Summer With My Sister Read online

  They were sitting at the table in the kitchen with the laptop between them, and Clare was struck by a massive wash of gratitude for everything Polly was doing. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘Seriously, I wouldn’t have a clue about the business side of things. Not a clue. I wouldn’t be able to do this on my own.’

  Polly went on typing for a moment, then pressed the Return key with a flourish. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said with a self-conscious laugh. ‘You’re putting me up – or, rather, putting up with me – so until I get back on my feet financially and can pay my way, I’m happy to contribute some business ideas. More than happy.’

  ‘Well, I really appreciate it,’ Clare said.

  There was another odd silence and then Polly changed the subject. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask: is that a tattoo I spotted on your back the other day?’

  ‘My bluebird? Yeah,’ Clare replied. ‘Me and the girls got matching ones when we turned thirty. I think it was Tracey’s idea – she was worried about turning into an old fart.’ She laughed. ‘Now we’re just old farts with crap tattoos, so I’m not sure it’s any better really. Still, I love it. Makes me feel like part of a team, if you know what I mean.’

  She reached around and touched the bird on her back, remembering the day they’d ventured to the tattoo parlour in Andover together, giggling like schoolgirls. They’d settled on the bluebird as a symbol of happiness and freedom and had taken it in turns to be inked, yelping at the pain as the needles buzzed through the design. Afterwards they’d found a wine bar and toasted each other with glasses of cold Sauvignon Blanc, before dashing back to pick up the children, laughing about what the other mothers would think of them turning up, stinking of wine, with scabby tattoos on their backs. Her team, she thought with a smile, remembering the way they’d all backed her in this Langley’s idea. God, she was lucky to have friends like that.

  Polly was silent, and Clare wondered if she was missing her friends in London. Perhaps it was insensitive to go on about the girls in front of her, when she must be dying to get back to her own gang.

  ‘Have you got a tattoo?’ she asked. ‘I bet you have. Go on, what is it? A pound sign tattooed on your bum or something?’

  ‘No!’ Polly spluttered. ‘I wouldn’t – I couldn’t. Far too much of a wuss.’

  ‘You, a wuss? I don’t believe that for a second.’ The idea made Clare snort. Polly was without doubt the most confident, headstrong person she’d ever met. She was surprised the word ‘wuss’ was even in her vocabulary.

  Polly wrinkled her nose, but her smile was empty of feeling. Once again, Clare wondered what on earth was going on in her sister’s head.

  On Monday Roxie’s first word to Clare was an arch ‘Well?’

  Clare grinned. ‘I’m up for it.’

  ‘YESSSS!’ screamed Roxie, much to the surprise of Luke, who’d walked in at that moment. She high-fived Clare, beaming. ‘Woo-hoo! That’s so exciting.’

  ‘Wow,’ Luke said, pausing and staring at them both. ‘What have I just missed? Are we all getting a pay rise or something?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with this place,’ Roxie said, rolling her eyes as if that was the last thing she’d ever be squealing about. ‘Clare’s going into business,’ she announced grandly.

  Clare squirmed beneath Luke’s look of curiosity. ‘It’s not that big a deal,’ she said, feeling her face flare with hot colour.

  ‘Oh yeah? Sounds a big deal to me,’ Luke replied. He seemed bemused. ‘Go on, then. What sort of business? Are we looking at the next Richard Branson, right here in Amberley?’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Roxie scoffed. ‘Clare’s much better-looking than him!’

  ‘I don’t think he meant—’ Clare said hurriedly, just as Luke said, ‘Well, I know that,’ and gave her the most disarming wink.

  ‘Clare makes totally gorgeous bubble baths and smellies,’ Roxie said, sounding every bit the proud mamma. ‘And, fingers crossed, she’s going to supply Langley’s – you know the hotel company? – with her stuff!’

  ‘Really? Wow,’ Luke said. ‘That’s amazing, Clare.’

  ‘It’s not definite,’ Clare mumbled, wishing Roxie hadn’t bigged her up quite so much. It was going to be horribly embarrassing when she didn’t get the commission and had to admit as much to Luke and everyone else to whom Roxie had blabbed. ‘In fact it’s not even remotely likely, but …’

  ‘Play your cards right, Luke,’ Roxie went on coyly, looking up at him through her mascara-clumpy lashes (a striking lilac colour today), ‘and she might even give you a free sample.’

