Charley had decided to take Carlo to work during the day as Ricky did, rather than leaving him alone in her flat. Every morning, as they neared the shop, the poor dog started straining on the leash, trying to pull her down to the bike shop, obviously hoping to find his beloved Ricky.
‘He’s not there, lovely,’ Charley told him, but every day she duly walked him down to the bike shop so the dog could see for himself. They both peered through the window and, to Charley, the shop seemed dead and lifeless without its owner’s presence. The daily ritual usually put a dampener on the morning and they were both miserable when they returned to her shop to open up, but for the rest of the day the lurcher either sat or lay in the window on Ricky-watch.
‘Did he do that when Ricky and I were in Italy?’ Charley had asked Pam.
‘Yup!’ Then, perhaps noticing that Charley looked genuinely concerned, Pam added, ‘It’s pure melodrama, trust me!’
It turned out having a raffish-looking lurcher in the window was a fantastic marketing ploy since a lot of customers drifted in wanting to pet the dog, and then most of them felt compelled to buy a ‘little something’ on their way out, presumably because they’d have felt it rude not to.
‘We might have to get him on permanent loan,’ observed Charley.
Throughout the week several Cargo shopkeepers dropped by to ask about Ricky which, thought Charley, was a touching testament to how well-liked he was. She promised to keep them posted. After work, she spent every evening battling with the accounts, determined to figure out how, when, or even if, she could give Tara a share of the profits.
Initially, she wasn’t really sure where to start – unsure, for example, whether to treat the gift bag side-line separately, and how to log the products she had to give away to promote that part of the business. Tara might have an MBA but Charley had never had any business training and although she’d downloaded an accounts spreadsheet template, she felt painfully as if she were re-inventing the wheel. It was sorely tempting to call Nisha and ask her advice, but she couldn’t keep asking her friends for favours; she’d taken that hint from her last phone call with Nisha, if nothing else. Her progress was painfully slow, but she doggedly ploughed on, usually dropping into bed just after midnight when she literally couldn’t think straight. While Charley spent her evenings stoically slogging through Excel sheets, Carlo spent them missing Ricky. He moped and pined, and when Charley fed him he only ate a token amount, and she got the distinct impression he was only doing that to be polite. He took to forlornly following Charley around like a shadow, even when she went to the loo. She hadn’t realised how disconcerting it was trying to pee while a huge pair of brown eyes gazed at you intently. Nor had she realised how unsettling it would be just having him around, a constant reminder of Ricky. She told herself she wasn’t actually missing Ricky, it was just that she obviously associated him with Carlo. Her mind, however, kept filling with memories of her and Ricky together. The way he’d discreetly touch her elbow or the small of her back when they were out together in public, his easy smile… and she dwelt on their idyllic Sunday mornings, making love and then taking Carlo for a free run on the Downs, and having brunch out afterwards. Sundays without him seemed… empty.
Suddenly craving scrambled eggs, she instantly abandoned the accounts in favour of making herself some. Pushing the eggy mix round the frying pan, she was reminded of Ricky cooking supper for them both in his flat, and how he deftly cracked eggs one-handed when he made carbonara.
Josh had done barely any of the cooking during their marriage. She could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Josh had taken on the responsibility of cooking an entire meal. He would always help peel the spuds, if she asked him to, and he happily carved the meat, but cooking just wasn’t his thing. Ricky had made point of finding out what Charley liked eating, and had planned their meals around her favourite foods, adjusting his cooking to meet her taste, like not putting too much garlic in the prawn linguine, she remembered, smiling to herself.
