Press Attention

There I was, sitting face to face with Mr Gittings, the pudgy, dough faced, bank manager from my local branch of National & Westminster.

After a brief glance at the computer screen, Mr Gittings peered at me from over his wire-rimmed, pink tinted spectacles, and informed me that my requested loan had not met with the computers approval.

“Oh, dear, well, Mr Gittings, as it seems that you’re not the one in charge here, could you please ask the computer, if it would like to reconsider. My business enterprise is in need of no more than a minimal investment of, say, four-thousand pounds. A paltry sum, I would have thought, for the National & Westminster to rustle up in order to assist one of its most loyal and valued customers.”

“I’m sorry, Ms Pettigrew, but, according to the computer, the numbers just don’t add up.”

“That can’t be so, Mr Gittings, numbers always add up, it’s what they do, and it’s what computers do, they can add anything up.”

Mr Gittings then slowly, and pointedly, removed his glasses, and I could see, from his beady currants for eyes, that this was a man devoid of compassion and understanding.

“Let me put it another way, Ms Pettigrew, your business enterprise, which consists of one small dress shop, seems to be haemorrhaging money at an alarming rate, and a four-thousand pound cash injection, isn’t going to stem the flow.”

“Actually, Mr Gittings, that is a very astute observation on your part. Four-thousand pounds simply isn’t enough, is it? Now, eight-thousand, well, that would make a real difference. Speculate to accumulate, that’s what they always say, you’re absolutely right! National & Westminster needs to lend me at least eight, if my boutique, Tres a La Mode, is going to really get off the ground and show a sizeable profit, as I’m sure it will, should the money be forthcoming. See if your computer can add that up, ask it, what’s four times two.”

“Tres a la what’? Ms Pettigrew”

“Oh, that’s the new name for my shop. You see, I’ve recently been to London and I’ve come back full of all sorts of new ideas. I’ve seen what’s hip and happening right now up in the great metropolis, it’s time to update, not just the name, but the clothes I sell, and the shops decor. That’s what it’s all about Mr Gittings, having a keen eye for what’s, ‘on-trend’, and I’ve got a very keen eye. It’s a matter of faith in my ability, something only a shrewd individual such as yourself would perceive. Don’t be a slave to technology Mr, Gittings, wield some power. Don’t let the robots take over.”

At this point in the proceedings, Mr Gittings simply stood up, declared our meeting over, and ushered me towards the door of his stuffy little cubicle of an office.

“A pleasure to see you, Ms Pettigrew,” he lied, adding that he

was already late for a staff meeting, one which should have taken place over five minutes ago.

As my presence had hardly graced his office for less than, what felt like, a matter of seconds, I suggested to Mr Gittings that he really ought to consider employing a better secretary.

“You could hardly have been in a staff meeting, whilst also attending a scheduled conference with a valued customer, now could you?” I remarked, before flouncing out through the door with as much dignity as I could muster.

Then I felt a parting shot was in order.

“Oh, and take it from one who knows, pink tinted glasses, really Mr Gittings, you’re not Bono and they scream, ‘mid-life crisis!’ Horn rimmed would suit you better.”

After tapping out the numbers on the fancy new gadget mum had had affixed to her front door, I stood in the hallway and announced my arrival.

She was busy painting away in her studio, and I’m not sure my unscheduled interruption was all that welcome.

No matter, after pouring us both a large gin and tonic, mum was ready to hear my barrage of verbal complaints.

Which, amongst many others, included the financial state of the nation, bloody Brexit, bastard bank managers, my waning fortunes, and how stale the Chelsea bun I’d bought, that very morning, from the local bakery, had been.

“I tell you mother, I knew I was in for a bad day from that point on.”

After I finished my long-winded gripe, mum topped up our gins and pondered my predicament.

Initially, and most generously, she offered some financial assistance.

I knew she was now earning an extremely good income from her paintings and would be only too happy to transfer some money into my account, however, foolish pride made me push the offer aside.

It was my fashion business, I had built it up from nothing, single-handed, and I was damn well going to build it all right back up again.

“Well, the money is there, Eva, should you change your mind,” she said, and then suggesting that maybe having a sale would be a good idea. “Church Street is rather off the beaten track, you need to think of something that will encourage more people to veer off in your direction.”

