Charley had been dreading having her ‘little chat’ with Tara, but she was determined to stick up for Angie and not let Tara ride roughshod over her. Since she’d sent over the accounts on the Sunday evening, Charley hoped that might have placated Tara a little. As it happened, the gesture backfired spectacularly. When Tara arrived at the shop on Monday morning, Charley was busy dealing with customers, but her mate’s curt tone when she said ‘Good morning,’ and the way her entire body stiffly radiated anger as she walked in warned Charley to brace herself.
Barely waiting for the door to close behind the last of the customers, Tara launched off. ‘So I looked at the accounts,’ she said tightly.
And? thought Charley, bewildered. Surely the fact that they weren’t as professional as they might have been wasn’t enough to provoke Tara’s scorching wrath.
‘And I discovered that Angie gets all the money from her artwork. You don’t even take a cut.’
‘No. She’s a mate,’ said Charley, still wondering what had set Tara off. ‘She offered me a cut, but I turned it down. I don’t want to make money out of a friend.’
There was a beat and then Tara said tersely, ‘Would you class me as “a friend”?’
‘Yes, of course! Tara, what is this about?’
‘It’s about the fact that since you’ve been trading, Angie’s made over six hundred quid from her artwork, some of which I’ve actually sodding well sold for her, while I’ve been working five mornings a week, and I invested three grand to help you buy stock, and I’ve had nothing back except for a few boxes of chocolates and some bubble bath.’
Oh, shit, thought Charley. Shit, shit, shit. Put that way, she could see why Tara would feel exploited and consider she’d treated Angie better than her. Charley’s brain raced to find a defence, but Tara didn’t give her time.
‘And even though I told you I needed an income or I’d have to get a job elsewhere, you still didn’t pay me anything.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry, and I’ve said so countless times, but as I explained, the shop isn’t making enough to pay you. I’m only just scraping by – you can see that from the accounts.’
‘I’m not sodding surprised you’re not making any profit!’ fumed Tara. ‘The deal with Angie brings you in nothing, and the whole gift bag venture was barely breaking even until I stepped in. And you refused point blank to let me and Nisha run a promo night – which, by the way, would have brought in a couple of thousand, minimum, in one sodding evening.’
Charley bit her lip, tactically letting Tara vent rather than interrupt her in full flood.
‘I’ve tried to come up with ways to improve turnover and profitability but you’ve consistently fought me,’ Tara went on. ‘You’re running this shop like it’s some glorified hobby, Charley.’
The injustice of Tara’s assessment set resentment boiling in Charley. A hobby? How dare she! ‘I’m working flat out to make a success of this business!’ she said hotly. ‘I literally could not put any more hours and effort in.’
‘That’s not the point, Charley! You can’t make a success of a business just by working hard. You have to run it professionally, in a business-like way. Face it. If you carry on like this, it’s never going to make enough money to pay me any profit share, or even pay me and Baz back.’
Charley reeled, speechless, as Tara ploughed on.
‘I’ve got a sodding MBA, Charley. I know what I’m talking about, but you’ve consistently dismissed all the help I’ve tried to give you. Except my free labour,’ she ended bitterly.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Charley could manage to stammer. Tara’s litany of accusations and criticisms had completely taken the wind out of her sails, not least because most of them were true.
Silently, her friend locked eyes with her and then shook her head slowly, and Charley was mortified to see it was hurt in Tara’s eyes, not anger.
‘I really wanted this to shop work – for both of us, Charley,’ continued Tara sadly. ‘I thought working with my best mate was going to be my dream job. But it’s not. And actually, I’m not even sure I am your best mate. I think that gig, and the money that goes with it, is Angie’s.’
‘Oh, Tara, please don’t say that,’ implored Charley. But Tara was already scooping up her coat and bag. She shot Charley one agonisingly unhappy look, tears glittering in her eyes, and walked out.
‘Tara! Tara!’ Charley rushed after her, but after a few paces she stopped. Heads were already turning amongst the other shop-holders and pedestrians, and she didn’t want to make a scene in public, nor could she leave the shop unattended. Bubbles wasn’t exactly a deterrent; he’d let anyone nick anything and probably lick them to death while they were at it. She trailed back inside and the enormity of what had just happened flattened her like a runaway truck. The shop, which had seemed such a great adventure, so full of promise, now felt like a ludicrous vanity project which was not only not making enough money, but had now cost her one of her best friends.
Numbly, she took up her position behind the counter and leant on it in acute misery. ‘I have really screwed up, Bubbles,’ she said, addressing herself as much as the dog. No doubt picking up on her dejected tone, the cockerpoo put his ears back and thumped his tail anxiously.
Later that afternoon, she texted Tara. She’d tried calling her several times, but her calls were rejected.
She didn’t get a reply.
The following morning, Tara didn’t come to work, which didn’t exactly surprise Charley. What did surprise her was getting a text at lunch time saying she wouldn’t be in at all for the rest of the week. Charley was used to her mate’s stormy outbursts, and they usually blew over quickly, but she knew better than to try to force the pace so she texted back immediately.
The week dragged by, a frustrating mix of being either rushed off her feet or standing alone and bored in an empty shop. There was plenty to do, more than enough, but Charley was struggling to motivate herself. She hated working in the shop on her own, but most of all she hated herself for handling things so badly with Tara. When she’d called Nisha for advice, her friend had sympathised but bluntly told Charley she didn’t blame Tara for being angry. Her candid advice was a) give Tara time to cool off, b) apologise and c) renegotiate Angie’s art deal.
