Never Fall for Your Back-Up Guy by Kate O’Keeffe

Chapter 2

Monday morning rolls around, and I exit the Tube Stop at Kensington High Street and take my daily walk to our design shop. At first, we had a bunch of clients. After taking night school classes in interior design together, we’d given up our jobs to start the business—Scarlett as a marketing assistant for a tech company and me as a graphic designer. We were incredibly grateful to have made a splash in the London interior design scene, even if it was just a tiny one.

I find my pace slowing as it always does when I reach Karina Design. Although we love our charming bijou shop down the cobblestoned mews, it can’t compete with the big, flashy, in-your-face shop.

We’re the epitome of the little guy, up against the big, corporate design chain with its big budgets and gang of designers. We’re just like Meg Ryan to Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail—although I’m fairly certain neither Scarlett nor I are having an online love affair with Karina’s owner, not least of all because the owner is a woman in her 80s.

Today, Karina has a new display. It’s got a group of canary yellow chairs suspended on a rope from the ceiling, with a sea of scatter cushions in bright hues beneath. It’s eye catching and ingenious, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy that our window is only a quarter the size and, because our shop is so small, suspending chairs from our ceiling would be a health and safety violation.

With the spring well and truly gone from my step, I make my way further along the busy street. I come to a stop in front of one of my favourite shops, a pet store called Penelope’s Pooches that always has a puppy or two in the window, and today is no exception. Really, it’s impossible to pass without stopping to look. I’ve wanted a dog since forever, but it’s never seemed the right time.

Today, as I come to a stop in front of their picture window with its pale blue trim and clouds hanging from the ceiling on string, the most adorable little face gazes back at me.

My heart skips a beat.

That’s my dog.

Yeah, I hear it. It’s probably not the most rational thought I’ve had today. But I’m running with it.

I gaze at the puppy and take a step closer, all but pressing my face up against the cool glass. The puppy bounces out of its bed, its tail wagging so hard its little body can barely keep up. Its face is calling out to me Buy me! Buy me! I’m yours! with every bounce of its little body. Although it’s small, it looks to be a few months old.

“Hello, little Jack Russell,” I say through the glass.

The puppy’s response is to tilt its head to the side, its ears pricked up. My heart might be beating normally right now, but it’s begun to melt all over the pavement for the little creature so eager to see me.

I decide to go in just to have a look. I know, I know. No one ever just looks at a puppy they’re thinking of getting and walks away. In fact, it’s probably an impossible human feat. But who knows? I may be that person with an ironclad resolve.

Then again, maybe not.

I push at the door, but it doesn’t budge. I peer inside and see a couple of people in pale blue boilersuits stacking shelves. One look at the sign tells me the shop is closed.

I turn back to the puppy and its tail begins to wag violently once more. “I’ll be back later, okay? Just make sure no one else takes you.”

It’s only response is to gaze back at me.

With a final glance, I reluctantly continue my walk to the shop.

Five minutes later, I make my way through the door into our shop. Scarlett is on the phone.

“I’m very sorry that you’ve chosen to go in another direction, Janice. Is there anything we can do to change your mind?” Scarlett says from behind the desk.

I glance at her tense features and my heart sinks to my toes. I mouth “Janice Cromwell?” and when Scarlett gives me a grim nod, I know we’ve likely lost one of our biggest new clients.

“No, I understand. They do have a good reputation, you’re totally right,” she continues as I turn the sign from closed to open. “We might be a lot smaller, but we do have that personal touch so many clients love, and we—”

She pauses mid-sentence and I bite my lip.

“Yes, thank you, Janice…okay…if you ever change your mind, you know where we are… Yes, I understand.” She hangs up and lifts her eyes to mine. “Janice Cromwell and her 5-bedroom townhouse off Sloane Square no longer feels she can continue our working relationship.” She slumps her shoulders as she lets out a defeated puff of air.

“Don’t tell me. Karina?”

“Yup. Another paycheque in the shredder.”

“Oh, Scarlett. That’s terrible. We’d already done so much work on the design.”

“I know we had, but it was all a waste of time. Janice Cromwell has abandoned ship and gone to the Dark Side.”

