Never Can Say Goodbye (16 page)

But the shop had been completely empty. Achsah’s frock was still on the 1950s rails, without anyone small, elderly, grizzlehaired
and goblin-faced in ghostly attendance.

It was all some sort of silly, but cleverly organised stunt to unsettle her. And she’d find out who was behind it and deal
with it.

As she looked out through the large double windows at the market square where the moisture left by the fog had frozen in crystal
feathers, turning everything white like snowfall beneath the bluebell sky, she couldn’t understand why she’d allowed herself
to get so agitated. There just had to be a simple and rational explanation.

There were no such thing as ghosts. Fact.

Shoppers were cheerfully going about their Monday-morning business, stepping carefully across the icy cobbles, and Dexter,
occasionally blowing on his hands, his breath pluming into the sub-zero air, was busily arranging huge buckets of red and
white flowers on the decking outside the stall, and replenishing the stocks of holly wreaths and mistletoe garlands.

She watched him for a moment. The jeans, boots and leather jacket were the same, and this morning’s sweatshirt was turquoise:
a splash of vivid colour against the rich darkness of the greenery. Frankie smiled to herself. She was wearing a short, flared
turquoise frock today, with navy tights and boots. Together, they’d look like a matching pair.

Not, of course, that there was going to be any
together
as such. Not in that way. She didn’t want any more complications
of that sort – even if Dexter hadn’t already been involved with Ginny and the home-service ladies. But he was, she admitted
to herself, absolutely gorgeous just to look at in a sort of detached kind of way.

The door flew open and three women, muffled against the frosty morning and clutching shopping baskets, bustled in and, after
calling out cheerful ‘good mornings’ and humming along with ‘Born Free’, headed for the 1980s rails.

Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks was up and running once again.

By eleven o’clock, the shop was packed. Frankie had hardly had time to breathe. She was desperate to go to the loo and to
have a coffee. She worked as quickly as she could, packing the dresses and chatting at the same time, taking money and zapping
cards, but the queue at the counter seemed to grow ever longer.

‘Here.’ Dexter manoeuvred his way behind the counter, and handed her a mug of Greasy Spoon coffee. ‘You look like you could
do with it.’

‘Life saver.’ Frankie grinned, carefully wrapping a grunge outfit in tissue paper. ‘Thank you so much. I’d hoped to get out
to you with a cup this morning but –’ she looked at the never-ending queue of women who were now looking hungrily at Dexter
‘– there’s been no chance.’

‘Great, isn’t it? I’m really busy too. I’d better get back before some bugger nicks the mistletoe.’ He grinned at her. ‘And
snap on the colour co-ordinating. Great sartorial minds at work?’

Frankie giggled. ‘Oh, the turquoise – yes, I know. I, er, saw you earlier and thought we looked a bit Howard and Hilda.’

‘Who?’

‘They were in an old sit-com. Always wore the same clothes. A running joke.’

‘Oh, right.’ Dexter looked blank. ‘I must have missed that one.’

‘Maybe more Torvill and Dean, then?’

Dexter brightened. ‘Oh, yeah, I know them. She’s got incredible legs.’

Frankie laughed.

‘Anyway –’ Dexter ran his fingers through his silky hair ‘– how are you fixed for lunch?’

Frankie hadn’t even thought about lunch. ‘Lord knows. I don’t think I’ll be able to have any. It doesn’t matter – it’ll be
great preparation for the Christmas bloat-out. Sorry?’ She leaned across the counter to a diminutive woman in a huge tweed
coat, a balaclava and mittens. ‘Yes, I’ve got several peasant dresses on the 1970s rails. Yes, I love those little peeps of
lacy petticoat, too.’

‘You need help.’ Dexter laughed as the woman trundled across to the appropriate frocks.

‘In a medical way?’

‘In an assistant sort of way. So do I. I don’t know how Ray managed on his own at busy times.’

‘He always used to co-opt Brian in to help him during December and other hectic periods.’ Frankie looked longingly at her
rapidly cooling coffee as she reached for a midnight-blue satin shift dress and a Visa card. ‘Maybe you could ask him?’

Dexter nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ll do that. He’s a nice bloke. Thanks. But what about you?’

Frankie shrugged. ‘No idea. I think I’m going to have to advertise for a part-timer. I hadn’t even thought about it, but I
do need someone else in here. There was always me and Rita, and we weren’t always busy, so it hadn’t occurred to me that I
might need help.’