“A sale, would be neither a novel, nor advisable idea,” I retorted rather testily (I was still in an irritable frame of mind after my brief encounter with the Gittings). “Tres a La Mode is an exclusive boutique, not some cheap throwaway fashion store. The clothes I sell are quality, and people know that because they are expensive.”

“Well, maybe they are TOO expensive, Eva. Have you thought of that? We are going through difficult economic times! All this endless talk of a hard Brexit, mass evacuation by European nationals and the rush to stockpile toilet rolls, it’s left us all feeling very unstable.”

“Of course, we are always struggling with a lack of funding down here in Penswithian mother, but there’s still plenty of wealthy people in London.”

“Well, that’s the trouble, isn’t it, Eva, they’re in the city and not down here where your shop is,” she quipped.

“I beg to differ,” I retorted, “they may work and mainly live in the city, but Cornwall has become a very desirable and popular holiday, stroke, mini-break, destination. That’s what it said in the Sunday Times anyway. Apparently, it’s up there with Tuscany and the Dordogne. Lots of celebrities have second homes down here now. That couple off that daytime telly show, you know, old whatstheirnames, anyway, they’ve got a house in Helston, and the comedian that was in that sitcom I can’t now remember the name of, well, she’s got a farm out near Pendeen, or somewhere. Spats says that Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin from Coldplay came down to Cornwall and stayed out at St. Buryus just before their conscious uncoupling.”

“Well, it’s hardly surprising then that they uncoupled,” scoffed mum, “fancy taking your wife on holiday to St. Buryus, it’s the back of beyond! One pub, a church, and a spattering of old cottages. Not famed for its friendliness to strangers either! With their money, they could have gone anywhere they liked, a lovely tropical island, or some such place. I wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t rained all the time either. They were probably holed up for days in one of those tiny damp holiday cottages that are always furnished with worn out old nineteen seventies furniture. Hardly conducive to a happy holiday or romantic break, is it?”

At this point, I suggested that we returned to the all-important matter in hand.

“It’s not just Londoners and celebrities that have a higher than average income, I reminded her. Don’t forget, even down here, there are some professions that assure a very reasonable standard of living. Take dentists and vets for instance, people’s teeth will continue to rot and pets will inevitably fall ill or die. A vet charges fifty pounds or more just for giving your cat a lethal injection, and that takes seconds, if the animal’s not ready to be put down, you’re potentially looking at an operation that could cost thousands. Don’t even get me started on dentists. I don’t believe I even needed those fillings, and what’s the point of a hygienist? They just nag you incessantly about flossing.”

“I know what you mean, Eva, I spent over five hundred pounds on our lovely old Persian, Mauritius, and then she was put down in the end anyway. I think they knew all along she was a hopeless case. The vet just wanted to maximize the bill before the cats inevitable, and quite foreseeable, demise. After all the money I spent at that clinic, you would have thought they could have thrown in the lethal for free.”

“Anyway,” I interrupted, “once again, we digress from the subject at hand. I know an article in the local paper would help. It’s just that I need to come up with something exciting for them to write about.”

“Have a promotional evening of sorts, like a cheese and wine event or something, That should bring a few people in, and probably get you a short piece in the press.”

That was mum’s next ill-thought-out proposal.

“I’m sure it would, I agreed, all the local free-loaders and alcoholics would be heading down to, Tres a La Mode, in their droves. You just don’t go around offering free wine and food down here in Penswithian, there isn’t the right mentality for it. All and sundry would simply come in, chuck as much booze down their throats as possible, then head off to the nearest pub, probably sloshing wine on the clothing and treading Caerphilly into the carpet, on their way out.”

“What about getting your sister Tiffany’s twins down from London for a visit. Then, get the press to send someone around to photograph the girls outside your shop. They really are becoming quite famous on that clubbing circuit. Hardly a week goes by when there isn’t some sort of twin-related news in the tabloids. Who would have thought it?”