  He smiled. ‘I’d better behave myself then, hadn’t I, and do some work. Don’t want to fall behind with my patients before I’ve already started.’

  He went off, whistling, and Roxie elbowed Clare. ‘He so likes you.’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ Clare snapped back, feeling flustered. ‘He’s got a girlfriend anyway; he’s not allowed to like anyone else.’

  Roxie snorted and slapped her forehead. ‘God, Clare Berry. Sometimes I can’t believe you’re actually more than ten years older than me, when you come out with crap like that. DERRRR! He’s a bloke. With a willy ruling his tiny little brain!’ She shook her head despairingly. ‘Honestly, woman, you need to—’

  ‘Roxanne! Clare! Could you keep it down out here, please?’ came a clipped and rather cross voice just then.

  Clare turned guiltily to see Dr Copper glaring daggers at them.

  ‘There are ill people in the waiting area. They do not want to hear you giggling and screeching,’ she went on. ‘I’ve already had one complaint this morning about all the noise you’re making. I don’t want to have to apologize for your behaviour again, is that clear?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Clare said, dropping her eyes.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ Roxie muttered under her breath, like a naughty schoolgirl. As soon as Dr Copper had walked away again, she fished out her phone and started jabbing at the buttons with practised speed. ‘I’ll just wing Aunty Kate a quick text. Tell her to give you a call and arrange a meeting.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘Richard Branson will be asking you for tips once I’ve finished meddling, you wait.’

  Clare arranged to meet Roxie’s Aunty Kate (she mustn’t actually call her that out loud, she kept reminding herself) the following Thursday at the site of the new hotel. When the day came, she put on her one and only suit and a pair of Polly’s L.K Bennett black patent heels. The shoes were actually half a size too big, but since they were a million times smarter than anything she owned, she stuffed the toes with toilet paper and vowed to make do. Then she packed up her documents and samples in a smart little briefcase (also borrowed from her sister) and rehearsed what she was going to say one last time in front of the bedroom mirror. She looked awful, pale and tense, as if she were a victim in a slasher movie, rather than a business winner.

  ‘All set?’ Polly asked. ‘Honestly, don’t worry. Keep it professional and succinct, show her the products and figures, job done.’ She patted her arm when Clare didn’t respond. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  Clare smiled wanly. ‘I would love you to come with me,’ she replied. ‘I would love you to stand there and do it all for me, while I cower in the car. But at the same time I want to do it myself

  ‘Of course,’ Polly said. ‘This is your baby, I’d feel just the same. Well, good luck. Ring me when you get there if you need a pep talk. And try to enjoy it.’

  Enjoy it? Clare felt as if she was going to puke as she started up the Fiat and drove away. She still wasn’t convinced that this wouldn’t be a total waste of everyone’s time but … oh, what the hell. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they said. And if it all went pear-shaped in the actual meeting, then so be it. At least she might finally have gained a few respect points in her sister’s eyes for getting that far at all. There was a first time for everything.

  Lovington was about thirty minutes away by car, buried deep in the leafy Hampshire countryside. Clare knew the ro
ads around there pretty well, but nevertheless the hotel took a bit of finding, as there were no signposts at the entrance yet. After a lot of reversing and swearing and a panicked call to Roxie, she finally tracked the place down, about half a mile along what she’d originally thought was a country track. The track was bumpy and potholed and definitely in need of some TLC, but was lined with magnificent spreading cedar trees that arched above her, casting dappled light through the windscreen. After a while she turned a corner and saw the hotel building in front of her and sucked in her breath, nearly stalling at the sight of so much grandeur.