The eggs were nearly done, so she buttered the toast and then slid the eggs on top. Shoving her laptop clear, she sat at the table to eat, idly musing on how very different Josh and Ricky were from each other. Josh had lived with an almost permanent broad grin on his face, laughing out loud at anything daft and silly, sometimes at rather than with people if she were honest, whereas Ricky’s sense of humour was dryer and he was more likely to share a wry smile than a burst of laughter when something amused him. He was, she realised with surprise, kinder than Josh, more considerate. She thought about the time she’d stumbled into the gutter and Ricky had stopped and got off his bike to help her. If that had been Josh, he would have helped her too, but he would probably have found it funny and told her how comical she’d looked. Even now she could remember the look of concern in Ricky’s eyes, and there hadn’t been a trace of amusement in them. They were so different in other ways, too. Ricky was tidy, his flat immaculate, while Josh preferred a more shambolic living style – which, in some ways, was more relaxing of course, although she couldn’t imagine having to scoop up Ricky’s discarded boxers and socks to put them in the wash the way she’d had to with Josh. And if Ricky were here now, she mused, he’d have insisted on making her scrambled eggs so that she could have carried on with her accounts, whereas Josh… actually, could Josh even make scrambled eggs? She doubted it. She’d certainly never seen him try. Although, in his defence, she reminded herself, he made a mean cheese and ham toastie.
A pang of guilt brought her up short, and she reproached herself for having been disloyal to Josh by comparing him with Ricky. Then she realised she seemed to have made a mental shift. Whereas previously she had compared Ricky to Josh, now the comparison was reversed; she was comparing Josh to Ricky. The understanding threw her. It was as if her world view had skewed and shifted so that Josh had slipped from his position at the heart of everything, and Ricky had somehow slid into his place. Having finished her eggs, she rinsed the plate and put it in the dishwasher and then forced herself back to do battle with her accounts, wilfully forcing the disquieting revelation from her mind.
Early on the Thursday evening, Ricky texted her to say her that his grandmother was worse and had been taken into intensive care.
She sat for a few moments, carefully considering how to respond. Clearly it would be inappropriate, and glib, to say I hope she gets better soon since, sadly, there was every likelihood the elderly lady would not. The phrase I’m so sorry also seemed unsuitable. They were the words written in the sympathy cards she’d received when Josh died, and would imply Ricky’s grandmother was already dead, or written off and disregarded. It’s odd, reflected Charley, how words that are meant to comfort can wound when used carelessly. Eventually she typed, I am sorry to hear that. Please let her know I am thinking of her, if you can, and give my best wishes to your family, and sent it.
Then, for no good reason at all, Charley felt herself well up, her throat tightening, her face contorting with grief. Stop it! she ordered herself, harshly. This isn’t your loss. You hardly know his family. But she knew how close they were, and could imagine how they would be worrying and bracing themselves, fearing the worst. She hoped Ricky was okay. Picturing him and all of his family gathered round the large table in the sun-filled kitchen, she felt unexpectedly grateful that she had been to his family home and had met them all, enabling her to clearly visualise him there, comforting his mother, rallying round everyone, making coffee or putting a meal on the table, distracting himself with activity. Sensing her unhappiness, Carlo ambled over and rested his rough head on her leg.
‘Poor Ricky,’ she sighed, stroking the lurcher’s head.
At supper time she put Carlo’s food down for him, but he turned his nose up and left it. Regarding the unappetising, dry chunks of kibble she couldn’t blame him. Concerned by how little he was eating, she nipped out to the local supermarket to get something that might tempt him, returning with a sachet of Gourmet Chicken and Duck for Adult Dogs. Judging by the picture it looked more like a posh pâté than dog food. It certainly cost enough.
He sniffed at it, then completely ignored it, so she put a handful of his kibble in a tub on the floor as well, but he wasn’t tempted by that either. Kneeling down on the floor, she tried to encourage him, picking up the food in her fingers and offering it to him like a treat. He merely looked away so she eventually gave up and sat cross-legged on the floor next to him. Resting his nose on his paws, he let out a huge, heartbreakingly sad sigh.
‘I know,’ she sympathised. ‘I miss him too.’
It was almost quarter to nine when Charley, with Carlo plodding along beside her on a lead, arrived at the shop the following morning, far later than usual. To her surprise – actually, her amazement – for the first time ever, Tara was there before her.
‘And what time d’you call this?’ Tara tapped an imaginary watch with mock severity.
‘I had to walk Carlo!’ Charley defended herself good-humouredly and unlocked the door. Since the lurcher needed a good walk before work, she’d decided to cut herself some slack, just while Ricky was away, and come in later to open up.
