The next morning Gabbie woke with a gang of carpenters hammering nails into her brain. She and Clara had ditched the soapy cocktails and moved on to the house red, which had initially tasted like liquid cardboard but improved with every glass until it was declared to be one of Chile’s finest exports.
She groaned and pulled the duvet over her head to block out the stray rays of early morning light pushing through her rosebud-bedecked curtains. If she could get another half an hour of sleep, she might just be able to make it down to the kitchen to ensure her father stuck with the prescribed bowl of porridge instead of resorting to a round of his favourite bacon sandwiches.
‘Gabbie? Gabbie, darling, are you awake?’
‘Ergh,’ she replied.
‘I think you’d better come downstairs. I’ve got the coffee on, but I have a feeling you might be needing something a little stronger.’
Gabbie suspected her father had heard her crashing through the door the previous night and a spasm of guilt shot through her veins. She crawled out from under the covers, forced herself into a tepid shower and emerged feeling almost human again before pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie and following her nose in the direction of the promised coffee.
‘I’m not sure what’s going on, Gabbie, but you might like to take a look out of the window.’
‘Why?’
Gabbie raised her eyebrows in confusion before following her father’s extended finger. She blinked, hoping her red-wine hangover was causing hallucinations.
‘What’s going on?’
‘You tell me. I came downstairs to make my porridge ten minutes ago and imagine my surprise when I looked out of the kitchen window and saw three strangers in my garden.’ Jeff joined Gabbie at the sink to reassure himself he wasn’t mistaken. ‘Oh, it looks like another two have arrived. Gabbie, would you like to explain what five random strangers are doing loitering furtively outside our summerhouse?’
‘I have no… oh.’
The fogginess that had been rolling around her brain cleared and she remembered the magazine article Felicity had shown them the previous night – and how Owen had teased her about people queuing up for consultations. His prediction had come true! Oh God! What was she going to do? She wasn’t ready to fling open her doors to the public yet. She wanted to prepare first, to refresh and update her knowledge of aromatherapy, rearrange the jars into alphabetical order, decide on a pricing structure, print off medical and consent forms… She would just have to go out there, explain the situation, and ask them politely to leave.
‘You don’t look as shocked as I expected, darling. Do you know something I don’t?’
She saw the confusion scrawled across her father’s kind features and smiled, her heart squeezing with gratitude that he was taking the invasion of their privacy in his stride. She reached into her handbag, extracted the printout of the Devonshire Lifestyle feature, and handed it over for him to read.
‘Oh, sweetheart, this is amazing! Your mum would have been so proud of you, and so am I! What you did for Eddie, and for Jacob and Andrea, not to mention Mike, was so thoughtful, compassionate even. It’s exactly what Sofia would have done.’
Jeff stepped forward and enveloped Gabbie in his arms, holding her so tight against his chest that she could feel his heart beating with the upsurge of emotion. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the lemony cologne she had designed especially for him as a gift for his sixtieth birthday in April.
‘Erm, Gabbie, I don’t want to worry you, but there’s eight people out there now!’ said Jeff, who had been facing the kitchen window as they hugged. ‘What do you plan to do?’
Panic started to coil around her stomach. Was she crazy to have thought she could do this?
‘Ask them to leave. I’m not ready to…’
‘But these people think you can help them.’
‘You’re right. I’ll make them an appointment…’
‘Gabbie, listen. You know I’ll go along with whatever you want to do, but would you humour me just this once? Find out what they want – if you can’t help them, fine; but if you can, imagine how fantastic that would be!’
Gabbie stared at her father, unsurprised to hear him arguing the case for helping people if you had something to offer. He was a man who cared for everyone who strayed across his path, not just their vehicles.
‘Dad, I love you so much.’
‘As Clara would say, right back atcha, sweetheart.’
Jeff tried to perform a complicated gesture with his thumb and index finger that didn’t quite work and Gabbie giggled as she extracted herself from his arms and saw the glint of pride in his eyes.
‘I think you’d better get started soon, darling, because two more people have arrived. Come on, I’ll be right behind you!’
When Gabbie stepped out into the garden, every eye swivelled in her direction, causing her to pause in her tracks like a deer caught in the headlights. For a few scary moments, her heart flayed against her ribcage and her brain was washed of all thought as panic rained on her parade. As always, her father stepped into the breach.
