B01ESFW7JE

by Cathy Bramley

  For one tiny fragment of a second, Sarah considered owning up to the jam’s real provenance. But presenting awards, on the stage … being introduced as a professional … well, she felt like a local celebrity. It was probably best if she didn’t make a fuss about the jam. After all, what was done was done.

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  Carrie gave her the thumbs-up and smiled.

  Sarah grinned. They were going into this new venture together; they should share this moment in the spotlight too. ‘As long as Carrie can help,’ she added.

  The woman nodded, hooked her glasses on to the end of her nose and consulted her clipboard. ‘Four awards, you can do two each.’

  ‘But I do feel so sorry for the vicar. Dave!’ Sarah shook her head at her husband, tongue wedged firmly in her cheek. ‘What an oversight. How could you?’

  ‘Please send my apologies to the vicar,’ he said, feigning sincerity. ‘It was my first batch; I’ll know for next time.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ The woman hitched up her bosom and sniffed. ‘This way please, Mrs Hudson, Mrs Radley, we must get a move on.’ And she ushered them towards the stage.

  ‘Apart from the damson stones,’ asked Sarah, hurrying behind her, ‘did the jam taste all right?’

  The woman flicked her eyes at Dave and huffed. ‘If it hadn’t nearly broken the vicar’s jaw, it would have been the star of the show!’

  Sarah turned back to Dave, Carrie and Abi and punched the air.

  ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ she whispered innocently.

  Chapter 35

  Jo waved a last goodbye to her father as he pulled out of the drop-off zone and made her way through the glass departures doors at Heathrow airport. And breathe. A ninety-minute car journey with Dad had done nothing for her stress levels.

  Jo’s mum had offered to drive her to the airport, and Jo had been looking forward to nothing more taxing than her mum’s unsubtle reminders about body clocks and the usual newly single and totally adorable man she had found at the golf club. But at the last minute her mum said she felt unwell and had persuaded her husband to go in her place, thus forcing Jo and her dad to sort out their differences as they sped down the M1. Full of concern, Jo had called her mum who had apparently made a miraculous recovery and was busy shopping. The words ‘stitched up’ and ‘kipper’ came to mind.

  Instead of gentle gossip, Jo had been subjected to a painful interrogation about the state of the company’s cash flow and whether or not Jo could pull Gold’s out of the red and into the black.

  It had started off well: her dad had grunted with reluctant approval at the appointment of additional sales agents and the development of the new website. But Bob Gold wanted to see profit, which so far had remained elusive. Progress on that score seemed to be one step forward and two steps back. A major retail website had agreed to stock the Josephine Gold collection, but only if Gold’s handled the shipping to consumers. They had been forced to turn the order down or the sales office would have spent half of their day parcelling up shoes. Then they had received a big order from Germany, only to find out that the cost of delivery wiped out virtually all their profit. It was maddening; Jo was trying so hard to lift the company out of the red and getting nowhere.

  She cast her eye over the departures board, sought out the check-in desks for her British Airways flight to New York and marched off to join the queue.

  Were her efforts enough to keep her father off her back?

  Oh no. Not Bob Gold. He could have done better. Obviously.

  Jo massaged her jaw; she must stop grinding her teeth. At her last visit to the dentist, he had threatened her with wearing a gum shield at night if she continued to gnash her teeth. That would be a passion killer if ever she had heard one. She could see it now:

  ‘Goodnight, Jo, my little love muffin.’

  ‘Ugg ugg slurp.’

  No thanks.

  Suitcase dealt with, boarding pass in hand, Jo sidestepped the holidaying family groups and headed for passport control. She switched her mobile phone to mute, slipped off her shoes and placed her watch and jacket in a plastic tray on the conveyor belt.

  Looking on the bright side, i.e. charcoal grey as opposed to black, Dad had reduced his threat of returning to work from full time to one day a week. That was as close to an apology as she was ever going to get. Jo had remained tight-lipped when he delivered the news. Even coming in one day a week was effectively a vote of no confidence in his daughter.

