Late Night Shopping: (29 page)

'Leave Owen out of this,' Annie snapped. No one was going to blame Owen for what had happened.

'Owen! Owen?' Dinah blurted out. 'Owen is a total space cadet who couldn't be left in charge of a glass of milk because he'd probably knock it over.'

'Dinah!' Annie turned angrily to her sister. 'Just because you're the most over-protective, over-anxious mother in the entire universe!'

'Please don't,' Ed said gently. 'You've both had a terrible time, please don't take it out on each other.'

'Just stay out of it,' Dinah ordered, 'you know nothing Don't ever make decisions about other people's children again, OK? Never, ever. You've got enough to worry about trying to stop Annie from shopping you right out of house and home.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Ed asked, the calm note missing from his voice now.

'Uh-oh,' Connor muttered from his end of the table.

'Dinah,' Annie warned, making a mental note never to give Dinah more than one glass of wine ever again. They were sisters, they'd had plenty of disagreements in the past, but it was a long time since they'd had an out and out open row.

'She's not told you, has she?' Dinah was unstoppable.

'Dinah!' Annie warned again.

'She's not told you she's sunk at least three thousand pounds in the factory shops and she's probably going to spend much, much more at schmoozy Mr B's outlet shop.' Then came her killer blow: 'Oh and by the way, she owes the taxman ten thousand pounds . . . but knowing Annie, she hasn't told you that either, has she? But don't worry, she's just going to add it all to her mortgage.'

A stunned silence followed.

'Oh boy,' Connor decided it was time to weigh in. 'C'mon, Dinah, I think you and I should take a little walk around the garden.' He moved round to escort Dinah from her chair.

As they walked down the steps into the garden he couldn't resist adding, 'Don't think there's going to be any squeaking from the sofa bed tonight.'

Aunty Hilda in town:

Herbaceous border summer skirt (Vintage M&S)
Matching summer blouse (Vintage M&S)
White, square-heeled slingback sandals (Scholl)
White handbag (Sorrento c.1975)
Wheelchair (NHS)
Slightly too much perfume (Chanel No. 5)
Total est. cost: £160

'You're more like her nanny than her man.'

Ed was trying not to listen too closely to Aunty Hilda. He'd agreed to take her into town by taxi because she'd woken up in a sour mood and spent the hour after breakfast complaining to anyone who would listen that she'd been in Italy for nearly three days and had done nothing worth doing, and seen nothing worth seeing and what she really wanted to do was go home.

Ed, satisfied that Owen's ankle was improving and that everyone else just wanted to be left in peace by the pool, had offered Aunty Hilda the trip.

'C'mon, we'll order a taxi, then we'll buy some English papers and have a coffee out in the main square,' he'd told her.

It was for his benefit too. He wanted to get out of the villa where the atmosphere was horribly strained because Dinah was still avoiding him and, as just about everyone knew, he'd had a big row with Annie last night.

The row was still unresolved, because they didn't seem to be able to reach any kind of agreement. Annie was determined to 'go into business', although as far as Ed could see all she was doing was getting further and further into debt by buying things she was supposedly going to sell. Ed had argued till he was blue in the face that it was far too much of a risk. It was far too much of a time commitment. He just wanted them to do their jobs, pay the mortgage and be happy.

Then Annie had argued back that having her own business was what she was desperate to do and Ed was just holding her back because he was over-anxious and never dared to take a chance.

'What about the tax money you owe?' Ed had fumed. 'Why couldn't you even tell me about that?'

'Because I knew you'd use it against me! You'd just say I can't be trusted to do the business admin and I can. I want to learn!' she'd insisted.

'I told you not to borrow against the house,' he'd stormed.

In the morning, when the row had kicked off again after their broken night's sleep, he'd asked her heatedly, 'Why can't you just be content with what you have?'

'I can do better,' she'd snapped, and to him, that had sounded like a warning.

'Fine,' he'd shot back, 'go ahead! Flounce off with your new handbag friend and see how well that goes, why don't you?'

'Oh don't be so stupid!' Annie had fired back, but soon afterwards she'd left the house in a taxi of her own, dressed to the nines in a red summer frock and her ridiculous new Italian shoes, to meet Mr B and make 'final arrangements' about consignments of handbags.

'And I suppose I'm babysitting everyone again?' had been Ed's parting shot to her. 'Thank you so much, Annie.'

'Dinah and Connor have said they'll do that,' she'd shouted back. 'You can do what you like! You can go home for all I care.'

In the taxi it became obvious that Ed had one person on his side, but unfortunately it was Aunty Hilda.

She had nothing good to say about Annie and was full of advice for Ed.

'You make life too easy for her,' she insisted, 'you cook all the meals, you do all the shopping, you look after her children. You're more like her nanny than her man. Frank would never in a million years have stood for that kind of nonsense. I knew my place.

