A Conspiracy of Friends Read Online Free PDF Page B

uncle and the receipt of the news of the legacy he had left her, Merle continued to work in the retro clothing store, but as owner. Her friend, who had tired of the musty odour of the old clothes, of the old jackets and sad dresses, had readily accepted the offer that Merle was now able to make for the business, including the freehold of the shop itself.
    Now that she was the owner, Merle decided to clear out the old clothing and rename the business Everything Olive. Where the racks once groaned under their weight of stoutly built old greatcoats and morning suits, newly installed shelves now bore bottles of exotic and expensive cold-pressed olive oil, alongside jars of oliveswith every conceivable stuffing. Then there were bars of olive oil soap, bottles of olive oil moisturiser and tubes of olive oil hand cream. And all parts of the olive tree were used inventively, as captured whales were in the past, with displays of coasters, soprano recorders and desk sets made from olive wood.
    Everything Olive proved to be a resounding success.
    “I can’t understand how retail places can fail,” Merle remarked to Eddie one afternoon. “The business model is so easy. Buy something for one pound and sell it for two. Simple. You can’t go wrong.”
    Eddie smiled. “Yeah, maybe. But sometimes people don’t want to buy. That’s the problem, I think.”
    “Then find out what they want to buy and sell them that,” retorted Merle.
    “Yeah, whatever,” said Eddie.
    He was not really interested in discussing retail theory with Merle. As far as he was concerned, such matters could be left entirely to her. She had a head for business, he had decided, which suited him very well. Money worries, and the indignities they brought, were not what Eddie had in mind for himself. He was looking forward to a life in which he did not have to bother about such concerns, and now, thanks to Merle, it looked as if just such a life was beginning.
    “Marry me, doll?” he asked.

8. A Designer with an Eye
    M ERLE SAID NOTHING . It was not that she had failed to hear Eddie, who often mumbled, running his words together in the way of some speakers of Estuary English; she had heard his proposalperfectly well. Consequently this was not one of those embarrassing cases where the person to whom the question is popped has to say: “Sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Are you asking me to
marry
you?” There have been many such cases, including some where the proposer, embarrassed by the incredulity to which his question has given rise, has replied: “No, of course not.” And this has been followed by awkward silence, sometimes heralding the end of the relationship in question.
    Eddie’s question was followed by silence because Merle was thinking. She was pleased that Eddie had asked her to marry him, as she had entertained thoughts of marriage from the age of eighteen onwards and had been waiting for a man to propose. None had, or not until now, and it was inconceivable that she would turn down this offer. And yet there was something within her that prompted her to caution. It was not that she had her doubts about Eddie in particular—he was, as far as she was concerned, almost perfect—it was just that she had recently heard a disturbing statistic about the brevity of marriages entered into without a period of reflection beforehand.
    So when at last she answered—about five minutes after Eddie’s question had been posed—it was with a counter-proposal. “Let’s get engaged,” she said. “That gives us a bit of time.”
    “What for?” asked Eddie. “What do you need time for?”
    “To think about things. To find out if we’re compatible.”
    Eddie smiled. “We know that already. Know what I mean?”
    “Oh I know, Eddie. You’re really wonderful. It’s just that it’s best to wait a few months. Then we’ll really know.”
    Eddie shrugged. “So we get engaged. OK, if that’s what you want. We get engaged, and then we get married. Suits