“This is a game changer, guys,” he’s saying. “This is where the rubber hits the road. We want to turn this place into a must-have, high-end, desirable store. Where tastemakers come. Where the beautiful people hang out. The Abercrombie and Fitch of lifestyle stores. And that’s the image I want you all to project. Stylish. Hip. Sexy.”
“Sexy?” says Morag, looking alarmed.
“Yes, sexy,” snaps Jake. “On-trend. Modern. With it.”
I can see his eyes ranging over the assembled staff with increasing dissatisfaction. Greg is gazing gormlessly at Nicole with his bulgy gray eyes. Stacey is leaning against a display, chewing gum. Morag is still bundled up in her sensible padded coat, her gray hair rumpled from the breeze. To be fair, you wouldn’t walk into the store and think, Wow, what a hip and sexy staff.
“My turn! Let me say something now.” Nicole gives Jake a little shove, and he scowls but lets her take the floor.
“I’m excited,” Nicole begins. “Who’s excited?”
There’s a baffled silence, then Greg says, “Me!” in a throaty voice, and Nicole beams at him.
“There are so many possibilities here. The sky’s the limit. But are you all maximizing your potential?” She eyes Morag, who shuffles backward nervously. “I want to help with that, with the use of specialized psychological profiling and teamwork. Let’s use your personal qualities. Let’s achieve more, letting our imaginations lead us.” She makes a broad, sweeping gesture, nearly knocking a jug off the shelf behind her. “Let’s use Instagram. Let’s use mindfulness. Let’s make change. Let’s climb that mountain. Because we can do it. Together.”
She breaks off into an even more baffled silence. I can see Stacey mouthing What the fuck? to Greg, and I should reprimand her, I suppose, but the truth is I feel exactly the same. What is my sister on about?
“Right!” I say, as it becomes clear Nicole has finished. “Well, thanks, Nicole, for that … er … inspiration. I think that’s it for speeches,” I add, “but basically we’re looking at how to improve the store, so any ideas you have, please share them. Thank you!”
“Wait!” comes Uncle Ned’s voice, as the staff begin to disperse. “I may be an old buffer …” He laughs self-consciously. “But I have been asked to keep an eye on this outfit, and I have learned a few tricks along the way.…” He gives another stagy chuckle.
“Absolutely, Uncle Ned,” I say politely. “Please go ahead. For those of you who don’t know Uncle Ned,” I add, “he was Dad’s brother and has a lot of experience in business. Uncle Ned, what are your ideas?”
“Well, I must echo Jake. It’s all about appearance. Appearance, d’you see?” He wags a roguish finger. “My first impression is this: You girls should be wearing more-attractive costumes. A pretty blouse and heels—that’s what customers want. Let’s see more lipstick, perfume … let’s see some flirting with the customers.…”
My face feels paralyzed. He’s saying this? To the staff? Aloud?
“Sorry!” I gasp, finally finding my voice. “Let me clarify what my uncle is saying, to avoid any … uh … misinterpretation. “By ‘heels’ he meant ‘any heel appropriate for your general foot health.’ And by ‘lipstick’ he meant ‘lipstick is optional for employees. Male or female,’ ” I add hurriedly. “And by ‘flirting with the customers,’ he meant … ‘cordial relations with customers are advised.’ ”
Uncle Ned looks outraged by my interruption, but too bad. Family first is trumped by Don’t get sued.
“So, that’s it!” I conclude breathlessly. “Again, thank you, everyone! That’s all. Let’s open up.”
“You should wear lipstick,” I hear Stacey saying to Morag as they head to the main entrance to open up. “Or, like, lip gloss. Or, like, lip pencil. Or, like …”
“Uncle Ned, I’m sorry I interrupted you,” I say. “But you can’t tell the staff they have to flirt with the customers. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Oh, all this ‘health and safety’ nonsense,” says Uncle Ned impatiently. “I haven’t the time for it!”
“It isn’t health and safety,” I say, trying even harder to remain polite. “Telling a staff member they have to flirt with the customers is basically, you know, sexual harassment.”
Uncle Ned peers at me for an uncomprehending moment, then makes a harrumphing noise, turns away, and picks up a basket.
“Might as well pick up a few things while I’m here,” he says. “Now, where can I find an iron?”
Uncle Ned heads off in the direction of the laundry section, and Nicole produces a sheaf of papers from her bag.
“Here’s your psychological-profile questionnaire,” she says, handing one to Greg. “It’s scientifically based on, like, research, so …” She trails off.
