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  Next month, she would forfeit her own salary. It was a drop in the ocean, but at least she would feel like she was doing something. She saved the changes to the document and sighed; she could do with asking Sarah’s help about cost-saving, if they were still on speaking terms, that was. Jo’s know-it-all comments on childcare last time they met had been harsh, even by her own standards.

  ‘Knock, knock.’ Bob Gold stuck his head around her office door, looking relaxed in his blazer and jeans.

  ‘Dad!’ Jo closed the top of her laptop and jumped up to greet him. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  He kissed her cheek and tucked an arm around her. ‘I was in the area …’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She laughed at the feeble excuse; Gold’s was on the edge of town in an industrial estate and on the road to nowhere.

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘Your mother was threatening me with the ironing pile and I had a sudden urge to see these fancy new shoes I’ve been hearing about!’

  Jo had only told him the bare minimum about the Josephine Gold collection, preferring to wait until they had got the final order through from Shaw’s. She was under no illusion: this wasn’t a social call; Dad was checking up on her. Her stomach lurched in panic. She hugged him back and wondered if information was being leaked to him from anyone else on her team.

  Liz arrived with a tray of coffee, the best cups and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Teresa says you’re supposed to be cutting down,’ she said with a conspiratorial wink at her old boss, ‘but I’m sure one won’t hurt.’

  Bingo. There was her answer. That was the problem with having a secretary who used to work for your father and was still good friends with your mother. Jo bit her tongue and left them to chat while she collected the mood boards and samples from Cesca’s office.

  She found her father sitting in her chair when she got back and her laptop was open again. This had been his old office, it probably felt natural to him to sit behind the desk, but Jo found it oddly disconcerting to be sitting in the visitor’s chair.

  She took a sip of her coffee and jiggled her foot under the table. So far, her dad hadn’t given much away as she took him through the new collection. She tried to read his various expressions as he studied the boards and took every single sample out of its box.

  ‘Very brave,’ said Bob, turning a mink suede ankle boot round in his tanned hand.

  Jo considered his remark carefully.

  ‘Brave as in innovative or brave as in barmy?’ she asked finally.

  ‘There are too many copycat brands out there,’ he said. ‘Developing a sub-brand might give Gold’s a point of difference.’

  Might.

  ‘Thanks, Dad, that’s exactly what I am hoping to do.’ She leaned across the desk and pressed her cheek against his. The wages spreadsheet was open on her laptop; she wondered if he’d been snooping. She sat back down and bit her lip.

  ‘You don’t think we’re completely mad to try and manufacture them in our factory then?’

  ‘I would be happier if the collection was half the size, Jo. It’s a big risk. The question is,’ his eyes scanned hers, ‘can you afford to?’

  Jo felt her face flush and hoped he wouldn’t notice. ‘Shaw’s needs a big range to fill the shelves. It does push up the price, but it would be fantastic to keep them British-made, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘The wages bill has been creeping up, I notice,’ he said, nodding at the laptop.

  ‘You’re not spying on me, are you?’ she said, keeping her voice neutral.

  He ignored her and pulled the laptop closer. ‘Who’s on the list for the chop then, if things get worse?’

  ‘It’s all under control, Dad, trust me.’

  He didn’t trust her, though. Would he have been here poking around if Jo had been his son? Somehow she doubted it. Perhaps it was her fault for not standing up to him. She felt her hackles rise.

  Right on cue, Patrick knocked on the glass panel in the door and held up a hand in salute to Bob.

  Hallelujah! She could have hugged him. She almost ran to the office door to usher him in.

  ‘Dad just popped in to see the new samples.’

  Bob shook Patrick’s hand and slapped him on the back. Patrick winked at her over Bob’s shoulder and she rolled her eyes. It was no secret that Bob thought the world of him.

  ‘Teresa says to tell you to call in with Holly sometime and that if you’re ever in need of a babysitter …’

  Jo couldn’t look Patrick in the eye; her mother was so transparent. This wasn’t her first attempt to throw her and Patrick together now that Melissa was off the scene.