  ‘Cheer up, love,’ said the security guard, beckoning her to come forward.

  ‘What for?’ she muttered crossly. She was thirty-four, more single than a Trappist monk and her own father was about to demote her. What, precisely, had she got to be cheerful about?

  She tensed automatically as she walked through the X-ray machine. Imagine if the machine could detect emotions: lonely, scared of heights, wants a baby …

  Jo inhaled sharply. It wouldn’t do to start wallowing immediately before a lengthy flight; she wasn’t an easy flier at the best of times. She collected her tray of belongings, turned her phone back on and perked up as two devastatingly handsome pilots crossed the concourse towards her.

  Her mobile phone rattled in the tray. She tutted, glanced at the screen briefly and rejected the call. Not now, Patrick, I’m busy, she thought, turning her attention back to the uniformed pair.

  ‘Ooh sorry!’ she exclaimed, tripping over a pile of bags. She bumped into an old lady and dropped her passport. ‘I wasn’t watching where I was going.’

  One of the pilots stopped in his tracks and picked up her passport. A whole scenario instantly flashed through Jo’s mind in which the pilot, who of course would be the captain of her flight to JFK, upgraded her to Business Class, plied her with champagne and invited her to keep him company in the cockpit.

  ‘Thanks, that’s mine,’ said Jo, catching his eye. She felt better already.

  ‘Hello, er …’ He flicked open her passport. Dammit, he was looking at her picture. Jo tried hard to maintain her smile even though her photograph bore more than a passing resemblance to Coco the Clown.

  ‘Josephine.’ He grinned and handed back the passport, reading her boarding card as he did so. ‘Off to New York?’

  She nodded and held his gaze as long as she could manage. ‘You?’

  He shrugged. ‘Edinburgh.’

  Bang goes that fantasy.

  A tannoy announcement in the distance distracted her momentarily: ‘Would passenger …’

  The name sounded vaguely like hers but she dismissed it: she was travelling alone, hadn’t lost anything and was locked in eye contact with a very attractive man. It was simply too good a moment to interrupt.

  She gave him what she hoped was an enigmatic smile, affected her best slinky walk and set off in the direction of the bookshop.

  I am such a flirt. She sighed under her breath, remembering too late that she was supposed to have turned over a new leaf where men were concerned, and went in search of the self-help book for acrophobia that Carrie had told her about.

  Nine hours later Jo had safely landed in New York. She aimed a kick at her suitcase, moving it along to keep up with the immigration queue. Juggling her paperwork and passport in one hand, she stooped to retrieve a cardigan from her suitcase to stop herself from shivering. The sun might be shining over JFK airport but in this windowless room, the air conditioning must have been turned up to maximum.

  The flight had been non-eventful; she had read and slept through much of it. She yawned and rotated her stiff shoulders. Now she was fidgety and anxious to get to her hotel for a shower. She wanted to call the office too before everyone left for the day, although that was looking increasingly unlikely. It would already be nearly seven in the evening in Northampton.

  It was Patrick’s last week already. When she’d left Gold’s early this morning, he had been clearing his desk, cramming ten years’ worth of diaries, mugs, broken pens and old catalogues into black bin bags. God knows what h
e was going to do with it all. He didn’t usually suffer from the Monday morning blues, but she had never seen him in such a bleak mood. The next time she saw him, it would be Friday – his final day with the company.

  A thought hit her, set her imagination into overdrive and her stomach on to full spin: she hadn’t returned his call from hours ago and there was that tannoy message … What if it had been for her? What if something was wrong? What if … he had changed his mind about leaving?

  She peered along the queue and fought the urge to stamp her foot. How long did it take to let a few tourists into this country, for God’s sake?

  Checking over her shoulder, she slid a hand into her handbag surreptitiously and turned on her phone, then instantly regretted it. Shit. The obligatory text messages informing her she was now abroad kept on coming, reverberating around the busy, but eerily quiet, hall. She barely had the chance to register a string of missed calls from Patrick when she felt a meaty hand on her arm and jumped guiltily.

