James was sitting in front of his computer, scowling at it. He had managed to have one military history published and had felt sure the next one would be easy, but he seemed to spend days frowning at a screen on which nothing was written but ‘Chapter One.’ He had his hand on his forehead, as if he had a headache.
“I’ve got a job,” said Agatha.
He actually smiled at her. His blue eyes crinkled up in his tanned face in that way that still made her heart turn over. “What is it?” he asked, switching off the computer. “I’ll make us some coffee and you can tell me about it.” He headed for the kitchen.
All Agatha’s misery about their marriage disappeared. The old hope that all they were doing was experiencing some initial marital blips lit up her soul. He came in carrying two mugs of coffee. “This is decaf,” he said. “You drink too much of the real stuff and it’s not good for you. Your clothes smell of smoke. I thought you’d given up.”
“I just had the one,” said Agatha defensively, although she had smoked five. When would people grasp the simple fact that if you wanted people to stop smoking, then don’t nag them and make them feel guilty. People are told when dealing with alcoholics not to mention their drinking or pour the stuff down the sink because it only stops them looking at their problem. But smokers were hounded and berated, causing all the rebellion of the hardened addict.
“Anyway,” said James, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down opposite her, “what’s the job? Who are you fund-raising for now?”
“It’s not a village thing,” said Agatha. “I’m taking on a contract to promote some new shoes, or boots, rather, for a firm in Mircester.”
“You mean, a real job?”
“Why, yes, of course, a real job.”
“We don’t need the money,” said James flatly.
“Money’s always useful,” said Agatha cheerfully. Then her smile faded as she looked at James’s angry face.
“Oh, what’s up now?” she asked wearily.
“You have no need to work. You should leave employment to those who need a job.”
“Look, I need this job. I need an identity.”
“Spare me the therapy-speak. In proper English, please.”
Agatha cracked. “In proper English,” she howled, “I need something to bolster my ego, which you have been doing your best to destroy. Nit-picking all day long. Yak, yak, yak. “Don’t do this, don’t do that.” Well, stuff you, matey. I’m going back to work.”
He rose abruptly and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” demanded Agatha. But the slamming of the door was her only answer.
¦
The following day, Agatha put on a charcoal-grey trouser-suit, pleased that the waistline was now quite loose. There was something to be said for marital misery. James had stayed away the whole of the previous day and had not arrived back home until Agatha had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Breakfast had been a doom-laden, silent affair. She could feel herself weakening. She had prepared breakfast but everything had gone wrong. She had burnt the toast and the scrambled eggs were lumpy and hard. And she could feel the atmosphere weakening her. She longed to say, “Forget it. You’re quite right. I won’t take the job.” But somewhere she found a little bit of courage to help her ignore his mood.
¦
It was another fine late spring day as she motored along the Fosse to Mircester. Following Roy’s directions, she cut off before the town to an industrial estate on the outskirts. It was a new estate, the ground in front of the factories still having a raw, naked look.
She thought it a good sign that she was not kept waiting. In Agatha’s experience, only unsuccessful business people massaged their egos by keeping people waiting. She was ushered into a boardroom by an efficient middle- aged secretary – another good sign, in Agatha’s opinion. She was introduced to the managing director, the advertising manager, the sales director and various other executives.
In the middle of the boardroom table was a large leather boot. The managing director, Mr. Piercy, began right away. “Now, Mrs. Raisin, that boot on the table is our Cotswold Way model. We want to promote it. Mr. Hardy, our advertising manager, suggests we should get one of the rambling groups and kit them out.”
“Won’t do,” said Agatha immediately. “Round here, people think of ramblers as hairy militant types. How much is a pair of boots?”
“Ninety-nine pounds and ninety-nine pee.”
“That’s quite expensive for the youth market and it’s the young who go for boots like that.”
“We’ve done our costing and we can’t bring down our price.”
“What about television advertising?”
“We’re a small company,” said Mr. Piercy. “We want a simple launch and then the boot will sell on its merits.”
“In other words,” said Agatha brutally, “you can’t afford to pay for much hype.”
“We can afford a certain amount but not nationwide coverage.”
Agatha thought hard. Then she said, “There’s a new group in Gloucester called Stepping Out. Heard of them?”
Heads were shaken all round.
“I saw a documentary about them on
The advertising manager spoke. “How do you know about this group, Mrs. Raisin?”
“It’s a hobby,” said Agatha. “I automatically look out for who I think is going to be famous. I’m always right.”
They thrashed her idea around, Agatha bulldozing them when they seem tempted to reject it. In the back of her mind, she wished she were working for a large company and not this hick outfit, as she privately damned it. Something to really impress James. But James was not going to be impressed by anything she did, she thought sadly.
They finally decided to accept Agatha’s scheme. “Just one thing, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mr. Piercy. “Your name was given to us as Mrs. Lacey.”
“That’s me.”
“Don’t you use it?”
“No, I’ve used the name Raisin in business for years. Easier to keep it.”
“Very well, Mrs. Raisin. Would you like an office here?”
“No, I’ll work from home. I’ll try to set up something with the pop group and arrange to meet you tomorrow.”
¦
Agatha drove back to Carsely feeling exhilarated. But as her car wound down to the village under a green archway of trees, her mood darkened. She let herself into her own cottage where she still kept her business papers and computer. She had logged the name of the pop group and their manager into her computer, a sort of public relations reflex. She then went to a stack of telephone directories. She selected the Gloucester directory and began to look up the manager’s name, Harry Best. There were several H. Bests listed. She settled down to phone them all. One of the H. Bests turned out to be the father of the manager she was looking for. He gave her Harry Best’s number and she dialled that. She crisply outlined her plan for publicizing the Cotswold Way boot.
“I dunno,” said Harry Best in that estuary-English accent that Agatha found so depressing. “We’re hot stuff. Cost you a lot.”
Agatha took a deep breath. “This needs to be discussed face to face,” she said firmly. “I’m coming over to Gloucester. Give me your address.”
He gave her a Churchdown address. Churchdown is actually outside Gloucester. As Agatha drove off again,
