Things were a little strained in the shop between Tara and Charley throughout the rest of the week. Despite Nisha’s advice, Charley was reluctant to ask Tara to draw up a development plan. She recoiled from asking her mate to do even more for her for nothing, and had already mentally added it to her own To Do list, once she’d finished the accounts. Additionally, at the back of her mind was the disagreeable suspicion that having to ask Tara to help would be a tacit admission that she couldn’t run her own business. Mercifully, Tara didn’t mention money again, so Charley didn’t either, on the grounds that it was easier to let sleeping dogs lie. Unfortunately, the dogs were rudely kicked awake on the following Friday morning when Charley asked Tara if she’d mind the shop while Charley whizzed round a few venues delivering gift bags.
‘It shouldn’t take me more than an hour or so,’ she promised. ‘I’ve got to drop off a dozen at the Snug, ten at the Vaults, another dozen at that new bar at the top of Park Street, twenty at the wine bar next to Watershed, and thirty-five to the Avalon, but I’ll probably do those this evening.’
‘Are you driving?’
‘No, I’m on the bike. Parking costs a fortune!’
‘So you’re going to spend what, an hour and half delivering fifty party bags?’
The inferred criticism set Charley’s hackles rising. ‘Yes. If it’s a problem I’ll do it this evening,’ she offered coolly.
‘It’s not that,’ said Tara. ‘But why are you wasting so much time delivering such small numbers of bags? It’s not cost-effective. You should make them order a hundred at a time. Minimum,’ she finished, stressing the last word.
Charley tried to keep her rising temper under control. ‘They won’t.’
‘Then you’ll have to tell them you won’t deliver. They’ll have to collect from the shop.’
‘And risk losing my customers?’ Charley was outraged. It had taken her months to build up this side of the business and it was only now slowly beginning to gain momentum.
‘What’s the profit margin on the bags?’ demanded Tara. When Charley didn’t answer Tara prompted, ‘A pound a bag?’
I wish, thought Charley. ‘Probably nearer fifty pence,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ spluttered Tara and Charley felt her face flush hot, but her friend ploughed on regardless. ‘You should be aiming for a forty per cent profit margin minimum. You need to cut back on anything making less than that.’
‘But that’d mean losing the entire gift bag side-line just when it’s starting to really take off.’
‘Yes. If it’s not cost-effective, drop it.’
‘I’m not doing that.’ Charley felt fiercely protective towards her customers, recalling Nisha’s loyalty towards her clients when they were discussing her buy-out deal. It had been a key factor in her decision-making. ‘I’m not letting my customers down like that. And besides,’ she pointed out, ‘the shop has to make more money. You know that. The party bags might not me making as much profit as you’d like them to, but every little helps.’
Tara sighed heavily – patronisingly, to Charley’s mind. ‘You’re missing the point, Charley. The problem with you is that you don’t think in a business-like way. It’s not about how much profit I think things should make. It’s about how much they need to make for the shop to run successfully, and profitably. And have you even factored in the cost of your time?’
Charley bit her lip. She hadn’t. And in fact, she had no idea what she should be charging for her time. The whole point of the party bag business was that it was a side-line. Anyhow, it was her time she was giving up, not Tara’s, and she was more than prepared to sacrifice her time to make the shop a success.
‘Forget it,’ said Charley brusquely, putting the box of gift bags back behind the till. ‘I’ll take them round tonight.’
‘Oh Charley, don’t be like that!’ groaned Tara. ‘That’s just cutting off your nose to spite your face. Do the deliveries now. I’ll hold the fort.’ When Charley still hovered Tara shooed her out. ‘Go!’
Feeling she’d been dismissed, like a junior colleague, Charley picked up the box again, and set off on her bike. How is she so staggeringly bossy and opinionated? It’s my business, not hers, she reminded herself. And what if Tara had invested three grand? That was a fraction of what Charley had put in, given that she’d ploughed all her savings and her redundancy money into the venture. And less than Pam had. After Tara’s outburst this morning, despite Nisha’s advice, she felt even less inclined to ask her ‘business partner’ to help draw up any sort of growth plan, fearing her party bag side-line would be axed at a stroke.
Not surprisingly, cycling round the city for a good hour de-stressed Charley and she’d calmed down considerably by the time she got back to the shop. It was surprisingly busy but Tara seemed to be handling everything smoothly, so Charley slid behind the till ready to take the payments. It was nearly lunch time when the last punter left and Charley was hoping Tara would go without raising the issue of the shop’s profitability, or rather its non-profitability, again.
Fat chance. But to her relief, Tara adopted a more placatory tone than before. Perhaps she realised she’d overstepped the mark, thought Charley. Again, fat chance.
‘About the profit margins, don’t take it personally, Charley, please. This isn’t about you. It’s purely about the shop. I want to help you make it more profitable.’
Charley’s heart hit her boots. Here we go again.
‘I invested in this shop because I believe in it, and I believe in you too,’ Tara was continuing earnestly. Could’ve fooled me, thought Charley, but she kept schtum. ‘I want it to be a success because I like working with you. It’s fun! But if the shop can’t pay me – and not a wage, just a profit share,’ Tara stressed hurriedly, ‘then, even though I really, really don’t want to do it, I’m going to have to pack in working here and get a job instead.’
