Chapter 8
EIGHT
By the following week, Penn had started to multiply. As I continued to sell modest amounts of my stock, his side was beginning to resemble the backstage area of Glastonbury. Other men in similar costume, who seemed familiar enough with Penn that I assumed they were his friends, were becoming regular fixtures in the shop. Along with their guitars.
I was treated to occasional guitar riffs and regular bursts of laughter at things I had no understanding of. Penn and I had made no further attempt to build bridges, and my exclusion from his gatherings was welcomed on both sides. The shop was becoming more divided than ever, both in vibes and headcount.
My odds and ends still sat forlornly on the shelves and stands, my paper signs starting to wilt at the edges. I’d optimistically continued to forage through the remaining boxes in the stock room, opening one every now and then to replace the more popular items like the romance and children’s books, and the kitchen storage. They were becoming my bestsellers, but I was also running out of them. Empty spaces were being filled with lipsticks in weird colours and packets of herbal remedies for constipation.
The natural skincare was selling reasonably well too – Christa had high-fived me over this. We were becoming a sisterhood in the banishment of microbeads and palm oil, although she did sometimes look at my plastic items with faint concern. Not with as much disdain as she had for Jake though. She frequently complained about his disposable vapes ruining the environment, as well as how irritatingly cocksure he was. Whenever he walked past, she shuddered at his flammable-looking sportswear and bright-coloured trainers. It meant I got off lightly for my less-than-eco-friendly items.
That day I was enduring the last strains of a three-guitar jam session when yet another person came in to ask Penn about the Pink Floyd album. As with all the other people who’d shown interest, he shook his head and said, ‘Not for sale.’
‘Mate, I don’t know why you’ve got that on display if you’re not going to part with it,’ said one of the guys, who I’d gathered to be called Rob.
Penn grinned. ‘It’s better off here than in the flat, where he can get his hands on it.’ He nodded towards the other one, whose name was Sam. I noticed again that his Northern accent was slightly smoother and more refined than the thick Geordie accents of his friends.
Sam, who I recognised from Penn’s band, rolled his eyes. ‘You’ve nothing to fear from me. It’s the wrong’uns where we live you need to worry about.’
I’d gathered from previous conversations that Penn and Sam lived in one of Newcastle’s slightly less salubrious areas, although I wasn’t sure which.
‘Yeah, when are you two going to get yourselves over to Forest Grange?’ said Rob, referencing one of Newcastle’s fanciest postcodes.
Sam puffed out his cheeks. ‘When the band takes off, Forest Grange’ll be in our rear window, pal. We’ll be off to London.’
Rob laughed. ‘I’ll show my arse in Fenwick’s window if you lot end up in the Big Smoke. You know, you actually have to write some songs if you want to get anywhere.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Penn good-naturedly. ‘“Smoke on the Water” wasn’t composed in a day.’
‘Aye, it takes time to write a masterpiece,’ said Sam, tightening one of his guitar strings. ‘Until then we’ll survive on Super Noodles and vodka. Rock and roll.’
They all laughed in a self-congratulatory way, and I rolled my eyes, making sure Penn could see. I was getting thoroughly sick of the shop being monopolised by Penn and his crew, but there was little I could do when he had dominion over half the square footage.
Just then, the bell above the door tinkled and my mam walked in, followed by a horizontal leg in plaster before its owner wheeled into sight. Dad looked brighter than I’d seen him in days. I was happy to see that Mam was without her stick – I would have worried myself sick if they were both relying on mobility aids to get around. Dad seemed to be a dab hand with the wheelchair already and manoeuvred expertly into the shop. Penn and his mates said polite but disinterested hellos and went back to tuning their guitars.
‘Eeeh, look at this, Keith,’ she said, gazing around the room. ‘Isn’t she doing well?’
‘Come here,’ he said gruffly. ‘Give us a cuddle. We’re really proud of you.’
I bent down to give him a squeeze, carefully avoiding his leg.
‘How are you doing?’ I asked him.
‘Canny enough. If it isn’t the district nurse bossing me about, it’s your mam.’
‘If I didn’t, he’d stay flat on his backside watching Alison Hammond on This Morning and eating Pringles.’
‘She’s a hell of a woman,’ said Dad, rubbing his hands together.
‘I hope you mean Mam and not daytime TV’s national treasure,’ I said, raising an eyebrow.
He slapped my mother on the backside, and she giggled. ‘Of course I mean your mam. I don’t think Alison could make as nice a brew as our Denise.’
‘I’m glad I’m useful for something,’ sniffed Mam. ‘Ooh, how are these selling, darl?’ She grabbed up a duster specially designed for cleaning blinds. ‘These used to go like hotcakes.’
‘Pretty well,’ I said, although I’d only sold one or two. I didn’t want to worry them about the cash flow. So far, I’d been splitting the proceeds seventy–thirty in their favour to cover my tracks.
We walked around the shop, chatting about the various products while my mam updated me on all the usual family and neighbourhood gossip, the latter mainly comprising people I didn’t really know. Meanwhile, Dad had wheeled himself over to Penn’s side of the shop and was flicking through a box of records.
