Never Can Say Goodbye Page 9

  By nine o’clock Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks was jam-packed. Everyone Frankie had ever known since she moved to Kingston Dapple had turned up, and many, many more besides. Her throat was sore from shouting greetings across the thrum, and her face ached from smiling.

  It was absolutely brilliant.

  ‘This is madness,’ Lilly panted, as beside Frankie behind the counter, she rapidly folded dresses into the purple and gold carrier bags and took money or zapped cards. ‘I think we might have overdone the publicity. I’m hungover, I’ve had about five minutes sleep, and we need about twenty more people serving in here.’

  ‘I know.’ Frankie nodded, scanning the queue in front of the counter while folding a black and white Mary Quant copy in purple tissue paper. ‘It was one thing I didn’t even think about. I’m just so used to it being me and Rita and a basically empty shop most of the time.’

  ‘I think those days are long gone,’ Lilly puffed as she juggled a Visa card. ‘If it carries on like this you’re going to have to get staff.’

  ‘Are you applying?’

  ‘No way. I’m more than happy at Jennifer’s, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ Frankie beamed at a girl from Bagley-cum-Russet who had just bought an exotically patterned Vivienne Westwood dress, and something in tartan and bedecked with chains, from the 1970s rails. ‘Sharing a house is one thing, but working together is something else entirely. Anyway, I reckon things will calm down once today’s over. This is just the typical village nosiness over something new. Once the novelty has worn off it’ll slow down again. And I don’t want to spend out on wages for someone who just sits around doing nothing all day.’

  ‘Like you used to.’

  ‘I never did! Well, OK, when we weren’t busy maybe – sorry?’ Frankie leaned over the counter towards a tiny woman in a brown coat and paisley headscarf, both misted with foggy droplets. ‘Culotte-frocks? I’m not sure … ?’

  ‘Eighties or nineties,’ Lilly said, ‘I think. Shall I go and look?’

  ‘Nooo. Don’t leave me. Amber is over there somewhere in the crowd, pointing people to the right areas.’ Frankie smiled again at the brown-clad woman. ‘The sections you need are over there and the girl with the blonde hair and the flashing reindeer earrings will help you – can you see her? Oh, good. Hopefully you’ll find something there. If not, come back and I’ll make a note of your phone number and get in touch with you when we have something suitable in. Lovely.’

  Frankie watched as the woman made her way through the throng to Amber who smiled warmly and started searching the appropriate rails. Everyone had turned up. Amber and Clemmie were playing at personal shoppers and style advisors, Sukie was circulating with trays of Buck’s Fizz and answering questions, and Phoebe was manning the fitting rooms.

  It was all going perfectly. Frankie could hardly hear Michael Bublé above the hum of happy bargain-hunters.

  ‘What about the stock?’ Lilly queried. ‘If you carry on like this you’ll have an empty shop before Christmas.’

  ‘I’ve had lots of donated dresses this week. They’re upstairs in one of those rooms Rita never used waiting to be sorted. I’m not too worried about running out – yet. People seem delighted to be able to offload their dresses just before Christ mas when they want to buy new, or, um, nearly new anyway … Yes, can I help you? You want to look like Brigitte Bardot? Your husband always fancied her, did he? Have a word with Amber and Clemmie – over there see, yes? They’ll help you look in the nineteen fifties section – I think you’ll find several little gingham frocks in there, and some off-the-shoulder shifts too.’

  ‘She’ll never look like Brigitte Bardot in a million years.’ Lilly frowned.

  ‘No, but if it keeps her husband happy.’

  ‘That’s a bit anti-feminist. Jennifer says a woman must make herself beautiful for herself first and for everyone else second.’

  ‘Quite the philosopher, Jennifer Blessing,’ Frankie chuckled, then stopped as she was suddenly buried beneath a proffered pile of 1980s specials: three power suits, a batwing jersey dress and a shirtwaister in Margaret Thatcher blue, all accompanied by an agitatedly waving Amex card.

  Two hours later, with the shop still full, a reporter and photographer from the Winterbrook Advertiser turned up and made Frankie pose in front of each section, surrounded by beaming customers all with frocks and hats and feather boas, then outside in the freezing fog in front of the lovely sparkly Christmassy windows, and then drape herself along the counter coyly holding a Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks carrier bag, much to Lilly’s amusement.