‘I can’t expect him to spend all day indoors if he hasn’t had the chance to… empty himself,’ she said delicately. ‘And from both tanks, as it were.’
Tara groaned theatrically. ‘Spare me the details,’ she grimaced, ‘And remind me never to get a dog!’
‘Why are you in so early?’ Charley asked her, flicking on the lights. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
‘That,’ said Tara, going to switch on the till and the credit card reader, ‘is because I’ve had a brilliant idea. Let’s do a massive promo event. You know, like we did when we opened.’
Charley’s heart sank to her espadrilles. When she’d first set up the shop, Nisha, with her marketing hat firmly crammed on her head, had tried to persuade her into staging an opening launch. Charley had steadfastly refused, preferring to open the store when she was ready, and start trading slowly and let it build. However the fates had conspired to outmanoeuvre her. Once a year, Charley ran a fundraiser, a Prosecco Night, in memory of Tara’s mum. Last year, just two weeks before the event, the venue they had originally booked had been forced to cancel. In a moment of insanity, which she had regretted for every single minute of the following fourteen days, Charley had tentatively proposed hosting the fundraiser in the shop – the only snag being that the shop hadn’t even opened yet. Nisha had leapt on the idea, immediately deciding that Charley should combine the fundraiser with a grand shop opening, persuasively arguing that it would look unprofessional not to. So Charley had caved. They’d distributed hundreds of leaflets offering a glass of Prosecco to anyone who spent more than a tenner, and the shop was mobbed. It had been an enormous success but equally, an enormous amount of work. Right now, Charley had so much on her plate with the shop, the gift bags, dog-sitting, not to mention the bloody accounts and a development plan, that the thought of taking on anything else literally made her want to weep. Tara, on the other hand, was enthusiastically building promotional castles in the sky.
‘Angie can do some special pieces of artwork and sign them so we can charge a premium, Pam can bake those fabulous Prosecco and white chocolate cupcakes she made last time, and we can have a bit of a sale and get rid of stock that isn’t shifting. There’s boxes up there,’ she indicated the top of the dresser unit, ‘crammed with stuff we’re never going to sell full price. Let’s mark it down, flog it off, and re-stock with more popular lines.’ Warming still further to her theme she carried on, ‘If we do it before the end of September, while the weather’s still mild, we can spill out onto tables outside and make it even bigger than last time! Genius, or what?’
Bloody hell Tara, you have absolutely no idea how much super-human effort I’m already putting in just to get through each day, do you? Pulling her best I-don’t-want-to-be-a-spoilsport face Charley said, ‘It’s a good idea Tara, but I’m really sorry, I’m fire-fighting as it is. I just can’t take on anything else. Maybe we could do it next year?’
‘I sodding knew you’d say that!’ exploded Tara. Then she floored Charley by saying, ‘Well, Nisha thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘You went behind my back and talked to Nisha?’ Charley didn’t even try to keep the fury off her face.
‘Yes. Because I knew you’d wouldn’t be up for it. And anyhow, I didn’t “go behind your back” as you so dramatically put it. I only gave her a call. And she’s all for it. She’s happy to get the Prosecco, like last time, and take care of all the marketing and social media et cetera…’
Charley was dangerously close to spontaneous combustion. ‘You had no right to do that without asking me first.’
Tara seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘I was only floating an idea with her.’
‘An idea that involves my shop.’
‘Yes, but I work here too. I’m your business partner,’ Tara reminded Charley pointedly.
Charley was speechless. Which was probably just as well, otherwise she would have undoubtedly said some things she would have deeply regretted. A whole lot of things, actually. Fortunately, for both of them, some customers came into the shop at that moment, so they had to park their argument.
When they could resume it, Tara offered to run the event herself. ‘I can do it with Nisha, and Pam if she’s free. You don’t even have to turn up.’
‘Tara, I can’t possibly not turn up for an event held in my own shop. How unprofessional would that look?’
Tara eyeballed her for a moment, but Charley didn’t flinch. ‘So that’s a “No” to the promo event, then, is it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Charley, tight-lipped.