And having dropped that shattering announcement, Tara left. Charley wasn’t sure if it was a statement of fact or a threat; either way, her spirits nosedived. They sank even further when the door opened a short while later and Ricky walked in, with Carlo at his heel but, unusually, on a lead. She forced herself to greet Ricky brightly, but he was just about the last person she wanted to see. She simply wasn’t feeling resilient enough.
‘Charley, I’m sorry to have to trouble you, but I have a family emergency.’
He looked so serious she felt a twinge of fear. ‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. But my grandmother has been taken ill. She’s in hospital. My mother has asked me to fly back to Italy.’
‘Oh, no. What’s wrong with her?’ Charley was genuinely anxious about the kindly elderly woman.
‘She’s had a stroke.’ The pain in Ricky’s eyes cut Charley deep inside.
‘Oh Ricky, I’m so sorry.’ Without thinking, she reached out and pulled him into her arms, and then she stiffened, alarmed and caught off guard by the sheer physical pleasure of being close to him. Hurriedly she pulled away, embarrassed, shying from meeting his gaze, sensing his discomfort too.
There was a brief silence until Ricky broke it. ‘Do you think Pam would have Carlo for me while I’m gone?’
‘Yes of course she will, and if she can’t, I will,’ she promised.
‘Thank you. You’re… very kind.’
For a moment Charley thought he was going to lean over and kiss her. The atmosphere felt distinctly charged, and she found she was holding her breath, but he didn’t and the tension evaporated.
‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Will that be a problem?’
‘No, of course not! What are you going to do about the bike shop?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to close it while I’m gone.’
Knowing how much that might damage his business she said, ‘I wish I could offer to look after it for you.’
He smiled down at her, his slow, soft smile. ‘Thank you, but you’ve got too much on your plate already.’
Handing Carlo’s lead to her, together with the keys to his flat, he ordered Carlo to sit and stay. Then he crouched down and ruffled the lurcher fondly between the ears. ‘Be good for Charley,’ he said, then he rose and with one last glance at Charley, he left.
Charley watched him go, unfeasibly overwhelmed by a sense of loss.
When Pam got to the shop half an hour or so later, she immediately offered to look after Carlo, since she’d looked after the dog before. ‘He’s no trouble,’ she told Charley, ‘I liked having him around, the great galumphing lump!’
‘Actually, I think I’d like to take him back to mine,’ Charley said.
‘Oh, okay,’ replied Pam, sounding a little disappointed. ‘Good idea,’ she added, and when Charley looked at her quizzically, the older woman explained, ‘He’s good company,’ and Charley felt a little selfish, keeping the dog for herself.
For a while, Carlo sat patiently by the shop window looking out, obviously waiting for Ricky to return. After about an hour, he slumped down, put his chin on his paws and sighed melodramatically. He stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon. Every now and again he’d let out a small whine and waggle his eyebrows gloomily.
Having unexpectedly acquired Carlo, Charley was now presented with the small problem of how to get home since, as usual, she’d cycled in. She opted to leave her bike chained up at the shop and walk back, giving the lurcher some exercise. When they got back to the flat, she put him in the car and went round to Ricky’s place to pick up the dog’s things. It felt weird letting herself into his flat and being there without him, almost as if she were trespassing, or spying on him in some way. A faint hint of his body cologne hung in the air, earthy and musky. She walked into the bedroom. It was tidy and the bed was made. The only signs of his recent habitation were the faint dents in the duvet where she assumed he’d packed his case, and a half-full water tumbler on the night stand. She picked the glass up and took it through to the kitchen area meaning to put it into the dishwasher, but the machine was empty. So she washed it up and left it to drain on the side. She had to resist the urge to wander round the apartment, picking up his belongings, and running her hands over the furniture, a sudden wave of nostalgia and longing sweeping over her. She fed Carlo and while the dog was eating, she piled the bag of dog food and a few of his chew toys into his basket, gathered the lot up and took it to the car. Then she went back for Carlo. She clipped his lead on, scooped up his water and food bowls and turned to leave.
‘Come on boy, let’s go,’ she said. Carlo promptly sat down. ‘Carlo, come!’ she ordered. The lurcher only responded by hanging his head and regarding her balefully. ‘Oh, don’t do this to me! Please!’ What the hell was she going to do? She couldn’t drag him to the car, he was way too heavy. Equally, there was no way she was going to be able to pick him up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of Ricky’s jackets on a hook by the door. In what she thought was an inspired moment she slipped it on and held her arm out for the lurcher to sniff. ‘Come, on,’ she coaxed.
If a dog could have rolled his eyes, Carlo would have done so. Instead, he gave her a decidedly withering look, as if to say, you can’t fool me, but to her relief he reluctantly stood up and plodded after her, disdainful protest in every step. His indignation was comical.
She wasn’t finding Carlo quite so amusing when the lurcher spent half the night outside her bedroom whining. The only reason he only spent half the night like that was because she gave up in the small hours and let him into her room. He clambered onto her bed, curled up against her, and did the soulful sighing routine.
‘Poor Carlo.’ She scratched his rough nose sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not gone forever.’