‘A big order will take time. I don’t have a mini factory here – it’s just me.’
‘One item at a time will be fine. She’s obviously taken a fancy to your work – and to you, I think – so I want to make the most of it. She pretty much disappears into a black cloud if I try and get her into a shop so I don’t want her to be considering the money aspect.’
Diane tried to remember what it was like not to consider money. ‘Perhaps now’s a good time to talk about cost, then.’ She pulled a face at her reflection in the window at the weediness of her voice. Negotiation wasn’t her big thing, but she didn’t want James to think that creating garments was something she did to occupy her hands whilst she watchedEastEnders.
‘How about your standard customer commission charge, plus twenty-five per cent?’
She paused, caught between curiosity and avarice. Curiosity won. ‘Why plus twenty-five per cent?’
He laughed. She wasn’t certain she’d heard him laugh properly before. It was a deep, dry chuckle that prickled its way along her hairline to settle right at the base of her skull. And spread lower. And lower. ‘Because Tamzin might be a difficult client. And whatever you charge, I’ll bet it’s not enough. You’re no toughie.’ The laughter was still in his voice.
She was stung by this truth. ‘Tough enough for you if I charge you double?’
He was unmoved. ‘I’ll pay if you do. Charge me garment by garment or weekly or something. I’ll give you notice if I want to call a halt.’
‘Thank you, that will help with cash flow,’ she acknowledged smartly, in a way she imagined business people must speak. Maybe James’s niceness wasn’t a disguise for control freak tendencies, as she’d assumed. He actually wanted to be fair with her over money, and she was so damned used to people beingunfairwith her about it … But she must start thinking realistically about cash. Gareth might be rolling in filthy lucre but his windfall wasn’t in her hands, apart from what she’d lifted from his wallet. And she wasn’t certain she wanted that. To take it had been a kick. Spend it and she’d have to be grateful.
‘Cash flow must be a consideration, with Gareth in hospital.’ James must have read her mind. ‘I can let you have a deposit, if that helps. I don’t …’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t want you to have to struggle.’
The words fell about her ears with a bang and crash like one of Bryony’s drum rolls. ‘Don’t you?’ she squeaked. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled up at the thought of a man not wanting her to struggle. ‘Be careful or I might take advantage of you.’
His laughter rolled down the line again. ‘Do try.’
It wasn’t until the call was over that she realised why he found ‘taking advantage’ funny, and blushed. ‘Grow up, Diane,’ she scolded herself. ‘You’ve got to think about earning money. Earn money, earn money,’ she chanted. ‘Toughen up, think about profit.’
Leafing through the spiral pad that served as her order book, she saw she had only to hem the prom dress for Maria Cuthbert’s daughter’s prom dress to complete the order; she could do that in the morning. Next on the list was an extravagantly beaded wedding suit for Trish Warboys, which required only buttons. Last time, Trish had said, airily, ‘Leave your invoice and I’ll get Jeremy to see to it.’ Jeremy had taken six weeks.
‘That’s not tough enough.’ Diane dialled the number on the top of Maria Cuthbert’s order, beginning all in one breath, ‘Hi, Maria the dress will be ready tomorrow. Shall I bring it round?’
‘Oh,brilliant –’
And on the second breath, ‘I’ve got your deposit so could you have a cheque for the balance ready for me please? Thank you.’
Maria squeaked like a startled chick. ‘Oh, gosh! It might have to wait until my husband gets paid again.’
Diane slashed an angry question mark beside the order, though she forced herself to sound calm. ‘That’s OK.’
‘Oh,thanky –’
‘Just let me know when you can settle the account and that’s when I’ll deliver the dress.’ Dialling again, she gave Trish Warboys the same treatment, clattering the phone back into its cradle with relish. There. Businesscould be fun!
Pity James hadn’t been there to witness her being a toughie.
Chapter Seven
James halted just inside Valerie’s room.
The setting sun was giving its last blast through her window. Valerie, her decency preserved by only one white sheet, looked hot, irritable and desperately uncomfortable. He went to the blinds and turned the slats.
A metal contraption skewered Valerie’s right hip and one leg was in traction. The tide of bruising that rose from beneath the strapping on her ribs to her shoulder was streaking jammy red. The crescents beneath her eyes were purple and her poor broken nose looked as if it been put in the oven and risen unevenly.
Her expression was baleful when she answered his greeting but then, in hospital, there were no bottles of red wine to ignite her flashing smile.
The room, however well-equipped and pretty, smelled stale. He opened a small window.
Valerie already had a visitor. Diane was perched on a royal blue chair studying Valerie, a tiny frown curling her brow, hair a pale stream down her back. One elbow rested on her knee and he spent several seconds appreciating the way that her square neckline framed what lay beneath. Resolutely, he averted his eyes, determined not to be caught looking – again – like a teenager. But it was lucky that there were no Thought Police around.
He fixed his gaze on Diane’s face so that he was smiling at the correct part of her when she turned to look at him. After a grave moment, as if perfectly able to read his thoughts, she let the corners of her lips curl up.
