Summer With My Sister (30 page)

‘A tea would be lovely, please,’ Clare said. She felt a stab of longing inside as she perched in the armchair. Now that she was here, and had seen what a cool place the hotel was going to be, she wanted desperately to be involved.

Kate made a quick call to order some drinks then sat opposite Clare. ‘So,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Shall we start by looking at your product line?’

Clare was glad that Kate made no reference to Roxie during their conversation. She’d been worried beforehand that she’d be taken less seriously for the unconventional manner in which this interview had been arranged. She’d dreaded getting any hint from Kate that this was all a favour for her demanding niece, an annoyance that had to be dealt with as quickly as possible, and had almost wanted to pre-empt her with an apology for taking up her time.

Polly had told her several times, in no uncertain tones, that this was absolutely out of the question. ‘If you can’t treat this as a viable business proposition, then she definitely won’t,’ she had said. ‘Do not – I repeat, do not – go in there with any kind of hangdog, sorry-I-exist look on your face and start talking yourself out of the deal before she’s had a chance to make up her mind. You’re better than that.’

With her sister’s words ringing in her ears, Clare did her best to bite back any self-deprecation and instead set her sample bottles on the table in front of Kate, and began telling her about their natural ingredients and how she’d arrived at the formula for each. She spoke haltingly at first, her words sounding strained and unnatural to her own ears, but she was on safe ground at least, discussing her potions and how she’d concocted them. She knew her stuff backwards and, after a couple of minutes, felt herself begin to relax and speak more easily. ‘I’m only a small business,’ she confessed, ‘and if you were to choose me as your supplier, the hotel would be my biggest customer. But that would mean, of course, that I could be flexible to your needs, and I’m more than happy to create exclusive fragrances and products as you wish.’

Ooh, that sounded good. Just as she and Polly had rehearsed! Kate was nodding appreciatively, Clare noticed, with a prickle of excitement. For all her earlier certainty that this was pie-in-the-sky and nothing would come of it, she now felt the yearning ramp up inside her. She really wanted to do this.

Kate picked up the Ginger Ninja bottle and smiled when she saw the ‘Made for Langley’s, with love’ line on the label. ‘Nice touch,’ she said. ‘Lovely designs too, very fresh and eye-catching.’ She unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents. ‘Mmm. I like it. Not too feminine, either, which is a plus. Okay, thank you for talking me through what you’ve got. I’ll take the products away if I may, to show my team. Can we discuss costs now?’

Once the meeting was over, Kate led Clare back down the corridor, with its last tantalizing glimpses of Wonderland, and out through the main doors. In the driveway an Audi the colour of gun metal was pulling up smoothly, the gravel flinging itself beneath the heavy wheels, and as Clare said her final goodbyes to Kate, the car parked in front of the hotel and two women got out. Dressed in tailored business suits with crisp blouses, perma-tans and perfectly coiffed hair, they carried Mulberry bags and exuded waves of power and expensive perfume.

Was this the competition? Clare’s heart plummeted around her ankles. Shit. She had no hope then. No hope whatsoever.

‘Ah, I think these are my next ladies,’ Kate said, removing her hand from Clare’s. ‘Thanks again, Clare. I’ll be in touch,’ she said a little distractedly, before fixing a new smile on her face to greet the recent arrivals. ‘Hello there. I’m Kate Hendricks, can I help you?’

‘Good morning, Kate, I’m Jacqueline Wade and this is Annabel Palmer-Thompson,’ Clare heard. ‘We’re from Brownes.’

Clare tried to give her rivals a professional, business-like smile as she passed them on the front steps, but – unused to wearing heels, let alone too-big heels – her ankle chose that exact moment to give way and she staggered, losing her balance and falling all the way down the steps onto her hands and knees in the gravel.

‘Oops,’ she heard one of the glamazons say, with what sounded horribly like a titter behind a manicured hand.

‘Oh goodness, Clare, are you all right?’ Kate cried, hurrying down after her. ‘Some of the steps are a bit uneven, I should have warned you, I’m so sorry . . .’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Clare said, getting quickly to her feet before Kate felt obliged to help her up. Her tights had ripped and her palms felt punctured from the sharp little stones, but the embarrassment was far worse than the pain. She could feel them all watching: the impeccable women from Brownes no doubt smirking at her imbecility, and Kate probably wondering if she had a drink problem. Shit. What a clumsy oaf she was. What a prat-falling, useless idiot!

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, her face fiery, as she brushed herself down, deliberately keeping her back to the other women. To top it off a crumpled length of toilet roll was now hanging right out of one shoe and she shoved it back in with her foot, feeling more gauche than ever.
Don’t cry, don’t cry
. ‘Thanks again,’ she managed to say and hurried off, praying her wobbly ankle would make it as far as the car. Stupid heels. Loathsome heels!

