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  ‘Hmm.’ Patrick rocked his chair back on to two legs and flattened the tip of his nose with his forefinger. She could almost hear the cogs whirring in his head. ‘There has to be a way to get round this exclusivity clause. Something we haven’t thought of yet.’

  ‘Well, that was worth waiting for,’ she said with a smirk and turned back to the board.

  She drew another arrow and wrote ‘materials’, underlined it twice and then scribbled a list of the new fabrics, leathers, suedes and embellishments needed for the Josephine Gold collection.

  ‘That is a long expensive list.’ She frowned. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got to place orders for all these new fabrics and leathers in a couple of weeks?’

  Patrick nodded. He pushed his chair back, walked around the desk and took the pen from Jo’s hand. On the opposite side of the board to her lists he added NON-HIGH STREET.

  ‘That’s what we’ve got to concentrate on. We need orders from somewhere not on the high street.’

  Jo perched herself on the desk and managed a weak smile.

  ‘Notonthehighstreet.com?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Patrick. ‘Websites, mail order—’

  ‘Patrick,’ Jo interrupted wearily, ‘I don’t mean to sound negative, all ideas welcome, obviously. But most footwear websites are spin-offs from retail stores that are on the high street.’

  ‘Calm down, Gold!’ He grinned. ‘Exports then? We recruit agents in key territories and expand the business across Europe, maybe even further with the right team.’

  Jo cocked an unconvinced eyebrow at him. ‘In two weeks? We can do all that and it’s a good idea, but have we got time?’

  Patrick sat beside her on the desk.

  ‘Jo, leaving the new collection to one side for a moment, the main range has done pretty well. Most of our customers want to bring in the autumn/winter styles early because the summer has been so wet. It’s only July and orders are up on this time last year.’

  So there was a glimmer of hope. Thank God. She pushed herself up, walked to the fridge in the corner of his office and helped herself to a bottle of water. She held one up for Patrick and he nodded.

  ‘And can we supply them early? Will the stock be here in time?’ she asked, glancing up at his wall planner and handing him his water. The wall planner was decorated with coloured stickers in some unintelligible code understood only by Patrick, denoting when container-loads of footwear would be arriving from India and China. Her heart twisted and she wondered who’d take the time to do such meticulous planning when he’d gone.

  Patrick pulled a face and took a long drink from the bottle. ‘I think so. And that will ease cash flow no end. By September, we’ll have shipped out all the autumn shoes and we’ll be starting on winter boots.’

  ‘And you’ll be gone,’ said Jo simply. She stared at him. Why was it that although she was usually so forthright in her opinions, she couldn’t just speak her mind?

  Don’t go.

  She felt like crying. God, she was turning into an emotional wreck. Out of the blue, she felt an ache of loneliness so strong it was almost physical. She couldn’t do this on her own. Month after month, crisis after crisis. The constant battle to retain staff, pay suppliers, chase customers for payment. She was ready to call it a day.

  Jo walked back to her chair to avert her eyes from Patrick’s gaze. She rubbed her face; her eyes felt tired and gritty. She couldn’t speak; even if the lump in her throat would allow it, her pride wouldn’t.

  The silence lengthened and grew heavier until Patrick cracked.

  ‘That’s months away yet,’ he said.

  She gave him a wry smile. They both knew that wasn’t true.

  ‘Right now what we need is a new chain of stores opening up on out-of-town retail parks. Ergo …’ He paused and grinned. Jo narrowed her eyes irritably, she hated it when he used corporate jargon. ‘Ergo,’ he repeated with relish, ‘not breaking the exclusivity clause.’

  Now he was just being silly. She folded her arms and crossed her legs, revealing a flash of ankle under her black linen trousers. Patrick stared at her ankle chain, a present from Carrie. Sarah had one too; it had a fairy charm on it to remind them of the wish list. She pressed her lips together trying not to smile; a fairy was probably the last thing he’d be expecting to see her wear. What she wouldn’t give for a bit of fairy dust now to make everything right.

  The phone rang loudly, making them both jump. Patrick looked at Jo in surprise.