  ‘Bet they’ll get it all wrong,’ Frankie said as the hacks departed. ‘You know – “Fiona Merryweather, fifty-seven …”’

  ‘Yeah, they never get the names right, do they? And why are they so obsessed with ages?’ Lilly frowned as she carefully packed a Princess Diana-type glittery number. ‘And they always use the worst photo possible. The one that makes you look like a fat shoplifter just coming out of court.’

  ‘I’m sooo looking forward to the next edition of the Advertiser now, thanks,’ Frankie chuckled. ‘Still, I suppose it’ll all help with publicity.’

  ‘Not if they think you’re a fat shoplifter.’

  ‘True,’ Frankie giggled. ‘Oh Lord … more customers coming in … and my feet are killing me.’

  ‘I think mine dropped off ages ago.’ Lilly looked down at her stilt-heeled boots. ‘I haven’t felt my toes since half past ten. We should have worn slippers. Hello, can I help you?’

  By lunchtime, Frankie felt as though she’d owned Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks for ever. She was on a roll. The dark, cold, foggy weather didn’t seem to have deterred anyone, and the waves of customers, busy doing their Saturday Christmas shopping in Kingston Dapple, had all popped in to have a look, and at least half of them had bought something.

  In the middle of adding up a 60s mini shift, a 70s bo-ho maxi and an 80s backless cocktail dress, she was suddenly aware that a lot of her female customers had stopped raking through the rails and were staring at the door.

  ‘Dexter alert,’ Lilly chuckled. ‘Every woman in the shop has turned into a meerkat. He must give off some sort of – what are they called?’

  ‘Pheromones?’ Frankie hazarded.

  ‘Yeah – well, I think so. Whatever they are, the effect is pretty damn amazing, isn’t it?’

  Frankie smiled. It was.

  ‘I know you said you didn’t want food,’ Dexter said cheerfully from behind several scarves, ‘at least not for the customers, in case it messed up the frocks, but I guessed you and your friends must be hungry by now, so I’ve brought some refreshments from the Greasy Spoon.’

  ‘Bacon rolls!’ Frankie drooled, as the delicious aroma wafted across the counter. ‘Millions of them! Oh, I’m starving. You’re a star. Thank you so much.’

  ‘It’s so cold out there I had mine ages ago, so if you want to disappear into the kitchen for ten minutes or so, I’ll hold the fort in here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Frankie frowned. ‘I mean, it’s a bit manic.’

  ‘And he’s Dexter and all the customers are women,’ Lilly hissed. ‘He’ll be fine, as long as he stays one side of the counter and they stay the other.’

  ‘I’ll scream if I need you to rescue me.’ Dexter moved behind the counter. ‘Go and have these while they’re still hot.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Frankie took the bags of gloriously scented, forbidden fat ’n’ carbs. ‘But who’s looking after the flower stall?’

  ‘Um, Giselle or Genevieve, I’m not sure what her name is. She helps out in the Greasy Spoon.’

  ‘Ginny.’ Frankie nodded. ‘Student. Works part-time. Very, very pretty.’

  ‘That’s her.’ Dexter grinned. ‘I’ll have to think of some way to thank her later.’

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Lilly yelled at Phoebe, Clemmie, Amber and Sukie. ‘Tea break!’

  Ten minutes later, Frankie was halfway through her third bacon roll, her fingers wonderfully greasy,
when Dexter opened the kitchen door. ‘Sorry to bother you but there’s someone asking for you.’

  ‘It’s OK –’ Frankie wiped her hands on a piece of kitchen paper ‘– I’ll have to stop now before I pig out completely and turn into a roly-poly ball. Is it male or female, or didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Do you think I can’t tell after last night?’ Dexter laughed as he held open the door. ‘OK, after last night I’m not sure... Seriously, though, female. In fact, two females. Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Frankie said as she followed him out in to the shop, ‘I was sort of hoping it was the little old man who wanted to buy a dress yesterday. He hasn’t turned up this morning.’

  ‘It’s definitely not him,’ Dexter said. ‘Pity he hasn’t shown, though. Maybe he couldn’t face being outed in a shop full of people.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe. Shame, he was sort of sweet – oh, bugger.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t say it was Biddy-the-funeral-goer and a pal.’

