Summer Daydreams Read online

  ‘He’s not a nice man,’ Petal observed as Jimmy stomped away.

  ‘No,’ Olly said.

  But it was only fair to admit that he had a point.

  Chapter 27

  ‘We can’t go straight home,’ Tod says. ‘The night is still young.’

  Unfortunately, I’m not. Already I’ve gone from feeling like I could swing round all the lamp posts in the style of Gene Kelly to yawning my head off. This must be what it feels like to come down from a drug high. I’ll swear I could lie down and sleep for a week.

  We’re still arm in arm walking back towards Tod’s car.

  ‘Let’s go for a nightcap.’

  ‘I don’t want any more booze.’ I hold up a hand. ‘I have drunk deeply at the cup of the Prince’s hospitality.’

  ‘And why not?’ Tod laughs. ‘It’s not every day you get the chance to do that.’

  No. However, all I really want to do now is go straight home to Olly and Petal and tell them all about my evening and how I would have loved them to be there. But Tod has been so good that I don’t want to put a dampener on his mood.

  ‘Let’s have coffee, then,’ he suggests. ‘I’ll take you home, fit and sober.’

  I can’t argue with that. ‘Sounds good.’

  Tod finds a swish hotel nearby and we settle ourselves into the lounge as he orders coffee for both of us. Ordinarily, I would have been blown away by this place, but I’ve just come from Buckingham Palace and it would take an awful lot to beat that. I sink back into the plush sofa with a happy sigh. Tod sits next to me, close, and rests his arm across the back of the cushion.

  ‘You did really well,’ he says. ‘You impressed an important contact tonight.’

  ‘I did?’ That yawn escapes again.

  ‘The woman from Prestige PR,’ he says. ‘You’ve never heard of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Della Jewel is a player. You’ve got her card?’

  ‘Yes.’ Safely in my handbag, along with a dozen others.

  ‘Send her a sample bag tomorrow. Don’t forget.’

  I promise that I won’t.

  ‘You will not believe whose hands she can get them into. She’s one well connected lady. You did well to charm her.’

  ‘I just had a good laugh with her. She was a lot of fun.’ If I’d known how important she was I’d probably have clammed up completely.

  The coffee appears and as we drink it, my eyes grow heavier.

  ‘You look like you should be tucked up in bed,’ Tod says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye.

  I feel myself flush. Is he flirting with me? This is the first time in years that I’ve been alone with a man who isn’t Olly and I’m suddenly very conscious of it.

  ‘I should go home now,’ I say.

  ‘Drink up,’ Tod instructs, with what may be a rueful smile.

  ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  A short while later and we’re whizzing up the motorway. The traffic is much lighter on the journey home and soon we take the turn-off to Hitchin. Not much longer and we pull up outside my house. How very scruffy and small it looks after what I’ve seen tonight. I realise that I have a severe case of palace envy.

  It’s late but there’s still a light on. Olly should be home from his punk gig and getting ready to go on his night shift. I’m glad that I’ve caught him before he leaves.

  Tod and I sit there under the orange glow of the street light.

  ‘Well,’ Tod says. ‘I’ll wish you good night.’

  ‘Good night. See you next week.’ I gather my handbag to me. ‘Thanks so much for everything. I’ve really enjoyed it.’

  ‘Thanks for being the perfect guest.’ Tod leans towards me. He tilts my chin with his finger and then softly kisses me on the lips.

  And, at that, I bolt out of the car.

  Chapter 28

  On the Saturday after my trip to Buckingham Palace, I make my debut at Hitchin market. I’d like to say that it’s much anticipated, and it is – but only by me. My hedonistic night out with Tod and member of our royal family is a fast receding memory. It was very, very pleasant but it doesn’t actually feel like it happened to me any more.

  The only part that is permanently seared in my brain is my kiss with Tod. Whatever happens, whatever future work events that we have to go to, that must never, ever be repeated again. I’m a woman in a long-term, committed relationship, for heaven’s sake. A mother of one particularly exuberant four-year-old. What on earth was I thinking? But, in truth, I wasn’t thinking. I was caught up in the moment and I wasn’t thinking at all. That doesn’t make me feel any less guilty though. Still, I have enough on my mind today to keep me occupied and stop me from dwelling on it.