“Not me, I certainly wouldn’t have, I must say, and I’m not sure, famous, is quite the right word, notorious is a more apt description for the sort of coverage they tend to generate. Still, that would have been great publicity, and the twins promised to come down and make a big hoo-ha about visiting the boutique when they are next in town. The trouble is, now that they’re on the fame ladder there doesn’t seem to be time for much else, least of all family. So, who knows, they could be down in a couple of weeks, or we might not see them for six months. You can’t even speak to the girls directly any more. The last time I telephoned, my call was immediately diverted to their agent, who informed me that my nieces were fully booked practically every minute of every day for the foreseeable future. Even poor Tiffany rarely hears from them. Still, as I reminded her, at least you know where they are and what they’re up to, all you need to do is pop down to the local newsagents and you’re bound to see some coverage of their latest exploits splattered all over the front covers. Though I felt duty bound, should she have missed the story, to warn Tiffs that her girls are reportedly hanging around a lot with all those rather unsavoury rapper types at the moment, Most of whom, have been dragged up in the ghettos of New York, where it’s all about gang violence and marking your territory by leaving trainers hanging from telephone wires.”

“That’s the trouble though, Eva, girls always go for the bad boys. I had a real crush on Alvin Stardust in the seventies. ‘My coo ca choo’, was his best song. That tight leather shirt and trousers really suited him. Oh, and those black gloves he wore! The sultry enticing way he looked into the camera as if he was talking to you and no one else. I should have held out for someone like that, instead of marrying your father. The twins ought to make the most of their fame and enjoy themselves, and you know, being a disc jockey is a highly regarded profession these days. Take that Fat Boy something or other, he earns an absolute fortune going to clubs and playing his records.”

I couldn’t help but scoff.

“What on earth do you know about the clubbing scene, or DJ’s, and it’s, ‘Fat Boy Slim’, for goodness sake.”

“Whether he is a fat slim boy, or a fat boy getting slim, is neither here nor there. The names rather silly when you think about it, a complete contradiction in terms. Also, don’t forget, the twins are women breaking into a largely male-dominated profession. You have to admire them for that.”

Again, I could see that the conversation was losing its intended thread.

If we were going to end up discussing equal rights and the suffragette’s (one of her favourite subjects), then I’d be here all night. I needed to get back home and update Spats on the outcome of my meeting with the Gitting’s man.

“I just wanted some money for a facelift, that’s all,” I said to mum, as I made for the door.

“Now that’s ludicrous Eva, and I completely withdraw my offer of a loan if you’re going to spend it on unnecessary surgery. You’ve got a perfectly good jawline, it’s only when you put on weight that it tends to look slack. That old guy up the road, you know, the one that’s got a crush on you, well, he said, just the other day, ‘your Eva could have been a fashion model if she had been a bit taller’.”

I honestly despair of that woman at times, was she being deliberately obtuse?

“I meant for the shop, a refurbishment, for Christ’s sake!”

However, her final remark had got me thinking.

“Fashion model,” now mum, that’s a rather novel idea! That would bring some money in.”

Mum looked worried.

“I don’t wish to be harsh, Eva, the old guy did say, could have been, as in, the past tense. I’m afraid the chance of a modelling contract at your age is most unlikely. Mind you, there are those catalogues that use older women for their frumpier clothes and body shaping underwear.”

“For goodness sake, I’m not talking about me!” I was forced to explain. “I meant, models, as in, catwalk models, a fashion show. If I put on a fashion show I would be almost certain to secure an entire half, or maybe, even, a whole page, in the local paper. There would be lots of great pictures too. Don’t you see, it’s perfect. Excellent free publicity, AND, I’ll make some money out of it.”

“You’ve never put on a fashion show, Eva,” mum reminded me, unnecessarily. “Where do you even begin? I’m sure it’s not as easy as you think.”

I felt obliged to present my credentials as a very good organiser of events.

“People have often praised my talents at putting on a show,” I reminded her. “Remember when I had that Elvis themed party? Nearly everyone said that they had had a really good time. It wasn’t as easy to organise as you might imagine. Finding a venue, arranging a buffet, as well as buying a karaoke machine and life-size cardboard Elvis on eBay, it was no mean feat, I can tell you. Once I set my mind to something, I give it my all, and this is going to be the best damn fashion show this old seaside town has ever seen!”

Feeling quite exhilarated and all fired up, I left my mother’s house and hurried home to relay my new plan of action to Spats.