I watch as she pulls up the work calendar we share to keep track of when we each have appointments so that at least one of us is in the shop at all times. She deletes Janice’s entry, and in an instant our week looks dismally empty.

“Don’t give up hope,” I say, trying to remain buoyant.

She pastes on a smile. “You’re right. There will be other Janice Cromwells, with her huge budget and expensive taste.”

“Well, at least we’ve got Asher,” I say with a grin.

She harrumphs. “Friends doing us favours isn’t exactly going to buy us an island, babe.”

“I know, but it’s a start.”

Scarlett’s phone rings again. She picks it up and says hello as she wanders out to the storeroom and mini kitchenette at the back of the shop.

Left alone, I smooth out my ponytail as I survey the shop. We had a delivery of the most stunning, luxurious, deep green velvet sofa last week, which I staged with a collection of jewel tone cushions and a brass floor lamp. It’s the kind of sofa you could imagine supermodels sinking into, looking awfully glam, and I smile whenever I look at it.

I notice a book on landscape gardening off centre on the brass and glass coffee table, so straighten it up.

I peer out the window, hoping to see a gang of potential new clients rushing the door, but the quiet mews is empty but for a tortoise shell cat, sauntering down the cobblestones.

“Okay, babe. I’d better dash. Kisses. Ciao ciao ciao.” Scarlett gives her characteristic farewell as she hangs up her phone. I’ve never once known her to say a simple bye. She’s not even Italian. She’s from Solihull, but you’d never know it from her accent.

“Last night was fun,” I say to change the subject from the dreary topic of before.

“It’s not every day one of my besties turns such a shockingly old age,” she teases.

“Three more days, remember? And besides, you’ll be thirty at the end of summer, you know.”

She puts her fingers in her ears and trills, “La la la la la. If I can’t hear you, it’s not going to happen.”

I grin at her. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, I see.”

“At least you get a big party at Martinston,” she says, naming my family’s house in the country where all of my family but me still live. “I bought the most gorgeous dress to wear on Saturday. I want to look good for Harry.”

“You still dating Harry Honeydew?”

“Oh, yes. He’s a total catch. There’s no way I’m giving up on him.”

“Because you like him. Right?”

“Oh, that too,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “We’ll both be there to commiserate with you.”

“I’ll be thirty, not dead. And you know what? I’m not bothered about turning thirty. In fact, I think it’s going to be pretty wonderful.”

She raises an eyebrow. “‘Wonderful’ might be taking it a bit far, babe. It’s one step closer to the grave, or worse: wrinkles.” She gives a dramatic shudder.

I roll my eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Wrinkles are a real and present danger at our age, Zara. You need to take them seriously.” She shoots me a meaningful look and I self-consciously scrutinize my face in the gilded mirror.

“You know turning thirty is no big deal. I’ve made my peace with it”

“You have?”

Although I’ve told my closest friends—Tabitha, Kennedy, and Lottie—about Asher being my back-up guy, I haven’t mentioned it to Scarlett yet. My best friends know it’s just a safety net, that I won’t actually end up marrying the guy. Something tells me Scarlett might not understand it like they do.

“I’ve got a plan.”

“You’re having Botox!” she declares in excitement.

“No. Not a wrinkle plan, Scarlett. More of a life plan.”

She rolls her liner-rimmed grey eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those life coach devotees who can’t do anything that’s not in her grand plan. Who are you seeing? Not Delilah Sorbonne? She told me that I needed to work with sea urchins. I mean, what is that about? Can you even get a job working with sea urchins?” She shudders. “Ugh.”

“No sea urchins. I’ve got a plan to get what I want, that’s all.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I really, really want?” I say, repeating Asher’s 90’s girl band line.

Scarlett regards me as though I’ve lost my mind. “You’re quoting The Spice Girls to me now?”

“It’s a joke.”

“Not your best work, babe. I’ll ask again: what have you worked out that you want?”

“You know what it’s like out there in the dating jungle. It’s scary and unpredictable.”

"That’s an understatement.”

