The Shoestring Club (7 page)

Rowie is standing behind the till, frowning at the computer screen. She’s channelling French peasant meets Riverdance today, in a billowing white shirt, black waistcoat with green piping and grey dirndl skirt, teamed with odd-looking, baby-pink Cuban heeled sandals. Her dark-pink hair is in two plaits, each finished with a piece of black ribbon. Rowie is scarily directional. And she dresses
down
for work, doesn’t like to scare the customers.

‘Hi, Rowie,’ I say, trying not to sound too nervous.

She lifts her head. She doesn’t look pleased.

‘Did Pandora give you my message?’ I add quickly. ‘I’m so sorry, what a nightmare. I hate punctures. I got oil all over my clothes so I had to dash home and change.’ I hold up my black, greasy fingers – swiped across the chain outside – to make my excuse sound more authentic.

‘Jules, Jules, Jules.’ Rowie sighs so deeply I almost expect to be blown out of the door. ‘Don’t get me wrong, as a person I adore you,’ she continues. ‘You’re funny and you make me laugh. And Lord knows I could do with a good laugh most days. But it’s not enough any more, I’m gonna have to let you go.’

I’m genuinely shocked. I thought this job was a safe bet. Rowie is the most laid-back boss I’ve ever worked for. I thought we got each other – we certainly have fun when we’re out together. OK, it’s only when Olaf is away, but still.

‘
What
? Why? Rowie we’re friends.’

‘I know and it’s killing me but the shop’s not doing so well, sweets. The figures are way down. People just aren’t buying as many clothes as they used to. And to be honest, this whole Sissy business is the last straw.’

‘What Sissy business?’

Rowie stares at me. ‘Jules! She called in at ten to collect her dress for the telly awards tonight – the electric-blue one we sent off to be altered for her, remember – but you weren’t bloody well here. So she rang me and yelled down the phone. Threatened to sue if I didn’t get the dress to her place by eleven. Said she wasn’t interested in featuring our evening dresses on
Red Carpet
any more.’ She rubs her hands over her face and moans into them. ‘After weeks of meetings with her production team, streams of phone calls and emails, it all comes to nothing. That show could have made a difference.’

I hit my forehead. Shoot! I knew there was some reason I had to be punctual this morning. ‘I’ll courier it over on my bike, right now,’ I say. ‘And I’ll try talking her around about the show.’

She taps her watch face. ‘It’s too late. It’s ten past eleven, Jules.’

‘I’ll ring her, explain,’ I add a little frantically. ‘She’ll listen to me, we’re great mates.’

Rowie looks at me doubtfully.

‘Honest,’ I say. ‘She offloads all her old gear in Shoestring, she’s in and out like a yo-yo. Please, Rowie, let me ring her. I can hardly make things any worse now, can I?’

She sighs. ‘I guess not.’

She walks behind the cash desk, finds Sissy’s number in the customer address book, keys it into the shop phone and hands me the receiver.

Sissy answers immediately.

‘Yes?’ she snaps.

‘Sissy, it’s Jules.’

‘Jules who?’

‘From Baroque.’

‘
You
! What have you done with my dress?’

‘I’m going to deliver it personally. I’m leaving right this minute.’

‘I said eleven sharp. You’re out of time. I’ve decided to wear something else.’

‘But it looked so amazing on you, Sissy,’ I say quickly. ‘And it’s been taken up especially.’ The off-one-shoulder dress is now micro short. ‘And if you don’t wear it, how can you justify those Jimmy Choos to Ian? You had them dyed especially to match it, remember? You can’t wear something you’ve worn before, not to an awards ceremony. Everyone will think you can’t afford a new dress.’

There’s an icy silence for a second.

‘Fine,’ she snaps eventually. ‘But you’d better be quick.’ And then she gives me her address in Killiney.

‘We’re on,’ I tell Rowie, handing her back the phone. ‘I’ll throw the dress in a zip up, you can tape it across my back and I’ll have it over to her in a jiffy. Problem solved. And maybe the
Red Carpet
thing will still go ahead after all.’ I give her a hopeful smile.

Rowie nods and smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘We’ll talk later, Jules.’

