Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
I don’t know how long I stood there, my hands weaved into my hair, just staring at it. What the hell? Tears stung my eyes. I’d been unsettled by the spiteful social media comments, but now I felt like I was spinning out, my heart pounding and my breath ragged. It brought back unwelcome memories of school, when my days had been peppered with spikes of adrenaline, not knowing when the tide would turn against me next.
I was early, the first to arrive, so the only other onlookers were passers-by who tutted disapprovingly at the window but paid me little attention. I was transfixed – the graffiti was disturbingly intermingled with the reflection of the street behind me, plastic Santa Clauses hung on the lamp posts. Ho bloody Ho. Then footsteps approached from behind me, slowing gradually until I felt a presence just behind my shoulder.
‘Fuck,’ he said softly, his tone almost awestruck. I turned to see Penn looking pale.
‘Ditto,’ I said, my lip trembling. I bit it. I wouldn’t weaken and let him see that side of me.
His eyes scanned my face, troubled, but then he looked back at the window, running a hand over his stubble. ‘Do you believe me now?’ he asked.
My jaw tightened. He had a point – why would he do this to his shop too? The graffiti was scrawled purposefully across both sides of the window, Uncle Al’s side reading SHIT and mine reading HOLE .
‘I suppose I ought to.’
We stood there in stunned silence for a while, until the others started to arrive, with varying expressions of dismay.
‘Whoever would do such a thing?’ asked Sven in consternation.
‘Proper shady that, like,’ fumed Jake, who offered to speak to a mate of a mate who ‘knew some people who could sort it out’. I didn’t think he meant window cleaners.
But business needed to go on. After we declined offers of help in cleaning up from all of them, not wanting to rob them of a day’s sales too, they went into their respective shops, and we set to the laborious task of getting rid of the spray paint. Without speaking, we took washing-up bowls and sponges from my selection of kitchenware and filled them with warm soapy water in the arcade loos.
We scrubbed in silence for a while, my wet hands stinging from the cold November air. Penn worked away at the paint, his jaw tense. I had to force myself not to notice how the tight muscle gave his angular face a certain attractive masculinity. He became even harder to ignore when he wordlessly moved to my side of the window, his height giving him easy access to the paint I couldn’t reach. He smelled of soap and something more botanical, maybe an oil that he polished his guitar with? I pictured his hands working over the smooth burnished wood and swallowed – how were my thoughts straying in this direction when I had so much to worry about?
‘I’ve had comments too. On Instagram,’ he said after a while.
‘What?’
He nodded. ‘Started a few days ago.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Just… negative stuff. Records were scratched, memorabilia not legit. That one really pissed me off. As if I would…’
‘Right. Well at least they weren’t attacking your character,’ I said. That comment about me still stung.
At first, he said nothing and continued scrubbing at a stubborn corner of the letter E.
‘They did actually. They said I was “insufferably arrogant”.’
‘Are you sure that one wasn’t genuine?’ I asked, the corners of my mouth twitching.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Very funny. Although, if it wasn’t for your shop getting the same treatment, I’d have wondered if it wasn’t you. And you aren’t the only one whose business needs the money.’
I shrugged and reloaded my sponge with water. Interesting that his shop wasn’t doing as well as it appeared.
‘It couldn’t have been me anyway,’ I said. ‘I’d never have thought to look you up on Instagram – you said you didn’t do social media. I assume it’s too mainstream.’
‘Well, you assume wrong. I don’t do social media for fun. At least not anymore. I needed to promote the shop somewhere.’
‘Just Instagram? Or are you on Facebook too?’
He pulled a face.
‘Thought not,’ I said smugly.
‘Look, I’m not the person you seem to think I am,’ he said wearily.
I laughed. ‘You’ve got that right, the Honourable Cholmondeley-Warner, or whatever it is you’re really called.’
‘Give it a rest,’ he said, sighing. ‘It’s getting boring now. And it’s Burton-Edwards.’
‘That’s it. And Peregrine … I mean, wow.’