“So, I’ve got myself a back-up guy in case things go pear shaped for me in the love stakes. He’s my safety net. If I don’t meet the man of my dreams in the next five years, I’ll marry the guy.”

“You’ll marry him? Zara, you really have gone insane.” She throws her hands up in the air. “That’s it. ScarZar is dead. You’ll be carted away by the men in white coats before the day’s done and I’ll be left on my own, battling Karina.”

“Might I refer you to my earlier comment about you being a drama queen?”

“Babe, you’ve got to admit that going through with marrying some back-up guy definitely falls into the less sane side of the ledger.”

“It’s a practical plan.”

“Who is this back-up guy of yours, anyway?”

“Asher.”

Her jaw drops. Literally. “Asher? He’s your back-up guy and…and he agreed to marry you?”

“Well, yes, but not for five years. And it’s not going to happen, anyway. It’s a back-up plan. Nothing more.”

She regards me through wondering eyes. “But he’s gorgeous.”

I’m mildly offended.

She pulls her lips into a line. “I think that’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in my entire life: you marrying Asher. What about love? What about soul mates? Don’t you want all of that?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m still looking for my soul mate. Only this way I can take my time doing it, knowing that if I don’t find him, I can still get married and have a family. It’s the perfect plan, and five years is loads of time to find him, fall in love, and get married.”

Scarlett looks anything but convinced. “I suppose so.”

“I’m also thinking of getting a dog.”

She shakes her head as though I’ve loaded too much information into it and she’s trying to make room in her brain. “You are?”

"You know I’ve wanted a dog for ages. On my way in today, I saw the one I want in the window of Penelope’s Pooches.” I grin as I think of the cute dog in the window.

“What kind?”

“The best kind. A Jack Russell.”

“Cute! Wow, Zara. Dog ownership, a back-up guy. Are you having a mid-life crisis or something?”

“I’m turning thirty, not fifty.”

“Tell me more about the dog. Ooh, he could come here and be our shop dog! People would love it.”

“I know! That’s exactly what I was thinking. You know that dress boutique off the King’s Road with the little black miniature poodle?”

“I love going in that shop.”

“And you know why?”

“You’re going to tell me it’s because of the dog and not the gorgeous dresses.”

“It is the dog. And the dresses. But mainly the dog. That dog makes the place friendlier, more relaxed. It gives it a personality all of its own. That’s what my dog will do for this place.”

“I like it. We can have photos done of our interiors with the dog in them, sitting there looking all cute and Jack Russell-y. It could be our signature, a shorthand to show prospective clients who we are and what our philosophy is.”

I giggle, excitement bubbling over. “That’s a lot for one small dog to do, but I love it.”

She smiles. “You know what? I think a shop dog might be just what we need. Can I come with you when you go to get it?”

“Of course you can!” I throw my arms around her and give her a quick squeeze. “You are not going to regret this.”

“As long as the dog doesn’t smell.”

I beam at her. “It’ll smell like roses. Promise.”

The bell above the door tinkles and a mother and daughter walk in. The mother is wearing what I like to call the Kensington Uniform: a knee-length shift dress under a smart tailored coat and a row of pearls. Always a row of pearls. The daughter on the other hand is a goth. Long black hair, white face foundation with black-rimmed eyes, and every piece of clothing she’s wearing is black, black, black.

“Hello, ladies, and welcome to ScarZar Interiors. How can I help you?”

“My daughter has moved into a new flat and the décor is simply hideous,” Mrs. Kensington Uniform says.

“Muuuuum,” the daughter complains, looking mortified. She’s probably only eighteen or nineteen and still deeply embarrassed by her mother. “It’s not that bad.”

“Oh, darling, it is. It’s simply awful. Wallpaper has peeled off the walls and you and your friends all sit on beanbags instead of chairs. I think I even spotted a beer crate in the corner. A beer crate!”

“It’s called rustic, Mum,” the daughter replies with a roll of her eyes and a flash of her tongue piercing.

“No, darling, it’s simply no style at all, that’s what it is.” She looks back at me. “My daughter needs design rehab.”

