‘Er, I have no idea what to say to that.’
‘Well you work in pharmaceuticals and … well, anyway, the dog was really cute.’ Cleo was bobbing her head about and it was making Regan dizzy.
‘Thank you … I think.’
‘Aren’t you at work?’ asked Cleo.
‘Yeah. But it’s slow … I mean boring.’ It was difficult having a conversation when she felt she couldn’t burden Cleo with all her problems. Cleo would worry.
‘You should look for something else.’
‘Yeah. I should. I thought about a market stall,’ said Regan, with a tip of her head.
‘Hard work. And it’d be cold in winter, being outside. But I could see you with a money belt doing “roll up, roll up, get your coconuts here!”’ said Cleo with a giggle.
‘I said market stall, not big top.’ But Regan was laughing too. She needed to get herself a money belt, then maybe she’d feel more like she knew what she was doing. ‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m actually okay.’ There was surprise in Cleo’s words. ‘I’ve done a couple of exhibitions with nervous students, but it’s great to see the joy in them when they study the paintings. I think helping them has helped me, if that makes sense. And of course, they’re wowed by the celebrities that show up and all the posh food they lay on.’
‘But all that luxury and being treated like a princessmust be tough.’ Regan studied her broken nails, damaged from moving around boxes of jam.
‘It’s not as glamorous as you think. I was—’
‘Sorry, gotta go, there’s a customer. I mean colleague. Anyway. Bye.’ Regan hastily ended the call, scurried back to her stall and stood to attention.
An elderly woman with a stick had moved slowly through the stalls and was passing hers. Regan spied a chance. ‘Good morning,’ she said, trying to muster her inner professional (she hoped there was one in there somewhere, but they were exceptionally well hidden). The woman paused, possibly more to catch her breath than because of Regan. She seemed to be judging whether it was worth the effort of veering off course.
‘Home-made jam. Lots of different flavours,’ said Regan, hearing how dull it sounded. ‘Melon and ginger?’ she offered.
The lady wrinkled her nose, but was still squinting from her position a few feet away. Regan momentarily considered dragging her stall over in her desperation to make her first sale. ‘Any damson?’ asked the old lady.
Damson? What was that? Someone from a fairytale? Oh, no – that was damsel. ‘No. Sorry.’
‘Shame. You don’t get damson jam these days.’ It seemed to take an effort to get the lady going again. She meandered her way out of the market. Regan watched her only potential customer disappear, and with her, a little bit of hope.
Malcolm appeared about an hour later with a much-needed coffee. He handed it over.
‘Thanks, I need this.’
‘I did wonder if you’d changed your mind when you weren’t on the stall near me.’
‘I got ousted by a dragon.’
He smiled and eagerly scanned her stall. ‘How many jars have you sold then?’
‘None. Zilch. Nada. Bugger all.’
‘Ah. First day is always tough. It’ll get better. I promise,’ he said, with an encouraging smile.
Regan cupped her mug with both hands, more for comfort than for warmth. ‘I’m not so sure. There’s not been a whiff of interest.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, the Dragon has only sold one ornament.’
‘Yeah, it does a little. Thanks.’ Regan sipped her coffee.
There were a few more visits from other stallholders during the day; they wished her luck, but she got the distinct impression they were checking her out, which was understandable. A gruff bloke who insisted on telling her about every plant he stocked on his gardening stall seemed very surprised she’d been allowed to set up at all.
‘Ken won’t like it,’ he said. Her blank expression did its job of conveying her lack of understanding. ‘The honey man.’ He pointed in the general direction of one of the permanent units that sat around the outside edge of the market. ‘Been here years, he has. You’ll be killing his business.’
