The One You Really Want (16 page)

‘Home-made,' marvelled Zac. ‘My word, it's like meeting Mary Poppins.' Clipping Doreen back on her lead, he accepted two pieces of fudge, one for himself and one for Doreen, then allowed Rose to mop at his wrist with a tissue before carefully placing the Elastoplast over the scratch. Shaking his head, he said, ‘This fudge is phenomenal. And you knit as well.' His gaze fell upon the hastily abandoned heap of knitting on the bench. ‘What's it going to be? Can I see?'

Rose had never before had interest expressed in her knitting by a member of the opposite sex. Maybe men really were different in London. Reaching for the needles and holding up the work in progress, she said, ‘It's a bit of an experiment, I'm just seeing how it works out. My daughter wanted a kind of light lacy jackety thing to wear over a long yellow dress she has. Between you and me,' Rose lowered her voice, though they were the only two people in the square, ‘she'll probably tell me it's perfect and never wear it. Still, it's always fun to try something different.'

At their feet, Doreen was bouncing around, recovered from her incarceration in the hawthorn bush and agitating for another piece of fudge.

‘No, darling, bad for your teeth. Where's the pattern?' said Zac, studying the front of the knitted jacket and picking the already completed back and sleeves out of the carrier bag on the bench.

‘I'm not using one.' Intrigued by the attention he was paying to the frilled, pointy-edged sleeves, Rose said, ‘I'm just making it up as I go along.'

‘Clever.' Zac ran his fingers along the edge of the sleeve, assessing the neatness of the stitches. She had chosen a thin silky two-ply thread in pale silvery-yellow; the effect she was aiming for was glamorous and cobwebby, more like lace than knitwear. He had nice hands, Rose noted; long-fingered and sensitive like a piano player's. He smelled nice too, kind of peppery and lemony. What he was doing growing his hair so long she couldn't imagine; surely a nice short back and sides would be more flattering.

‘Is your wife a knitter?' Rose said eagerly, because it worried her that young women these days seemed to have lost interest in such a rewarding hobby. Nancy was a fine cook but she'd rather stick pins in herself than knit.

‘I'm not married.' Zac gave her a quizzical look, as if she'd said something funny without realising it. ‘Nor likely to be.'

‘Oh now, don't be such a pessimist! You never know who might be just around the corner,' Rose encouraged him. ‘There are so many lovely young girls, you're bound to meet someone one day.'

Zac grinned. ‘Can't see it happening somehow. Maybe a lovely - no, sorry.' He shook his head. ‘Actually, I'm the one interested in knitting.'

‘Really?' Rose was delighted. ‘Well, that's just wonderful! I've never understood why more men don't—'

‘I can't knit,' Zac cut in apologetically. ‘But I do design knitwear. I have my own shop, just around the corner in Levine Street.' Proudly he added, ‘I'm a clothes designer.'

‘Really?' Rose cast a dubious glance at his lime-green jacket, mustard-yellow sweatshirt and frankly bizarre trousers - black, with white squiggles randomly hand-painted over them. It looked to her like the kind of get-up more commonly worn by those frenetic presenters on children's TV.

Sensing her doubt, Zac said good-naturedly, ‘I'm actually quite successful. Well, in a minor way.'

Rose hurried to reassure him. ‘Oh, I'm sure you are, pet! I didn't mean—'

‘It's OK. Listen, I employ out-workers to knit for me. I don't know if that's something you'd consider.' Zac was still fingering the intricate sleeve of Nancy's jacket. ‘But if you think you might be interested . . .'

 

Rennie, glancing out of the window, called out, ‘Come and take a look at this.'

Nancy was emptying the dishwasher in the kitchen. Hurrying through to the living room, she followed Rennie's pointing finger and said, ‘Oh God, what's she up to now?'

Below them, Rose had emerged from the gardens across the street, chattering animatedly to a long-haired man with a small dog. As Nancy and Rennie watched, the three of them happily set off along the pavement.

‘Does she have a thing for toy boys?' Rennie suggested helpfully.

‘How many times have I told her not to speak to strangers.' Nancy heaved a sigh. ‘And does she take a blind bit of notice?'

‘Want me to go down and bring her back?'

