Annie's Promise by Margaret Graham Page A

use of the designs. He’s just called. What the hell do we do?’
    Annie said nothing, just held the phone. Exclusive use? Exclusive use, for God’s sake. ‘How dare he,’ she finally said. ‘How bloody dare he? He’s messed us around and now this. Tom, we’ve used those designs for all the new market stock, the Madam shops, but put on different trim. He said that was fine. What’s he playing at? Go back to him. Tell him they’re out on the stalls but with different trim, just as he agreed. Just tell him.’ She was shouting.
    She hung up, leaning her head on the banister, then paced the hall, running her fingers along the wallpaper, twisting the door knob, dusting the mirror with her handkerchief, running her fingers through her hair. This was outrageous, dangerous, they mustn’t agree. She pounced on the phone when it rang. ‘Manners says the copies are to be off the stalls by tomorrow at the latest or the order’s off,’ Tom said.
    Annie breathed deeply, who the hell did Manners think he was? The man was nothing more than a bully and she’d had enough of them to last a lifetime. Good God, it meant ruining their existing markets, it made the business too vulnerable, there’d be no fall-back if anything went wrong. And these traders were her friends, they were loyal, they’d been with her from the start.
    Her knuckles were white on the phone, her arm was trembling, her head was aching. What the hell was going on? Did he really expect them to go along with this?
    ‘No Tom, you’ll have to tell him no. If I pull back the traders’ stock it leaves them with nothing. We’re their sole suppliers. We can’t do that to them. Just tell him no. Call his bluff, we can’t just be restricted to him, it’s bad business, it’s dangerous – we’re out on a limb with debts to pay.’ Her hands were shaking, her legs too. He’d gone too far.
    There was a silence. ‘I’ll tell him we’ll ring him back tonight, let’s think about it – it’s the big one, Annie. I know, see how many you can run up of the old stuff for the stalls.’ Tom’s voice was taut. ‘I’ll say I can’t get a decision, catch Georgie as he comes off shift, discuss it with him. He’ll know what to do, we don’t want to blow it.’
    There was a click as he put the phone down and Annie held the empty receiver. I know what to do, her mind shouted. I know what to do too – we wait until the new tour, do it sensibly. It was all she could think as she sewed up the oven gloves, one after another until her fingers were sore. Then she dragged out all the boxes she could find and counted through the stock. There was very little left. She checked through next season’s designs, perhaps she could bring thoseforward but she’d never get enough done in time for tomorrow’s delivery and the traders hadn’t approved them anyway.
    She threw the sketches across the table. Why the hell should the stall holders suffer because of that man?
    She stoked up the range, dragged on an apron, mixed flour and margarine, slammed the oven door, not caring that there was flour on the floor, waiting, because she knew that Georgie and Tom would come.
    She watched them open the door, stand and look at her. ‘We’ve rung Manners and agreed,’ Georgie said.
    She checked the scones, took them out, tipped them on to the rack. She had known they would, but they were wrong, they were being panicked, they hadn’t thought it through, not properly, couldn’t they see that? She washed the baking tray, trying to contain her anger as she spoke. ‘If we agree to Manners we’ll be putting all our eggs in one basket. We did it with Sarah’s money, we’ll be doing it again. We must just wait for the new tour.’ Her voice was quite calm, quite quiet.
    Georgie dragged out a chair, threw his lunch-box on the table, slumped into the chair. ‘It’s not the same thing at all, Annie, that was a stupid mistake, this is business. It’s a good order, you can see that –