Read Online Summer Daydreams by Carole Matthews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carole Matthews
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hand, Amelia Fallon’s nagging voice is in my head, filling my brain with negative vibes. On the other, it feels like a tiny little bud of something exciting might be blossoming in there too.
‘I’ll support you, whatever you want to do,’ Olly says. ‘But starting your own business? Wow.’
‘I know. It’s crazy.’ But crazy actually feels quite good. ‘I thought I could perhaps design and make handbags. Maybe sell a few in Betty’s shop.’
‘You’re not going to become rich and famous selling a few in Betty’s shop,’ he quite rightly points out.
‘It’s a start, though.’ I hug the cupcake cushion to me. ‘I can fit it in round my shifts at the chippy and see if it takes off. Phil said I can hang on to the money he loaned us. He thought there might be some business grants available too. Do you think I should go for it?’
‘Why not?’ Olly says. ‘If you do it part-time. As a sort of hobby.’
‘Yeah.’ Hobby, my arse. ‘It won’t be as mad as the last few weeks have been. I promise.’ I keep quiet about my budding plans to give Lulu Guinness a run for her money.
‘Petal has missed you,’ he tells me. ‘So have I.’
He shimmies up to my end of the sofa and we lie along the length of each other, settling into the contours that are now so familiar.
‘Hmm,’ Olly says. ‘Remember when we used to do this as teenagers?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I murmur. ‘I always had to watch where your hands were in case my mum or dad walked in.’
‘Oh, happy days,’ Olly says. His lips find mine and he holds me tightly.
Then the door opens and, instinctively, I check if my clothing is in place.
‘When are you coming to bed?’ Petal says, rubbing her eyes. ‘I can’t sleep without you.’
Olly rolls away from me. ‘Petalmeister, what are you doing up? You should be in bed.’
‘So should you,’ our daughter says. ‘Have you seen the time?’
Why is it that your children like to parrot back your own phrases to you?
‘OK,’ Olly says. ‘We’re coming now. Scoot up those stairs as quickly as you can, otherwise you’re in your own bed.’
Petal leaves the room in a whirlwind.
Olly sighs. ‘When did our lives become controlled by our child?’
‘When she was born,’ I remind him.
‘Shall we go up? We’re not going to get a minute’s peace until we do.’
‘You go up,’ I tell him. ‘I just want to do a few things. Maybe sketch out some ideas.’ After the last few weeks of struggling to be creative on request, I suddenly find that I’ve got all kinds of things buzzing round my head.
‘Don’t be long, hun.’
‘I won’t.’ He plants a lingering kiss on my head and goes out of the door.
I get my college bag and pull out my sketch pad. I settle back into the sofa with it propped up on my knees and push away the yawn that wants to come. It’s no good. I’m way too comfortable. If I stay here, I’ll only fall asleep.
I take my pad and climb the stairs. Dude lopes out of the kitchen and quietly follows at my heels. Trying not to disturb my family, I creep into the spare room and, surrounded on all sides by Olly’s beloved records, open the wardrobe. The dog curls up in the corner.
My collection of handbags is neatly laid out in front of me. Frankly, it’s about the only bit of the house that is neat.
Pulling out half a dozen, I lay them on the floor then tenderly slip each one out of its dust bag. There’s a striking black-and-white canvas bucket bag with a screen print of Judy Garland on it – still one of my favourites. Next to it there’s a bag with bamboo handles and a bright tropical print featuring parrots and palm trees studded with sequins and beads, which was fantastic to wear when Olly and I used to have holidays that didn’t involve a cramped tent or a caravan. The tiny shimmery gold affair with cream vintage lace was bought for my cousin’s wedding from a flea market and hardly ever gets an outing, even though it’s gorgeous. I might take it with
‘I’ll support you, whatever you want to do,’ Olly says. ‘But starting your own business? Wow.’
‘I know. It’s crazy.’ But crazy actually feels quite good. ‘I thought I could perhaps design and make handbags. Maybe sell a few in Betty’s shop.’
‘You’re not going to become rich and famous selling a few in Betty’s shop,’ he quite rightly points out.
‘It’s a start, though.’ I hug the cupcake cushion to me. ‘I can fit it in round my shifts at the chippy and see if it takes off. Phil said I can hang on to the money he loaned us. He thought there might be some business grants available too. Do you think I should go for it?’
‘Why not?’ Olly says. ‘If you do it part-time. As a sort of hobby.’
‘Yeah.’ Hobby, my arse. ‘It won’t be as mad as the last few weeks have been. I promise.’ I keep quiet about my budding plans to give Lulu Guinness a run for her money.
‘Petal has missed you,’ he tells me. ‘So have I.’
He shimmies up to my end of the sofa and we lie along the length of each other, settling into the contours that are now so familiar.
‘Hmm,’ Olly says. ‘Remember when we used to do this as teenagers?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I murmur. ‘I always had to watch where your hands were in case my mum or dad walked in.’
‘Oh, happy days,’ Olly says. His lips find mine and he holds me tightly.
Then the door opens and, instinctively, I check if my clothing is in place.
‘When are you coming to bed?’ Petal says, rubbing her eyes. ‘I can’t sleep without you.’
Olly rolls away from me. ‘Petalmeister, what are you doing up? You should be in bed.’
‘So should you,’ our daughter says. ‘Have you seen the time?’
Why is it that your children like to parrot back your own phrases to you?
‘OK,’ Olly says. ‘We’re coming now. Scoot up those stairs as quickly as you can, otherwise you’re in your own bed.’
Petal leaves the room in a whirlwind.
Olly sighs. ‘When did our lives become controlled by our child?’
‘When she was born,’ I remind him.
‘Shall we go up? We’re not going to get a minute’s peace until we do.’
‘You go up,’ I tell him. ‘I just want to do a few things. Maybe sketch out some ideas.’ After the last few weeks of struggling to be creative on request, I suddenly find that I’ve got all kinds of things buzzing round my head.
‘Don’t be long, hun.’
‘I won’t.’ He plants a lingering kiss on my head and goes out of the door.
I get my college bag and pull out my sketch pad. I settle back into the sofa with it propped up on my knees and push away the yawn that wants to come. It’s no good. I’m way too comfortable. If I stay here, I’ll only fall asleep.
I take my pad and climb the stairs. Dude lopes out of the kitchen and quietly follows at my heels. Trying not to disturb my family, I creep into the spare room and, surrounded on all sides by Olly’s beloved records, open the wardrobe. The dog curls up in the corner.
My collection of handbags is neatly laid out in front of me. Frankly, it’s about the only bit of the house that is neat.
Pulling out half a dozen, I lay them on the floor then tenderly slip each one out of its dust bag. There’s a striking black-and-white canvas bucket bag with a screen print of Judy Garland on it – still one of my favourites. Next to it there’s a bag with bamboo handles and a bright tropical print featuring parrots and palm trees studded with sequins and beads, which was fantastic to wear when Olly and I used to have holidays that didn’t involve a cramped tent or a caravan. The tiny shimmery gold affair with cream vintage lace was bought for my cousin’s wedding from a flea market and hardly ever gets an outing, even though it’s gorgeous. I might take it with
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