I usher everyone out and survey the shop floor. It looks totally alien. Music is thudding through speakers, and two waitresses are taking round trays of champagne. Some people have arrived, but I don’t recognize any of them. They look like Jake’s estate-agent friends.
Near the entrance is a five-foot-long “red carpet,” with a VIP rope and a backdrop screen covered in printed stars. Nicole is on the red carpet, looking totally at home, posing for a photographer with a blond girl who must be Kitten Smith. They’re both in long dresses, and Nicole is throwing her hair around and doing lots of fake laughing with her arm around the blond girl’s waist.
“Look,” I say to Stacey, feeling a quickening of excitement in spite of myself. “It’s Kitten Smith.”
“Oh yeah,” says Stacey, shooting her an unimpressed look. “How much did Jake pay her to come?”
“Pay her?” I stare at Stacey.
“Well, she wouldn’t have done it for free, would she?” Stacey rolls her eyes.
“Right. Of course not!” I say hastily, trying not to sound as na?ve as I feel. It never occurred to me that Jake was shelling out on this YouTuber. I thought he’d got her interested in Farrs somehow.
How much did he pay?
As I’m watching, two girls in glitzy-looking dresses come through the door and Jake kisses them both with loud exclamations. I have no idea who they are. I have no idea who anyone is. I know I need to go and mingle, but they all look terrifying. I decide I’ll finish my drink, get another one, and then go and mingle.
Jake looks in his element, I can’t help noticing. He’s handing out drinks and cracking jokes, all loud and confident. I keep hearing the phrase “Notting Hill” in conversation, which makes me prickle suspiciously, but I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I drain my glass, fill it up again, and am about to approach the glitziest, most-frightening-looking girl, when I see a welcome sight coming in through the door. It’s Vanessa! She’s dressed up smartly in a navy suit, but she’s as smiley and familiar as ever.
Finally! An actual customer! I hurry over and find myself kissing her on both cheeks, which is not what I’d normally do but I’m picking up habits from Jake.
“Vanessa! Welcome!” I grab a glass of champagne from a waitress and give it to her.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” says Vanessa pleasantly, looking around. “Very smart. What’s it in aid of? I couldn’t quite work it out, from the invitation.”
“Oh … a revamp,” I say vaguely. “Relaunch.”
“That’s what I told the others.” Vanessa nods. “They’re on their way. We met in the pub first, actually, but I’m pressed for time, so I thought I’d hurry along.”
“The others?” I say, not following.
“The Cake Club!” says Vanessa with a friendly laugh. “They didn’t seem to know anything about it. I had to send out a round-robin email. You really need to look at your mailing list, Fixie.”
“You did what?” I stare at her.
“But they’ll be along any moment,” she says cheerfully. “Ah, look, there’s Sheila now.”
Sheila? My head whips round. Oh my God. Sheila.
I’m sure Sheila wasn’t on Jake’s curated guest list, what with her being a “repulsive wreck.” But after what looks like an altercation with the bouncer, she firmly pushes her way in. She takes off her shabby mac to reveal a crumpled, tent-like dress and her usual furry boots. I can see her peering around, searching for a familiar face—then she spots Nicole on the red carpet.
“Nicole!” she exclaims, and shuffles onto the red carpet to join Nicole and Kitten Smith. “Don’t you look nice? Who’s this? A new salesgirl? Are we doing photos?”
I glance over at Jake and feel a convulsion of laughter. His face. His face! He breaks away from the group of smart people he’s with and heads swiftly toward the red carpet.
“Delighted to see you,” he says smoothly to Sheila. “Absolutely delighted. But may I suggest—” He breaks off as the door opens and six more members of the Cake Club pile in, sweeping past the bouncer, all wearing anoraks and sensible shoes.
“Ooh, look!” Brenda exclaims, peering around. “Doesn’t it all look strange?”
“Morag!” calls another woman whose name I don’t know. “I brought oatmeal cookies. Where shall I put them?” She brandishes a plastic box, and I see Jake flinch in horror.
“Girls!” calls Sheila, waving vigorously from the red carpet. “Here! We’re doing photos. Young man,” she says to the local photographer. “Would you do a group shot? Come on, Cake Club! Nicole, you don’t mind moving, do you? Morag, join us!”
