A week later, having found no suitable jobs in the perfume industry, Gabbie sat down at her laptop and made a start on putting together a business plan. It was harder than she had initially thought, even after taking her own advice and adding a couple of drops of rosemary oil to a diffuser. After two hours, a headache threatened and so, against her better judgement, she succumbed to the temptation to google Jules Gasnier to see what he’d been up to recently, if there was any news on next season’s fragrance, and whether there was any mention of her departure for pastures new.
Of course, there was nothing. She hadn’t been important enough. That was how things were when you worked for a multinational company – she was just a small cog in a huge machine. Whereas, here, in Devon, at Andrews Autos, she was an integral part of the business and, now she was home for good, a significant member of the village community – including its book group! She had been back six weeks and already she had made new friends and created lots of interesting connections, not to mention a potential relationship on the horizon, a thought that filled her with a sudden splash of excitement.
She forced herself to finish the first draft of her business plan, promised she would revisit it before their appointment with the bank, snapped the lid of her laptop shut, and leaned back in her chair, massaging her neck to alleviate the accumulated stiffness. After a few minutes of glorious peace, Wil’s voice floated through the connecting door, loud and clear above the jangle of the radio.
‘Can I persuade you to come with me and Max for a drink at The Pear Tree, Gabbie?’
She checked her watch. Gosh, was it six o’clock already? Where had the time gone?
‘Count me in!’
She rushed up to her bedroom to freshen up, brushed on a little blusher and mascara, and made her way to the village pub, its façade offering a cheery welcome to its thirsty patrons with old-fashioned lanterns spilling pools of amber light onto its front steps.
‘What can I get you?’ asked Max as he propped up the bar with Wil and Owen.
‘We’re having cocktails!’ interrupted Clara, appearing at Gabbie’s side to drag her off to the table next to the roaring log fire before she could order a glass of her favourite Merlot. ‘Here, what do you think of this?’
Gabbie stared at the lurid green sludge Clara handed her before taking a long sniff.
‘It’s not one of your luxury French perfumes, you know!’
‘Hey, none of my perfumes look like washing-up liquid!’ She took a tentative sip – it tasted exactly how it looked, except with a generous twist of lime and a soupcon of crushed mint. ‘Disgusting. If you don’t mind, I’ll stick with wine.’
‘I’ll get that!’ announced Felicity, wearing a wide smile as she approached their table next to the fireplace, her black curls as wild and untamed as ever. ‘It’s good to see you, Gabbie. I was actually going to pop over to the garage to see you tomorrow.’
‘You were?’
‘I just wanted to let you know Eddie passed his drama exam! With distinction, would you believe? I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help. I hadn’t realised about…’ Felicity cast a swift glance at Clara, uncertain whether she should continue. ‘Well, I didn’t know about the origins of the summerhouse and why it was there. I shouldn’t have barged in like that, asking for your help.’
‘Felicity, it’s okay…’
But Felicity was on a roll, clearly keen to push on with what sounded to Gabbie like a well-rehearsed speech.
‘Eddie’s been offered a place at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art and it’s all thanks to you, Gabbie, and what you did for a desperate mother in her time of need. I’m so grateful, so I… well, I hope you don’t mind, but well… here’s the evidence of my appreciation.’
Felicity handed Gabbie a flat, square package wrapped in recycled brown paper and decorated with what looked like potato stamps, all tied up with a piece of string that had been threaded with wooden beads.
‘What is it?’ asked Clara, leaning forward to get a closer look, her eyes shining.
Gabbie laughed. Clara had always loved presents and made a huge fuss about making sure every birthday and Christmas gift was wrapped in the most sparkly of paper and adorned with as many ribbons and bows as she could find, telling everyone that, if it was the thought that counted, a beautifully packaged gift meant the person thought the world of the lucky recipient.
‘Only one way to find out,’ suggested Max, arriving at the table with Owen, taking a sip of his pint with practised nonchalance, but Gabbie knew he was as curious about the contents as Clara was.
