the red carpet to join Nicole and Kitten Smith. “Don’t you look nice? Who’s this? A new salesgirl? Are we doing photos?”
I glance over at Jake and feel a convulsion of laughter. His face. His face! He breaks away from the group of smart people he’s with and heads swiftly toward the red carpet.
“Delighted to see you,” he says smoothly to Sheila. “Absolutely delighted. But may I suggest—” He breaks off as the door opens and six more members of the Cake Club pile in, sweeping past the bouncer, all wearing anoraks and sensible shoes.
“Ooh, look!” Brenda exclaims, peering around. “Doesn’t it all look strange?”
“Morag!” calls another woman whose name I don’t know. “I brought oatmeal cookies. Where shall I put them?” She brandishes a plastic box, and I see Jake flinch in horror.
“Girls!” calls Sheila, waving vigorously from the red carpet. “Here! We’re doing photos. Young man,” she says to the local photographer. “Would you do a group shot? Come on, Cake Club! Nicole, you don’t mind moving, do you? Morag, join us!”
As Sheila literally elbows Nicole off the red carpet, my stomach is hurting from trying not to laugh. Within thirty seconds, the red carpet is full of middle-aged women in sensible coats, all beaming and waving at the camera. The smart guests are peering at them in surprise. Jake looks like he wants to throw up. I can hear Nicole ranting to Kitten Smith about how she’s the face of Farrs and this is all so unprofessional.
At that moment, I hear a voice in my ear. “Love, I wondered if you had another mug? Same as before, the brown one.”
I whip round and bite my lip. It’s my friend the old shuffly man with the shopping trolley. Of course it is.
“Hello!” I say. “We’re not really open, but I’m sure I can get you a mug.”
“I saw the lights on,” he says conversationally, looking around. “Serving drinks, are you?”
“Here you are.” I pour him out a glass of champagne. “Enjoy.”
I hurry off and find a brown earthenware mug in the stock room. I wrap it in tissue, then return, take the old man’s money, and pack his new mug safely in his shopping trolley. The tills aren’t open, but I’ll sort it all out tomorrow.
“Would you like some more champagne?” I ask. “And a canapé? Or a cookie?”
“Well.” His rheumy eyes brighten as he looks at his nearly empty glass. “A drop more of this would be grand….”
“Excuse me.” Jake’s stentorian voice interrupts us. “Do you have an invitation?” He doesn’t even wait for the old man to answer. “No. You don’t. So could you kindly leave?”
To my horror, he takes the old man by the elbow and starts to escort him, quite roughly, to the door.
“Jake!” I exclaim. “Jake, stop it!”
“This is a private event,” Jake says to the old man, ignoring me. “The shop will be open during normal hours tomorrow. Thank you so much.”
He turns back from dispatching the old man, and I feel a flare of rage.
“Fixie, can I see you for a minute?” says Jake in ominous tones, and I glare back at him.
“Yes,” I snap, and follow him to the back room. He slams the door and we stare at each other for a silent ten seconds. I’m forming furious, outraged phrases. I can see them now, flashing in their thought bubble, red and angry.
How dare you? That was a customer and he deserved respect! Who do you think you are? What would Dad say?
I draw breath, telling myself that this time I’ll do it; this time I’ll really have my say. But as I look up at Jake’s intimidating face, it happens again. My nerve collapses. The ravens have started flapping around me.
“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our relaunch, Fixie?” he says, in his sarcastic, biting way. “I assume it was you who invited the anorak brigade, not to mention your homeless friend?”
“He’s not homeless!” I retort, as strongly as I can manage. “And even if he were, he’s a customer! And I think…” I swallow. “I just think…”
My words have ground to a halt. I hate myself right now. I can’t shout. I can’t assert myself. I can’t say the things I want to say.
“What?” demands Jake.
“I…I don’t think you should have treated him like that,” I stutter at last.
“Oh, you don’t?” Jake snaps back. “Well, I don’t think you should have invited all and bloody sundry to what was supposed to be a professional