  It was an old manor house, built in warm red brick with two rows of large arched windows and a rampant wisteria on its front. Looking up, Clare could see clusters of twisting chimneys on the rooftops, and smaller attic windows in what must have once been the servants’ quarters. There was a circular driveway in front of the house with an ornate stone fountain in its centre, and Clare could imagine horses and carriages arriving there in years gone by, the horses’ breath steaming in cold mornings, footmen and maids on the front steps of the house …

  It was glorious. Far too glorious for the likes of her, she thought in the next second, biting her lip. Feeling a little sick, she tucked her Fiat out of sight behind a builder’s van, then turned off the engine. This was it. The daft pipe dream had become bricks and mortar, and was standing right there in front of her.

  She read through her proposal one last time, applied some fresh lipstick and practised a confident smile in the rear-view mirror. You can do it, Clare.

  Okay. Time to get moving. With trembling legs, sweaty hands and a heart that was pumping like a piston engine, she clambered out of the car, then tottered across the driveway in her unfamiliar heels and up the formidable stone steps.

  Inside the hotel’s main entrance some major decorating and refurbishment was under way. A couple of men were papering the walls with a tasteful eau-de-nil stripe, while Clare could hear the rasp of a saw and thunderous hammering elsewhere. The hall had clearly once been fabulously grand, with a broad wooden staircase sweeping up to the first floor on the left, and an old chandelier still glittering from the ceiling. Clare could imagine wonderful parties and balls taking place here over the years, beautiful young things arriving in their finery, beaded flapper dresses and cigarette holders, champagne glasses clinking, crackly old gramophone records playing …

  Her reverie ended abruptly as one of the builders began a tuneless whistle. Oh yes. Business meeting. So where was she meant to go?

  Just then there came the brisk clip-clop of high heels along a corridor and a forty-something woman with a dark, glossy bob appeared. She was wearing a neat grey suit and a very loud turquoise shirt with pointy collars.

  Clare swallowed. ‘Hi,’ she said, plastering on a bright smile and walking towards the woman. ‘Are you by any chance Kate Hendricks? I’m Clare Berry.’

  ‘Clare, hello, perfect timing,’ the woman replied. ‘Yes, I’m Kate. Sorry about this,’ she went on, gesturing around the half-decorated hall, ‘but we’re in a state of flux, as you can see. Come with me, I’ll take you somewhere a bit quieter, where we can chat.’

  Clare followed Kate along a wood-panelled corridor. ‘It’s a gorgeous building,’ she said timidly, peeping through the open doors that they passed and glimpsing ornate ceilings, huge sofas with the plastic wrapping still around them and heavy velvet curtains tied back in swags. ‘How old is it, do you know?’

  ‘Most of it is seventeenth-century,’ Kate replied. ‘It belonged to the same family for generations, apparently. The gardens are amazing around the back, too. It’s going to be fantastic when we’ve worked our Langley’s magic on the place and are up and running.’

  ‘When are you planning to open?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Hopefully September,’ Kate said. ‘I expect Roxie’s told you that this particular hotel is going to be the first we’ve opened in this part of the country, which is why we’re so keen to source local products where we can. As well as its being a hotel, we plan to expand it to become a country club too, which members can use.’ She stopped at a door on the right of the corridor and led Clare into a large, light room, which had duck-egg blue wallpaper patterned with hummingbirds. There was a generous fireplace on the far side, with an impressive black marble mantelpiece, and there were huge leaded windows, which looked out onto an ornamental garden where Clare could see a woman clipping the hedge. There was also a vast bright-pink slouchy sofa heaped with cushions – the sort of sofa you could spend a whole day in quite happily. Elsewhere there were chunky shelves crammed with books, a large vase of lilies and gypsophila, and a couple of overstuffed armchairs in a Liberty fabric on either side of a small table. It was all gorgeously, tastefully done – the modern and the vintage working perfectly together.

  ‘Wow,’ Clare sighed, unable to help feeling an impostor here, stunned by the wealth and grandeur everywhere she looked. This was not her world, and probably never would be, either. She felt like a kid with her nose pressed against a sweet-shop window.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Kate said. ‘We haven’t finalized the artwork for this room yet – I’ve been meeting local artists who are interested in having their paintings featured – but this is the kind of style we’re going for throughout the hotel.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Clare said. ‘Just the right balance between traditional and … fun.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re aiming for,’ Kate said, sounding pleased. ‘Luxury with a twist. Old-school glamour meets modern bohemian, with a relaxed feel. We want our guests to be completely at home here.’ She gestured towards the armchairs. ‘Have a seat. Can I get you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘A tea would be lovely, please,’ Clare said. She felt a stab of longing inside as she perched in the armchair. Now that she was here, and had seen what a cool place the hotel was going to be, she wanted desperately to be involved.

