Summer Daydreams (14 page)
‘Let’s get the punters in, then.’ Jimmy wandered off to open the door.
Three hours. That’s all he needed to get through. Just three hours. Then he and Petal would be home and dry.
Two hours in and all had been going quite well. Relatively. The dance floor had been jumping – or, more accurately, pogoing – with punk throwbacks enjoying tracks by Stiff Little Fingers, The Damned, Dead Kennedys and the obligatory Sex Pistols. If he played this stuff for long enough, he might even begin to like it – even though it couldn’t compare to the likes of The Kinks, The Who and The almighty Beatles.
Petal had stayed in the hidey-hole, reading books and giving him an angelic smile every time he bent down to wave at her. She’d even kept her ear muffs in place and although she’d kept up a constant stream of chatter while she coloured in her books, it was completely inaudible above the rest of the noise. Now, unfortunately, she was getting restless.
As the club was getting warmer, she’d kicked off her blanket and now the dressing gown had been tugged off too. It was difficult trying to keep a close eye on her as he mixed the tracks. He had hoped, in vain, that she might have been so tired by now that she’d have nodded off to sleep. No such luck.
‘Daddy!’ Petal tugged at his trouser leg. ‘Da-dee!’
Olly crouched down. ‘What, Petalmeister? Just be a good girl for a little bit longer.’
‘But Daddy, I’m
bored
.’ She rolled her eyes to prove just how bored she really was.
He couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’m nearly done. Then we can go home and you can have a lovely treat for being so good.’
‘What?’
He racked his brains. ‘Ice cream?’
‘Play me a song.’
‘Now? I can’t do that, sweet pea.’
‘
Glee
,’ she said. ‘I want
Glee
.’ Her face said, I’ve listened to this crap all night; you’d better come up with it.
‘I haven’t got any
Glee
.’ The song that was her very favourite was ‘Don’t Stop Believing’.
‘It’s in your box, Daddy,’ his daughter informed him. ‘I put it there.’
‘Really?’ His heart sank. How could a child of his loins possibly have such awful taste in music? He rummaged in his bag and, sure enough, Petal’s favourite
Glee
CD was safely secreted in here. Petal smiled smugly at him. ‘It won’t work in here.’
Her expression said, liar.
‘I can’t, Petal.’
Now we’d moved on to, ‘If you loved me… ’
He could feel himself weakening. ‘OK, OK,’ he said to her, holding up his hands in resignation. ‘Then you promise to be a good girl until we go home?’
‘Yes.’ The nod was adamant.
Olly sighed to himself. ‘For one night only, a break with tradition. A little lady has specially requested this tune, so bear with me for three minutes.’
For better, for worse, he put on the cast of
Glee
singing ‘Don’t Stop Believing’. It seemed that most of the stunned audience couldn’t
begin
to believe it. They began to jeer as Petal sang along happily under the desk. They were barely into the chorus when Jimmy burst through the door at the back.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded. It seemed that he did listen, after all.
‘I’ll take it off,’ Olly promised.
‘Are you taking the fucking piss?’
‘Right now. It’s off. It’s off now.’ And the cast of
Glee
screeched to a premature halt. The audience cheered.
It was then that Petal decided to pop her head out. ‘Hello.’ Jimmy looked at her open-mouthed. ‘Finish tonight,’ he snapped. There was froth forming at the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t come back. Ever. This isn’t a bloody crèche.’
‘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.
‘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.
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 listened 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.