‘Hello, everyone!’ Jeff announced jovially, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to find ten complete strangers queuing up outside your garden shed. ‘I assume you’re here for a Summerhouse of Happiness consultation? You know, personally, I always preferred the title the Happiness Apothecary – much more apt – but inevitably I was overruled. Now, let me introduce you to my wonderful daughter, Gabriella Andrews, who I want to reassure you is a fully qualified aromatherapist. I see you have already formed an orderly queue, so who would like one of our speciality Andrews Autos coffees while you wait?’
Gabbie smiled at her father as she unlocked the little wooden shed he had built one hot summer with the aid of Mike and a couple of other friends from his archery club – along with several crates of beer. When they had finished, she and Clara and Wil had whipped out the brushes, painted it a lovely cream colour and attached the pretty pastel bunting and a string of solar-powered lights that twinkled in the darkness and gave the place a magical feel.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, needing a few seconds alone to compose herself. She dropped down into the chair she had so often sat in, her mother by her side as they chatted about how she was feeling that day and decided which oils and massage techniques she wanted to try that might alleviate a little of her suffering. A pinch of sorrow reared its head above the parapet but didn’t stay for long. She could almost feel her mother’s smiling approval cascading down from above, telling her this was the right thing to do.
With a sweep of confidence, she opened the door, hung her father’s handmade wooden sign on the handle, and invited her very first paying customer into the Summerhouse of Happiness. She ushered the rather nervous young man into the consultation chair and met his dark, charcoal eyes.
‘Hi. I’m Gabbie Andrews. Welcome to the Summerhouse of Happiness. What can I help you with today?’
‘Erm, well, hi, Gabbie. Yes, well, I’m Jack Hobbs. I’m a friend of Wil’s.’
After a rather circuitous conversation, Jack eventually divulged the reason he had been waiting on her doorstep since dawn and Gabbie had to work hard at keeping a straight face. She should have guessed! She reiterated that the fragrance she had created for Wil was not a love potion, but a cologne to help mask the scent of engine oil, or, in his case, screen wash. When a look of pure dejection crept across Jack’s face, and what looked like tears appeared at the corners of his eyes, she took pity on him. She opened a drawer in the pine cabinet at the back of the room and found a tiny sample of one of House of Gasnier’s bestselling men’s colognes.
‘Thanks, Gabbie. I won’t forget this. How much do I owe you?’
‘You can have this one on me, Jack, provided you promise me you won’t advertise it to all your friends as a love potion!’
‘My word is my bond!’ grinned Jack, clutching his little bottle of fragrance as if it contained the elixir of love as he exited the summerhouse, a new bounce in his step.
Gabbie sighed. If her consultations continued along similar lines, she would never be shortlisted for a Businesswoman of the Year award, or achieve her dream of handing over a sizeable sum towards the garage’s debt. However, financial considerations aside, her meeting with Jack had reaffirmed her delight at being able to witness firsthand the pleasure her perfumes gave people – wasn’t that exactly what she had craved when she had quit House of Gasnier? Jack Hobbs had inadvertently delivered her a timely reminder that she was on the road to achieving her dream!
Her second consultation was swift; her client, who introduced herself as Mrs Griffiths, required only a tiny bottle of lavender oil. She informed Gabbie that she had used the fragrance regularly throughout her seventy-five years, but had been unable to source it for the last few months as her son, who ordered the oil for her over the internet, was away on a foreign sabbatical. Once again, Gabbie had been about to refuse payment, but Mrs Griffiths had told her haughtily that she would be offended if she was treated like some kind of charity case. After that, Gabbie mentioned her fee before each consultation and no one batted an eyelid, so keen were they to talk about why they were there.
Her next client was a teenage girl, dressed from head to toe in black, with a tangle of silver jewellery around her neck and wrists, and a penchant for the liberal use of patchouli-based perfume. She explained to Gabbie that she had won a place in the final of a talent contest at her local high school but had been suffering from a raging sore throat all week and was devastated that her chance to shine would be over before she could belt out her favourite Cher track.
‘You’re my last hope,’ Zara declared, not without a touch of melodrama.
Gabbie knew immediately what to recommend and set about creating the perfect solution, her mood elevating with every drop of essential oil, every whiff of uplifting fragrance, every direction she gave Zara for its safe use.
‘I can’t promise you’ll win the star prize, but why don’t you gargle with this half an hour before you go onstage? It’s a solution my mum used to make from honey and a few drops of eucalyptus, peppermint and lemon oil. Let me know how you get on, won’t you? Good luck.’