As Sheila literally elbows Nicole off the red carpet, my stomach is hurting from trying not to laugh. Within thirty seconds, the red carpet is full of middle-aged women in sensible coats, all beaming and waving at the camera. The smart guests are peering at them in surprise. Jake looks like he wants to throw up. I can hear Nicole ranting to Kitten Smith about how she’s the face of Farrs and this is all so unprofessional.
At that moment, I hear a voice in my ear. “Love, I wondered if you had another mug? Same as before, the brown one.”
I whip round and bite my lip. It’s my friend the old shuffly man with the shopping trolley. Of course it is.
“Hello!” I say. “We’re not really open, but I’m sure I can get you a mug.”
“I saw the lights on,” he says conversationally, looking around. “Serving drinks, are you?”
“Here you are.” I pour him out a glass of champagne. “Enjoy.”
I hurry off and find a brown earthenware mug in the stock room. I wrap it in tissue, then return, take the old man’s money, and pack his new mug safely in his shopping trolley. The tills aren’t open, but I’ll sort it all out tomorrow.
“Would you like some more champagne?” I ask. “And a canapé? Or a cookie?”
“Well.” His rheumy eyes brighten as he looks at his nearly empty glass. “A drop more of this would be grand.…”
“Excuse me.” Jake’s stentorian voice interrupts us. “Do you have an invitation?” He doesn’t even wait for the old man to answer. “No. You don’t. So could you kindly leave?”
To my horror, he takes the old man by the elbow and starts to escort him, quite roughly, to the door.
“Jake!” I exclaim. “Jake, stop it!”
“This is a private event,” Jake says to the old man, ignoring me. “The shop will be open during normal hours tomorrow. Thank you so much.”
He turns back from dispatching the old man, and I feel a flare of rage.
“Fixie, can I see you for a minute?” says Jake in ominous tones, and I glare back at him.
“Yes,” I snap, and follow him to the back room. He slams the door and we stare at each other for a silent ten seconds. I’m forming furious, outraged phrases. I can see them now, flashing in their thought bubble, red and angry.
How dare you? That was a customer and he deserved respect! Who do you think you are? What would Dad say?
I draw breath, telling myself that this time I’ll do it; this time I’ll really have my say. But as I look up at Jake’s intimidating face, it happens again. My nerve collapses. The ravens have started flapping around me.
“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our relaunch, Fixie?” he says, in his sarcastic, biting way. “I assume it was you who invited the anorak brigade, not to mention your homeless friend?”
“He’s not homeless!” I retort, as strongly as I can manage. “And even if he were, he’s a customer! And I think …” I swallow. “I just think …”
My words have ground to a halt. I hate myself right now. I can’t shout. I can’t assert myself. I can’t say the things I want to say.
“What?” demands Jake.
“I … I don’t think you should have treated him like that,” I stutter at last.
“Oh, you don’t?” Jake snaps back. “Well, I don’t think you should have invited all and bloody sundry to what was supposed to be a professional event.”
“I didn’t invite anyone!” I say. “It was Vanessa!” But Jake isn’t listening. He sweeps back out to the party and after a few seconds I follow, my cheeks burning. I’m thinking I might go and drown my sorrows with a cookie, when I see Leila waving at me.
“Leila!” I exclaim in relief, because if there’s anyone who will cheer your soul it’s Leila. She’s wearing a silver dress with a tulle skirt and looks like some sort of sprite.
“Fixie!” she says, and hugs me. “Thank goodness! I told Ryan you must be here somewhere.…”
“Ryan?” My heart lifts. “Is he here?”
“He’s here.” Leila bites her lip and lowers her voice. “He’s drunk.”
“Drunk?” I stare at her.
“It’s not good.” Leila looks anxious. “Fixie, you need to know something; he—” She breaks off as Ryan himself appears, holding two glasses of champagne. His eyes are bloodshot and he surveys us all with a morose gaze.
“Hi!” I say, kissing him. “Is everything … Are you …” My words trail away and I glance uncertainly at Leila, who winces. “What’s up?”
“Bastard fired me,” says Ryan, so lightly that at first I think I must have misheard.
“What?”
Ryan gives me a humorless smile and lifts his glass in a mock toast. “You heard me, Fixie. Bastard fired me. I’ve lost my job.”
—