  ‘A cold-caller probably,’ said Jo. ‘Ignore it.’

  Patrick held up his crossed fingers. ‘Or it could be Kate Middleton looking for a pair of shoes.’ He stabbed the hands-free button so that Jo could hear the call too.

  ‘Gold’s Footwear, can I help you?’ He grinned as Jo rolled her eyes.

  ‘Patrick? Ian Hamilton. Long time no speak, mate!’ A raucous Essex accent boomed across the office.

  ‘Ian! Er, great to hear from you. I’m just—’

  ‘Still poncing round in women’s shoes then, eh?’ Ian laughed. Jo raised her eyebrows at Patrick who looked a little pink.

  ‘Thought I’d find you at work, you sad bastard!’ Ian obviously found this hilarious and much guffawing followed.

  ‘Actually, Ian, I am quite busy, so could I—’ Patrick tried valiantly to take control of the conversation, but Ian wasn’t listening.

  ‘Heard on the grapevine about you and your missis. Shame, that. Still got the hots for—?’

  Patrick started coughing violently and grabbed the phone as Ian got to the interesting bit. Jo listened as he eventually managed to convey to his friend that he was in a meeting with his boss, yes the female one, and could he call him back after work.

  ‘Jo, he says it’s a business call after all,’ said Patrick, placing a hand over the mouthpiece. He looked faintly uncomfortable. ‘I’ll put it back on speakerphone. He wants to know if we manufacture in Britain.’

  There was a sparkle in his eyes that filled her with warmth and sent a tingle all the way down her spine.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Sure.’

  Patrick introduced Ian Hamilton as an old friend from university who was now the finance director for Global Duty Free, the largest retailer within the UK’s airports, with branches in all the major terminals from Belfast to Bristol and most importantly, Heathrow and Gatwick.

  ‘We had nearly seventy million people through the door at Heathrow last year, mate, all with dosh jingling in their pockets. The retail operation is massive and we’re developing it all the time,’ Ian explained.

  ‘And duty free is not high street,’ Patrick said slowly, staring directly into Jo’s eyes.

  Jo’s stomach fizzed with interest.

  ‘Er, no, because it’s duty free, Patrick,’ Ian enunciated slowly, as if he was talking to a child. ‘We’re launching a major “Best of British” campaign in the autumn. Honestly, mate, you wouldn’t believe the uplift in sales of British stuff at the moment. Stick a London bus on a tea towel and it sells itself.’

  He paused and Jo heard his chair creak.

  ‘So how can we help?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Footwear is one of our sticking points. We don’t do much at the moment. It tends to be travel-related: flip-flops and flight slippers. We want a proper women’s footwear range; stylish and high quality. Price doesn’t matter too much, but it’s got to be made in Britain. Can you do that and are you interested?’

  Jo’s heart started to beat so loudly she wouldn’t have been surprised if Ian could hear it down the other end of the phone.

  ‘Absolutely!’ she said, trying to keep the squeak out of her voice. ‘We’ve been making shoes in Northamptonshire for thirty years. It’s what sets Gold’s apart.’

  Patrick frowned. ‘But aren’t you the finance director, Ian? Surely it’s not your decision?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, it’s not up to me. You’ve got to go through the whole sales presentation thing with the buying team. There’ll be other companies invited too. But I
asked if I could put you on the pitch list.’ Ian hesitated. ‘Interested?’

  Jo and Patrick exchanged excited smiles.

  ‘Definitely,’ Patrick stuttered. ‘In fact we’ve got a new label, Josephine Gold, which would be perfect for airport shopping.’

  ‘Good stuff,’ said Ian. ‘Short notice, though. The presentation is in three days’ time.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Jo, sticking her thumbs up at Patrick. ‘We’ll be there. Thanks so much, Ian. I really appreciate this.’

  Ian talked for another couple of minutes, giving them details about the rest of the board and arrangements for the presentation, and then Patrick ended the call.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he murmured.

  They fell silent, staring at each other, the atmosphere between them crackling with electricity.

  ‘Did that just really happen?’ Jo said, excitement bubbling up inside her. And to think that only a few minutes ago she’d been ready to give up.