‘I will, and thank you. If it works, I’ll dedicate my first album to the Summerhouse of Happiness. This is an amazing place, you know. Just sitting in this chair, watching you work, makes me feel so relaxed. It’s got good karma!’
Gabbie accepted the handful of crumpled notes Zara gave her. She couldn’t help but smile when she looked out of the window and saw her actually skipping down the garden path, waving her fingers at the remaining people in the queue as though she was already well on the way to becoming a famous rock star.
Her next two consultations were dealt with easily; both women were in their early fifties, complaining of similar symptoms and adamant they had no intention of resorting to the use of medication until they had tried everything else first. After carefully checking their medical histories to assess any risk factors, and giving precise instructions on the necessity of diluting the essential oil before use, she had no hesitation in preparing a blend of clary sage, geranium and lavender. Her mother’s best friend, Luciana, had suffered from frequent hot flushes, day and night, and had sworn by a few drops on a tissue or in her diffuser at her bedside.
Before she knew it, it was lunchtime. Jeff apologised to the next person in the queue and slid inside the summerhouse with a doorstep sandwich and flask of coffee to keep mind and body together. She gulped down the food, feeling immediately rejuvenated and ready to tackle the remaining five people who had been waiting patiently all morning, although her father had told her that two of them had spent most of it in The Pear Tree.
Two hours later, she took a few moments to straighten up the wad of twenty-pound notes sticking out of the Tupperware box she was using as a makeshift cash register. After every consultation, she had diligently written out receipts and entered the name of her client and the amount of her fee into a ledger. A quick tally told her she had made almost two hundred and fifty pounds. Her spirits soared and hope poked its head above the parapet.
Her penultimate consultation was with Jenny McLean, the president of Oakley WI with the friendly smile and talent for producing amazing Victoria sponge cakes, not to mention the homemade whisky marmalade her father swore was one of the reasons he got up in the morning.
‘You might think this is a strange request,’ she began, her blue eyes crinkling with warmth as she made herself comfortable in the consulting chair. ‘But one of the WI’s causes this year is the reduction of harmful chemicals in the kitchen and I was wondering whether you could rustle up a spray we can use that would make our kitchen floors and workbenches sparkle without costing the earth?’
‘That’s an excellent mission, Jenny,’ smiled Gabbie, already reaching for the perfect combination of oils. ‘My mum used to swear by white wine vinegar, a few drops of rosemary and tea tree oil, a splash of washing-up liquid and a generous tablespoon of bicarbonate of soda. Here are the oils you need – see what you think. If it’s not quite right, we could try rose geranium oil instead of the tea tree next time. It’s a natural deodorant as well as being slightly astringent and antiseptic.’
‘Thank you, Gabbie. You know, we’d love to see you at one of our meetings. We get together every third Wednesday in the village hall next to the church. In fact, do you think I could book you in your professional capacity to come and give us a talk on the various uses of aromatherapy oils? Maybe bring a selection with you for our members to sample, hand out a few of your business cards? Isn’t targeted marketing the cornerstone to the success of a fledgling enterprise?’
‘Yes, yes, it is. I’d love to come. Thank you, Jenny.’
When Gabbie eventually sent the last person away clutching a bottle containing oil of evening primrose, she stretched her shoulders and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been one of the strangest days of her life, and yet she had enjoyed every single moment, especially the effusive thanks she had received from everyone eager to try out her suggestions.
However, the biggest surprise was that she had made more money in one day than she had earned at House of Gasnier! Clearly, with some forward planning and a well-thought-through business and marketing plan, she could make a living from her skills as an aromatherapist until she was able to expand into bespoke perfumes, possibly even soaps and bubble baths – she’d need to do her research, but that was nothing new. Maybe when she was established, she could expand into hen parties, birthday pamper parties or pre-holiday treatments, as well as giving the occasional talk at the Women’s Institute to add to her coffers.
However, what she didn’t know was whether what she made over the next ten days would be enough to persuade the bank that her business model had the potential to be profitable, so that they would agree to the loan to pay off the outstanding invoice due to Groves Autoparts Ltd and stop them pursuing the court proceedings they had threatened. She could only hope and pray that it was.
Before locking up for the day, she ran her eyes around the familiar wooden room, breathing in the lingering fragrances she’d used during the day, waiting for the sadness demons to ambush her. But instead, a swathe of satisfaction washed over her, eradicating the scorching agony her previous visits to the summerhouse had caused. For the first time since her mother’s passing, she was able to think of it in a positive light, a place where she could offer a little slice of happiness, or at least contentment, to others, and in the process find her own.