‘And you’re looking for a new accountant?’
Heather nodded, opened the tin and took out another muffin.
‘We live in a little village. My accountant used to pop round to collect my books and drop them back off when he had finished. But he’s retired now and I can’t find anyone else locally who will offer the same service. So – no offence – but I’m forced to come into town to find a new accountant. It’s such a waste of time when I’ve got today’s party at four.’
‘Why did he come to you? That’s quite unusual, even in a small village, I would have thought.’ Sarah frowned.
‘He worked from home. I think he liked to get out and about, see how firms were run, you know. He was quite hands-on, lots of practical ideas on saving money. And he always managed to turn up when I’d just baked. Used to joke that he had more of a nose for pie than profit!’
Sarah could never work from home; Rose Cottage barely had enough room for her to open her laptop, let alone open a business. Still, it was nice to dream.
‘I’m not the only one who misses him,’ Heather continued, retrieving crumbs from her cleavage. ‘There are loads of small businesses that used him. And people used to go to him with personal tax problems too.’ She sighed. ‘He really got involved with the community.’
‘Sounds like a lovely little business,’ said Sarah, nodding fervently. That was something she wanted to do, get more involved in village life.
‘Anyway, I got in touch with WiRE and they suggested I should try networking to find a new accountant. And I spotted you in that lovely dress and I knew straight away that you were the one for me.’
‘Wire?’
‘Women in Rural Enterprise. It’s a business support group. I couldn’t have set up without their help. I was in purchasing before, didn’t know the first thing about working for myself.’
Sarah pressed a hand to her temple. Her head was getting worse; there was a distinct possibility that she might even be sick. She jotted down a few notes, took the necessary details from Heather and ushered her out of the building as quickly as she could.
On her way back to her office, she heard Ben bragging on the phone to someone: ‘Youngest partner in the history of the firm, would you believe …?’
Sarah quickly shut her office door to drown out the sound of his voice. Bad move. Even the noise of the door made her head pound. Ben would be impossible to work with now. Or work for. Oh God.
She dived into her handbag for some different painkillers and found her mobile phone. It was beeping with alerts; the battery was nearly flat and there was a missed call from Carrie. Ringing her back would have to wait; Sarah wasn’t sure either she or her phone had enough energy right now. But still no word from Dave. So she guessed they were officially not speaking. She tossed two ibuprofen into her mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of water.
Two huge files had appeared on her desk, topped with a note from Eleanor marked ‘urgent’. Sarah pushed them to one side; anything from her boss was always urgent. She sank down into her chair and forced herself to focus. The dream to become a partner at Finch’s was over.
Time for Plan B.
Sarah pulled her notebook towards her, wrote ‘Options’, underlined it twice, sighed and tapped her pen on her cheek. Stay or leave the firm. That was it really. And if she went, then what? Her eyes strayed to the framed photograph of her mum and dad on the corner of her desk. Her mum had always been so proud of her achievements. Sarah would give anything to have her back, one hug, one soothing word. She blinked back tears and picked up the other photograph frame. It was one of her, Zac and Dave taken at Christmas, just before she had come back to work. It had been such a happy family time. Her chest heaved; she should phone Dave, let him know the news that she hadn’t made partner, although she had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be too bothered, given the argument they’d had last night.
Everything was going wrong and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what she had done to deserve it. She squeezed her eyes shut and when she opened them the four walls of her office seemed to be closing in on her. They were trapping her, hemming her in …
Air, she needed air. It was just her headache playing tricks on her.
Plan B would have to wait. Today wasn’t the day for making life-changing decisions, her head hurt too much, for starters. She set the frame down and scooped up her bag. The only thing she was going to study this afternoon was the inside of her eyelids.
Perhaps it was the sheer relief at being away from Finch and Partners, or maybe it was the sugar rush from Heather McCloud’s raspberry and white chocolate muffin – either way, Sarah didn’t care – but on the drive back to Woodby her headache started to lift and as it did so, her mind drifted back to the wish list.
The thing she would most regret not doing.
Whichever angle Sarah came at it from, the answer was the same; being successful in her career was key to her happiness. She loved being a mum, she loved Dave and she loved their little family. But she wanted a career too. Did that make her a bad person? She didn’t think so.
But it did mean that she needed Dave to be on her side.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The sooner she could get home and sort out this silly argument the better. The day might have gone disastrously so far, but she wasn’t going to write it off just yet. They both might have strong personalities apart, but they were even stronger together. In the grand scheme of things, that was all that mattered.
By the time she passed the sign for Woodby she felt a bit of a fraud; her headache had gone and she was humming along to the radio.
As she drove past the old post office she saw a man erecting a sign and slowed down to see what it said. The post office had been shut since they moved into Woodby and for goodness knows how long before that. The sign was wobbling about a bit as the man hammered it into position, but Sarah could still read it: To let – shop with flat above. Her spirits lifted; how fabulous it would be to have a shop in the village. No more three-mile dash for a carton of milk.
