‘Not on what I’ve sold today, I won’t. I’ve not made a single sale.’
‘Oh, that’s good then,’ he said, with a jolly nod and returned to his stall. Regan felt another trickle of optimism evaporate. When the first people began packing up she decided to do the same. Her back ached, her feet were throbbing and she was thoroughly fed up.
She lugged a box down to Malcolm, and as she ploddedback to get the next one she was just in time to see someone grab a jar and run off. ‘Hey!’ she shouted, and everyone except the thief turned around. He sprinted out of the market, hurdling a pile of cushions as he made his escape. Regan couldn’t be bothered to give chase. Today had been a total disaster, from start to thieving finish.
Malcolm helped her lug her heavy boxes to the café, where she slumped in the corner like a weary traveller.
Penny hurried over with a large coffee and flipped the sign to closed. ‘How was your first day in charge of your own business empire?’ She slid into the seat opposite and waited expectantly.
‘Total and utter shit,’ said Regan, and she relayed the catalogue of issues that had thwarted her day. Penny listened attentively, making sympathetic noises in the right places and shocked faces when she got to the bit about the thief.
‘Look on the positive side,’ said Penny, when she’d finished.
Regan scrunched up her features. ‘There is no positive side. If there is, it’s bloody well camouflaged, because I can’t see it.’ Regan was thoroughly glum.
‘Well,’ said Penny, ‘at least someone wanted a jar of your jam, even if they weren’t prepared to pay for it.’
Regan paused with her coffee at her lips. If that was the most positive thing Penny could find to say, it confirmed everything she was feeling. ‘I’ve made a huge mistake.’
‘You’re not giving up after one day, are you?’ Penny’s tone was stern.
‘No. I knew I wouldn’t be putting Marks and Spencer out of business overnight, but I did expect to get rid of more jars.’ Penny opened her mouth, but Regan continued.‘Sellmore jars. Sellsomething. Maybe there is no market at all for unusual flavours of jam.’
‘I blame the British,’ said Penny.
‘We’re both British.’
‘I know, and we’re all stuck in our ways. We don’t like change. We don’t like things that are a bit different. We like things we can rely on, like …’
‘Late trains and rain?’ suggested Regan.
‘Like pyjamas and toast and marmalade.’ Penny froze.
Regan stared at her. ‘Bloody marmalade. You’re right. People like sodding boring marmalade. I’m doomed.’ And she slumped back into the seat with dismay.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Regan needed cheering up, and she knew precisely who could do it. She rang the vet’s to check it was okay to visit, and half an hour later she skidded into the recently mopped waiting area and almost collided with a very large Saint Bernard. ‘Out of the way, Holly!’ said her owner. Regan righted herself, apologised to the dog and made her way to the desk. She was pleased to see the usual receptionist was having a day off. A kindly looking woman greeted her and, after checking the record, she showed Regan through to the back room where the animal pens were and told her the veterinary nurse would be through in a few minutes.
Elvis was lying in his cage all hunched up at the back, but the steady rise and fall of his side told her he was alive. ‘Hiya mate,’ said Regan, crouching down at the wire mesh. He opened his eyes but didn’t move.
Instead of his usual overexuberant greeting, Elvis barely raised a bushy eyebrow. Regan flopped onto her knees. ‘Elvis, what’s wrong?’
Elvis’s dark eyes studied her intently. He looked burdened with sorrow. It was like he knew what had happened to Kevin.
She felt for Elvis. It must be so confusing for him to have spent so long with the total freedom to roam, and then to find himself imprisoned twenty-four hours a day without his best friend. He’d gone from having constant company to being alone, with the obvious exception of the transient dogs that briefly occupied the other pens.
‘Come on, Elvis. You need to get better,’ said Regan, pushing her fingers through the cage. At last his tail thumped in acknowledgment. He looked desperately sorry for himself.
Deborah the veterinary nurse came in and joined Regan on the floor. ‘How is he?’ asked Regan.
‘He’s healing nicely, so we can start talking to the local rescue centres.’ The nurse opened the pen, but Elvis didn’t seem to want to come out. Regan reached in and stroked his head.
‘Already?’ Regan wasn’t ready to let Elvis move on just yet, and he certainly didn’t look well enough. She was worried by his lethargy. ‘He doesn’t seem his usual self,’ she said.
‘To be honest with you he’s been like this for a couple of days. I think he’s a bit down,’ said the nurse.
‘He’s depressed?’