  ‘That’s very kind of her.’ Patrick rubbed a hand through his hair until it stood up in peaks. He looked as uncomfortable as Jo felt. He cleared his throat and nodded towards the new collection.

  ‘Len’s making some more samples for Shaw’s in the workroom, if you’d like to come and see, Bob?’

  ‘Sure, lead the way, son.’ Bob put his hand back on Patrick’s shoulder and followed him out of Jo’s office.

  Jo let out a long breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  Five minutes later they were back, Bob’s face red and set firm in contrast to Patrick’s pale expression.

  ‘A word,’ he said, closing the door and shutting Patrick out. He shrugged an apology through the glass panel.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Jo, trying to keep her voice light.

  ‘Shaw’s haven’t placed an order and yet you’re making all these one-off shoes for them?’ He glared at her, hands on hips.

  ‘True, but Ed has given me a verbal agreement.’

  Bob gave a patronizing laugh. ‘Which means nothing.’

  Jo’s jaw was rigid and her heart was pounding but she wasn’t going to be bullied over this. ‘We’re going out for dinner next week to celebrate. The deal is as good as done. They just need some shoes for their photo shoot.’

  ‘The number of materials in some of those styles is crazy; the manufacturing costs will be astronomical. Have you done your cash flow?’

  ‘Of course,’ she retorted, hurt that he displayed such little faith in her.

  Bob was already round her side of the desk again, trying to take control of her laptop and nudging her out of her chair. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  ‘No, Dad!’ She sprang out of her seat, scooped up the computer and shut it into a desk drawer.

  This was her collection, her new venture, and she felt both inordinately proud and protective over it. A small part of her wondered if Bob’s reaction was fuelled by envy because he had never done anything quite so dynamic when he had been in charge.

  ‘You’re not the boss any more,’ she said calmly, backing away. ‘I’m trading my way through the downturn like you said. The Josephine Gold collection is the start of a new era for the firm. The Shaw’s opportunity could be exactly what we need to set us on an even footing.’

  Bob leaned forward, scowling, his fingertips splayed on the desk, taking his weight.

  ‘It could also ruin us. You’re forgetting something; I’m still the major shareholder,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘This is a time to be conservative. Not throw caution to the wind.’

  Jo’s stomach flipped; the partition walls in this place were only thin, the entire company would be able to hear his outburst.

  ‘I’m going to do this, Dad,’ she said defiantly, narrowing her eyes. ‘And when I make a success of it, you’re going to apologize.’

  Bob shook his head, strode to the door and pointed a finger at her. ‘You’ve got until September to show me some profit.’ He put his hand on the door handle and pulled it open.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then you’re out.’ He turned his steely eyes to her. ‘This will be my office again.’

  He couldn’t do that to her, could he?

  She felt the blood drain from her head and sank down in her seat; she already knew the answer to that one.

  Chapter 14
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br />   Carrie sat down at the desk in the little bedroom and turned on the computer. She covered her face with her hands while she waited for it to come to life. Since the whole Jordan Lamb fiasco, she had been on edge, miserable, full of anger and ready to lash out at someone. Her behaviour at the Pear Tree was a prime example. She had had the perfect chance to tell Jo and Sarah the truth, but instead she had flounced out like a sulky child. They would probably never want to see her again.

  She tapped in her password and contemplated sending them both an apology. Maybe later. Today she was on a mission and she didn’t want to get distracted. She had stuck to her diet rigidly, but it was such hard going and she was convinced there must be a way she could speed it up. She took a sip of water and typed ‘easy ways to lose weight’ into the Google search bar.

  Using the internet hadn’t been half as difficult as she’d imagined. It was a real eye-opener too. She would definitely be doing her clothes shopping online from now on; it was the perfect way to shop. She had suffered years of humiliation at the hands of thin changing-room attendants. All pretending they didn’t know she was still in there as they whisked the curtain back to reveal her partially clad body and then yelling, ‘Have we got this in a size twenty for this woman?’ and have the rest of the queue straining their necks to see which cubicle the fatty was in.

