[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

bunting at an auction and it s become her trademark. The
first thing I do is pin it up from one end of the stall to the
other. Next to go up are the fairy lights, which I m always
terrified will electrocute me (or a customer) as they re
connected to an overloaded power point hooked up to a
generator that seems to be built on top of a puddle.
Suzanne has her own way of laying out the stall and I m
under strict instructions to copy it. Cheap paste brooches
at the front to draw people in, but nothing too valuable
84
in case shoplifters are around. Show-stopping clothes high
up at the back. Cardigans sorted by colour. Handbags
strung up on a washing line from right to left; no rubbish,
designer labels only.
As soon as the big main entrance is unlocked, people
come rushing in. I sell three paste brooches in the
first ten minutes  all Christmas presents, because the
customers want them wrapped in tissue paper and tied
with a ribbon.
My own Christmas presents are under the stall. I ve
made shortbread iced with people s names, their star signs
or their favourite football team. My plan is that when
business slows down I can start wrapping them, to keep
me busy. I ll use some of my precious stall money to buy
Nash a second-hand Bob Dylan book that I know he
doesn t have. I saw it in one of the stalls last week. So
that s it  shortbread and Bob Dylan means Christmas is
officially sorted.
I am determined that the bulk of the money Suzanne
gave me will be spent on my debts. There are four jam
jars under the bed stuffed with notes and covered up
with a blanket. If I m very, very careful over the next few
weeks, I will be able to put a big cheque inside the cover
of Nash s book, and another one into Mum s shortbread
tin. Then I can sort out my overdraft and my credit card.
The feeling of relief is incredible.
A tall woman with tufty orange hair and a black Beatles
cap starts sorting through a box of cheap nylon scarves on
the ground. Oh my God. It s Vera Van Der Meer.
 Hello, stranger, she honks in her ridiculously loud
voice, and gives me a bucky beaver smile. She says Suzanne
85
just Facebooked her and told her to visit the stall before
she flew back to New York, because of the Vuitton.
I instantly know what she means. The small Louis
Vuitton trunk is one of the objects that Suzanne padlocks
to the leg of her trestle table.
Vera inspects it  strangely enough, sniffing the interior
 then nods.  Done. Then she rifles through Suzanne s
cheap scarf collection.  I ll tell you something wonderful
you can do with these, she says.  You use them as Christmas
wrapping. Look  I ll show you.
She turns the scarf into a kind of origami box, then
picks up a silver cigarette case from the table and puts
it inside.
 That s amazing.
 You just need a few pins here and there, but it looks
fabulous. So I ll have a few of these, thank you, Alice.
 Oy! Alan, the self-help book man, calls from across
the market.  Do you want a cup of tea?
 Yes, please! I shout back.
Vera asks me to take down a crocodile suitcase from
the back wall so she can have a closer look.
She inspects the tag.  Good price. Bit of water damage.
It might have been on the Titanic though. So we can forgive
a few drips, can t we?
Various women inspect a row of 1950s jackets  most
of them separated from suits  then tut and move on.
 Sometimes I m worried Suzanne s charging too much,
I confide in Vera.
 Right price, wrong size, she informs me, and pulls
a boxy velvet evening jacket off the rack.  Women were
smaller then. The food was crapola, it was after the war.
86
Every woman who s just come past this stall is at least two
sizes bigger, maybe three.
 I often think that. The clothes are lovely, but they re
too small.
 I look forward to seeing your summer collection. Vera
raises an eyebrow at me.
Yes. Right. My summer collection.
 Anyway, she says,  may your yak butter never go
rancid, as they say in Tibet. Happy Christmas. Twenty
quid for these four alright?
I notice she loves saying the word  quid , as all Americans
do. I go to wrap the scarves, but they re already in her
Vuitton trunk  now unpadlocked  before I can find
the tissue paper.
 I m such an eco-warrior, darling, I never take wrapping
these days. Think about those jackets, alright? You know
the Achilles heel of most designers? They re lazy. So . . . do
the work. Measure the women. Make the clothes. Oy!
Then she asks me to keep in touch on Facebook and I
go bright red, because if Vera Van Der Meer knew that
I use the computer at the Indian corner shop, she might
never speak to me again.
Vera waves and departs. She stops at Alan s stall and
picks up Should I Stay Or Should I Go?. I wonder what
her love life s like. Probably not great, with that hamster
hair and constant chain-smoking.
Customers who were too frightened to shop when Vera [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

  • zanotowane.pl
  • doc.pisz.pl
  • pdf.pisz.pl
  • thierry.pev.pl

    •