  ‘Ma’am?’ A burly customs officer released her and pointed to the huge sign forbidding the use of mobile phones.

  ‘Oops. Sorry.’ Jo squirmed. The people either side of her in the queue, in the absence of anything else to do, decided to stare at her vacantly.

  What the hell was taking so long in this line? Jo folded her arms and tapped her foot against her suitcase until the man in front of her whirled round and glared at her for fidgeting.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she chanted under her breath, suddenly desperate to speak to Patrick. ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’

  Thankfully there was no queue for taxis outside arrivals and Jo jumped straight into a yellow cab.

  ‘DoubleTree Hotel in Times Square please,’ she called to the driver, sinking gratefully into the back seat.

  Right. PatrickPatrickPatrick. Her fingers fumbled with her phone and she shook it impatiently as she waited for her roaming service to connect. Her heart was beating wildly. Please God, let nothing have happened to her dad on the drive back up the motorway. Or a fire? Perhaps Gold’s had burned to the ground and there were casualties and …

  No sooner had the AT&T symbol appeared in the corner of her screen than the phone rang, making her jump. She practically stabbed the green button in her haste to answer the call.

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Jesus, Jo! That was quick. You frightened me to death. Are you OK? How was the flight?’

  She let out a breath of relief. He sounded smiley. There was nothing wrong. She slumped back against the leather seat, cross with herself for overreacting. But pleased at the same time. Whatever Patrick wanted, she was sure from his greeting that there was no life-or-death situation lurking across the pond.

  ‘Fine. I’m in a taxi on my way to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours; didn’t you get my call or hear the tannoy at the airport?’

  ‘Yes, no, sorry.’ She was so glad he wasn’t here to see her pink ears.

  ‘Never mind. I’ve got something exciting to tell you.’

  Jo stared out of the window, only vaguely registering the traffic on the Long Island Expressway. He had decided not to leave Gold’s? She bit her lip, heart pounding, not daring to speak in case she jinxed his next words.

  ‘Remember Mr Yamamoto?’

  ‘Who?’ Jo was thrown momentarily. What was he talking about?

  ‘The Japanese businessman we met at Global?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember.’ Jo frowned and rubbed her gritty eyes. Fresh off a long flight and the most pressing thing Patrick had to tell her was …

  ‘Did you also know he’s head of a chain of fifty shoe shops in Japan? That’s five zero shops.’

  This conversation was getting surreal. Shoe shops in Japan? Jo’s travel-weary body began to tingle; she could tell from his voice that he was doing his James Bond face, all raised eyebrows and wonky smile.

  She laughed softly. ‘No, I didn’t know that. What else don’t I know?’

  There was a pause down the line.

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Gold.’

  She smiled a bittersweet smile; she was going to miss their banter.

  ‘But let’s stick with the Japanese for now,’ he continued. ‘When we met Mr Yamamoto and his team, they were in the UK sourcing luxury brands for their stores. Some government body had organized the trip for them. Which was lucky for us.’

  ‘Was it?’ asked Jo tentatively, crossing her fingers.

  ‘Oh yes, because according to the translator, who we also met that day, Josephine Gold is the perfect archetypal British footwear brand.’

  ‘Well, I’d have to agree!’ cried Jo, drumming her feet excitedly in the back of the cab. The driver eyed her nervously in his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Patrick, you’re loving this, aren’t you?’ She laughed down the phone. ‘Are you walking round the office doing your swagger?’

  There was a slight pause down the line and she heard the squeak of his leather office chair.

  ‘Er, no, I’m sitting down.’

  ‘Yeah, now you are.’

  ‘This could be even bigger than the Global contract, Jo. Do you realize that?’

  The taxi joined a seething mass of cars all competing for which of them could edge closest to the car in front without actually hitting it. Ahead, Jo could see the Queensboro Bridge spanning the East River like a huge metal spine. The turquoise cloudless sky, the iconic Manhattan skyline and the glittering river … no matter how often she visited New York, the magic was still there. Carrie and Sarah were going to love it.

