I flip through the brochure, trying not to flinch. This is the weirdest stationery I’ve ever seen. There’s a lot of gilt and bizarre colors and cards decorated with malevolent-looking mermaids. I can’t see a single one of our customers wanting to buy this stuff.
“Jake,” I say. “Our customers like jolly cards with jokes on them. Or Cath Kidston notecards. They’re practical, sensible—”
“Exactly!” he erupts in frustration. “That’s the problem!”
“Our customers are the problem?” I stare at him.
“London is full of glamorous, rich, international spenders,” Jake says, almost fiercely. “Financiers. Lawyers. Hedgies. Why aren’t they in Farrs?”
“Actually, Vanessa’s a High Court judge,” I tell him—but he’s not listening.
“We need to move with the times,” he says tetchily. “London is the city of the international playboy. That’s who we need to attract.”
International playboys?
I don’t know what to say. I have a sudden vision of a line of international playboys in Dolce & Gabbana suits browsing our saucepans, and I bite my lip.
“We need to be forward-thinking,” Jake is declaiming. “We need to turn ourselves around.”
“I agree,” says Nicole surprisingly, and we all turn to look at her. “Like my yoga. We’re going to start a mind-body-spirit area,” she tells Uncle Ned. “Evening classes. And maybe like herbal…you know…” She breaks off and we all wait politely, before realizing this is another drifty unfinished Nicole sentence.
“Nicole,” I say quickly, “I know you mentioned this before, but I don’t think it’s practical.” I turn to Jake. “Nicole wants to get rid of lots of stock so there’s room for yoga classes. But we need that stock, so I don’t think—”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Jake cuts across me. “Yoga will attract the right crowd. Pilates, yummy mummies, all that.”
“A good idea?” I stare at him in horror. I was counting on him to nix it. “But we don’t have the floor space!”
“We can get rid of some of the displays,” Jake says. “All those plastic boxes, for a start.” He shudders. “They’re fucking depressing.”
“We could sell yoga mats,” says Nicole. “And yoga blocks. And yoga…” She waves her hands around as though words are superfluous.
“Jake, people come to us for food storage,” I say desperately. “They know we have a good range.” I feel like I’m going a bit mad here. Do Jake and Nicole actually know our business? “Uncle Ned, what do you think?” I say. I can’t believe I’m actually appealing to Uncle Ned, but I don’t have much choice.
“I think leisure is a growth area,” says Uncle Ned sagely. “Yoga is very much of the times, not that I would know much about it!” He gives a hearty laugh. “What I would add is, if you’re going to consider leisure pursuits, then consider fishing.”
“Fishing?” My mouth drops open. What is he on about?
“There’s money to be made in fishing.” He eyes us all significantly. “Fishing equipment. Very popular. On the rise. Just my tuppennyworth.”
I’m speechless. Is that Uncle Ned’s “good business head” talking?
“Fishing,” chimes in Jake thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s the right image. The royal family fish.”
The royal family?
“Jake,” I say, trying to stay calm. “What have the royal family got to do with us?”
“I’m trying to be fucking aspirational,” Jake snaps. “I’m trying to turn our brand around. Look at Burberry. Look at…”
Two waiters are approaching our table with plates, and Jake breaks off. He shakes out his napkin and scowls at me and I feel my confidence ebbing away.
“How’s your own business going?” Uncle Ned asks Jake as the waiters put down our plates, and Jake gives a secretive grin.
“I’m about to make a killing on manufactured diamonds. Earrings, necklaces, all that. It’s the next big thing.”
“Manufactured diamonds!” Uncle Ned looks impressed. “Now, that sounds like the future.”
Oh my God. Please don’t suggest that Farrs should start stocking diamond jewelry.
I must be strong, I tell myself firmly. I mustn’t be unnerved. I must say what I think. So when all the food has been served and wine poured out, I look around the table, screwing up courage to speak.
“I think maybe the problem is, we’re not all on the same page,” I say. “It’s like we all think Farrs is a different thing. Maybe we need, I don’t know, a mission statement?”
“Yes,” says Jake firmly. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.”
“I’ve got some paper,” says Nicole, hauling a notebook from her bag, with Dream Believe Do on the cover. “Let’s all write down our ideas and,