  He grinned and nodded. ‘Surreal, but yes.’

  She jumped up, grabbed hold of his shirt and plonked a smacker of a kiss on his cheek. He stared at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, feeling quite giddy. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I can’t believe it; it’s like a dream come true.’

  He touched his fingertips to his face. ‘It is,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Just think,’ she said with a sigh, ‘if we’re successful, the Josephine Gold collection will be on view to … Tell me the number again?’

  Patrick checked his hastily scribbled notes. ‘More than two hundred million passengers a year.’

  ‘This changes everything.’ She jumped up, went back to the whiteboard and started a new column for Duty Free. ‘We can make the packaging a bit more obviously British, see if we can negotiate a better price on materials if we order larger quantities, perhaps think about adding another colourway to the Carnaby collection …’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Let’s concentrate on winning the order first, shall we?’

  Jo dashed to the shoe rack and scooped up an armful of samples. She was so excited she could burst.

  ‘Look at these shoes. They’re fantastic. High quality, stylish, made in Britain … They’ll win the order for us,’ she said, laughing breathlessly. ‘It’s our time, Patrick, we deserve this.’

  ‘I agree.’ He nodded.

  She scanned his face, trying to read his expression; there was a softness to his eyes instead of his usual mickey-taking sarcasm.

  A strange sensation crept up the back of her neck as if someone was blowing on it. She shivered. All of a sudden she needed to get out of the office. She rolled her shoulders back to release the stress and without stopping to question herself, said, ‘I want to celebrate; sit outside a pub in the fresh air, with a nice glass of wine. Fancy joining me?’

  The look of panic on Patrick’s face appalled her. She’d obviously crossed a line. She would have taken her words back in a heartbeat if she could.

  ‘I can’t,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve got to pick Holly up from Girl Guides later.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jo hurriedly, feeling her ears grow hot. ‘Stupid idea. Probably too wet outside anyway.’

  She busied herself with the whiteboard, drawing a star around ‘Duty Free’. Her heart was dancing a tango in her chest. Get a grip, Jo! It had only been an invitation for a drink, not a marriage proposal. This was Patrick she was talking about, they were mates. Before his divorce, she’d been out with him and Melissa regularly. She was his daughter’s godmother, for heaven’s sake.

  But for some reason it felt different tonight.

  Patrick thrust his hands in his pockets and jingled the coins.

  ‘Unless I could try and get someone else to pick her up … Oh.’ His voice tailed off as he looked at his watch and winced. ‘Actually, I’ve left it a bit late to organize now.’

  ‘Let’s forget it.’ She gave him a brief smile then picked up her things, said goodnight and walked away, heart thundering at her ribs. She paused briefly at the door, just long enough to hear him swear sharply under his breath.

  Chapter 21

  Sarah stood at the end of the busy bar waiting for Dave to be served. She smiled happily to herself. This was such a good idea of Carrie’s to get a babysitter and go out. OK, it was only dinner at the Pear Tree pub in the village, but even so. This could be the start of a whole new era of socializing, romantic nights out and a chance to be a couple again. Heaven. She hadn’t wanted to confess to Jo or Carrie, but she and Dave hadn’t been out on a date since Zac was born. But now they had found the marvellous Rosie: eighteen, nursery nurse extraordinaire and completely gaga over Zac.

  There was a couple nearby, a man and woman in their fifties, sitting side by side, gazing in to the bottom of their glasses wordlessly. She and Dave would never be like that. They had fun together, had loads to talk about and still fancied the pants off each other – well, she fancied his pants, she couldn’t speak for Dave. He could well be eyeing up someone else’s pants, for all she knew.

  Of course he wasn’t. She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. Her hand snuck into her bag and pulled out her phone. No messages from Rosie. Phew.

  She had resisted Dave’s attempts to organize a night out before now. What with the strict bedtime routine, money being tight, her not wanting to be tired in the morning and – she might as well admit it – not trusting anyone else to look after Zac.

  But now she had.

  ‘They’ve only got Pinot Grigio,’ called Dave, from further along the bar. ‘That OK?’