‘Okay . . .’ she heard Kate say uncertainly behind her. ‘Bye then. Take care.’ There was a delicate pause. ‘Now then, would you two like to come in? I’ve been looking forward to seeing your products.’

And in they went through the old oak doors, a strong scent of Chanel lingering in their wake.

Clare let out a groan. Bollocks. Big, hairy, dangling,
sweaty
bollocks. What a total fuckwit she was. What a klutz! She’d done okay in the meeting too, she’d actually come out with a few coherent sentences and not muffed any of the figures. And then to go and blow it by falling over, bum in the air, knickers probably flashed for all the world to see, face in the gravel like an utter twenty-four-carat loser. Why had she ever agreed to this ludicrous meeting in the first place? That little trip down the steps had reminded her of her place, all right – sprawled on the ground, while the proper business types of the world stepped over her prone body and were handed a big fat contract.

It was only the horrific prospect of being discovered weeping in her crummy old Fiat by elegant Kate that gave her the will to turn the ignition key and start the engine.

Chapter Seventeen

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For the last time, no jobs here for you. Just give up and admit you’re a failure, yeah?

Polly was going cross-eyed from staring at the computer screen for so long. For all their boasting about regular updates, the job websites were starting to look brain-achingly familiar, and soul-crushingly hopeless when she scanned them every morning. There was the Market Risk Data analyst job that sounded good, until you looked at the pay. Then came that same old project-manager post, also working in the Market Risk area, which she’d already applied for (still crossing those fingers, but the company seemed to have extended the deadline date, which was worrying). A couple of jobs in Brussels. Something in Edinburgh. Short-term contracts, some as short as a week, but these were no good to her now that she no longer had a home in London. To enable a move back she needed something meaty, a proper contract that she could show to prospective landlords of lovely flats . . .

Oh God, she missed her flat. She missed living alone. Being at Clare’s was . . . well, to be fair, it wasn’t quite as dreadful as she’d anticipated, but there were certainly no mod cons here, no breathtaking views of the city skyline, no bustle and buzz of the capital’s energy. It was turning out to be harder than she’d thought to get anything done here, what with her parents dropping in for coffee and a chat all the time, as well as batty Agatha and her frequent visits, involving more offerings of manky root vegetables.

She forced her attention back to the laptop screen. Face it, she said to herself, there were just no jobs suitable for her right now. Nothing. Even Clare’s business prospects looked more enticing than Polly’s – although after the dismal expression on her face when she’d returned from the Langley’s meeting last week, nobody was banking on that little venture coming to fruition. But still, at least Clare had some
hope
, some kind of way forward. Polly’s way forward seemed to be completely barred right now. She was never going to get a new job at this rate; she’d never be able to return to London, she’d have to stay in Elderchurch for ever and ever and would die here, a bitter and miserable old crone.

Her phone rang, jerking her out of her torpor. The estate agent’s number was flashing on the screen and she pressed the connection button hungrily.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Johnson? Vince here. How are we today?’

She pulled a face. ‘We’re very well, thank you. How are things?’

‘Good, good. Listen, I’m ringing with a bit of news. We’ve had an offer on the flat – very nice couple, short chain, they’re good to go. The offer’s quite a bit lower than the asking price, though.’

‘How much lower?’

He paused dramatically. If he’d been there in the same room as her, this was the moment she’d have punched him in the face. ‘Forty grand lower.’

‘
Forty grand
? They can fuck off.’ She slumped back in her chair, sick with disappointment.

Vince was chortling as if she was joking. She so wasn’t joking. ‘Okay, Miss Johnson, you’ve made your thoughts on that pretty clear. I’ll get back to them with the bad news.’

She screwed up her face as the call ended, wondering if she’d just made a mistake. But no, they were taking the piss with such a rubbish offer. She had to sit tight, wait it out and hope they’d come back with a higher figure. ‘Oh, please come back with a higher figure,’ she moaned out loud. Fred, who was slobbing out beneath the table, pricked up his ears and gave a little whine as if sympathizing.

Polly turned back to her laptop, but it was no good, she couldn’t concentrate now. She switched it off, then got to her feet, the chair screeching as it scraped across the floor. ‘Sod this for a lark, Fred,’ she said. ‘Let’s get some fresh air, shall we? Have a little walkie?’

Fred scrambled out from under the table immediately, his tail wagging, and Polly knelt down to hug him. She was becoming quite fond of Fred, even if he did smell heinous most of the time. It was nice having someone – okay,
something
– who was always pleased to see her, and could be counted on for a cuddle when she felt miserable and lonely. ‘Come on then,’ she said, clipping the lead to his collar. ‘Let’s stretch our legs and have a wander.’

Propping her big shades on her nose Polly set off with Fred at her side, his tongue out in a big doggy smile. It only took minutes to get out of the village, clamber rather inelegantly over a wooden stile, and then she was in a lush green field dotted with buttercups and clouds of ox-eye daisies, with large swaying oaks and chestnut trees at the far end.