  Kate made a quick call to order some drinks then sat opposite Clare. ‘So,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Shall we start by looking at your product line?’

  Clare was glad that Kate made no reference to Roxie during their conversation. She’d been worried beforehand that she’d be taken less seriously for the unconventional manner in which this interview had been arranged. She’d dreaded getting any hint from Kate that this was all a favour for her demanding niece, an annoyance that had to be dealt with as quickly as possible, and had almost wanted to pre-empt her with an apology for taking up her time.

  Polly had told her several times, in no uncertain tones, that this was absolutely out of the question. ‘If you can’t treat this as a viable business proposition, then she definitely won’t,’ she had said. ‘Do not – I repeat, do not – go in there with any kind of hangdog, sorry-I-exist look on your face and start talking yourself out of the deal before she’s had a chance to make up her mind. You’re better than that.’

  With her sister’s words ringing in her ears, Clare did her best to bite back any self-deprecation and instead set her sample bottles on the table in front of Kate, and began telling her about their natural ingredients and how she’d arrived at the formula for each. She spoke haltingly at first, her words sounding strained and unnatural to her own ears, but she was on safe ground at least, discussing her potions and how she’d concocted them. She knew her stuff backwards and, after a couple of minutes, felt herself begin to relax and speak more easily. ‘I’m only a small business,’ she confessed, ‘and if you were to choose me as your supplier, the hotel would be my biggest customer. But that would mean, of course, that I could be flexible to your needs, and I’m more than happy to create exclusive fragrances and products as you wish.’

  Ooh, that sounded good. Just as she and Polly had rehearsed! Kate was nodding appreciatively, Clare noticed, with a prickle of excitement. For all her earlier certainty that this was pie-in-the-sky and nothing would come of it, she now felt the yearning ramp up inside her. She really wanted to do this.

  Kate picked up the
Ginger Ninja bottle and smiled when she saw the ‘Made for Langley’s, with love’ line on the label. ‘Nice touch,’ she said. ‘Lovely designs too, very fresh and eye-catching.’ She unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents. ‘Mmm. I like it. Not too feminine, either, which is a plus. Okay, thank you for talking me through what you’ve got. I’ll take the products away if I may, to show my team. Can we discuss costs now?’

  Once the meeting was over, Kate led Clare back down the corridor, with its last tantalizing glimpses of Wonderland, and out through the main doors. In the driveway an Audi the colour of gun metal was pulling up smoothly, the gravel flinging itself beneath the heavy wheels, and as Clare said her final goodbyes to Kate, the car parked in front of the hotel and two women got out. Dressed in tailored business suits with crisp blouses, perma-tans and perfectly coiffed hair, they carried Mulberry bags and exuded waves of power and expensive perfume.

  Was this the competition? Clare’s heart plummeted around her ankles. Shit. She had no hope then. No hope whatsoever.

  ‘Ah, I think these are my next ladies,’ Kate said, removing her hand from Clare’s. ‘Thanks again, Clare. I’ll be in touch,’ she said a little distractedly, before fixing a new smile on her face to greet the recent arrivals. ‘Hello there. I’m Kate Hendricks, can I help you?’

  ‘Good morning, Kate, I’m Jacqueline Wade and this is Annabel Palmer-Thompson,’ Clare heard. ‘We’re from Brownes.’

  Clare tried to give her rivals a professional, business-like smile as she passed them on the front steps, but – unused to wearing heels, let alone too-big heels – her ankle chose that exact moment to give way and she staggered, losing her balance and falling all the way down the steps onto her hands and knees in the gravel.

  ‘Oops,’ she heard one of the glamazons say, with what sounded horribly like a titter behind a manicured hand.

  ‘Oh goodness, Clare, are you all right?’ Kate cried, hurrying down after her. ‘Some of the steps are a bit uneven, I should have warned you, I’m so sorry …’