Morag and Stacey have returned to the group by now, and we all wait for Greg to answer. He thinks for a while longer, his brow deeply furrowed, then looks up. “Is there booze?”
“Yes!” says Nicole, clearly losing her patience. “There is. Look, don’t overthink it. Just write. I’m pretty sure you’re an Owl,” she says as she hands Morag a questionnaire. “And you’re probably a Lynx,” she adds to Greg. “Which means you need to work with a Fox.”
“D’you think I’m a Fox?” queries Stacey, taking her questionnaire.
“No,” says Nicole. “Definitely not. You’re more of an Albatross.”
“Then who’s Greg supposed to work with?” Stacey opens her eyes wide, with that faux-innocent look she has. “I’m only wondering, because it’s all so scientific and we haven’t got any Foxes,” she adds blithely. “Should we hire one?”
For a moment Nicole looks caught out, then she makes a sound of annoyance.
“Just do the questionnaires,” she says. “I’m going to do some Instagramming. Greg, you can help.”
As Nicole leads Greg down one of the aisles, Jake looks around the shop critically.
“We need to redo this place,” he says. “It needs a total refit. We should have better flooring, spotlights, some awesome artwork—” He breaks off, staring at the shop door in horror. “Give me strength,” he breathes. “Who is that repulsive wreck?”
“That’s not a repulsive wreck!” I say indignantly as I follow his gaze. “That’s Sheila!”
OK, so maybe Sheila isn’t one of the “beautiful people.” She’s overweight and shabby, with her woolen hat and ancient carrier bags. But she’s a regular. She’s one of us. She waves at me cheerfully and heads to the back, where I know she’ll spend hours examining cake liners and piping bags.
“She has to go,” says Jake firmly. “She’s not a good look.”
“She’s a customer, not a look!” I retort, but Jake’s not listening.
“We need to redo the whole place,” he says again, prodding at one of our functional shelves. “We should hire an interior designer.”
I feel a familiar tweak of anxiety. Why does Jake always have to be so grand?
“I don’t think we’ve got the funds for that,” I say.
“How do you know?” he shoots back.
“Well, I don’t know, but—”
“You know how ridiculously cautious Mum is. I’m sure we’ve got a big cash reserve.” Jake eyes Sheila again with distaste. “She looks like a bloody tramp.”
“Well, let’s introduce a dress code, shall we?” I say with a flash of sarcasm I don’t usually dare use with Jake.
“Yes,” says Jake with emphasis. “That is actually not a bad idea. Ah, Bob!” he adds, looking over my shoulder. “Just the man.”
I turn to see Bob entering the store, in his sensible slacks and jacket, looking slightly disconcerted at Jake greeting him.
“Hi, Bob,” I say. “My brother and sister are in store today.”
“I want to talk to you about money,” says Jake without any preamble. “Can we go somewhere? The back room?”
He sweeps Bob off, and I look around the store to check that all is as it should be. Uncle Ned is still roaming the aisles, filling a basket with items. He’s got an iron, a teapot, and one of our wipe-clean tablecloths, and I feel a sudden warmth that he’s supporting us so generously.
Then, as my gaze sweeps round, I blink, disconcerted. Nicole has taken off her coat and is in tight jeans with a very revealing crop top. She’s draping herself over a rack of saucepans and instructing Greg to take photos of her with her phone, while her opened-up wheelie case blocks the entire aisle.
“I need to look sexy,” she says, playing with her hair. “Do I look sexy?”
“Yeah,” says Greg in a strangled tone. “Yeah, you do.”
“Can you see the saucepans?” I say, hurrying over. “Can you see any products in the shot?”
“It’s not about saucepans,” says Nicole, rolling her eyes. “It’s about who’s the face of Farrs?”
I’m about to reply when I see two women in jeans and cardigans coming in. I wait for Morag to greet them, but she’s sitting on a stool, frowning bewilderedly over her questionnaire. She hasn’t even noticed the customers. I’m about to go and greet them myself, when Stacey comes sidling up.
“I just asked your uncle if he wanted me to start ringing up his purchases,” she begins. “But he said he doesn’t have to pay anything because he’s a temporary director?”
“He what?” I say, before I can stop myself.
“That’s what he said.” Stacey shrugs. “Reckons it’s all a freebie. He’s having me