Bryony giggled. ‘I love to watch you giving someone shit.’
‘Problem is that it doesn’t seem as if he’s done anything illegal. I didn’t sell him the stuff with any provisos.’
‘You could give him shit, anyway. He’s totally out of order.’
They found Rowan’s shop busy, Yummy Mummies flexing their credit cards now that the children had returned to school for the autumn term and shopping, once again, had become an indulgence rather than a hideous endurance test.
Rowan’s glance lit on Diane over the head of a customer in a floor-length, pale-grey, knitted cardigan that matched the colour of today’s sky. His hair was cut so close, it was like suede. ‘I’m busy, can you come back in an hour?’ His dismissive tone would have been perfect for the hired help.
‘No.’ Diane began to flip through the rails for her own stuff.
Rowan made his way over. ‘I don’t have time to look at your things right now.’
‘I haven’t brought you anything to look at.’ She carried on scraping the hangers methodically along the top rail.
He threw her a baffled look and turned back to the lady in the long cardigan, now at the till with aubergine capri pants in one hand and credit card in the other.
Diane worked through the wall rails and then the floor-standing ones while Bryony settled herself in the chair for customers.
When the shop was still full but Rowan was no longer actively serving, Diane opened her green corduroy shoulder bag and pulled out the dress that Natalia had bought in The Monkee Box. ‘Look,’ she said to Rowan.
Rowan’s eyes flicked to hers. He shrugged. ‘What?’
‘A garment that I sold to you.’ She made sure that her voice was audible all over the little shop. She waved the cuff under his nose, the one with a price ticket from The Monkee Box for £209. ‘Look!’ she repeated. ‘It was on sale in Covent Garden Market.’
He hesitated, eyes narrowing. Then he smiled and tried to take her elbow. ‘Come through for a chat.’
‘No, thanks.’ She folded the dress and returned it to her bag. ‘How have garments I’ve sold to you ended up being sold elsewhere at an enormous mark-up?’ Every prospective shopper had paused to listen by now. ‘You’ve paid me peanuts for years. You pretended that you had difficulty selling my stuff and I ought to be jolly grateful for what I got. Yet you’ve been selling it on to The Monkee Boxand pocketing a big profit.’
A couple of shoppers drew in breath. One tutted.
Diane held up her hand. ‘And don’t pretend that you haven’t, because I’ve had a frank chat with Amelia from The Monkee Box, and she’s been kind enough to share the figures with me.’
Rowan’s face turned a dull puce. ‘I don’t have to be spoken to like this in my own shop.’
‘I don’t know how you’re going to avoid it.’ Slowly, Diane smiled. ‘I’m telling the truth and you can’t lay hands upon me because all these nice people are witnesses. You could ring the police, I suppose.’ She folded her arms. ‘Why don’t you? You ring the police and I’ll ring a reporter, and we’ll see how it looks in the paper.’ Her smile grew into a grin. ‘Or you could ring Amelia – but I think you’ll find that you’re blacklisted as a supplier so far as she’s concerned. From now on, when Diane Jenner Originals appear in her shop, Diane Jenner will be making the profit out of it. Not some talentless third party tosser.’ With a defiant flick of her plait, she spun on her heel.
‘Like your husband?’
Diane halted in mid-stride. Turned slowly back. ‘What?’
‘Like your husband.’ Rowan’s lips twisted.
Diane’s lips went numb. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
His face shone with spite. ‘He walked past one day and recognised the stuff I was loading into the van. It took just thirty quid for him to keep his mouth shut. Thirty measly quid for every batch.’
The blood in her cheeks boiled. Her ears sang. Diane heard a couple of customers murmuring. Sympathy! She despised it. She clawed her tattering dignity around her. ‘I don’t know why you expect me to be surprised. He’s as big a shit as you are.’
Outside she put her arms around Bryony, who was white, even her lips, and guided her out of the arcade over to a black-painted bench where the fresh air might revive her. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry you heard that.’
Tipping her head to rest it on her mother’s shoulder, Bryony sighed. ‘I’m a big girl, Mum, I can handle it – like you. I just feel a bit … wobbly.’
Diane debated her next move. She didn’t want to leave Bryony here, the bench was cold metal and the breeze had enough edge to chill a body through. She needed somewhere warmer if she were to even consider leaving her alone for an hour while she put her business plan before Ms Rhianne Andrews, at the bank.
It’s never far to a café when you’re in a city centre and in five minutes Diane had Bryony drinking hot tea.
Bryony was still shivering. ‘It can’t be right, can it, what Rowan said? Dad wouldn’t?’