  ‘You didn’t ask. Why?’

  ‘Biddy and I hardly parted on the best of terms after Maisie’s, er, turn, did we?’ Frankie took a deep breath and fixed her best shop-owner smile. ‘Hello, Biddy. How nice to see you.’

  ‘Doubt if you mean that.’ Biddy, more gingery than ever and dressed in a faded apricot ensemble, looked like a wrinkled elderly peach that’s been long forgotten at the bottom of the fruit bowl. ‘But it’s polite of you, I must say.’

  ‘Oh, I’m always polite.’ Frankie smiled a bit more. ‘Oh, look, why don’t we move over here to the end of the counter then we won’t keep getting in the way of the customers. There. That’s better. So, how can I help you?’

  ‘It’s more me that can help you.’ Biddy’s thin nose twitched and Frankie almost expected her to start cleaning her whiskers.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Biddy cast a beadily dismissive glance round the bustling, crowded shop and raised her voice above the continual hum and Michael Bublé proclaiming that he hadn’t met you yet. ‘I thought, seeing as you were going against everything Rita held dear, you could do with some help.’

  Oh Lordy, Frankie thought, waving to Dexter as he exited the shop, and looking hopefully at her friends as they all skittered smugly replete from the kitchen and immediately disappeared into the throng, she’s applying for a job.

  ‘Well, I’m not actually looking to employ anyone yet. But if I do need an assistant, I’ll certainly bear you in mind.’

  ‘I don’t want a job.’ Biddy’s tiny eyes narrowed into shocked slits. ‘Not at my age. And I certainly wouldn’t want to work for or with you, thank you very much.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Cherish.’ Biddy motioned to the even thinner and paler, nondescript woman wearing top-to-toe taupe standing bedside her. ‘I thought Cherish would be a huge asset here seeing as how you clearly don’t know nothing about colour and Cherish knows everything. She’s my colour-palette advisor from Hazy Hassocks.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frankie said faintly, ‘I remember you saying.’ Cherish, Frankie had imagined, would be at least larger than life, and definitely Jamaican: all big smiles and white teeth and warmly welcoming with a gutsy laugh and a massive sense of humour. No one this pale and emaciated could surely be called Cherish, let alone set herself up as a colour advisor?

  ‘Um.’ Frankie swallowed and forced a smile. ‘Cherish, how lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ Cherish said in a soft burring Berkshire accent. ‘And you don’t want to be wearing that bright blue. Not with your eyes and that black hair.’

  ‘Er, don’t I? I thought it matched my eyes quite well, actually.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where so many mistakes are made.’ Cherish drew herself up to her full five foot two. ‘You want to match your colours to your inner self.’

  Pink, red, bloody and gory? Frankie winced. ‘You –’ Cherish peered across the counter ‘– are a grey person. Gloomy. Almost colourless. You wants to wear a nice gunmetal or pewter or ash. You’re a faded winter evening person. Grey, dear, that’s what you are. There’s not many of you about.’

  Frankie blinked. Just her and John Major then? ‘I’ve never really liked grey. I prefer bright colours.’

  ‘Big mistake,’ Cherish sighed. ‘Bright colours stifle your true personality. You’ll never find happiness and success until you match your colours to your soul. And your soul, dear, is totally grey.’

  Oh, great, Frankie thought.

  ‘Well, there you go.’ Biddy twitched excitedly at Frankie. ‘That’s where you’ve been going wrong, isn’t it? Stop wearing all those primaries and start wearing shades of grey. It’ll transform your life.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Frankie muttered.

  Cherish beamed.

  Biddy twitched a bit more. ‘Told you she was good, didn’t I? Now, what I thought was if Cherish stationed herself over there by the fitting rooms, she could nab people as they went in, have a look at what they’d chosen and put them straight.’

  ‘And I’d work freelance,’ Cherish said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll be like a sub-contractor. You wouldn’t have to pay me. The customers would do that.’

