4.
5.
Well, anyway. Three is plenty. Plenty.
Eleven
Uncle Ned has booked a table at a restaurant for our meeting. It’s a place called Rules, in Covent Garden, all red plush and dark wood and food like oysters and venison. As I read the menu, I can’t help gasping inwardly at the prices.
“Wow,” I say. “This is quite … grand. We normally have meetings at the shop and Mum brings sandwiches.”
“Your mother likes to play things down,” says Uncle Ned kindly. “It’s her little affectation. But what I say is: If you mean business, then mean business.” He lifts his gin and tonic in a toasting gesture.
“Right,” I say, after a pause, because I don’t want to start the evening off by arguing. But I don’t get it at all. Why have we come to some luxury restaurant just to talk about the shop? My motto would be: If you mean business, then spend your money on the business, not on expensive meals.
Jake and Nicole seem happy enough, though, ordering paté and even lobster. When we’ve all ordered, Uncle Ned clears his throat in a grandiose way and says, “Before we begin on this little joint endeavor, please be assured, I am merely here to facilitate. Facilitate, d’you see?” He looks around with slightly bloodshot eyes. “You won’t want to listen to an old buffer like me. That’s understood. I’m simply here to make sure you don’t run the ship aground. Oh, the Chablis, I think,” he adds to the wine waiter, then turns to Jake. “By the way, I take it you have a company credit card on you?”
“Oh, absolutely,” says Jake at once. “I’ll sort it out. All on the company.”
“Good lad,” says Uncle Ned, taking a gulp of his gin and tonic. “Good lad. Now, as I say, I’m here to help. To listen. To advise.”
To drink gin at our expense, I think, but then immediately feel bad. Mum trusts Uncle Ned, so I should really try to as well. He negotiated the lease, I remind myself. He must have a good business head. Be open-minded.
“Right, well, why don’t I start?” says Jake briskly. “I have a lot of ideas for the shop.”
“I have a lot of ideas too,” chimes in Nicole at once. “Loads.”
“I mean, it can’t stay as it is,” adds Jake.
“Definitely not,” affirms Nicole.
I look at them both, disconcerted. Does the shop need changing that much? It’s a healthy business. Mum left us in charge to run it, not to transform it.
“I don’t have that many ideas,” I say. “I mean, I have a few.”
“Well, let’s listen to your few, Fixie,” says Uncle Ned in generous tones. “Get those out of the way, as it were.”
Out of the way? He sounds so patronizing I want to retort, “One good idea is worth a hundred bad ones!” Or at least blow him away with a really impressive speech.
But it’s happening to me again. The sight of Jake rolling his eyes at Nicole is sapping my confidence. The ravens are flapping. My lips are trembling. As I open my mouth, my lungs seem to be working at half capacity. My voice is tiny and uncertain.
“I think we could streamline the stock. Maybe get rid of the leisure section?” I add hesitantly. “And confectionery. We only stock licorice allsorts. It makes no sense.”
“Dad and I were the only ones who ever liked licorice allsorts,” muses Nicole. “He always used to say …”
I wait to see if Nicole is going to continue. Then, as it’s plain that she’s not, I take a deep breath and resume.
“I think we could lose hardware too. I know Dad loved all those sections, but they’re looking out of date and they’re the poorest performers. I think we should focus on kitchenware and craft. The customers love gadgets; they love advising each other and sharing their results. And everyone knows they can trust Farrs. We could make that our message: You can trust Farrs.”
My confidence is building as I talk; my voice is growing stronger. I’m actually enjoying sharing my thoughts.
“You know Vanessa, the customer who wears the red mac?” I continue. “Well, she recently won some big baking competition, and all her equipment was from Farrs. She came straight round to tell Mum. It was brilliant! And baking is a growing market. I have some figures, if you want to look.…” I get out the page of research I printed out last night and put it on the table. “I think we can capitalize on this, but we need to stay on top of it. We need to follow all the TV cookery shows. Offer exactly the right equipment at the right time. And the stock should be refreshed more often. Some products sit on our shelves for years. We’ve got to stop that.”
