once said, “Stacey, you can’t leave now,” and she said, “I wasn’t,” even though she was halfway through the door with her coat on.
“You do,” I say patiently. “I heard you with that girl yesterday afternoon. Talking about …” I lower my voice still further. “Clips? Clamps?”
“Oh, that.” Stacey rolls her eyes dismissively. “That just came up in conversation.”
“In conversation?” I stare at her. “What kind of conversation?”
“I was explaining the product,” she says, unperturbed. “Like we’re supposed to.”
“Those clips are for sealing plastic bags!” I hiss. “They’re for kitchen use! Not for …”
There’s silence. I’m not finishing that sentence. Not out loud.
“Nipples,” says Stacey.
“Shhh!” I bat my hands at her.
“You think everyone who buys those clips is using them on plastic bags?” she says dispassionately, chewing her gum, and my mind ranges swiftly over our customers.
“Ninety-nine percent, yes,” I say firmly.
“Fifty percent, if that,” she counters. “What about the spatulas?” She eyes me meaningfully. “You think every spatula purchase is an innocent spatula purchase?”
I gaze at her, my mind boggling. What on earth is going through Stacey’s head every time she rings up a sale?
“Look, Stacey,” I say at last, “you can imagine what you like. But you can’t discuss any of this with customers. It’s totally inappropriate.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes again, as though making a huge concession. “I sold two Dysons yesterday,” she adds. “One for a mum, one for her daughter. Talked them into it. The mum’s recently moved house. Divorce. She’s coming back to kit out her whole kitchen.”
This is the thing with Stacey. The minute you’re thinking she’s gone too far, she pulls a rabbit out of the hat.
“Well, that’s great,” I say. “Brilliant work.” I can hear a commotion behind me and turn to see Uncle Ned, Greg, Jake, and Nicole, all arriving together. Nicole is talking to Greg intently about something as he gazes at her, lovestruck. (Greg’s always had a bit of a thing for Nicole.) Meanwhile, Uncle Ned is peering around as though he’s never been here before. To be fair, it’s been a while.
“Welcome to Farrs, Uncle Ned!” I say. “Do you know Stacey? And Greg?”
“Ah yes,” says Uncle Ned as he looks around. “Very good, very good.”
“I was wondering if we could turn the temperature up,” Nicole is saying earnestly to Greg. “Then we could do hot yoga.”
“Hot. Yeah.” Greg gulps, his gaze fixed adoringly on Nicole. “Hot sounds good.”
“What’s that?” I say, suddenly noticing the wheelie case that Nicole is dragging.
“Makeup for the Instagram shoot,” she says. “Next time I’ll hire a makeup artist.”
A makeup artist? I’m about to reply when Uncle Ned taps me on the arm.
“Now, Fixie,” he says, gesturing at the leisure section. “This is where you could introduce a fishing department. Rods, nets, waders …”
“Er … maybe,” I say diplomatically.
“Jesus, this place,” says Jake, coming toward us, a scowl on his face. “It gets more low-rent every time I see it. What’s that?” He lifts a packet and peers at it disparagingly.
“Muslins for making jams and jellies,” I tell him.
“Jams and jellies?” he echoes in tones of utmost scorn. “Who the hell makes jams and jellies?”
“Our customers do! It’s a really popular hobby—”
“So, is everyone here?” Jake cuts me off without even listening. “All the staff? Because I think we should have a word.”
“Hi, Morag!” I wave as Morag comes in through the door. “OK, we’re all here,” I say to Jake. “At least, everyone who works today. Christine’s on the other shift, and—”
“Whatever,” says Jake impatiently. “Let’s begin. Right.” He raises his voice. “Gather round, people. As you know, my siblings and I are running the show while my mother’s away, and we want change. Wholesale change.” He thumps a fist into his palm and I see Stacey’s eyes widen. “This place needs a boot up the backside. We want upselling. We want cross-selling. We want profiteering.”
I open my mouth to protest—does he actually know what profiteering means?—but Jake’s on a roll.
“This is a game changer, guys,” he’s saying. “This is where the rubber hits the road. We want to turn this place into a must-have, high-end, desirable store. Where tastemakers come. Where the beautiful people hang out. The Abercrombie and Fitch of lifestyle stores. And that’s the image I want you all to project. Stylish. Hip. Sexy.”
“Sexy?” says Morag, looking alarmed.
“Yes, sexy,” snaps Jake. “On-trend. Modern. With it.”
I can see his eyes ranging over the assembled staff with increasing dissatisfaction. Greg is gazing gormlessly at Nicole with his bulgy gray eyes.