I pedal furiously to Sissy’s place and am utterly dismayed to find a rather ordinary looking semi-d. I swear under my breath. Now I owe Pandora a tenner. Unless I don’t tell her immediately of course. I’ll come clean when I can afford it.

Ian pulls open the door and gives a warm smile. ‘Hiya, Jules. How goes it?’

‘Grand thanks,’ I puff. If Ian’s in, why couldn’t Sissy have asked
him
to fetch the dress, I think crossly.

‘Thanks for doing this,’ he says, helping me pull the duct tape off my T-shirt.

When I’m free of tape he takes the black dress carrier off my back. There’s a sheen of condensation on it from my body heat but he doesn’t seem to notice.

‘I wanted to collect it but Sissy wouldn’t let me,’ he says. ‘Says she needs me by her side all day. She’s a bit stressed right now but I know she really appreciates all the extra effort you’ve made.’

Sissy’s voice hammers down the stairs. ‘Is that the Baroque girl? Tell her she’s lucky I’m not going to sue.’

Ian winces. ‘You’ll have to excuse her. Big day. She’s up for the best dressed gong and I know she’s terrified she’ll lose out to one of the other
Red Carpet
girls or, even worse, one of the TV3 presenters. I have a whole day of taxi driving ahead of me. From the hairdressers, to the beauticians for her make-up, then on to another beauticians for her nails. At least she had her spray tan done last night.’

‘Is your tux all spruced up, Ian?’ I ask him.

He looks a bit embarrassed. ‘I’m not actually going. She’s bringing Albert Dock, the sports presenter. Says he’ll look more showbizzy on her arm. Dentist doesn’t quite cut it in telly land.’

He leans in towards me and lowers his voice. ‘Air kissing isn’t really my thing to be honest. And I find the whole TV world a bit intimidating. Everyone’s so tanned and glamorous looking. And that’s just the men.’

I laugh.

‘The dress, Ian?’ Sissy shrieks again. ‘I’m waiting.’

He smiles at me apologetically and hooks a thumb up the stairs. ‘Madame calls.’

Now’s my only chance. ‘Ian, Sissy was supposed to be doing a
Red Carpet
slot using dresses from Baroque. Retail is difficult at the moment and it would really help. But I think she’s changed her mind.’

‘I’ll have a word with her,’ he says kindly. ‘See what I can do.’

‘Thanks, I’d appreciate that.’

‘Ian!’ Sissy bellows.

He rolls his eyes dramatically, making me smile. ‘I’d better go.’

After saying goodbye I jump back on my bike and pedal up Killiney Hill, my heart nearly thumping out of my chest. It didn’t seem this steep on the way down. The climb nearly kills me, but twenty minutes later I’m outside Baroque. I lock my bike, then walk in, peeling my damp T-shirt off my back and flapping it up and down to air my sweaty skin.

Rowie looks up from the desk. ‘Jules, must you?’

‘What? It’s like a ghost town in here.’ The shop is still deathly quiet, the only sound the plink-plonk of water dripping, another of Rowie’s ‘calming’ CDs. At least it’s not the whale song.

‘Jules, listen.’ She starts fiddling with the end of one of her pigtails.

Uh-oh. From the grave tone and the deep sigh, I know Rowie’s about to give me one of her ‘you must be at one with the universe to be truly happy’ speeches. Olaf’s a Buddhist and some of it rubs off on her.

‘I can’t go on like this,’ she continues.

‘Is it Olaf? Has he crashed his rally car again?’ My eyes widen. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Olaf is fine. This is about you. I feel your relationship with Baroque has become completely dysfunctional. You’re permanently late, you borrow dresses without asking me, you come in all sweaty from your racer––’

‘Road bike.’

‘Whatever. Just look at you. Hardly a great advertisement for the shop.’

I check out my reflection in the shop mirror: nice raincoat (even if it is Pandora’s and still wrapped around my waist); navy, cropped wide-legged trousers, teamed with a Breton striped long-sleeved T-shirt. OK, so my top is a little wrinkled, and yes, sweaty, but it will dry off. I’ve nipped it in at the waist with a red tasselled belt I found in Shoestring.

Rowie shakes her head. ‘You just don’t get it, Jules. You’ve got all the smarts up here.’ She taps her head. ‘When you’re in good form, the customers love you, but when you’re in one of your moods’ – she gives a low whistle – ‘even
I
have to steer well clear. Apparently you told Sissy she looked like a pregnant hippo in the Debussy Universe dress.’