I’m hoping some of these ideas might spark some comment—but no one says a word or looks at my research.
“Anyway,” I continue, undeterred, “I think we should focus on our core business and build on all the best qualities of Farrs: Trustworthiness. Value. Practical help. All the things that Dad cared about. All the things that Mum is. All the things that we are.”
I look around the table, hoping I’ll see the warmth I feel mirrored in my siblings’ faces. Maybe we could even lift a glass to our parents. But Jake is frowning and Nicole looks lost in a daydream.
“Finished?” says Jake, as soon as I come to a halt.
“Well … yes,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Honestly?” says Jake.
“Yes, honestly.”
“I think, jeez, this is exactly the problem.” He slaps a hand onto the table. “Could you think any smaller? Could you be any more parochial? Vanessa in her bloody red mac, for fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head incredulously. “We need aspiration. High-end. Strategic partnerships with big brands.”
“We already stock big brands,” I point out.
“What, ‘Cake-tins-for-old-biddies-dot-com’?” says Jake scornfully. “I’m talking lifestyle. I’m talking luxury. The whole place needs a bloody reboot. Now, I met a guy at Ascot last year, works for Hannay watches. I got his card. He’s someone we could do business with. I mean, we’d have to pull out all the stops to get the deal.…”
“Hannay watches?” I say disbelievingly. “Are you joking? Don’t they cost like a thousand pounds?”
“We sell clocks,” retorts Jake. “It’s a natural extension.” He turns to Uncle Ned. “You wouldn’t believe the margins.”
“Jake, we sell kitchen clocks,” I try to point out. “None of them is above the thirty-pound price point.”
But Jake isn’t listening; he’s pulling a brochure out of his briefcase.
“Here’s another guy I’ve been sweet-talking recently,” he says. “Comes from Prague. We’ve had a few dinners, went to the casino the other night.”
“Work hard, play hard, eh?” puts in Uncle Ned with a chuckle.
My mouth has fallen open a little. The casino? When Mum and I source new suppliers, it’s at trade fairs or over coffee in the back room. Not at casinos.
“Anyway, he owns a stationery company,” says Jake importantly. “High-end. Gilt-edged. Wonderful. I think if we did the right deal, we could become his exclusive West London stockist.”
“Good work!” applauds Uncle Ned. “It’s all about networking, eh, Jake?”
I flip through the brochure, trying not to flinch. This is the weirdest stationery I’ve ever seen. There’s a lot of gilt and bizarre colors and cards decorated with malevolent-looking mermaids. I can’t see a single one of our customers wanting to buy this stuff.
“Jake,” I say. “Our customers like jolly cards with jokes on them. Or Cath Kidston notecards. They’re practical, sensible—”
“Exactly!” he erupts in frustration. “That’s the problem!”
“Our customers are the problem?” I stare at him.
“London is full of glamorous, rich, international spenders,” Jake says, almost fiercely. “Financiers. Lawyers. Hedgies. Why aren’t they in Farrs?”
“Actually, Vanessa’s a High Court judge,” I tell him—but he’s not listening.
“We need to move with the times,” he says tetchily. “London is the city of the international playboy. That’s who we need to attract.”
International playboys?
I don’t know what to say. I have a sudden vision of a line of international playboys in Dolce & Gabbana suits browsing our saucepans, and I bite my lip.
“We need to be forward-thinking,” Jake is declaiming. “We need to turn ourselves around.”
“I agree,” says Nicole surprisingly, and we all turn to look at her. “Like my yoga. We’re going to start a mind-body-spirit area,” she tells Uncle Ned. “Evening classes. And maybe like herbal … you know …” She breaks off and we all wait politely, before realizing this is another drifty unfinished Nicole sentence.
“Nicole,” I say quickly, “I know you mentioned this before, but I don’t think it’s practical.” I turn to Jake. “Nicole wants to get rid of lots of stock so there’s room for yoga classes. But we need that stock, so I don’t think—”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Jake cuts across me. “Yoga will attract the right crowd. Pilates, yummy mummies, all that.”