. With Clare and the children out at swimming lessons, Polly had had a nice quiet hour sunning herself out there with Fred at her feet and the next Harry Potter to read (Leila had pressed it into her hand over breakfast, telling her she was totally going to love it). It was rather nice living somewhere with a garden, it had to be said, especially when it was turning out to be such a warm and sunny summer. The flowers smelled glorious, the bees were murmuring busily to themselves and the sky was still an early-morning misty blue. She’d never really done this in London, she realized – just sat outside with a book, letting her mind wander. For the vast part of the last twenty years she’d been inside air-conditioned buildings, barely noticing the weather, let alone the seasons changing.
She watched as a cabbage-white butterfly danced through the air before her eyes. In the past she’d never envied Clare anything, had always disagreed profoundly with every life decision her sister had made. Stay in Elderchurch all her life? No way. Marry Steve? You must be mad. Take the most boring job ever, to fit around your kids? Not in a million years.
It was strange, realizing that actually there was one thing she envied her sister for now: this garden, and the calm serenity that came simply from sitting in it. Mind you, she didn’t envy her the chickens, she thought, noticing them strutting about, picking their feet up as if they were goose-stepping, stopping to peck at the ground now and then. They gave her the creeps.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ came a voice just then. ‘Clare! I’ve got you some – Oh. You’re not Clare.’
So much for calm serenity. Polly stared at the old lady who’d just wandered into the garden, brandishing a bunch of carrots. ‘Hello,’ she said coldly.
‘Aha! You must be the sister, am I right? The grand fromage, as our French friends would say.’ She tapped her nose, her bright-blue eyes mischievous sparkles in her leathery, wrinkled face.
Polly had no idea who this batty old bag was, swinging those carrots by their long frilly leaves as if they were an organic flail. ‘I am Clare’s sister, yes.’ Now bugger off.
‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you, my dear. I am Agatha. Clare’s neighbour?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned you,’ Polly said rudely.
‘Oh, thank heavens for that! Too polite to tell you about me getting locked out all the time and talking to my plants and whatnot; that is a relief. Anyway. Carrots – incoming. Catch!’
And before Polly could react, Agatha had thrown the bunch of muddy carrots straight into her lap, showering soil all over her bare legs. Then she wandered away, humming to herself in a high pitch.
Polly stared after her. ‘Everyone in this village is bonkers,’ she muttered.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Agatha called back over her shoulder, obviously having overhead.
Babs – or was it Marjorie? – came clucking inquisitively around Polly’s legs, and Polly swung the carrots at her in annoyance. ‘And you can bloody well get lost as well,’ she hissed. ‘Go on, shoo!’
Once Clare and the children were back, along with a powerful whiff of chlorine, Clare draped the wet costumes and towels on the washing line and went into the kitchen, saying something about a picnic lunch. Something struck Polly as odd, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
Leila bounded over, wet hair swinging, her feet slapping in purple Crocs. ‘How are you getting on with the book, Aunty Polly? Are you enjoying it?’
Polly smiled at her. Her niece was actually proving to be rather sweet. ‘It’s great,’ she replied. ‘Very exciting. How was swimming?’ she asked.
‘Cool,’ Leila said, throwing herself upside down in a handstand. She was wearing a red T-shirt with a snarling dragon on it, khaki combat trousers and a silver skull wristband. ‘We’re starting lifesaving skills. We had to dive right down at the deep end to try and pull out this dummy. It was so heavy! Hardly anyone could do it, but I did.’
‘Well done,’ Polly said as her niece flicked gracefully over into a backbend. ‘Just like your mum. She was always a brilliant – ’ Then she realized what the odd thing was. Only two costumes on the washing line. ‘Didn’t your mum go in the pool today?’ she asked in surprise.
Leila turned herself right way up again. ‘No,’ she said, scratching at an insect bite on her ankle. ‘She never goes in. I don’t think she likes swimming.’
Polly pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and stared at her niece. Didn’t like swimming? Clare? ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘She used to love it. You know she used to be really good at it, right? Swimming for the club and the county, winning loads of races and …’ Her voice trailed off at Leila’s blank face. ‘She never told you?’
Leila shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.
‘What sandwiches does everyone want?’ Clare bellowed through the kitchen window just then and Leila skipped away to put in her order.