'You should teach her a lesson,' she warbled on, 'believe me. I was married for forty-eight years. I should know. She'll respect you much more if you stand up to her . . . You should just fly home with me today and leave her to get on with it.'

Bouncing about in the back seat as she fired her views back at him, Ed wondered how much more of this he could take. Should he argue tactfully back? Or just let her carry on until she'd got it out of her system?

'What is this nonsense that she's on about? Selling handbags from that man? You want to watch that situation. He couldn't keep his eyes off her,' Hilda added.

That little detail hadn't passed Ed by either.

'Yes, you need to watch out,' Aunty Hilda told him ominously, 'you'll be left with her children while she goes off gallivanting with the wealthy Italian.'

No, it was no use, Ed was going to have to stand up for Annie now.

'Hilda, Annie is interested in doing business with this man.' He was trying to be as restrained as he possibly could. 'She goes in at the deep end sometimes, but she has our best interests at heart and I trust her absolutely,' he added: '110 per cent. I don't think it's very kind of you to make these suggestions.'

'Well then!' Aunty Hilda folded her arms across her chest and turned her head away to look out of the window.

Ed looked outside too, with a little more concentration than before. It was another beautiful day. Bright sun, clear sky, the small town on the horizon ahead of them with its church steeple soaring high into the blue air.

Having once spent a whole summer in a small Italian town, Ed was already imagining the clang of the bell, the cooing of pigeons and the clip and clatter of shoes on the cobblestones of the central courtyard.

He and Hilda would drink coffee together, they'd read through the papers side by side and this silly rant would be forgotten. Surely?

Maybe Annie could even finish up with Mr B and join them there. Prove to him that Aunty H had got it all totally wrong.

'This is not difficult,' Annie was telling Mr B as they strolled along a little street towards the town centre. 'You just give me some of your lovely bags and then I sell them!'

She felt much better now that she was in town, away from her fractious family, away from having to justify every single one of her decisions to Ed all the time.

She didn't know how to get around this. She was doing what she wanted to do – why did Ed have to be against that? Why did her following a dream have to cause him such a headache? Why couldn't he just let her work this out on her own? If only Dinah hadn't blurted everything out, that's what she would have been able to do.

Dinah would of course be contritely sorry today, but that was no bloody use.

'And then,' she looked up at Sandro – that was Mr B's first name and he was insisting she call him by it – with what she hoped was a very persuasive and charming smile, 'I send you money and you send me more things.'

'Ha, ha, ha,' Sandro cracked a little smile. They'd had a coffee together and now he was giving her a quick tour of the town before he drove her back to collect her car.

Annie was having to concentrate harder than she would have liked to on her fake snake shoes. She'd strapped them on this morning at the sound of the taxi outside the villa, completely forgetting that they'd been subjected to severe abuse in the hunt for Owen and Billie yesterday. Running down the hill towards Owen seemed to have done them a serious injury and now they were even more fragile and unstable than before.

'Annie, I cannot
give
you my things,' Sandro was telling her mournfully.

What?!

Had she been completely wasting her time with him? What did he mean he couldn't give her his things?

He looked relaxed enough, strolling along in his white linen trousers and light shirt, jangling his keys in his left hand and carrying one of those big Italian wallets with handles in his right. The kind of thing middle-aged British wives were always buying their husbands on holiday, but to no avail: '
Carry a bag? Are you out of your
mind?'

'I cannot
give
you my things,' he repeated. 'You will have to
buy
them, at discount of course, and I give you very good discount on the price, but then you sell them. When you selling many bags, then you can have and pay me after the sale.'

'Money first, from me?' Annie clarified in Italian.

Well, what else could she have expected? He couldn't know if she was genuine or not. She might be about to take a great consignment of bags from him and never be seen again.

'Fifty per cent discount on your shop price,' was what she said, instinctively.

'Fifty! Cinquanta! No, no,' Sandro shook his head, 'thirty! Trenta is generoso, the most I can do.'

Annie's heel struck an uneven paving stone and she felt it wobble dangerously beneath her foot. She caught hold of Mr B's arm for support.

'OK?' he asked, placing his hand over hers, assuring her it was to stay there.

Annie, walking gingerly forward on the injured shoe, nevertheless told him confidently, 'Quaranta-cinque, forty-five per cent.'

Sandro gave another little laugh and squeezed her hand. 'Signorina Valentina! You sell my bags very well in London, I know this!' he added.

Before he could say anything else, Annie removed her hand and told him in a tone of complete finality, 'Forty per cent. Quaranta. I can't do it for less,' She shook her head with genuine sincerity.

Sandro's brow furrowed slightly, Annie turned her eyes to the dangerously uneven pavement. She didn't want to fall on her face just at this moment. Just when she was trying to impress him with her hard-headed business skills and her no-nonsense negotiating.

She kept her gaze down and saw a drain cover with dangerously wide gaps, so she skipped in what she imagined was a dainty and gazelle-like way over the drain and landed.