‘Plenty of students looking for Christmas jobs,’ Dexter said over his shoulder as he squeezed out through the throng. ‘I could
ask Ginny if any of her friends are interested if you like.’

Frankie sniffed. She somehow didn’t want one of Ginny’s college chums giving her chapter and verse about Dexter’s prowess
and, although it made her feel very, very old to even think it, neither did she want to spend hours and hours with someone
saying ‘like’ and ‘random’ and ‘awesome’ every third word and ending their sentences in an Antipodean upward lilt.

Yep, no doubt about it. She was now officially Methuselah. ‘I think someone older would be better in here, actually. A lot
of the customers are middle-aged – I think they might prefer it. I’ll give it some thought later.’

‘OK. Your call. From what I’ve seen, there are certainly enough, er, more mature ladies around here to pick from. You should
find someone pretty easily. And if it quietens down a bit, why don’t you close up for half an hour and we could grab a sandwich
next door?’

Close up? Shut the shop when there might still be paying customers lurking? Frankie shook her head. Rita would have a fit.
Rita had never, ever shut the shop. But then, there had been two of them, hadn’t there? Always one of them there to hold the
fort.

‘We’ll see. Nice idea – can’t see it happening somehow. Thanks again for the coffee, though.’

She watched as Dexter left the shop. So did everyone else. Andy Williams wasn’t the only one sighing a sort of soft collective
sigh as Dexter closed the door.

In a brief lull just after midday, Frankie flew to the loo and annoyed herself by eyeing the 1950s rails dubiously on her
way
back. Ernie Yardley, or whoever he was, was nowhere to be seen. She grinned to herself as she walked behind the counter. She
wouldn’t be seeing him again – Oh, damn it …

Frankie stared down at the floor. Trying to avoid the stack of purple and gold carrier bags, she’d kicked over the overflowing
wastepaper bin. Another job she’d overlooked from manic Saturday. There was so much to do, so little time to do it in and
no help at all.

Making sure that her current handful of customers were still happily browsing and didn’t want serving, she bent down and scooped
up the detritus to the accompaniment of Andy Williams now proclaiming, rather ungrammatically she felt, that he couldn’t take
his eyes off of her.

Among the ripped tissue paper and torn price tickets, a handful of battered business cards were strewn across the floor-boards.

Cherish’s business cards.

Frankie picked one up and stuffed the rest into the bin to be emptied later. She studied it carefully and thought. And, forgetting
all Lilly’s rules on hygiene in the workplace, tapped the card against her teeth and thought again.

Then she picked up her mobile.

Cherish stared at the black Bakelite phone sitting on the lace-trimmed telephone table in the bungalow’s hall. Who on earth
would be ringing her at this time on a Monday morning? Cherish had very few phone calls and made even less.

She hoped it wouldn’t be one of those eager young people trying to sell her double glazing or a new kitchen or a mobile phone.
She always let them talk to her because she felt sorry for them and it was sometimes nice to hear another voice, and
never understood it when they seemed so abrupt and impolite at the end when she said it had been lovely chatting but she was
well suited, thank you.

Warily, she picked up the receiver. ‘Hello … Who? Oh, hello, dear. Yes, of course I remember you. How nice to hear from you.
Would you? Really? Oh, yes, that would be lovely. No, I can get the bus easily enough, thank you. There’s one due in a few
minutes and we’ve got a stop at the corner of the road. Sorry? Oh, right … yes, I’ll be happy to discuss things with you face
to face, dear. Of course I will. What? As soon as possible, of course, dear. Lovely, thank you.’

Cherish replaced the receiver and clapped her hands together. It was like a dream come true. Frankie wanted to see her. Frankie
must have changed her mind about the colourpalette-advising in Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks. How absolutely wonderful.

Explaining why she was leaving so abruptly and where she was going to the nice young man on the radio before apologising for
switching him off mid-programme, Cherish reached for her best coat and scarf, picked up her handbag, checked that she had
enough change for the bus fare, and practically skipped out of the bungalow.

Frankie, not sure if she’d just made another of many possible entrepreneurial mistakes by even making the phone call, didn’t
have long to wait. Cherish, again in an unflattering taupe coat with matching headscarf, arrived, pink-nosed and damp-eyed
from the cold, half an hour later. Mercifully, alone. Frankie knew she’d never have been able to cope with Biddy in tow.