There were con artists around, Nancy knew, who specialised in tricking old ladies into emptying their bank accounts and handing over all their money. Heading over to the chair where Rose had left her handbag, she reassured herself that her mother's purse, credit cards and chequebook were all still here.

‘Don't worry. We saw him there the other day, walking his dog.' Why that should make a difference, Nancy didn't know, but somehow it did. ‘Mum was chatting to him before. The dog's called Doreen,' she remembered. ‘I think she'll be safe. He looks too clean to be a mugger.'

‘I'm sure the police will be impressed,' Rennie said with a grin, ‘when you tell them that.'

‘Here we are, home sweet home.' Zac pushed open the door with a flourish. ‘Well, shop sweet shop. Small but perfectly formed. Jacintha, could you be an angel and take Doreen upstairs? She's gasping for a drink.'

Jacintha, with her glossy chestnut hair and painstakingly applied make-up, looked like one of those It-girls, thought Rose. Pushing her copy of
Tatler
to one side, she clicked her French-manicured fingers at Doreen and disappeared through the door at the back of the shop, having already ascertained at a glance that the woman Zac had brought back with him was in no shape or form a potential customer.

Rose gazed around with interest. From the outside the shop was small, painted sugar-almond pink and bore a sign above the window with Zac Parris Designs inscribed on it in grey and silver lettering.

Inside, the shop space itself was perhaps ten feet wide and twenty feet long with silver-grey walls, fuchsia-pink carpet and lots of gauzy iridescent netting forming a draped and tented ceiling, from the centre of which hung an ornate pale pink and white chandelier. Rose, who had never seen a shop resembling it in her life, exclaimed, ‘My word, it's like one of those TV programmes, isn't it? You know, where the people decorate each other's living rooms and end up getting such a fright they burst into tears. Oh! I didn't mean that this isn't gorgeous,' she went on hurriedly. ‘It's just beautiful, like a fairy palace! Anyone would be delighted if they got something like this! It's the kind of thing that lanky long-haired one would produce, have you see him? With all the freckles. Lovely man. My friend Morag thinks he's . . .' Rose lowered her voice and half mouthed the words, ‘one of those
homosexuals
, but I still like him. He's always so friendly and cheerful.'

Hearing a sound like a cross between a laugh and a cough, Rose realised that Jacintha had rejoined them.

‘Sorry, listen to me wittering on.' Rose turned her attention to Zac's designs, sparsely displayed on narrow racks against the walls. There was only one of each item, which seemed strange; it was nothing like your run-of-the-mill shop. ‘Is this the kind of thing you'd be after?'

The sweater she was examining was of nubbly oatmeal-shaded lambswool with ivory satin facings round an asymmetric neckline. The back of the sweater was U-shaped and split like a pair of coat tails, one tail distinctly longer than the other. Extraordinary, thought Rose, blanching as she glimpsed the ornately inscribed price tag. Good grief, she'd expect the sweater to be embroidered with diamonds and come with a free house for that.

‘It's an exclusive business. My clientele expect individual designs. They don't want to turn up at a special event to find someone else wearing an identical outfit,' Zac explained.

Trust me, thought Rose, the chances of
one
woman wearing something like this to a special event would be virtually nil. As for two, forget it. They'd have to be out of their minds.

Politely she said, ‘It's lovely.'

‘Knitted by a woman in Devon,' said Zac. ‘I send her my drawings, tell her what I'm after. She makes up the garment. Do you think you could do that?'

Rose, who had been knitting incessantly for the last forty years, said, ‘That's like asking me if I know how to breathe. So I'd be able to post the garments off to you, would I? Only I don't live in London, you know, I'm just down here on holiday for a couple of weeks.'

‘That's fine,' said Zac as the phone on the desk began to ring. ‘We'd have to have a trial run, of course. If I give you a sample of work, could you do it in the next day or two? Jacintha, can you answer that, please?'

Jacintha, who had just finished painting her nails, flapped her hands and said tetchily, ‘I'll kill you if these get smudged. Hello, Zac Parris Designs, how may I help you? Oh, right. Hang on.' Dropping the exaggeratedly polite telephone voice, she held the phone out to Zac. ‘For you.'