“You are invited to a party,” Greg reads aloud. “Do you attend? Depends on the party,” he says after a moment’s thought. “If it’s a Dungeons and Dragons party, I’m there. If it’s a stag do, I’m there. If it’s a garden party with old ladies in fancy dresses, I’m not there. If it’s a—”
“It’s just a party,” Nicole cuts him off. “A great, fun party. The issue is, do you want to go? It’s a simple question. Party or no party?”
Morag and Stacey have returned to the group by now, and we all wait for Greg to answer. He thinks for a while longer, his brow deeply furrowed, then looks up. “Is there booze?”
“Yes!” says Nicole, clearly losing her patience. “There is. Look, don’t overthink it. Just write. I’m pretty sure you’re an Owl,” she says as she hands Morag a questionnaire. “And you’re probably a Lynx,” she adds to Greg. “Which means you need to work with a Fox.”
“D’you think I’m a Fox?” queries Stacey, taking her questionnaire.
“No,” says Nicole. “Definitely not. You’re more of an Albatross.”
“Then who’s Greg supposed to work with?” Stacey opens her eyes wide, with that faux-innocent look she has. “I’m only wondering, because it’s all so scientific and we haven’t got any Foxes,” she adds blithely. “Should we hire one?”
For a moment Nicole looks caught out, then she makes a sound of annoyance.
“Just do the questionnaires,” she says. “I’m going to do some Instagramming. Greg, you can help.”
As Nicole leads Greg down one of the aisles, Jake looks around the shop critically.
“We need to redo this place,” he says. “It needs a total refit. We should have better flooring, spotlights, some awesome artwork—” He breaks off, staring at the shop door in horror. “Give me strength,” he breathes. “Who is that repulsive wreck?”
“That’s not a repulsive wreck!” I say indignantly as I follow his gaze. “That’s Sheila!”
OK, so maybe Sheila isn’t one of the “beautiful people.” She’s overweight and shabby, with her woolen hat and ancient carrier bags. But she’s a regular. She’s one of us. She waves at me cheerfully and heads to the back, where I know she’ll spend hours examining cake liners and piping bags.
“She has to go,” says Jake firmly. “She’s not a good look.”
“She’s a customer, not a look!” I retort, but Jake’s not listening.
“We need to redo the whole place,” he says again, prodding at one of our functional shelves. “We should hire an interior designer.”
I feel a familiar tweak of anxiety. Why does Jake always have to be so grand?
“I don’t think we’ve got the funds for that,” I say.
“How do you know?” he shoots back.
“Well, I don’t know, but—”
“You know how ridiculously cautious Mum is. I’m sure we’ve got a big cash reserve.” Jake eyes Sheila again with distaste. “She looks like a bloody tramp.”
“Well, let’s introduce a dress code, shall we?” I say with a flash of sarcasm I don’t usually dare use with Jake.
“Yes,” says Jake with emphasis. “That is actually not a bad idea. Ah, Bob!” he adds, looking over my shoulder. “Just the man.”
I turn to see Bob entering the store, in his sensible slacks and jacket, looking slightly disconcerted at Jake greeting him.
“Hi, Bob,” I say. “My brother and sister are in store today.”
“I want to talk to you about money,” says Jake without any preamble. “Can we go somewhere? The back room?”
He sweeps Bob off, and I look around the store to check that all is as it should be. Uncle Ned is still roaming the aisles, filling a basket with items. He’s got an iron, a teapot, and one of our wipe-clean tablecloths, and I feel a sudden warmth that he’s supporting us so generously.
Then, as my gaze sweeps round, I blink, disconcerted. Nicole has taken off her coat and is in tight jeans with a very revealing crop top. She’s draping herself over a rack of saucepans and instructing Greg to take photos of her with her phone, while her opened-up wheelie case blocks the entire aisle.
“I need to look sexy,” she says, playing with her hair. “Do I look sexy?”
“Yeah,” says Greg in a strangled tone. “Yeah, you do.”
“Can you see the saucepans?” I say, hurrying over. “Can you see any products in the shot?”
“It’s not about saucepans,” says Nicole, rolling her eyes. “It’s about who’s the face of Farrs?”
I’m about to reply when I see two women in jeans and cardigans coming in. I wait for Morag to greet them, but she’s sitting on a stool, frowning bewilderedly over her questionnaire. She hasn’t even noticed the customers. I’m about to go and greet them myself, when Stacey comes sidling up.