I offer them a smile. “Well, I’m sure we can help with that. What were you looking for exactly? Some chairs and a sofa, I assume? Some new wall treatments, and perhaps a coffee table to replace the beer crate?”

“I want the whole lot done. Living room, bedroom, dining. Do you do outdoor spaces too?” she asks.

Scarlett materializes at my side. “Did I hear you say you want to redecorate the whole flat? Hi, I’m Scarlett. Zara and I own ScarZar.”

“Victoria Hamilton, and this is my daughter, Chloe.”

We all shake hands, the daughter as though it’s the most uncomfortable thing she’s had to do in her entire life.

“Lovely to meet you, Victoria and Chloe,” Scarlett says with a smile. “What style direction are you interested in taking?”

The tall, lanky daughter shrugs. “I dunno.”

“And that’s the problem,” her mother chastises as she rolls her eyes at us.

“I always say that if you stand for nothing, you’ll fall for everything,” Scarlett says, trying to sound like some sort of wise style guru—although I know she’s only quoting a Katy Perry song. “So, how about I tell you what we can do for you?”

Victoria beams. “That sounds amazing. Doesn’t that sound amazing, Chloe?”

“I suppose,” is her wildly enthusiastic reply.

“We can accommodate it all: modern, Hollywood glam, farmhouse, rustic farmhouse, modern farmhouse. All the farmhouse styles. Then there’s ultra-modern, loft style, Hamptons, of course, the blue and white classic. And let’s not forget there’s…”

I watch as the customers’ eyes glaze over. Well, to be fair, Chloe’s eyes were already glazed over way before Scarlett began, but now her mother looks like a deer in headlights, too. Scarlett has a habit of throwing way too much info at people. Sure, she knows her stuff, but she doesn’t need to prove it with every person who walks through the door.

Karina stealing our business has a lot to answer for.

“I’m getting a moody vibe from you, Chloe, dark with ornate accents,” I interject and win a surprised look from Scarlett. “Am I right?”

“Maybe?” She’s not giving me a lot here.

“How about I show you some examples of what I’m talking about?”

Her face brightens for the first time since she walked into the room. “Sure.”

I take her and her mum over to the computer, where I pull up examples of the gothic style. “See the darker tones but still with light walls and natural light to create a contrast? Does that look like what you’re interested in?”

Chloe’s eyes dart to her mother. “Do you like that?”

“I think it looks dreadful, but if you like it, darling, then I’m happy to pay for it. As long as there’s none of that,” Victoria exclaims as she points at an image of a dungeon-like room with walls covered in swords.

“I can understand that perfectly,” I reply with a smile. “A room can have too many swords on the walls.”

“I don’t want swords, but I do like the style,” the daughter says.

“How about I go out to back and get some fabric samples and we can use them as a springboard for working out a style plan?”

“Marvellous,” Victoria replies.

“Take a seat,” I say, gesturing at the green velvet sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

As I’m rifling through our extensive material samples, Scarlett slinks over to me. “I’m sorry, I went overboard again, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine. Just maybe don’t throw the book at them when they walk into the shop. People can get freaked out. And then there’s the fact that it was pretty obvious the daughter was going to go in the goth direction, what with looking like the walking dead and all. The navy and white Hamptons palette was hardly going to cut it.”

“Good point. I’ll tone it down. I panicked. Losing so much business to Karina lately has totally got inside my head.”

“I get it. I do it, too. But this is a real opportunity, so let’s grab it, okay?”

Her pinched expression morphs into a tentative smile. “We need this.”

“We do.”

“Hey, don’t you have that meeting with your future husband shortly?”

“My future husband?” I question. “Oh, right. You mean Asher.” I glance at the mock Baroque wall clock. I’m meeting him at his flat over in Notting Hill in just over half an hour.

She takes the samples from my hands. “You go and do what you have to do. I’ll take over and I absolutely promise not to blind anyone with my extensive knowledge.”

I giggle. “Your problem is that you know too much.”

She grins at me. “It’s tough being so expert. Now go and see your husband.”

I collect my handbag, slot my tablet into its case, and say, “Back-up only, Scarlett.”

She grins at me. “You just keep telling yourself that.”