‘No, why should I?’
‘That’s OK then. Because you’re right about him. He’s definitely a player. He was amazing to be with, but, well, for as much
time as I can remember before the Woo Woos kicked in, he was aware of every other woman – and man, before he realised his
mistake – in the club and giving them the benefit of the Valentine charm.’
‘Always looking for the next good thing?’
‘Yeah. Dexter is a fab guy, just not a settler. Any woman who goes out with Dexter would just be one of many. Which is OK
as long as you
know.
Oooh, those flowers are lovely.’ Lilly staggered along the counter and buried her face in the bouquet. ‘Wow. Fabulous. Did
you –?’
‘No, Dexter did.’
‘Cool. See, told you he fancied you.’ Lilly pouted. ‘Now I wish I hadn’t just said all that other stuff. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’d already worked it out for myself. I’ve seen him in action with his customers, and I still think he left Oxford
because of a woman.’
‘Or thirty.’ Lilly nodded. ‘Ouch. Remind me not to move my head. It hurts.’
‘So, you didn’t manage to find out why he had to leave Oxford? Or what he’s done in the past or how come he owns a mega-expensive
car or anything?’
‘No. Trust me, I tried to do a Jeremy Kyle on him. I asked all the questions, but he wasn’t telling. He just clammed up. Maybe
it’s just really boring – like he split with his girlfriend and she kicked him out of their shared flat, and he got made redundant
from whatever job he had but they let him buy his company car really cheap, all at the same time, so Ray’s invite to come
and sort himself out in Kingston Dapple came at just the right time and was his only answer to being homeless and jobless.
Maybe he just wants it to all seem mysterious, because Ray gave him a real bad-boy build-up, and he’s embarrassed that it
isn’t.’
Frankie laughed. ‘That’s pretty profound coming from you considering the state you’re in.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Lilly looked pleased. ‘Now, if you want me to do any work at all today, I’m just going to drown myself
in black coffee and take paracetamol and please don’t shout at me for at least an hour.’
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.’