Whoever it was on the other end caused Zac to flush red. Excusing himself, he slipped through to the workroom and closed the door. Jacintha, rolling her eyes in despair, declared, ‘Zac's latest no-hoper.'

‘Oh.' Another prospective home-knitter, Rose guessed, who had failed the test. Well, she wouldn't do that. Watching Jacintha carefully turn the glossy pages of the magazine, she said brightly, ‘He's nice, isn't he?'

‘Who, Zac?' Jacintha tore her attention away from an article on ‘The New Celibacy!' which, Rose privately wondered, surely couldn't be all that different from the old kind. ‘He's OK.'

Heavens, such enthusiasm. Rose said, ‘But you must enjoy working here.'

This made Jacintha smile. Gesturing towards the spare chair, upholstered in baby-pink satin, she said, ‘Have a seat. Zac could be gone for some time. Shall I tell you why I handed in my notice here last week?'

Startled, Rose felt as if she'd opened a can expecting to get beans and had found worms instead.

‘Um, only if you want to, pet.'

Maybe Zac had made some kind of unwanted pass at her. Surely not - he seemed such a nice boy.

‘Men,' said Jacintha.

Oh dear.

‘I mean, why do I have a job? What's the main reason for coming to work in the first place? To meet
men
,' Jacintha exclaimed, because Rose was looking blank. ‘To
flirt
with men and have men flirt with me! All my friends have the
wildest
time at work, they have great social lives, they're always having fantastic nights out and they get boyfriends out of it. My friend Shona married her boss, for crying out loud. Now she doesn't
have
to work any more and they live in this fantastic five-bed detached on Primrose Hill. And what do
I
do?' Jacintha demanded, her eyebrows arching up into her hairline. ‘I work here, that's how dumb I am. I actually chose to come and work in a shop where you meet no men at all!'

Rose was bemused. ‘None? What, never?'

‘Well, there's the postman, I suppose. And the fat bloke who waddles in to fix the computer when I've spilt coffee in it. But it's a clothes shop for women, so the only time a man comes in is when his wife or girlfriend drags him along to flash the old credit card. Anyway, I've learned my lesson and I'm out of here.' Jacintha nodded with satisfaction. ‘I've got a job with a PR agency in Soho. Loads of men, non-stop partying - ha, I can't wait.'

 

Nancy blew on her icy hands and hung back as Rose tapped on the door of Zac Parris Designs. It was nine twenty-five in the morning and the door was locked, but there were lights on inside. She couldn't believe she'd allowed her mother to drag her here - she was twenty-eight years old, it was
embarrassing
- but Rose's mind had been made up.

‘Ah, there he is,' Rose exclaimed happily as Zac appeared in the shop and unlocked the door. ‘Morning, pet, how are you? I've brought you the sample you wanted. And this is my daughter, Nancy, the one I was telling you about.'

‘Of course, come along in.' Zac was smiling but his eyes were shadowed as if he hadn't had much sleep. ‘Coffee's on if you'd like some. My word, you were quick. I wasn't expecting to see you today.'

‘Och, it was no trouble.' Rose coloured with pride as he lifted up the sample she'd done for him. ‘I'm a fast worker. Well, what d'you think?'

Nancy watched him expertly scrutinise the stitching of the strappy, swingy top he'd sketched for her mother to copy.

‘You're a pro,' said Zac. ‘It's perfect. Now, I'd pay you on average sixty pounds per item. Forty for something smaller, like this. Up to eighty for anything more intricate. Are you happy with that?'

‘Are you sure?' Rose, her eyes widening, nodded vigorously. ‘That sounds wonderful. I can't believe you'd pay that much!'

Nancy hid a smile. When it came to striking a bargain, Richard Branson had nothing to fear from her mother.

Zac looked amused too. ‘Good. In that case we have a deal. Now, how about that coffee?'

‘Where's Jacintha?'

‘Oh, she'll roll in at some stage. Mornings aren't her forte. Takes her a good couple of hours to put her make-up on.'

Zac was obviously gay. Nancy, observing his camp manner and flamboyant hand gestures, realised that this detail had escaped Rose entirely.

‘Well, she's going now. Off to a new job in Soho.' Rose fixed her gaze on Zac. ‘She tells me you haven't found anyone to replace her yet.'