  ‘Perfect,’ she called back. ‘Large, please.’

  Her heart fluttered at the sight of her man in amongst the crowd at the bar. They’d both made an effort with their appearance tonight and Dave was even wearing proper shoes instead of trainers. She’d thought for a moment earlier they might not be able to come; Zac had had a slight temperature at five o’clock and had been a bit grizzly, but after a dose of medicine and a biscuit he soon rallied. Rosie and Zac had been having a lovely time playing in the bath when she and Dave left them earlier. Sarah wished she had done this months ago; a few relaxing hours together was exactly what they needed.

  As she tugged on a strand of hair and wrapped it round her little finger, an awful thought struck her. The staircase in Rose Cottage was very steep. What if Rosie slipped carrying Zac downstairs and they were lying there unconscious in a heap right now? She slipped a hand into her handbag and pulled out her phone again; still no messages. But what if that was actually a bad sign?

  Should she tell Dave, get him to nip home and check? Sarah caught sight of her frowning face reflected in the mirror behind the optics and froze.

  And that, Sarah Hudson, is why Dave gets so annoyed.

  She was winding herself up over nothing again. Zac would be asleep by now and Rosie would be watching TV and sending messages to her friends. Everything would be fine. And if there was an emergency, they could be home in five minutes.

  Dave handed a ten-pound note to the barman and held out her wine to her.

  ‘The table will be ready in five minutes.’

  She wiped her palms on her skirt before taking the glass. Why was she so nervous? All she had to do was be herself (minus the OCD tendencies, preferably), stop thinking about Zac and concentrate on her husband.

  ‘Thanks.’ She couldn’t think of a single thing to say and gulped at her drink.

  ‘You look beautiful tonight, easily the best-looking girl in here,’ murmured Dave close to her ear.

  ‘Oh Dave, thank you!’ She reached up and kissed his cheek and her heart flipped as she inhaled his familiar scent. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’

  They smiled shyly at each other. Sarah was still walking on eggshells a bit since the stupid row about organic milk, but both of them had apologized and had been making an effort with one another recently.

  ‘New parents?’ asked the barman, presenting Dave with a perfect pint of Guinness.

  Sarah
nodded, wondering how he knew.

  ‘We look that knackered, do we?’ asked Dave, slurping the head off his pint.

  The barman grinned. ‘You’re both doing that rocking thing. As if you’re still holding a baby. I recognize the signs. Me and my girlfriend used to do it all the time.’

  ‘It’s true, Dave, we are!’ Sarah laughed. ‘We’re not used to going out without him.’

  ‘But that was before we found a babysitter,’ Dave added. He leaned closer to Sarah and whispered in her ear. ‘Now we’re here, I sort of miss the little man.’

  ‘Oh, me too!’ she groaned. ‘Do you think we should ring home …?’

  They looked at each other nervously until Dave shook his head.

  ‘He’ll be fine. Cheers!’ He clinked his glass against hers.

  ‘Cheers,’ she replied, thinking how lucky she was.

  Dave was a wonderful dad, and though she hated to admit it, he was a much better parent than she was. Her eyes burned suddenly. Her emotions were running so high; it felt as if they were just underneath her skin, as if they might escape at any moment. Tears or laughter; it could go either way. She took a deep breath. The Guinness had left a creamy moustache on his upper lip. She brushed it away with a finger and kissed him softly on the lips.

  ‘You’re right, he’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Weird, isn’t it? Twenty minutes ago, I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Now I miss him.’

  ‘You must be used to leaving him,’ said Dave, just like that, as if it wasn’t the most hurtful thing he could have said if he tried.

  Sarah stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. ‘I’m still his mum. I miss him all the time. You’ve no idea how much I hate waving goodbye to him in the mornings.’

  Dave put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. ‘Course you miss him. I didn’t mean it like that.’

  Sarah took a deep breath. She’d been longing to have Dave to herself for the night, to have proper adult conversation and prove to him that she wasn’t a neurotic headcase. Five minutes in and she was already ruining it. It was like being on an awkward first date. If this had been their first date, she thought gloomily, there probably wouldn’t have been a second.