  Around them drivers were honking their horns and she could barely hear Patrick. Her taxi driver wound his window down and started to yell indiscriminately at the cars in front.

  ‘… meeting on Wednesday … want to get deal signed … only opportunity before flying …’

  Jo pressed a hand over her free ear and strained to listen. What was he saying?

  ‘Close your window, please!’ she shouted at the driver.

  ‘Jo, can you hear me?’

  His voice was breaking up. A ball of frustration began to build in the pit of her stomach. Hell, this is important. Her heart was thumping and she was an inch away from completely losing it.

  ‘Patrick, are you still there?’

  Mercifully, the taxi pulled on to the bridge and the traffic started moving again.

  ‘So, Wednesday?’ Patrick repeated clearly. ‘Shall I agree to the meeting?’

  ‘We can’t! I’ll still be in New York,’ she shouted. This was a nightmare.

  ‘I know,’ explained Patrick patiently. ‘The Japanese are in America too. They’re in Atlanta at the moment. They’ll be arriving in New York tomorrow and want to meet up.’

  The cars were quieter now they were on the bridge, thank goodness; she had barely been able to hear herself think.

  The impact of Patrick’s news began to sink in. In the back of her mind, she had always considered the possibility of exporting to Japan. They were barmy about British brands, apparently. But she simply didn’t have the resources to investigate any further. Mr Yamamoto could be the answer to their prayers.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Patrick, this is amazing. Josephine Gold in Japan! Imagine,’ laughed Jo incredulously. ‘Have you booked your flight?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Of course! You don’t leave the company until Friday, you know.’

  ‘Jo, you know I’d do anything you ask,’ said Patrick quietly.

  Then don’t leave.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Get yourself on a flight, McGregor. I can’t do this without you.’

  More to the point, she admitted, she didn’t want to do it without him. ‘I need you, anyway,’ she added brightly.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Patrick gruffly. ‘And I’d love to be involved.’

  ‘Yeah, I need you to bring all the samples out with you,’ she teased.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Oh bless, he sounded all deflated.
‘Patrick?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks for this and thanks for trying so hard to get hold of me and … just thanks. But now get off the line. I’ll call Liz and get her to organize you a flight. Carrie and Sarah are coming tomorrow; we’ll book you on the same flight. Now go and pack!’

  It was too busy and noisy at the airport for Carrie; she felt a bit intimidated by the crowds. She had never left the UK without Alex and she was used to him organizing all their travel arrangements. And Sarah was so excited that she was no help at all.

  ‘Look at this!’ Sarah chirped, pointing to her groin. She hopped from one foot to the other, making her curls bounce.

  Carrie eyed her with amusement. She had been bursting with energy ever since they had checked in. She was exhausted just watching.

  ‘My teensy weensy, tiny little bag,’ Sarah continued merrily, now swinging her body from side to side, smacking Carrie with the bag in question.

  ‘Come on,’ laughed Carrie, dragging her friend towards the coffee shop.

  ‘You’ve no idea how liberating this is,’ Sarah said with a blissful smile. ‘Just my passport, ticket and purse. No toys, drinks, nappies, spare vests and …’

  ‘Wipes?’ Carrie finished for her.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ Sarah gasped. ‘I need hand-sanitizer for the loos on the plane.’ She shrugged herself out of Carrie’s grasp. ‘Just popping to Boots, meet you back here.’ She darted off with a wave.

  ‘I’ll go to the bookshop then,’ said Carrie to no one.

  Back at the coffee shop thirty minutes later, Carrie emptied the contents of her carrier bag on to the table to show Sarah.

  ‘Richard Branson’s biography, two books on the language of flowers and one about marketing for dummies,’ she said, pleased with her haul.

  Life had never been so exciting and she was intent on making the most of her first transatlantic flight.

  ‘Wow.’ Sarah raised her eyebrows over the top of her latte glass. ‘That’s quite a lot of reading for one flight.’

  Carrie laughed, realizing it made her look pretty antisocial. ‘I promise I won’t ignore you. I’ve never flown long haul before. We can chat away, maybe watch a movie …’