As she indicated to turn left into her lane, a pushchair on the pavement ahead caught her eye. It looked exactly like Zac’s and it was outside Rebecca’s house. She stared at it; it was Zac’s and he was in it. In the split second before she made the turn, she saw her husband standing under the porch with Rebecca pressed tightly up against him. They were kissing.
Dave was kissing Rebecca.
Sarah couldn’t breathe; a tight band formed around her chest and she gulped at the air. For the second time that day, time seemed to slow right down as she took in the scene in front of her and she lost concentration. The car swerved, mounted the curb, narrowly missed a lamp-post and dropped back on to the road. She yelled out loud, jerked the steering wheel and turned the corner. Thirty seconds later, heart pounding, she found herself outside Rose Cottage.
With trembling hands she let herself in through the front door and charged upstairs. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t face him. Not today. She was in no fit state to deal with this on top of the humiliation over Ben’s promotion. Tears cascaded down her face as she grabbed her overnight bag from the top of the wardrobe and began stuffing it with clothes. She could barely see straight, let alone think straight.
She felt sick as she slipped her toiletries in the side pocket. This had been her hospital bag. The last time she had used it, she and Dave had packed it together, marvelling over the tiny vests and nappies and laughing about Sarah’s OCD typed birth plan. She closed her mind to the memories and wiped her eyes.
He could be back at any moment. She had to leave before then, because there was no way she’d be able to resist confronting him. And then he would admit that he was having an affair and it would all be over. Her marriage would be over. After all, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her.
‘I can’t put up with you like this for much longer,’ he had said.
Get back in the car. Drive. Give yourself space.
> Sarah threw her bag in the boot and set off for Northampton, deliberately driving the long way out of the village to avoid Rebecca’s house. A night in Jo’s no-nonsense, clutter-free and more importantly man-free flat was exactly what she needed.
Chapter 23
Jo slid the portfolio case out of the back seat and locked her car. She glanced round the nondescript industrial estate and at the faceless single-storey building that apparently housed the headquarters of Global Duty Free.
‘Are you positive this is it?’ she asked Patrick.
They had worked their backsides off for three days to prepare for the presentation of their lives, she had dashed out and bought a new confidence-enhancing outfit and the satnav had brought them to an unlikely location on the outskirts of Liverpool. She wasn’t altogether sure that it wasn’t a huge wind-up.
‘All buying decisions are made here, apparently,’ said Patrick, wheeling a huge sample bag specially designed for shoes towards an inauspicious pair of aluminium doors. ‘Have you got the USB stick?’
‘Yes, in my handbag.’ She frowned, still unconvinced. ‘I thought we’d be in some glitzy boardroom in an airport, not in an ugly warehouse in the middle of nowhere.’
He chuckled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Gold.’
She stuck her tongue out and hoisted her bag over her shoulder.
‘They keep it unnamed for security purposes. This place is stuffed with luxury goods. There’d be a major risk of theft if there was a sign above the door.’ He rang a discreet doorbell and the door buzzed open. He bowed deeply. ‘After you, ma’am.’
Jo reported in to the receptionist and took a seat next to Patrick in the waiting area. A group of Japanese businessmen made a vignette of grey suits as they lined up to have their picture taken in front of a gigantic chrome Global Duty Free logo mounted on the wall behind them. An older man with glasses, grey hair and a round face looked over at her and barked something in a staccato voice at one of the younger men in the group.
Jo raised her eyebrows at Patrick in mock alarm. ‘Do you think we nicked their seats? Because I’m not moving.’
Patrick shot her a look. ‘Behave. Please.’
‘Moi?’ she said innocently. The young Japanese man approached them and she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Ooh, hello.’
‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ he said in an American accent, ‘but Mr Yamamoto would like to know what you have in the case.’
Jo pointed to the case and looked over to the senior man. ‘In here? Shoes.’ She pointed to her own feet for added clarity. She bowed as an afterthought and heard Patrick stifle a snort of laughter.
‘Ah, shoes!’ repeated the Japanese party, accompanied by a round of nodding at each other.
There was another machine-gun round of speech from the older man.
The young man cleared his throat and, looking uncomfortable, said, ‘Mr Yamamoto thought that might be so and would like to see them.’
Jo looked at Patrick, shrugged and began to unzip the case. ‘They’re in order,’ he whispered, looking anxious. ‘Don’t mix them up.’
‘Relax,’ she said with a grin. ‘What can go wrong?’
Ten minutes later, the receptionist ushered them into a large boardroom. There were shelves along two walls, lined with tempting displays of luxury duty-free products, including all Jo’s favourite perfume and cosmetics brands.
‘Holly would be in heaven,’ Patrick hissed, nodding to a giant box of Swiss chocolates.
‘Ditto,’ Jo muttered back.
A group of people in cool designer brands were standing around the refreshment table at the far end of the room. Not a stiletto or a pinstripe between them. Jo pulled at her tight shift dress, feeling quite starchy by comparison. Even Patrick looked more the part than her in his linen trousers and open-necked shirt. He was a picture of calm: relaxed and confident, his boyish smile never far from his lips. She, on the other hand, was a bag of nerves.