Penn hopped down from where he was sitting atop his cash desk and sauntered over. He greeted my dad politely, and they started to talk – I wondered if my dad might break down Penn’s barriers over a shared love of guitars. Silently wishing him luck, I turned my attention back to Mam.
‘… so, when she went back a second time, the cage was open and there was only feathers in the bottom.’
‘Right…’
‘Now, is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked, looking around, clearly with the maternal urge to organise and tidy.
‘No, honestly, Mam, it’s fine! I’ve got it all under control.’ Except for poor sales and spiralling debts.
‘Oh, this takes me back,’ she said, running her hand over a stack of soup containers. ‘Sitting in the middle of a room full of people, glasses of wine in hand. I used to do an offer on these – buy one, get a set of travel cutlery free. Those were the days.’ She smiled fondly.
Then, like a magpie, she was drawn to the rose gold cosmetic containers. ‘I used to love selling these. I’d do a makeover on a lucky volunteer. And these…’ She picked up some herbal hangover remedies. ‘These used to go down a treat when everyone had had a few drinks.’
‘I bet you had a good knack for sales,’ I said.
‘Not at all. It’s not so hard when it’s a group of pals, having a laugh, half-cut on Pinot Grigio. When they see everyone else snapping things up, then most do the same. There’s psychology to it.’
I blinked. That was it. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. All of these products had been sold at parties or events, the wheels greased with alcohol and bowls of crisps, in the midst of a festive atmosphere. What if I could do the same?
‘What do you think about helping me do something similar? In the shop?’
‘Like a party?’
‘Kind of.’ I paced back and forth, my bloodstream fizzing. ‘Like… a Christmas shopping event! I’ll advertise it as much as I can – give people some incentives to come. Put on some drinks, nibbles, maybe some entertainment.’
Mam clapped her hands together. ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Look at you, my little apprentice.’
I grinned. ‘I’m learning from the master…’
Before I could say anything else, something bumped the back of my knee and my leg buckled. Recovering myself, I turned to find my dad, pink in the face.
‘Sorry, pet,’ he said, gesturing to his outstretched leg, which had hamstrung me. ‘Still getting used to logistics.’ He looked up at me, a wavering smile on his face.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
His eyes flickered towards Penn, who was now back hanging out with his muso mates.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ he said. ‘Shall we head off, Den? Leave Annie in peace?’
She furrowed her brow at him. ‘Are you sure you’re alright? You look a bit flustered.’
‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, his voice edging towards gritty. ‘Come on – let’s go.’
He wheeled out of the door, Mam following, both saying goodbye over their shoulders. What the hell had gone on there? I turned to look at Penn, who had his back to me, completely absorbed in his conversation. My dad was a weightlifting brickie with a no-nonsense attitude – nothing usually fazed him. I couldn’t imagine what could have possibly happened to make him so flustered. Had Penn said something to him?
I marched over and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What happened with my dad?’
He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spread his palms. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You must have said or done something. He wheeled out of here faster than Lewis Hamilton.’
‘Beats me,’ he said, glancing at his friends, who were watching with interest.
I widened my eyes at him, spreading my palms too, silently prodding him to elaborate. But nothing was forthcoming. Rob and Sam exchanged a look and tried to conceal awkward laughter. I shook my head and scowled.
‘If I ever find out…’ I ran out of steam. His friends were biting their lips hard now, so I spun away, my face burning. I went into the back room of the shop and sat on a box, my eyes stinging. How dare he? He’d clearly upset my dad somehow and now had the gall to pretend he had no idea how. I swallowed deeply, refusing to let my emotions get the better of me.
Gritting my teeth, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. The best way I could teach him a lesson was to rise above it and let him watch my business hold its own against his. No, do better than his! Instead of the shop being filled with his music-snob mates and his steady flow of customers, it would be brimming with my patrons from now on. I’d create an advert for a special event that would put me on the map and kickstart the success of Everything Must Go, so help me God.
I hastily put together an advert for a festive promotional event, choosing that Saturday as the date to give it time to gain traction. There would be drinks and snacks, and everyone who could prove they’d shared the flyer on social media would get a special discount. I put the finishing touches to it – snowflakes, Christmas trees, and Santa with a sackful of presents (subliminal messaging for the pre-Christmas shoppers) – then posted it across all my social media channels, as well as pages for local groups and organisations.
My breathing slowed. Taking back control felt like taking a painkiller – slow relief eased its way through my body. I would make this event, and the shop, a success if it killed me.
I couldn’t resist looking to see if anyone had shared it yet, and my heart leaped when I saw it had been reposted a few times already. Smiling, I flicked through some of my previous posts to see if I’d gained any more attention on those as well.
My smile was extinguished like I’d had a bucket of water thrown over me. There, under an innocuous picture of some cleaning cloths, was a comment.
Not my kind of thing. You can get better stuff online.
Then another, below that.
Cheap tat. Not what I’d expect from one of the better shopping areas in town.
My jaw tightened. I flicked to another post. There were more, and they had all been posted over the last few days.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the owner.