  It’s pouring down with rain when we set up the market stall and it doesn’t look like it will stop for the entire day. The sky is dark and sagging with grey, water-laden clouds. A cold wind swirls round my feet and even my faux-vintage army boots – twenty quid from Shoe Zone – can’t keep it out. Forget fairy tale parties at palaces and softly stolen kisses. This is more like my version of reality.

  Everyone else is unloading vans but as we don’t have a car, Olly and I lugged our stock up here in bin bags first thing this morning – after his night shift and before he went to bed. Even Petal was loaded up. If we can train Dude to pull a sledge, then we might well do so.

  ‘Good luck,’ Olly says and gives me a peck on the cheek.

  Things are a bit cool between us and I know that he blames me for losing his punk gig, which despite insisting he hated it, I think he quite misses. We both miss the money, that’s for sure.

  I’ve spent half of the night wide awake and making stock and now have about thirty handbags to display. There’s a handful of Fish & Chips bags and some of the Eat Me/Drink Me ones. My new design features the Sindy doll in a silver frame with a view of Buckingham Palace behind her. I’m sure you can guess what inspired that one. But as I put them out, I realise that there probably isn’t enough choice to fill a stall. I’ve got plenty of designs knocking around in my skull, but it’s the time and the cash that I lack to bring them all to fruition. Hopefully today will give me some more money to play with.

  I’ve done my best to dress the stall and have made candystripe curtains to brighten up the framework and I’ve hung some multi-coloured bunting across the front, which I spent half the night making. I’ve got big glass jars that I’ve filled with colourful sweets and there are swirly lollipops sticking out of the top. I’ve covered cardboard boxes of differing sizes with bright wrapping paper so that I can display the bags at a variety of heights.

  Petal is currently eating my decorations, dipping her chubby fingers into the jars of sweets.

  ‘No more,’ I say. ‘You’ll be sick.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she assures me.

  ‘Well, no more or you won’t eat your dinner.’

  My child huffs. ‘Mummy, that’s hours away.’

  I’m opposite a fruit and veg stall and the man is already bellowing at the top of his voice, despite there being a mere handful of shoppers braving the elements.

  ‘POUND A BOWL, LADIES! POUND A BOWL! GET YOUR APPLES HERE. POUND A BOWL!’

  My daughter studies him, open-mouthed.

  The price labels on my handbags read sixty-five pounds and I wonder nervously if they are going to be too steep for my audience.

  ‘HANDBAGS!’ Petal shouts, making me jump. ‘GET A HANDBAG!’

  ‘Shush,’ I say.

  ‘He’s shouting!’ Petal points to the fruit and veg man with indignation.

  So he is. ‘I don’t want you to shout. It’s not what little girls do.’

  Petal pulls her get-a-life face.

  ‘Just be good, Petal. Mummy has to concentrate on work.’

  ‘But nothing’s happening.’

  Which is also true. People are looking with interest at my handbags as they pass. One or two have even been brave enough to pick them up and examine them. They’ve taken my sweets. They’ve l
istened to my patter. They’ve all cooed over the bags and have told me how witty they are and how they’re great fun and how someone they know would love one. But not a single soul has bought one.

  By lunchtime, I’m completely demoralised and starving hungry. The shouting from the man on the fruit and veg stall has started to punch a hole in my brain and I’m still no nearer to making my fortune from handbags. At this rate, I’m not even going to cover the cost of my stall. My hunger is not helped by the fact that I’m just a few metres down from a stall selling Chinese takeaway and the delicious smell has been drifting towards me all morning.

  ‘Want some Chinese food, Petal?’

  My daughter nods her acquiescence. She’s getting restless and cranky. My heart goes out to her. Normal mothers would be taking their daughters swimming or street dancing or putting them through stage school so that they can become the next X Factor fodder. My child has to hang round a market stall in the freezing cold getting told off.