‘It’s a family name.’ He studiously focused on his scrubbing.
‘Okay. So what makes you Honourable?’
‘My dad’s a lord.’ He made it sound casual, like it was the most pedestrian, inconsequential thing in the world.
I shook my head. ‘That is mad . I’ve never met the son of a lord before. Ooh, will you be a lord one day then?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have an older brother. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want it anyway.’
I imagined a stately pile that his family lived in and felt a burst of indignation. ‘That seems ungrateful.’
He turned to look at me, his expression serious. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. I have other things I want to do with my life other than live off my parents. My background isn’t as much of a golden ticket as you think it is.’
I thought of my parents at home, my mam doing all she could to keep them afloat while my dad was laid up. The way I was having to help them out, even if I didn’t begrudge a penny of it.
‘Really? Because I’m sure that if your business needs the money as much as you say it does, they could probably bail you out.’
He glared at me for a long moment and then threw his sponge into the bowl of water. Without saying anything else, he stalked past me and went back into the shop.
It reached the afternoon and we still hadn’t said a word to each other since the pavement showdown. We’d come to a silent arrangement where we’d taken shifts, alternately scrubbing the window or tending to the shop, until the glass was clean again. We were now sitting quietly at each end of the room, after the last smattering of customers had drifted away.
I’d immediately felt guilty after he’d stormed away from our conversation that morning. I still stood by my opinion that he was basically complaining about the boot of his Ferrari being too small for his collection of Louis Vuitton luggage, but I regretted being so strident about it. Whatever my feelings were towards his privilege and snobbery, I felt I’d maybe gone too far.
I sat, tapping my foot nervously against the leg of my stool, and then leaped up and went into the back room. Before I could change my mind, I boiled the kettle, made two cups of instant coffee and took one to him. He said a gruff thank you and took a sip, courteously stifling a wince at the taste of it. I went back to my desk and rested my chin on my hand, thinking.
Who was behind this targeting of my shop? Our shop, I reminded myself. It seemed that Penn was as much a victim as me. But now he’d been eliminated as the likely culprit, I had no idea who would be motivated to do this.
The rest of the arcade tenants were so nice – surely it couldn’t be one of them. Sven and Arthur were among the sweetest, most gentle people I’d ever met. Jake was a decent person and had seemed as outraged as everyone else at the graffiti. But I had turned him down for a date… I shook my head; that would be a ridiculous reason to hurt someone’s business. And Christa – it was true that we shared similar products and were in extremely mild competition with one another, but I knew she would never do anything like this. She was my friend.
Then there was Melissa – she’d been so supportive and kind, bringing gifts and inviting us to her party. And Mike wouldn’t do anything to harm his already struggling arcade. It didn’t make sense. But as I thought of Mike and his business woes, my mind drifted to Neil, the aggrieved former tenant of mine and Penn’s unit. He’d been so aggressive and bitter, and I’d seen him outside the shop, looking in at us. I shivered. What if he had some kind of vendetta?
I was brought back into the room by the sound of Penn stepping down from his stool. He put his closed sign on his desk and headed for the door.
He muttered, ‘Back in a bit,’ and left.
I needed something to do to keep busy or I would drive myself mad with conspiracy theories about our saboteur, so I decided to move some stock around and put some new stuff out. I busied around the shop, consolidating certain product lines and making space for more. I’d just brought out an unopened box from the back room when Christa came in.
‘I’ve just heard what happened,’ she said, rushing over to me. ‘Are you okay?’
Christa had arrived after lunchtime and we hadn’t had a chance to speak until now.
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘It creeped me out a bit though.’
She drew me into a hug. ‘What utter bastards. Do you have any idea who it could be? Or might it just be some arsehole kids messing about?’
I sighed and told her the story of how Penn and I had both been on the receiving end of some unsavoury messages online.
‘You should call the police,’ she said, her mouth a thin line.