‘It was the truth, the boxy shape did nothing for her curves. I recommended a Hope and Glory dress instead. Suited her much better. She bought it too and it was much more expensive than the Debussy.’ I rub my fingers together and say, ‘Chaching.’

Rowie opens up a paper clip. She pokes dust from the cracks in the desk with it and blows the scud away.

‘Look, sweets,’ she says finally, ‘there are ways of telling customers these things. Calling someone a pregnant hippo is not one of them. She also said you stank of vodka. Is that true?’

‘No! She was lying. Vodka doesn’t smell. And I’d never come to work drunk.’

Rowie stops scraping the cracks and raises her eyebrows at me.

‘Once, Rowie! And it wasn’t my fault. I was at a gig the previous night and I hadn’t quite made it to bed. What did you want me to do, skip work?’

She shakes her head. ‘You shouldn’t get smashed when you have work the next day.’

My back stiffens. ‘Come on, I get enough of this from Pandora. You like going out on the razz. Who was I out with on Saturday night? Let me think?’ I tap my finger against my lip. ‘And you had far more to drink than I did.’

‘I absolutely did not!’ she says. ‘I had to drag you into a taxi at two. You wanted to go back to that English guy’s hotel room and carry on drinking.’

‘He was cute.’

Rowie gives me a knowing smile. ‘Jules, he was bald as a coot. If he hadn’t kept buying us cocktails, we would have been so out of there.’

I set my chin stubbornly. ‘He was funny. All those stories about air hostesses.’

She sniffs. ‘I bet he wasn’t a pilot at all, I bet he cleans the toilets at Heathrow.’

‘Rowie!’

‘I’m just saying. Pilots don’t generally have neck tattoos. Anyway, it’s irrelevant. Yes, I was out with you on Saturday night, but unlike your good self, I didn’t have work the next day. You must have been in tatters in Shoestring yesterday.’

‘I managed.’

‘But that’s just it. You never take anything seriously. If Baroque fails I’ll be in serious debt for the rest of my life. I took a huge risk opening this place, and the rent is crippling me. I can’t play Russian Roulette with my future, I’ve worked too hard.’ She stops, plays with the end of her pigtail again. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘but I can’t afford a full-time member of staff any more. I’ll have to run the place on my own.’

I gasp. ‘You’re really firing me? This isn’t just one of those pull your socks up talks?’

From the look on Rowie’s face I know the answer. She looks genuinely upset and embarrassed, blood ebbing in and out of her cheeks.

‘I’m so sorry, really I am,’ she says, faltering. ‘I hate doing this . . .’ She tails off, then shrugs. ‘But I have to let you go.’

I stand there, in shock. ‘Please let me stay. I’ll make a really big effort to look all neat and tidy, I’ll borrow some of Pandora’s clothes if I have to. And I’ll cycle in slowly so I don’t get all sweaty. And I’ll be extra nice to the customers, lie to them so they buy the most expensive pieces in the shop; and I’ll never, ever, come in hungover again, I swear, and—’

‘Jules, stop. I’ve made up my mind. It’s nothing personal, it’s just business. If I keep you on, Baroque may go under. I can’t risk it.’

‘Please, Rowie. Please don’t do this to me.’ My eyes well up and before I know what’s happening I’m pulling at both arms of her shirt. ‘I’m begging you. I love working here, I’m sorry for being so crap.’

‘Stop, sweetie. You’re going to make me cry too. You have so much to give, Jules. You’re an amazing person. And I hope we can still be friends.’ She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them.

I pull away and wipe my eyes with my fingertips. ‘But you’re not going to give me my job back?’

She shakes her head wordlessly, her eyes sliding towards the floor.

‘I guess this is goodbye then,’ I say in a small voice, trying to keep it together. I know it’s not Rowie’s fault, I know she’s only trying to save her shop. I admit I’ve been a pretty rubbish employee and probably haven’t helped the situation, but it still feels like I’ve been dumped from a great height and then mashed into the ground under her Cuban heels.

I add, ‘Unless you need me to stay—’

‘No, it’s fine. Go home. And I’ll drop two weeks’ wages into your house on Friday.’