Howdy Partner

I give Patty the news that I can’t sing any more but I promise to advertise their gigs in the store and then I beg Zoe not to make me go to any more cookery classes. Given the nerves I feel before telling them both, I’m surprised when they both take the news rather well. Too well. Mum was right about Patty – she tells me that my departure is no problem as ‘to be honest, Bo, it’s quite difficult to fit four people on the small stages we get offered’. The act (i.e. my dearest friend) has more room to breathe now.

Most importantly, I tell Charlie that I want to give the business a go. He has the paperwork drawn up and it’s there waiting for me to sign. It’s still strange seeing the name Angela Shepherd staring back at me, it still looks like someone else. I practise my signature a few times and warm the pen up so that the ink flows smoothly. I don’t want to look back on this document and see hesitation or uncertainty. After a few attempts, I’m ready and I swirl my given name boldly, as large as the space allows. The final full stop is a promise to myself to give this all I have.

I’m an entrepreneur.

Within a few weeks, we have launched our new partnership.

I feel very different as I walk to the shop, my shop, on launch day. I am definitely walking on sunshine – so the song goes. I have new shoes, businesswoman shoes, pointy and shiny with killer heels, and today they don’t hamper my ability to skip down the high street one iota.

Charlie is already there and gives me a big hug.

‘Howdy partner,’ he says.

I just smile; it feels good.

We work flat out for the next fortnight. First of all, we give the place a spruce up and nearly come to blows with the ‘decorator slash designer’ (who uses these inverted commas and the slash while talking about himself).

‘What colour says adventure to you?’ he begins, getting out his swatches.

‘Blue?’ I venture. ‘As in ocean.’

‘To me it’s the colour of the Sahara, the earth, the spices of India.’

He goes off on one and whisks out a selection of colours for me to approve; they’re exotically named, ‘Turmeric’, ‘Distant Lands’, ‘Moroccan Dust’, ‘Toasted Maiden’. OK so I made the last one up, but I bet it exists in some paint collection.

‘Lovely names, but at the end of the day – they’re all brown,’ I tell him.

I know by bitter experience that you can be seduced by the names and the fashions in the magazines but if you paint your room brown, you’ll hate it by the end of the week, month if you’re the patient type. Besides which, the shop is orange at the moment (yes, the colour of the sun seemed a good idea back then) and brown isn’t enough of a change.

I insist that he explores the adventure to be found in the oceans and the skies because I know that he won’t settle for being told to paint it blue, especially when he has to get it all done in a week. We find a compromise having spent far too long agreeing that the oceans of the Caribbean are turquoise-green. We settle on Pantone 319.

Next, I have to develop the calendar of holidays; we decide the calendar will change every year and culminate in a big New Year trip. Charlie thinks that having customers on a high in December will ensure that they book up for the next year. So Charlie, Caroline and I sit down one evening and finalise trips for each month of the year. I watch them laughing away at one point and feel the most enormous sense of pride; I’m one of them now, a local businesswoman struggling against the tide of globalism. Or a passionate individual making ends meet by sharing the thing that brings them most joy; that sounds better. Globalism always makes everyone feel guilty: we like the idea of small businesses but supermarkets are always a damn sight cheaper. I can only hope that they don’t start selling holidays.

And so on to the launch of the Mercury Travel Club. In an hour or so Charlie and I are doing a ribbon cut for the Chronicle. We’ve raised some money to send some local carers on a weekend break and everyone who comes in will get a little brochure explaining the club. Caroline is doing the same in her shop, Peter is telling all of his businesses and Josie is putting it on Twitter, Pinterest and Facebook. We’re all doing our bit, so fingers crossed.

All morning I answer messages asking how things are going; customers tell us it looks interesting and we get lots of good luck messages from friends. It feels very exciting and although I know there’s no chance of being fully booked up by lunchtime, I hope to have one booking at least. And a booking from one of us wouldn’t count.

I am so anxious for someone to book up today; it’s completely illogical but I keep thinking that if we get a booking on the first day, it will mean that everything will go well. Now, who can I get to book something?

I scour our local directory to try to find clubs that might be interested; there are an incredible number of social groups around here. Mum’s groups obviously but also Men In Sheds – for men to discuss their problems (like how to keep the remote from their wives, I imagine) – folk dancing and knitting groups.

There is also a local wine school. Now why didn’t I know about that earlier and why doesn’t Patty know about it? You can take qualifications in wine drinking; I can’t wait to tell her, she’ll probably qualify as a professor in no time at all.

They have to be a good target for the travel club, so I ring up the organiser then email through the calendar of events. I tell her we have just launched today and that we have an opening offer for members of the school. She promises to email everyone she knows and when we’ve finished talking I get straight on to the wine merchants and blag the discounted case of Bordeaux I’ve just promised.

I can’t keep hitting ‘refresh’ to see if anyone has booked or I’ll do nothing else all day. I focus and get on with the day job. In the end we have quite a successful morning with late bank holiday bookings. It isn’t until late afternoon that Charlie looks up cautiously.

‘Well, we’ve got a booking,’ he says.

I run over to his desk, wondering why he’s not more excited. I scan the screen for the details.

It’s the very name I’d prefer not to see: Alan Hargreaves + 1.