Felicity loitered, waiting for Gabbie to tear off the paper and discover what was inside. Gabbie picked it up, gently eased off the string, and slid her fingernail along the join, surprised to see a printout of an article from the local Devonshire Lifestyle magazine’s website.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but Eddie was asked to give an interview about securing a coveted place at LAMDA by one of his old school friends, Rachel Bardon, who’s an intern at Devonshire Lifestyle – and he happened to mention the summerhouse in your back garden. We, erm… we did call round to see you last week to ask if you had any objections to my taking a couple of photos to send to her for the piece. Wil said it would be okay and left me to it – the poor guy looked a bit stressed out actually. Anyway, I thought you’d like to have a copy when it was published. Everyone likes to see their name in lights, right?’
Felicity smiled and left them to their drinks.
‘Read it out! Read it out!’ squealed Clara, her cocktail abandoned as she jiggled in her seat, excitement bubbling to the surface, and only just managing not to snatch the sheet of paper from Gabbie’s hands so she could read it out herself.
With her heart hammering a melody of apprehension, Gabbie flicked her eyes quickly over the article that had been entitled ‘The Summerhouse of Happiness’ and was accompanied by a very flattering photograph of the cream-painted wooden cabin. The bunting around the eaves flapped in the breeze and on the veranda stood a very handsome Eddie, beaming into the camera, holding up an official-looking certificate which Gabbie assumed was the result of his drama exam because the word ‘Distinction’ had been highlighted in red.
Clara couldn’t contain herself any longer and snatched the paper from Gabbie’s hand, taking her time to read every word before turning back to her friend, eyes wide with elation.
‘Oh my God, Gabbie. You’re famous! What if Vogue or Elle get their hands on this story? Next stop will be a spot on This Morning, maybe even a place in the jungle or the Big Brother house!’
‘Oh, shut up, Clara,’ giggled Gabbie, sliding the printed paper back into the wrapping and returning to her cocktail. ‘You do know the magazine has a circulation of about fifty, don’t you?’
‘Fifty-one now!’ Clara declared. ‘I’ll be the first in the queue to buy the print edition of Devonshire Lifestyle when it comes out. So, does this mean you’re definitely starting your own fragrance business?’
‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘Well, that’s fabulous news! You’d be crazy not to give it a go – I mean, how many people came up to you in one of those glitzy French cafés on the Cȏte d’Azur to shower you with their grateful thanks for the fragrance you created? Look what you can achieve with just one simple act of kindness!’
‘Carla, Eddie passed his exams on his own merit – all I did was give him a ball of cotton wool with a drop of oil on it.’
‘You gave him much more than that! You gave him confidence in his abilities. He was already a fabulous actor – I know that because I saw him in last year’s pantomime in the village hall. All he needed was the belief that he could produce the performance of his life when he needed to and with your help he did. You could have changed his whole future!’
‘Whether you like it or not, Gabbie, I think your business just got launched!’ chuckled Owen.
Gabbie exchanged a blank look with Clara.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you don’t have to be Einstein to work out that there’s bound to be queues of people wanting something similar to what you gave Eddie. You’re a qualified aromatherapist, Gabbie. All you have to do is fling open the doors and start charging a fair price for dishing out your random bottles of happiness!’
Was Owen right? Would people be interested enough in Eddie’s story to seek her out and actually pay the market rate for a consultation or a treatment? God, if that were true, she had to give it go, at least until a position at one of the perfume companies came up! If she could contribute some cash towards reducing Andrews Autos’ debt, and persuade the bank to reconsider its refusal of financial assistance, she might be able to buy them some time to work out why they were in the red in the first place and save the garage from closure.
But then her spirits took a nosedive. What was she thinking? Even with the extensive supply of essential oils on the summerhouse shelves, there was no way she could generate an income of twenty thousand pounds before the appointment with the bank the following week. Fortunately, her sympathetic inner voice was poised to shout down her doubts – maybe twenty thousand pounds was unachievable, but if she could provide evidence of a viable business proposition, surely that would count for something?