  She was getting used to email as well. She realized she might have been a bit hasty choosing the user name ‘Carriebikinibod’ but she didn’t know how to change it. Besides, it had seemed like such a bold gesture at the time and she still got a laugh out of it every time she clicked on her inbox.

  It was amazing how many emails she received, particularly rude ones from strangers. She deleted most of them, but she couldn’t resist keeping one from a man called Pedro. He was currently a resident of a correctional facility in Ohio, and had asked her to be his pen pal. He seemed very friendly. She was thinking about it.

  Her Google search for weight loss had given her one hundred and fifty-five million results in a fraction of a second. She scrolled through the first couple of pages of websites, but it was a small advertisement on the third page that caught her eye.

  Discover the secret of successful, effortless weight loss. We use hypnosis to help you understand your over-eating and change those eating patterns for ever. Free yourself from the tyranny of food and take control of your life!

  Call Michelle Terry today to take the first step towards a slimmer, happier you.

  Carrie frowned. What was there to understand? She did like her food, that was true enough, who didn’t? The way this Michelle Terry was talking it was as if over-eating came from something deep within. Which was ridiculous. She simply had a slow metabolism. And big bones, like Sarah said. Trying to blame something or someone else for the size of her appetite was a concept Carrie had never considered.

  On the other hand, if this hypnotherapist could guarantee effortless success, maybe it was worth a shot? She clicked on to the website, read every testimonial and sent her a message …

  A week later Carrie lay back in the hypnotherapist’s chair and closed her eyes as instructed. She was beginning to regret being quite so impulsive. The upstairs room in the modern family home was dimly lit and warmed by a two-bar electric heater in the corner. Plinky-plonky oriental music filled the silence. She had been expecting a clinical room with white walls and a long couch.

  ‘Counting down now from ten to one,’ said Michelle Terry in her gentle, mesmerizing voice. ‘With each number you will feel more and more relaxed and by the time I reach one, your subconscious mind will be totally open to my suggestions, which will help you in your quest for a slimmer, healthier body.’

  Carrie wouldn’t feel less relaxed if she was being dangled over the edge of a lion enclosure on a frayed piece of string. She tried to resist opening her eyes for a peek. So far she’d endured the weigh-in and the tape-measure torture, when Michelle had invaded her personal space in order to reach around Carrie’s middle.

  ‘Oh, the classic apple shape,’ the consultant had pronounced brightly.

  A very red apple. She felt a brief pang of sadness for the apple. How unfair to be all fresh and perky, only to be compared to fifty per cent of the obese population of Britain. She didn’t feel sorry for pears and their unhappy association with big bottoms. Pears were unpredictable; either chin-dribblingly over-ripe or hard and grainy. Unless they were poached in red wine and served with a blob of clotted cream. Yum.

  ‘Focus on your body now, become aware of your breathing and with every breath sink deeper into the chair. Notice how your muscles are relaxing.’

  Carrie had an itch on her cheek. Keeping her eyes closed, she rolled her head to one side and tried to scratch it discreetly against her shoulder. It didn’t work. Her muscles were more tense than ever and all she could think about was her itchy face. She raised her hand and rubbed her face violently. Now her skin really stung. She began to feel hot and wondered if she dared look at her watch.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Michelle, in her soft, melodic tones, apparently without irony. ‘Just relax.’

  Carrie wasn’t even sure why she had come. It wasn’t as if there was some huge dark secret in her past that would make everything clear as soon as she confronted it. She was just a greedy pig. But she was here now in a leather chair, with her legs on a footstool. It was quite comfy. Carrie tuned back in to what Michelle was saying.

