I Owe You One(45)

Out of the way? He sounds so patronizing I want to retort, “One good idea is worth a hundred bad ones!” Or at least blow him away with a really impressive speech.

But it’s happening to me again. The sight of Jake rolling his eyes at Nicole is sapping my confidence. The ravens are flapping. My lips are trembling. As I open my mouth, my lungs seem to be working at half capacity. My voice is tiny and uncertain.

“I think we could streamline the stock. Maybe get rid of the leisure section?” I add hesitantly. “And confectionery. We only stock licorice allsorts. It makes no sense.”

“Dad and I were the only ones who ever liked licorice allsorts,” muses Nicole. “He always used to say …”

I wait to see if Nicole is going to continue. Then, as it’s plain that she’s not, I take a deep breath and resume.

“I think we could lose hardware too. I know Dad loved all those sections, but they’re looking out of date and they’re the poorest performers. I think we should focus on kitchenware and craft. The customers love gadgets; they love advising each other and sharing their results. And everyone knows they can trust Farrs. We could make that our message: You can trust Farrs.”

My confidence is building as I talk; my voice is growing stronger. I’m actually enjoying sharing my thoughts.

“You know Vanessa, the customer who wears the red mac?” I continue. “Well, she recently won some big baking competition, and all her equipment was from Farrs. She came straight round to tell Mum. It was brilliant! And baking is a growing market. I have some figures, if you want to look.…” I get out the page of research I printed out last night and put it on the table. “I think we can capitalize on this, but we need to stay on top of it. We need to follow all the TV cookery shows. Offer exactly the right equipment at the right time. And the stock should be refreshed more often. Some products sit on our shelves for years. We’ve got to stop that.”

I’m hoping some of these ideas might spark some comment—but no one says a word or looks at my research.

“Anyway,” I continue, undeterred, “I think we should focus on our core business and build on all the best qualities of Farrs: Trustworthiness. Value. Practical help. All the things that Dad cared about. All the things that Mum is. All the things that we are.”

I look around the table, hoping I’ll see the warmth I feel mirrored in my siblings’ faces. Maybe we could even lift a glass to our parents. But Jake is frowning and Nicole looks lost in a daydream.

“Finished?” says Jake, as soon as I come to a halt.

“Well … yes,” I say. “What do you think?”

“Honestly?” says Jake.

“Yes, honestly.”

“I think, jeez, this is exactly the problem.” He slaps a hand onto the table. “Could you think any smaller? Could you be any more parochial? Vanessa in her bloody red mac, for fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head incredulously. “We need aspiration. High-end. Strategic partnerships with big brands.”

“We already stock big brands,” I point out.

“What, ‘Cake-tins-for-old-biddies-dot-com’?” says Jake scornfully. “I’m talking lifestyle. I’m talking luxury. The whole place needs a bloody reboot. Now, I met a guy at Ascot last year, works for Hannay watches. I got his card. He’s someone we could do business with. I mean, we’d have to pull out all the stops to get the deal.…”

“Hannay watches?” I say disbelievingly. “Are you joking? Don’t they cost like a thousand pounds?”

“We sell clocks,” retorts Jake. “It’s a natural extension.” He turns to Uncle Ned. “You wouldn’t believe the margins.”

“Jake, we sell kitchen clocks,” I try to point out. “None of them is above the thirty-pound price point.”

But Jake isn’t listening; he’s pulling a brochure out of his briefcase.

“Here’s another guy I’ve been sweet-talking recently,” he says. “Comes from Prague. We’ve had a few dinners, went to the casino the other night.”

“Work hard, play hard, eh?” puts in Uncle Ned with a chuckle.

My mouth has fallen open a little. The casino? When Mum and I source new suppliers, it’s at trade fairs or over coffee in the back room. Not at casinos.

“Anyway, he owns a stationery company,” says Jake importantly. “High-end. Gilt-edged. Wonderful. I think if we did the right deal, we could become his exclusive West London stockist.”

“Good work!” applauds Uncle Ned. “It’s all about networking, eh, Jake?”

I flip through the brochure, trying not to flinch. This is the weirdest stationery I’ve ever seen. There’s a lot of gilt and bizarre colors and cards decorated with malevolent-looking mermaids. I can’t see a single one of our customers wanting to buy this stuff.

“Jake,” I say. “Our customers like jolly cards with jokes on them. Or Cath Kidston notecards. They’re practical, sensible—”

“Exactly!” he erupts in frustration. “That’s the problem!”

“Our customers are the problem?” I stare at him.

“London is full of glamorous, rich, international spenders,” Jake says, almost fiercely. “Financiers. Lawyers. Hedgies. Why aren’t they in Farrs?”