‘Hello, dear. Oh, do excuse me for blowing my nose – it’s
freezing out there.’ Cherish sniffled. ‘Oh, you’re still in paint-box colours, I see. I’d hoped you’d have gone for a nice
charcoal by now.’

‘Charcoal isn’t me, honestly. Nor is pewter or gunmetal or any of the other grey colours you mentioned. I just don’t like
them. Sorry.’

‘Shame, it would make such a difference to your life, a nice touch of grey. You’ll never know what it might unleash.’ Cherish
looked suddenly enthusiastic. ‘I’m assuming here, dear, that you rang me because you’d changed your mind? About using my talents
for your customers, even if you won’t take my advice yourself? I’m free, dear, if you have. Dorothy Perkins in Winterbrook
showed us the door, sharpish. Mind you –’ she looked woebegone again ‘– it didn’t help with Biddy telling ’em they weren’t
the shop she’d known in her youth when you used to be able to get a nice two-piece or a twinset for next to nothing. Then
she had a few harsh words to say about new fangled boutiques. They didn’t like it. They didn’t like it at all.’

‘No,’ Frankie said diplomatically, ‘I can imagine they didn’t. And actually, no, I didn’t want to ask you about your colour-advisory
service. It was about something else altogether … ’

As job interviews went, it was pretty odd, Frankie thought afterwards. She had to ask questions and explain things like how
the till and the credit card machine worked while serving customers, and Cherish said nothing, but kept nodding and blowing
her nose.

Eventually Cherish spoke. ‘It all sounds lovely, dear. Thank you. I’ve done shop work before. I’ve got references too. I’d
be ever so happy to help out. I’m fifty-five, you know, and I haven’t worked for some time, apart from the colour palette
advisory service – and that’s a bit slow sometimes, dear. Well, to
be honest, it’s more or less ground to a halt. And working from home can be very lonely. You tell me what hours you’d like
and I’ll be here. And maybe I could advise people on their soul colours and—’

‘No,’ Frankie said firmly. ‘No colour advising at all. You can carry that on at home, of course, but not on my premises.’

‘Maybe I could just pop one of my cards into the bags?’ Frankie thought guiltily of the wodge of cards in the bin and shook
her head. ‘No, sorry. Conflict of interests, you see?’

‘Yes,’ said Cherish, who patently didn’t. ‘Whatever you say, dear. You’re the boss.’

Yes, Frankie thought with a momentary fizz of pride. I am. And it’s lovely.

She looked hopefully at Cherish. ‘So, if you’re agreeable, I’ll get all the P45 stuff and salary and employment paperwork
sorted out with Rita’s accountant and solicitor, and we can work out some suitable hours and—’

‘I’m happy to work whenever you need me.’ Cherish eyed the customers milling round the rails. ‘You look as if you’re going
to be quite busy all the time. I’m very pleased for you that it’s going so well, but don’t let Biddy know I said so.’

Frankie had no intention of letting Biddy know anything. Someone as mean-spirited as Biddy could put the mockers on Cherish’s
embryo employment before it even got started.

‘I thought you and Biddy were friends?’

‘We are, but she always sees the dark side of everything. She’s very complex, you know. You see, I’ve told her she’s a natural
spring person, which means really she should be forward-thinking and happy in her outlook.’

‘Mmm, she did tell me that you’d suggested she wears spring colours.’

‘Exactly –’ Cherish blew her nose again ‘– but so far they don’t seem to have worked as well as I’d hoped. They don’t seem
to have touched the inner blackness at all.’

Frankie thought that it was definitely better to say nothing more about Cherish’s well intentioned but clearly erroneous colour
advice. She smiled. ‘Right, so shall we say you work from ten until two from now and through December, just to see how it
goes? If it slackens off in the new year we can discuss altering your hours to suit.’

‘That sounds lovely, dear. Thank you.’

‘Good, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad you’re happy. I hope we’ll be able to work well together.’

‘I’m sure we will, dear. You’re a sweet girl and you’ve made everything quite clear. Now, where shall I hang my coat?’

‘In the kitchen – through there – but do you mean now? You mean you want to start straight away? I haven’t got anything sorted
out yet … legally, I mean. It’s all new to me – I’ll have to talk to someone.’

‘Course you will, dear.’ Cherish started unbuttoning her unflattering coat to reveal an equally unflattering beige frock underneath.
‘But let’s say this is a just a trial period, shall we? I’d like to get a feel for the place.’