It was a long, uncomfortable morning and Charley was grateful when it was over. She was still seething when Pam got in, and the poor woman got the full onslaught of Charley’s fury almost before she’d even taken her jacket off. Charley slammed round the shop, furiously tidying stacks of chocolates bars, needlessly rearranging bottles of bubble bath and plumping Prosecco-themed cushions with far more vigour than was necessary.
‘She has no idea how much I already have to do, just to keep up. And how dare she call Nisha without talking to me first? How dare she!’
‘Yes. I think that is overstepping the mark,’ said the older woman guardedly.
‘By about a mile!’
‘Darling, you don’t have to run a promotional event just because Tara and Nisha think it’s a good idea,’ pointed out Pam evenly.
‘Well, do you think it’s a good idea?’
Pam pondered for a moment then replied, ‘Well, if it’s as successful as the launch then it’d be great, obviously. And I’ll happily make a mountain of cupcakes and help out on the night if you want me to, but you shouldn’t take it on if you can’t manage it. You can only do so much.’
‘Precisely!’ Charley tactically, if dishonestly, refrained from admitting that Tara had offered to run the event without her. ‘And I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve told Tara how much I’m struggling to cope with everything as it is. But, you know Tara, she never lets reality get in the way of what she wants to do.’
‘Yes. She can be a little…’
‘Bossy? Pushy? Opinionated?’
‘Assertive,’ finished the older woman, with commendable tact.
‘And then she has the barefaced cheek to defend herself on the grounds that she’s my “business partner”,’ said Charley, adding air quotes and wilfully stoking her indignation.
Pam, objective as ever, paused before saying, ‘Well, technically she is.’
‘Technically,’ echoed Charley. ‘But then so are you.’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Pam levelly, which brought Charley up short, rather belatedly grasping that she wasn’t being exactly professional slagging off Tara to Pam. In her old job she wouldn’t have dreamt of criticising one colleague to another. The only difference here was that Tara was her mate and Pam was her mother-in-law, which in many ways, she realised, made it worse. Bloody hell! Why did working with friends and relatives make things so much more complicated?
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t dump on you like this. It puts you in a difficult position with Tara,’ she said. Then another thought struck her and she added, ‘And I’d hate you to think I talked to Tara about you like this.’
‘So would I!’ replied Pam.
The afternoon passed quietly, punctuated by a few customers coming in and some heavy sighs from Carlo, who still sat glued to the window, looking for his adored Ricky. The lurcher was still off his food and pining listlessly. Not wanting to alarm Ricky by calling him for advice, Charley turned to Pam.
‘When Ricky and I were in Tuscany, did Carlo eat properly?’
‘Yes. He wolfed his meals down, and even brought his empty bowl to me in the hope that I’d feed him twice!’
Which wasn’t the reassurance Charley was hoping for.
‘If he’s not eating, maybe he’s missing Ricky more than he did last time?’ ventured Pam.
‘Why would he do that?’
Her mother-in-law shrugged, ‘Perhaps he’s picking up on how much you’re missing Ricky.’
‘I am not missing Ricky,’ denied Charley, her cheeks flushing as the weight of that lie slid home.
Later, at home, Charley put a quick call in to Nisha. And this time she didn’t bother to check if it was a good time to call. Nor did she ask her advice.
‘Nisha, about Tara’s idea for a promo event. I’m sorry but I’ve decided against it.’
‘Why? You’ll make a lot of money, and it’ll be great publicity.’
Oh, don’t you start on me as well. ‘I’m sure it will, but I just don’t have the time to organise it,’ she finished, hoping that would be the end of it.
‘Get Tara to run it.’
Charley forced herself to take a deep, calming breath, while her mind raced to find a response that wouldn’t drag her into any further discussion. ‘Perhaps I will, but another time,’ she replied firmly.
After she’d rung off, she checked her messages to see if there was one from Ricky which she might somehow have not heard pinging in, or any missed calls from him, and then she was disappointed when there weren’t. Briefly it crossed her mind to text him, to ask him how his grandmother was, then she hated herself for sinking so low as to even consider using that as a ruse, since he would undoubtedly have texted her if there was any news. She’d just have to sit tight and wait for him to contact her. Which wasn’t a problem, she reminded herself.