‘That’s really weird,’ Polly murmured again. Swimming had a
lways been a massive part of Clare’s life. It had been her life for a few years when they were teenagers, in fact. It had annoyed Polly that their shared bedroom always had a lingering pong of chlorine, thanks to Clare’s obsession with the pool; it had driven her mad, too, whenever Clare had set the alarm for some ungodly hour in the morning so that she could sneak in an early practice before school. She’d been so tireless and motivated about it, though – amazingly so, now that Polly looked back. She’d cycle to Amberley pool on her own before anyone else in the family was up, swim a mile or so, then cycle back and get ready for school.
Polly couldn’t remember why Clare had stopped swimming now. Puberty maybe. Perhaps she’d started to get embarrassed about her changing body, or hadn’t wanted to be different from her friends any longer. Maybe she’d stopped because she’d got interested in boys?
She heaved herself out of the deckchair, figuring she ought to lend a hand – even she could make a sandwich or two without blowing the place up.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ she asked, entering the dingy kitchen and blinking after being out in the sunshine for so long.
Clare did a double-take, then gave a chuckle.
‘What?’ Polly asked. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing,’ Clare said, passing her a bowl of slippery-looking hard-boiled eggs and a dollop of mayo. ‘Some help would be great, that’s all. You can mash these. Thank you.’
After a picnic lunch in the garden, ably assisted by Fred, the sky clouded over. Clare was just suggesting that they all go out for a bike ride, now that it was cooler, when a woman with hennaed hair cut in a pixie style, loads of children and a crazed lurcher appeared, and the place basically exploded with noise. The dogs barked hysterically, the children swarmed everywhere and Polly found herself reeling in horror from the din. Clare’s life really was noisy, she was starting to realize. And there were always so many people involved in it.
‘Hello, I’m Debbie,’ the henna-haired woman said cheerfully, seeing Polly on the picnic rug. ‘I’m Clare’s interfering friend, who’s come round to nag her again about Langley’s.’
Debbie, that was it. Polly remembered her from the wedding. Chief bridesmaid, no less, when everyone knew that a sister had the divine right of being chief bridesmaid. Even now, the demotion rankled.
Clare had turned red and glanced across at Polly, as if Debbie had just spoken out of turn. ‘Um …’ she stuttered.
‘And I’ve brought some designs for you to look at,’ Debbie went on breezily, seemingly unaware of Clare’s discomfort. ‘I thought I might as well get stuck in straight away, run a few ideas past you. I ordered Will to take the kids out all morning, fired up the Mac and …’ She trailed off and glanced from Clare to Polly. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that? Is this a bad time?’
‘No, no,’ Clare said quickly. ‘I just … Cold light of day and all that. I think we probably got a bit overexcited about the whole thing last night. I’m not so sure it’s a good idea any more.’
Debbie stared at her. ‘Not so sure? Overexcited? Oh, give over, will you? Tell her, Polly. Langley’s are going to love her!’
Polly stared at Debbie, then at Clare, wishing someone would enlighten her. The only Langley’s she’d ever heard of was the boutique hotel chain, but they obviously weren’t talking about that Langley’s. She doubted anyone from Elderchurch had even heard of that Langley’s. ‘I’m not following,’ she said with a polite laugh.
Debbie gave Clare a severe look. ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ she said, as if she were scolding a child. ‘Clare Berry, what are you like! Well, I’ll tell her then.’ She sat down on the picnic blanket and turned to address Polly. ‘Your sister has got a chance to make some serious dosh with her bath products and she’s wussing out about it. That’s what this is all about.’
‘I’m not wussing out, I’m being realistic,’ Clare argued, although there was already more than a hint of defeat in her voice.
‘Um … I’m still not following,’ Polly said. The conversation was starting to irritate her.
Debbie, after another pointed look at Clare, filled Polly in on the whole matter. ‘You’re a businesswoman, aren’t you, Polly? You’ll back me up, and tell your sister that she’d be mad not to try the pitch, won’t you?’
Polly was taken aback. Clare – pitching for business? Had she just heard that right? It seemed incredible. Were those unlabelled bottles of goo in the bathroom something to do with this sideline of her sister’s then? Polly had assumed they were some ghastly potions the children had concocted. ‘Er … yes,’ she managed to say after a moment. ‘Yes, of course you should try, Clare. Langley’s are a good firm, they’re performing very strongly at the moment. I’ve stayed in one of their hotels before – in York, I think. A bit unusual; not your traditional hotel fare, to say the least, but that seems to be their strength, from what I can gather.’
Debbie grinned at Polly as if they were conspirators. ‘Well,’ she said, before Clare had a chance to speak again, ‘I think that means you’re outvoted. Now then. Designs.’ She held up an A4 envelope and pulled out a sheaf of paper. ‘I realize I’ve taken a bit of a liberty, because I know you haven’t actually decided on a name for your brand or anything, but … what do you think of Berry Botanicals?’