  ‘Notice your arms, notice that one arm may feel heavier than the other …’

  Imagine if one was actually heavier than the other. Imagine if she lost loads of weight off one arm and the other one stayed fat, with a solo bingo wing and one dimply elbow. When she walked, her fat arm would swing faster than the other. It would throw her off course, until eventually she would fall into the road and get crushed under a lorry. On the other hand, if she could only have one thin arm, she would like it to be her left one; she hadn’t been able to get her engagement ring off for years.

  ‘Well done, Carrie, you’re now completely relaxed …’

  She hoped not. What if her bowels completely relaxed? She couldn’t face another yoga incident. Jo still blew raspberries every time she bent down.

  ‘From now on, you will only eat when you’re hungry and STOP WHEN YOU’RE FULL!’

  Carrie flinched at Michelle’s raised voice and her hand flew to her heart. Well, that wasn’t very relaxing. She opened one eye. Michelle gave her an encouraging smile.

  ‘I want you to travel back in time. Keep going back and back until you come to the first time you can remember over-eating. Keep thinking.’

  Carrie suppressed a sigh. This wasn’t achieving anything. It was impossible to remember when she had first started comfort eating. Comfort eating? Was that what she was doing? Her heart thumped as the realization hit her and then her subconscious took over and started divebombing her with memories, moving further and further back in time.

  Tarte Tatin eaten secretly in the kitchen at one of her dinner parties because she felt too embarrassed to rejoin the party. Worried her guests would look at her eating dessert and judge her.

  Further back to the early years of her marriage, buying a box of doughnuts every day after she gave up her job at the florist, because she missed being busy and feeling valued, and didn’t know who she was any more.

  Before she met Alex, treating herself to a family-sized bar of chocolate to cheer herself up because she was living on her own in a poky flat and had forgotten how to make friends. Eating and eating and not noticing how sick it made her feel.

  Further back still, waiting until her housemates had gone off to uni, then sneaking down and taking a box of cereal back to bed with her. Waiting to feel better. Waiting for the pains in her stomach and the hollow in her heart to disappear. Until sleep overtook the nausea and desolation and self-disgust.

  And later, lying in the semi-darkness, eating crisps until they returned, their noisy laughter filling the house with the hubris of student wisdom.

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nbsp; They knew nothing about the real world, Carrie had thought harshly.

  Food gave her a focus, an excuse for the new curves, the rounded belly. Her friends had stopped asking what was wrong, or when she was coming back to lectures or what was causing the tears that continued long into the night.

  Nothing mattered any more. Ryan Cunningham hadn’t wanted to know her after their one-night stand. She had been so flattered when Ryan, a third-year student, had joined their group, buying her drinks, making her friends laugh and singling her out as the chosen one.

  Losing your virginity was supposed to be special, wasn’t it?

  The next morning, she’d woken up in a strange bed with the hangover from hell and a boy who couldn’t even remember her name. He had thrown some coins in her direction, pointed out the way to the bus stop and sent her packing. That was the last time he had spoken to her. He ignored her at university and when she sent him a text informing him she was expecting his baby and asking him to come to the clinic with her, he didn’t even respond.

  From somewhere outside of her head, she heard a soft voice talking to her.

  ‘Good, Carrie, let it go, let the tears come, there’s nothing to fear. Your eating was the way your subconscious coped with whatever happened. And this behaviour helped you. But now you are ready to make changes to your life.’

  Michelle’s voice continued softly and gradually faded away.

  She had only been nineteen. Without the maturity to cope with aborting the baby, she had floundered. Too shy to talk to her friends and too ashamed to approach her parents, Carrie retreated into a world of solitude and food.

  At the end of term, she swapped a cosmopolitan student life and a planned teaching career for a studio flat and the minimum wage at a florist. Meeting Alex a year later provided her with a new start but the damage had been done.

  ‘You are walking in a park, Carrie. There’s a man ahead of you selling helium balloons. I want you to imagine that you buy three balloons from him. Notice the colour of them, which ones will you choose?’