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“It’s old news. Nothing that the town doesn’t already know. Honestly, Malcolm, if the shop was doing well I wouldn’t be si
tting here begging you for a write-up. I wouldn’t be jumping through Lake Benson’s hoops either.”
“I can’t very well write that your business is struggling and you’re desperate for customers.”
“At least that would be honest.”
“Readers don’t want honest, Kirsty—they want sensationalist.”
She pursed her lips grimly. That was something she did know.
“What about the new knickers you’re designing?” He pointed to the clothes rack in the corner. “What if we play that up?”
“No, they aren’t ready. I haven’t had any time to work on them. It definitely isn’t something I want to draw attention to.”
Malcolm let out a long, low sigh. He rubbed a hand over his face as if to rearrange his features.
“Help me out here, Kirsty. You want the publicity, tell me what to write, because as we stand it’s the most boring story in the world. I can just see the headline now: ‘Local lingerie shop does okay.’ It won’t sell papers, lass, and it sure as jiminy won’t sell knickers.”
Kirsty looked around her office for inspiration. The people who’d owned the space before her had used the large back room for storage; Kirsty used it for paperwork and design. In one corner was her old wooden desk, which she’d painted lilac. Behind that were shelves stacked with magazines and paperwork. The rest of the room was taken up with mannequins and a wide sewing table, complete with machine. The walls were covered in photos for inspiration and drawings of works in progress. The clothes rack held ideas she was working on, but the mannequins stood bare. There was no way she could let him write about her collection. Heck, she couldn’t even call it a collection. A few pieces of lingerie by a half-baked designer, who could barely draw, didn’t make a collection.
“He’s a war hero, did you know that?” Malcolm broke her train of thought.
“Aren’t they all?”
“I suppose so, but this guy has medals. You wouldn’t know it to look at him. If I had medals I’d be telling the world, but he never mentioned them. I found out when I looked him up on the internet.”
“You met Lake?” Kirsty leaned over the desk towards him.
“Sure.” Malcolm shuffled on his chair as though he was a boy sitting outside the headmaster’s office. “He was in the pub last night. Nice guy. He walked old George home when he could barely stand. Dougal was ready to phone his daughter and get her to pick the old sod up, but Lake stepped in saying he needed a walk and practically carried George out of the pub.”
“Well, he might be nice to old people. And he probably deserves his medals. He may even get another one for putting up with Betty, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s trying to close me down.”
“He says he isn’t trying to close you down, he’s only trying to be a success—and if your shop shuts in the process, then that’s just business.”
Kirsty gaped at him, making his neck break out in red patches.
“You spoke to him about this?”
“After you called yesterday, I thought it would be a good idea to hear his side.” He shuffled his feet and did a bit more belly rubbing. “I don’t think there’s any malice in the war thing. He only had good things to say about you.”
“You don’t think there’s any malice?” Her eyebrows went so far up her forehead they were practically on top of it. “The man doesn’t care what damage he causes, he wants me to fail.”
“In a nice way.” Malcolm shrugged helplessly.
Kirsty couldn’t believe her ears. She could feel her blood beginning to boil again. All she wanted was a quiet, safe life, and instead she had to deal with Lake Benson and the truckload of problems he’d dumped on her doorstep.
“How can you ruin someone in a nice way?” she demanded. “Never mind. I have a story for you. You can write about the threat of amateurs to professional expertise. How anyone thinks they can do anything these days because they can look it up on the internet and become an instant expert. Ask the women of the town who they would like to deal with—someone with years of experience in women’s lingerie, someone who knows how to make the female body look its best, someone who’s made a living doing just that, someone who understands the need for sexy but comfortable lingerie...or someone who knows how to drive a tank and carry a machine gun?” She sat back in her chair with a grunt. “Honestly. I’m competing for business with a guy who knows nothing about it. He has an evil elf for a helper and his sign says he deals in knickers. This should be a no-brainer for people. Tell Invertary not to be dazzled by his movie star looks and charm that could get you out of your underwear in ten seconds flat. We’re not in the business of undressing people, we’re here to sell them lingerie. Tell the town that!”
Malcolm was writing furiously.
“Can I quote you on that?”
Kirsty was too busy muttering about amateurs and arrogant army men to pay much attention to what he was asking.
“Whatever,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