His old student buddy, Ian Hamilton, sauntered over to say hello. His Superdry T-shirt and vintage jeans didn’t quite work with the rest of him. He had a little round tummy, plump cheeks, gold-rimmed glasses and scarcely any hair. Jo glanced at Patrick’s mop of thick fair hair; he had definitely aged better.
Patrick introduced Jo to Ian who in turn introduced them to the rest of the group and led them to the front of the room where the IT equipment was set up for their presentation.
‘Good of you to come at such short notice,’ he said, thumping Patrick’s back. ‘Our American colleagues are only here for one more day and they’ve insisted on seeing all the brands for the British campaign. Jo, can I get you a drink?’
She accepted a glass of water gratefully and Ian left them to get set up.
Patrick winked at her and began to arrange the Josephine Gold collection on the allocated shelving unit at the front of the room. Jo inspected the laptop which had been set up for their use, inserted the USB stick and waited for the presentation she’d spent hours preparing to load. A flash flood of panic swept through her body as the contents of the USB stick appeared on the screen: Staff headshots © First Shot Photographic Studio.
Oh hell. Her stomach flipped. She’d picked up the wrong USB stick.
This one had arrived yesterday from the photographer. Patrick had suggested they had some new headshots taken for a press release about the Josephine Gold collection. She frantically tipped up her laptop case with shaking hands, but even as she did so she knew she wouldn’t find the other USB stick. She remembered picking this one up off the desk earlier this morning. The correct one must still be lying there.
Now what. Think, Jo, think.
Her head swirled with all sorts of thoughts, none of them useful.
She cleared her throat and Patrick caught her eye. In under a second he was at her side.
‘Problem?’ he muttered. Global’s management team had now taken their seats and were waiting silently.
Jo quickly flashed a nonchalant smile around the room. ‘Bear with!’ she trilled. ‘Just sorting out the technology.
‘I’ve brought the wrong USB stick,’ she hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Look.’
‘Bugger,’ said Patrick unhelpfully.
‘What are we going to do?’ squeaked Jo. ‘There’s no time to ask Liz to email the presentation, we’ll miss our slot.’
This was unbelievable. She was always prepared, unflappable and totally cool under pressure. Today was different. Today felt like it was her last chance to save Gold’s. It was thanks to Patrick that they had got this opportunity; it was up to her to make sure the contract landed in their laps.
‘Forget the presentation.’ Patrick touched her arm gently, his cheeky grin replaced with fierce determination. ‘Remember what you said before? About the shoes winning the order for us? We’re going to let the shoes do the talking. Speak from the heart, Jo. From the heart.’ His eyes bored into hers and she gazed back, absorbing some of his calm. ‘You can do it.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, as her own heart performed somersaults.
He was right. Of course she could do it. Jo pulled herself up to her full height and took a deep breath. Besides which, she really had no choice, she thought, reaching for the first of her mood boards.
Fifteen minutes later, Jo was on a high. The pitch had gone really well and she was ready to wrap up her speech.
‘We believe that what we have created in Josephine Gold is a high-end, luxury British brand that captures the zeitgeist in terms of fashion for the confident woman. Thank you.’ She finished and smiled at everyone in the room.
And breathe.
All of the samples were being passed around under the scrutiny of the panel. If she had to guess, she would say they were happy. Not exactly whooping and hollering, but some raised eyebrows, minuscule nods and lots of note-taking. She and Patrick had done well, despite her earlier mammoth hiccup. She exhaled and smiled at Patrick, who winked back.
Hopefully no one could see that her whole
body was trembling. Now they just had to answer any questions that the panel might have.
A woman with a light tan and sparkling white teeth raised her hand.
Jo beamed at her. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Tori, buying director from the States.’
Director? She looked barely old enough to be out of school.
‘We’re looking for new brands that really represent the Best of British for our campaign. Why should we choose Josephine Gold?’
Because if you don’t, there probably won’t even be a Gold’s shoe business in twelve months.
She shuddered. That was unthinkable. All her father’s hard work, years of building up the Gold’s brand, up in smoke. All because she had made a complete mess of it. She stared at the panel, aware that this was the clincher, her last chance to make an impression. She needed this more than she had needed anything in her life.
‘Thank you for your question, Tori. Well, I guess what makes our brand special is … um …’
She opened her mouth again but nothing came out. Heat rose to her face and she had a sudden image of herself collapsing in floods of tears in front of this cool young American. Only a few seconds ticked by, but it felt like an eternity to Jo. Tori shifted in her seat.
Say something, for God’s sake!
A tapping noise made her spin round. Patrick was doing something on the laptop. His warm, friendly smile as his eyes met hers told her to relax, that he had it covered. He gestured for her to step to one side and she jumped out of the way gratefully.
‘To answer that question,’ said Patrick smoothly, ‘I’d like to introduce you to the Gold’s family.’
Her family? Jo threw him a puzzled frown. He grinned back. She had no choice but to let him run with it, but if he revealed embarrassing details about her and her parents, she would quite possibly shrivel up and die.
Patrick picked up the remote control to operate the projector screen, opened the company’s headshots folder on the USB stick and set it to slide show.
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