‘Berry Botanicals,’ Clare repeated, as if testing the feel of the words. Then she nodded. ‘Sounds healthy and fruity, and it’s got my name in. Perfect!’ She leafed through the sheets of designs that Debbie had brought and gave a little cry. ‘Oh wow,’ she said. ‘They’re gorgeous, Debs.’
They all peered at the papers. Debbie had created a silhouette pattern that looked like a vine, with flower shapes and different fruits appearing between the branches. She’d worked the pattern so that a horizontal oval space was empty in the centre, apart from the words ‘Berry Botanicals’ and then, in smaller letters underneath, ‘Rosehip Shampoo’. In an even smaller, handwritten font below, following the bottom curve of the oval, was written ‘Made for Langley’s, with love’. She’d run the pattern through with different colour schemes and fonts, and overall the effect was striking and very pretty.
Polly had been silent for a while. She couldn’t quite get to grips with the insane idea of her sister trying to pitch her home-made bubble bath to Langley’s. To Langley’s! It was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Her instinct was to pour cold water on the whole thing and tell Clare in no uncertain terms that she was making a fool of herself. But something stopped her from saying so.
‘What do you think of the designs, Polly?’ Clare asked.
Ah, they’d remembered at last that someone with a bit of business nous was actually there. She pretended to consider them. They were actually kind of attractive, she had to admit. ‘Is it slightly too girly, I wonder?’ she mused. ‘You do get a lot of businessmen staying at hotels like this. I’m not sure they’d go for pink flowers, for example.’
‘Good point,’ Debbie said. ‘Perhaps if we stick to darker blues and greens as backgrounds then, just picking out a bright red or turquoise with the lettering. That should make it more unisex.’
‘And we can zing the names up a bit,’ Clare added. ‘Rosehip Shampoo, Lime Bubble Bath – they’re not sounding all that exciting at the moment. But overall I think they’re going to look amazing. And I think you’re amazing too,’ she said to Debbie, sounding choked. ‘I can really imagine my toiletries as actual … well, you know, proper toiletries, like you see in the shops. And I love my brand name.’ She giggled. ‘I can’t believe I just said “my brand name”. Me, with a brand name!’
Despite her cynicism about the whole hopeless project, Polly felt her lips twitch in a smile. Her sister was being way, way too emotional about this – she’d never make a tough old businessbird like Polly – but she looked so thrilled and excited, that it was … well, it was rather touching actually. And kind of infectious too. At least something interesting was happening around here, for a change.
Chapter Sixteen
Clare felt as if she were on board a runaway train as Berry Botanicals began to take shape. It was all happening so fast! Over the course of the afternoon she and Debbie brainstormed the names of sample products and came up with Ginger Ninja Bubbles, Limelight Shampoo and a soap bar called Vanilla Thriller, then later on she picked Polly’s brains about how to go about producing a costing. During the course of Sunday she made up some samples for the pitch, stirring and sniffing, trying and testing. If she was seriously going to go through with this, she wanted everything to be perfect.
On Sunday evening, when the children were in bed, Polly helped her work on her pitch. As Clare had absolutely no experience in this sort of thing, her sister’s advice and suggestions were a total godsend.
‘She’ll be looking for your bottom-line figures, how flexible you can be, how quickly you can supply her with what she wants,’ Polly coached her. ‘The costs we pulled together last night actually stack up pretty well, as you’ve got such low overheads, so try and be confident. You’re offering a decent-quality product at a reasonable price; you’re local; and you’re using ingredients you’ve grown yourself, where possible – these are all bonuses.’
Polly was speaking to her differently all of a sudden, Clare realized. Gone was the aloof scorn and patronizing air. The dynamic between them now felt more like one between colleagues, working towards the same goal. To say this was an improvement was the understatement of the century. ‘Do you think I should tell her much about myself?’ she wondered. ‘I mean, I don’t exactly have much of a business history.’
‘Just focus on the positives, put a spin on your words to make it all sound good. So rather than saying you’ve got zilch experience, phrase it that you’re a new start-up and Langley’s would be your major customer – they’ll like that sort of exclusivity. Also, let her know that you’re willing to work with the company on what they want; you’re not rigid about what you can and can’t produce.’ Polly patted her sister’s hand. ‘It’ll be fine, I promise. Let’s just put some bullet points in this document …’