  If there were any customers left after Cherish’s downbeat and screamingly awful advice, Frankie thought bleakly. She upped the professional smile. ‘Well, it’s very kind of you to offer, and of course, maybe when the shop is a bit more established I might be interested in adding different aspects, but right now I’m still feeling my way and—’

  ‘Are you turning Cherish down?’ Biddy looked scandalised.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just not for me at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘If you don’t take her now, then Dorothy Perkins in Winterbrook’ll be snapping her hands off.’ Biddy blinked furiously. ‘I knew Rita was making a mistake leaving you in charge of this place. You don’t know a good thing when you see it. You’ll run Rita’s lovely little shop into the ground afore Easter at this rate.’

  ‘Shall I just leave my business cards here on the counter, dear?’ Cherish looked hopeful. ‘Even if I can’t actually work in here at the moment, you might like to recommend me. I do most of my work from home anyway.’

  ‘Er, yes, OK.’ Frankie squinted doubtfully at the pile of dog-eared DIY business cards. ‘Just leave them there. That’s lovely.’

  Biddy and Cherish elbowed their way through the shop, pausing to look at selection of pastel puffballs. Frankie somehow couldn’t see Biddy in a puffball …

  ‘What was all that about?’ Lilly broke off from serving at the other end of the counter and dumped another armful of purple and gold carrier bags in a slithery heap. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

  ‘Oh, just Biddy the misery introducing Cherish her colour advisor. Cherish wants to work here telling people that they’re all insipid and boring and must match their colours to their inner selves. She says I’m a grey winter person, apparently.’

  Lilly shrieked with laughter. ‘You are so funny. I could never come up with a story like that in a million years. You have such a great imagination. Oh Lord, there’s Big Stacey from Londis looking through the size six Bibas. I was at school with her and she’s never been less than a generous twenty. We’ve got some lovely kaftans that would do her a treat. Are you going to tell her or am I?’

  Frankie shook her head. ‘Let’s leave it to Clemmie and Amber, shall we? They’re on style advice. We’re on serving only. OK, who’s next please … ’

  From the corner of her eye, Frankie watched Biddy and Cherish move mercifully away from the puffballs and start to push their way through the crowd towards the door. She scooped up Cherish’s business cards and was about to drop them in the bin when Biddy turned round and scuttled back to the counter and stared at the handful of cards.

  ‘Oh, um, I was just going to put them somewhere safe.’

  Biddy’s nose twitched. ‘Good, but what I meant to say earlier was I’ve been to see Maisie Fairbrother. She’s still in a stat
e of traumatisation. And she still maintains this place is haunted. And despite the nay-sayers in this village, I know for a fact that Maisie’s never wrong when she’s got an inkling of spirit infestation. So you watch your step, my girl. You needs Maisie in here to lay your ghosts, you do, before you’ve got more trouble in this shop than you know what to do with.’

  Chapter Ten

  Eventually, as the winter darkness fell, and the fog swirled murkily across the market square, the crowds disappeared. It had been a truly spectacular day. Frankie, utterly exhausted, shut the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, then leaned against the counter and thanked Rita from the bottom of her heart.

  Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks was established. It was up to her now to continue to make the business work. And she could do it. After today, she knew she could do it. Although, she thought drowsily, she may well need to employ an assistant – even just a part-time one – especially over the Christmas period if they were going to be this busy.

  Frankie grinned happily to herself. When and if she employed someone, it definitely wouldn’t be Biddy.

  Lilly, Clemmie, Amber and Sukie had already staggered across the fairy-lit cobbles, through the wraithlike fog, to toast their involvement in the success in the Toad in the Hole. Phoebe, who was planning on having a cosy night in with her other half, Rocky, had made her excuses because of the worsening weather, and driven home to Hazy Hassocks.

  ‘They’re doing three Jägerbombs for a fiver tonight in the Toad!’ Lilly had announced happily as she’d click-clacked towards the door. ‘Shall I get you some in?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Frankie had shaken her head. ‘Sorry to be a pooper, but honestly once I’ve locked up here, all I’ll be fit for is a hot bath, a hot chocolate and bed.’

  ‘You are getting sooo old,’ Lilly had giggled. ‘Where’s that party animal I used to know and love?’

  ‘Turned into a boring old fart,’ Frankie had chuckled. ‘A really boring old fart with her own business. And how can you face Jaegerbombs after your close encounter with the Woo Woos not that long ago?’