If the week had got off to a bad start, the end of it was even worse. Charley’s least favourite delivery man, Jobsworth, appeared on Friday morning with a sack truck laden with boxes. As usual, she wasted time trying to persuade him to bring them into the shop and as usual, he steadfastly refused. So, propping the door open, she lugged the boxes inside, one at a time, and wished there was somebody, anybody, to help her, while he stood back watching her struggle disinterestedly.
‘That bloody man is a complete pain in the arse, Bubbles,’ she exclaimed breathlessly, dumping the last box onto the till table. Obviously she wasn’t expecting a reply, but nevertheless she glanced down to where she’d left the cockerpoo, happily settled in his bed… and froze. The basket was empty. He must have slipped out behind her back while the door was propped open. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no, no!’ She darted out of the door.
‘Bubbles! Bubbles!’ she yelled, looking frantically around, but there was no sign of him. What the hell was she going to do? She had absolutely no idea which way he’d gone. Her mouth went dry and she felt sick. Then Rita came to the door of the deli.
‘He went that way!’ she called over, pointing left.
‘Thank you!’ yelled Charley, inwardly thanking God the dog hadn’t run the other way, towards the main road.
Quickly, she nipped into the shop to grab the keys to lock up before rushing off after him, but by the time she emerged it was to see Ricky, with Bubbles on Carlo’s lead, walking up towards her from the bike shop. She wanted to throw her arms round him, but confined herself to thanking him profusely. Then, dropping to her knees, she hugged Bubbles instead and ruffled his ears.
‘You little sod!’ she exclaimed. Looking up at Ricky, she asked, ‘Where did you find him?’
‘He came into the bike shop, looking for Carlo.’
She could hardly bear to imagine the chaos that might have caused. ‘Oh God! I’m so sorry!’ She rose to her feet and led the way into her shop where she unclipped Carlo’s lead and handed it to Ricky.
‘It’s not a problem for me,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think you should let him make a habit of nipping out on his own. If he’d run the other way he’d could be on the main road by now.’
Charley closed her eyes, not even wanting to contemplate the potentially horrific outcome if that had been the case. All at once, the relief of discovering Bubbles was safe, together with the emotional fall-out from her horrible exchange with Tara, and the exhaustion of coping in the shop on her own all week caught up with Charley. Momentarily overcome, she quickly turned away, but not before she felt her face crumple.
‘Hey, what’s happened?’ Ricky asked her gently.
Furiously, she flapped a dismissive hand at him. ‘Nothing. I’m just having a moment. Ignore me,’ she pleaded, desperately trying to hold it together.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked, putting his hand on her arm, and instantly causing her a nearly total meltdown.
Please don’t be nice to me, she begged silently, it’s just making everything so much worse. ‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ She made a dive for her handbag and rootled frantically round inside for a tissue.
He waited patiently until she’d recovered and turned back to face him. Then, urgently needing to change the subject, she asked brightly, ‘So, any news on the buy-out?’
‘Yes. She’s put an offer in.’
‘That’s excellent news!’ exclaimed Charley, plastering a chirpy expression onto her face and hoping it looked a lot more genuine than it felt.
‘There’s still a few things to sort out,’ he went on. ‘But it’s not a bad offer and it’ll mean I can set myself up in Italy.’
‘Excellent,’ repeated Charley, incapable of finding any more words, and nodding like an automaton.
‘And of course it means I don’t have to give four months’ notice, because she’ll take on the tenancy of the shop on. So…’ He paused, then shrugged lightly and said, ‘It could be all sorted within a month or so. Unless something happens to stop it…’ He trailed off, with his eyes on Charley.
A month? The muscles in her face tightened, threatening to distort it into an expression of dismay. Charley forced her face to hold onto that chirpy look while every fibre of her body wanted to scream at him, Don’t go. Please, don’t go. She swallowed hard. ‘That soon?’ she managed to say.
He nodded. Then, since he’d left Carlo in charge of the bike shop, he hurried back.
Leaning forward, she dropped her head onto her arms on the counter as the bottom of her world fell away from under her feet. A month. Without even needing to look at a calendar she knew that would be, almost to the day, when she and Ricky would have been, should have been, celebrating their first year together. But instead, he’d be gone and she’d probably never see him again. Don’t. Don’t do this, she ordered herself brusquely. Then, hearing the shop door opening, she stood upright, turned to the doorway, flicked on her professional face, and greeted the incoming customers with a cheery, ‘Hi there!’
She had no idea how she got through that week. It was a gruelling marathon, emotionally and physically, and by closing time on the Saturday she was on her knees. Finally getting home she fed Bubbles, took him for a quick toilet walk, and then ran herself a hot bath. The warmth of the water nearly sent her to sleep, so she hauled herself out, pulled on a towelling dressing gown, and dropped into bed, not even bothering to pull on her nightclothes. Bubbles leapt onto the bed and snuggled down next to her. She fondled his soft ears, and then she caught sight of Josh, grinning at her from the photo on the bedside table.
‘What did I do so wrong,’ she asked the cockerpoo, ‘that the bloody fates have conspired to make me lose both of the men I loved?’ She lay there feeling numb and empty, too weary to cry.