  ‘When can we go home?’ she wants to know.

  Now, I think to myself, but in all honesty, I know that I mustn’t give up so easily.

  ‘Later,’ I say. ‘First we’ll have something to eat. That’ll make us feel better. Mind the stall while I go and queue up.’ I point at the takeaway food stall. ‘I’ll be right next door. Don’t move. I can see you from where I’ll be.’

  I leave Petal behind our stall and go and get us two cartons of sweet and sour chicken and rice. When I return, Petal sits on the one stool we have and spoons the food gratefully into her mouth with a plastic fork. It’s delicious and warms me up at least down to my knees. Beyond that, I have lost all feeling and may never get it back.

  ‘Better?’ I ask Petal.

  She nods, smiling again.

  Then a miraculous thing happens. A young, trendy woman moves down from the vintage clothes stall that I so often frequent and works her way towards me and, more importantly, my handbags.

  ‘Wow,’ she says as she sees them. ‘They’re totally gorgeous.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Would you like a sweetie?’ Petal says. ‘I’m not allowed one.’

  ‘You can have one more,’ I say to my child, who instantly helps herself and then offers the jar to the woman.

  ‘I’d love a sweet,’ she says, and takes one from Petal, ‘and I’d love a bag too.’

  I nearly fall over in a dead faint. ‘Really?’

  She laughs. ‘Really.’ She pulls her purse out of her handbag. Old, tatty. Not a patch on mine. I should ask her if she’d like to wear it now and I can bin that one for her, but I’m not bold enough to do so.

  The woman counts out the cash for me.

  I allow Petal to help me slide the bag into its protective cover and I hand it over. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ and she swings away, oblivious to the admiring stare from the fruit and veg man.

  I feel like crying with joy. My daughter offers up her hand and I high-five her. ‘Daddy will be so proud of us. We made our first sale, Petal!’

  Chapter 29

  It is, of course, our one and only sale of the day. All that cold, that standing around for a few pounds’ profit. Can I put my daughter through that every weekend? Can I put myself through it?

  Maybe I’m not cut out for business. I just thought I could set up in business easily, making great handbags and although I didn’t expect the world to fall at my feet, I thought it would all go reasonably smoothly. I hadn’t quite bargained on the relentless slog for precious little reward.

  I’m in two minds whether to cancel my stall for next week and just stay at home licking my wounds. But when I have my now weekly coffee session with Tod, he urges me on. Later, I find myself sketching out new designs, in response to my realisation that I need a larger range to offer.

  Then, a week after my fabulous trip to Buckingham Palace, the local papers hit the mat. I’m all over them. To my delight and surprise, I even make the front page on one of them. LOCAL GIRL MEETS PRINCE is one headline. FROM FISH AND CHIPS TO THE PALACE is the other and there’s a picture of me shaking hands with Prince Charles that I had no idea was taken. Tod is smiling serenely in the background.

  ‘Look at Mummy!’ Petal cries with delight. ‘She’s a famous lady like Cheryl Cole.’

  Praise indeed.

  Olly comes and peers over my shoulder. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘So you should be,’ I tease. ‘Not everyone’s girlfriend rubs shoulders with royalty.’

  ‘Great photo,’ he says, taking the paper to read the write-up. ‘Wish I could have been there.’ There’s something in his voice that I can’t put my finger on – a touch of jealousy, sadness or even some resentment.

  ‘This won’t change me,’ I assure him teasingly. ‘I’ll still be the same down-to-earth girl you met and fell in love with.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. But he doesn’t sound like he means it.

  ‘Sometimes I’ll have to do things without you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’ll be the stay-at-home husband while you get all the glamour.’

  One event, I think. That’s all it’s been, one event.

  Olly stares up at me and frowns. ‘I’m worried that you’ll be up, up and away and you’ll forget about us.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I do that?’

  The phone starts to ring as other friends start to get their papers delivered and it’s red hot for the rest of the day. I get dozens of emails from well-wishers and my spirits lift once more. The text messages never stop. Olly brings me tea, on the hour, every hour, and something to eat for dinner. I can’t even remember what. I can’t even remember eating it. And I don’t get time to address the strained atmosphere with him and what it’s really all about.