‘What’s the point?’ I said. ‘There aren’t any CCTV cameras outside the building – we checked. And it was through the night, so it’s unlikely anyone saw anything.’
‘Give me a look at these messages,’ she said, holding out her hand.
I gave her my phone, and she scrolled through.
‘These are all fake accounts,’ she said. ‘Look. They’ve not posted anything themselves; they’ve been set up to troll you.’ She looked at Penn’s page too and saw that there were matching accounts that had targeted us both. ‘Maybe they’re doing this to lots of businesses, just stirring up trouble?’
‘Have they done it to yours?’
She grimaced. ‘No.’
‘Good,’ I said bracingly. ‘I’m glad they haven’t. And anyway, I’m not going to let them get to me. The best way I can tell them to go fuck themselves is to make this shop a success. I just have to figure out how.’
‘Another promo event?’
‘Maybe. This afternoon I’m just going to get the shop in order, then I’ll start afresh tomorrow. Onwards.’
‘Too right. Do you want a hand?’
‘Sure.’ I smiled, feeling a bit better now that someone had my back.
I picked up the box I’d brought from the back room.
Premium sensual lifestyle products , it read on the side of the box. Interesting. I liked the sound of the word ‘premium’. My shop could do with an injection of good quality. I wondered what was inside. Fancy candles? Luxury wool throw blankets? Maybe not – when I shook the box, it rattled a bit.
I thumped it down onto the counter, and it started to make a buzzing noise. Christa and I exchanged a puzzled look. I took a box-cutter, sliced open the tape and looked inside. What I saw took the wind out of my sails for the second time that day, but for a very different reason. The box was filled to the brim with packages of various sex toys, one of which was vibrating furiously. I quickly picked up the eye-wateringly large phallus and fumbled around with it until I found the button to switch it off.
I turned to Christa who had her hand clamped over her mouth and was laughing her head off.
‘Go, Denise,’ she cackled. ‘The sly fox!’
‘Bloody hell,’ I breathed, throwing the vibrator back in the box like it was radioactive. ‘I had no idea…’
‘That your mam was peddling dildos?’ She shook her head gleefully. ‘What a legend.’
‘Ewww!’ I squealed, the enormity of what I’d discovered starting to sink in. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Christa was now doubled over laughing.
‘It’s not funny!’ I said, although I’d started to giggle myself. ‘Christa, what am I going to do with it all?’
‘Sell it, of course!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can. Don’t be such a prude.’ She looked into the box and prodded around, then her expression grew serious. ‘Hang on a minute…’
‘What?’
She lifted out a set of small silver balls in a neat white box with black lettering. The packaging was startlingly similar to some of Melissa’s tasteful products next door.
‘Annie, these are worth a fortune,’ she breathed. ‘Liaison Secrète . It’s a French brand of sex toys that you can’t get in the UK for love nor money. They’re like the saucy version of a PlayStation 5 on release day.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
She shook her head. ‘No joke. These can go for multiples of their retail price.’
‘Oh my God…’ I breathed.
‘That’s what your customers will say, according to the company’s satisfaction guarantee,’ she said with a smirk.
‘I can’t sell these,’ I said. ‘I mean… how would it look?’
‘You have to! These babies cannot go to waste.’
Just then, Penn walked back into the shop. Immediately, Christa and I leaped in front of the box, shielding it from view. He gave us a look of irritated confusion and went to his side of the shop.
Christa nodded towards the back room, so I gathered up the box and followed her in there.
‘Listen to me,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve just been talking about how you’re going to stick it to whoever’s been trying to sabotage your business.’ She foraged into the box and produced a large, intimidating rubber penis. ‘And what better way to do it than with this.’
I nodded. Maybe this could work, if I could pluck up the courage to become Pilgrim Street’s answer to Ann Summers. I was just about to say so, when Christa’s eyes strayed to the boxes behind me and widened. She pushed past me and started rearranging them to reveal box upon box with the same sensual lifestyle wording.
‘Annie,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘You’re sitting on an X-rated goldmine.’