  I rush out of my house with a brief kiss for Olly and a bear hug for Petal, and run down the road to the town centre so that I’m not late for my shift. When I reach Live and Let Fry, I see a familiar figure waiting outside.

  Slowing down, I try to compose myself and fail. My mentor is waiting for me and as I approach, he drops his usual cool demeanour and, instead, he picks me up and twirls me round.

  ‘Woo hoo! Well done, Nell,’ he says breathlessly as he spins me back down to the ground. Somewhat reluctantly, it seems, he releases his tight hold on me.

  This is the reaction that I’d hoped for from Olly.

  ‘I’ve been out all day,’ Tod explains. ‘I didn’t have a minute to call you. Fabulous coverage. You can’t buy that sort of publicity.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ I acknowledge. ‘I’m so grateful that you asked me to go to the reception with you.’

  ‘It turned out well,’ he admits. ‘I hoped that you might get some column inches, but front page? Wow.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘We try to capitalise on it. I’ll put some ideas together this week.’ He slips a bag from over his shoulder. ‘In the meantime, you can borrow this.’

  ‘A laptop?’ At least that’s what I think it is. I’m sure he just doesn’t mean the bag, which I have to say is a somewhat utilitarian plastic one. Perhaps I could do a range of fab laptop bags.

  ‘You can put some of your products on eBay while you’re waiting to start up your website. At least then you’ll have an internet presence.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I don’t like to tell him that I’m clueless when it comes to computers. ‘That’s great. Thanks.’

  ‘How did the market stall go?’

  ‘Er… slow,’ I tell him, thinking that’s probably all he needs to know, otherwise it will sound like I’m whining. ‘I guess it will take time.’

  ‘Let’s hope that business picks up for you this week.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I tell him with a nod towards the shop door. ‘Or I’ll be late for my shift.’

  ‘I wanted to see where you worked.’

  ‘Come in,’ I offer. I’d love him to see how great the shop looks and show off my work. ‘You can have some chip
s on the house.’

  He laughs. ‘I’m going out to dinner with friends.’

  ‘Of course.’ That makes me feel gauche. ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘It was a nice offer, Nell,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay.’

  A shrug. ‘Another time.’ All the while I’m thinking how stupid it was to offer someone like Tod free chips. I could cut out my own tongue.

  I have no idea what Tod’s personal life is like. Maybe there’s a pretty little blonde waiting at home. I don’t know. Maybe there are several of them. He’s never mentioned anyone and, besides, it’s none of my business. He’s just a mentor, nothing more. We’re not even friends. This is his job. He’s looked after dozens of people like me. I wonder how many other people he asked to go to the Palace with him before he got to me?

  I watch him walk away and when he gets to the end of the alley, he turns and waves. I puff out a sigh and head for my night’s work.

  Swinging inside Live and Let Fry, I’m greeted by a loud cheer. Jenny, Constance and Phil are all holding balloons that say ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Aw, guys!’

  They come and hug me.

  ‘Clever girl,’ Phil says proudly. ‘Clever girl.’

  ‘I just had my photo taken with Prince Charles.’ I think I’m blushing.

  ‘Oh my word,’ Constance says. ‘Was it all lovely?’

  ‘It was pretty impressive,’ I admit.

  ‘We always knew you were going to be brilliant,’ Constance gushes.

  ‘Yeah, remember us when you’re rich and famous,’ Jenny adds. I think she’s teasing, but it worries me that she’s not the first person to voice that sentiment.

  ‘They gave a lovely mention of Live and Let Fry,’ Phil says. There are carefully cut out copies of the article stuck on the newly painted wall above each table. ‘There’ll be no holding you back now. You won’t be doing shifts here for much longer.’

  I don’t like to tell him that I lost money on the market stall and that Olly was kicked out of a nice little job due to my lastminute jaunt to the Palace. They all have such faith in my abilities that I want them to believe that everything is wonderful. And, as everything is resting on this, I want to believe it myself.