After the One Cass Lester (best books to read for young adults txt) 📖

to double-check her sums, but she’d actually called Nisha to ask about things like paying tax and whether she should set herself up as a company… or whatever.

Well within her comfort zone, Nisha rattled off business advice with eloquent and easy expertise.

‘As a sole trader you won’t have to tell HMRC until your income is over a grand.’

‘But I earn more than that from the pub!’

‘That doesn’t count,’ replied Nisha, ‘It’s only the income from your business that matters, your self-employed income. Just keep meticulous records of any payments, and then, if you make over a thousand pounds, register the business then.’

‘If!’ thought Charley understandably deflated by Nisha’s evident lack of confidence in her, but she tried not to show it in her voice when she said, ‘Okay, thanks,’ before going on to say tactfully, ‘And… how are things with you?’ She was deliberately oblique, leaving it up to Nisha as to whether she wanted to share more about her problems to do with her ex or not. Apparently, she did.

‘Not great. I’ve told Jay I can’t raise the money, so now he’s threatening to take me to court.’

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Charley, ‘That’s a bit heavy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes and no. If he wants to change the divorce Court Order he’ll have to go to court. But I think he’s bluffing. I’m sure it’s La Bimbo pushing him. It’ll be hugely expensive, plus I’ve pointed out he might not win, which means he’d have to pay all the costs – mine, as well as his.

‘How did he take that?’

‘He went rather quiet. I don’t think he’s got the guts to take me to court.’

Charley could only hope her friend was right. ‘Well, you know where I am if you need me,’ she said, ‘Not that there’s much I can do—’ she trailed off.

‘There’s not much anyone can do.’ Nisha sighed stoically. ‘And anyway, worst-case scenario is I’ll have to sell the flat and buy a smaller place. It won’t be the end of the world.’

It would be for me, thought Charley, but then her flat was filled with happy memories of Josh, whereas Nisha’s flat… well, that place had witnessed more acrimonious moments and bitter rows than wedded bliss.

‘It’s just that…’ Nisha started again, but she broke off sounding anxious, and Charley wondered if she was worried how Charley might judge her. After a pause Nisha carried on tentatively, ‘It’s not about losing the flat, it’s more the thought that he will have won. La Bimbo will have everything… everything I wanted… kids, a happy family. And I’ll have lost. I don’t even get to be part of the rest of his family any more, she gets them, too.’

Charley felt for her. That was a loss which hadn’t even occurred to her, since she was still a big part of Josh’s family.

‘D’you want to come round?’

‘I’m too busy,’ said Nisha, pulling herself together, yet sounding regretful. ‘But thanks for asking… and thanks for being there.’

‘Of course I’m here for you!’ exclaimed Charley.

Nisha didn’t respond immediately, and then she said, ‘Thanks. And fingers crossed he’s bluffing!’

‘Crossing everything,’ replied Charley.

In contrast to Nisha’s measured, professional approach, Angie was wildly enthusiastic, and immediately offered to design some customised gift bags for Charley.

‘I was just going to order some snazzy ones off the internet to start with,’ Charley told her. She was wary about the cost of getting some printed specially.

‘You can’t do that!’ wailed Angie down the phone. ‘It’ll look really amateurish!’

Charley cringed. She hadn’t even considered that.

‘Come round, we’ll do it together. It’ll be fun!’ pressed Angie, and Charley caved.

By the time she got there, Angie and the boys were already set up at the kitchen table, which was strewn with art materials. At one end were the kids’ tubs of felt tips, wax crayons, finger paints, piles of garish stickers and bags of colourful fluffy pom-poms, while at the other end was a pile of decidedly more expensive-looking materials, including graphite pencils, charcoals, water colours, acrylic paints and oil pastels. They were placed well out of the reach of small fingers, Charley noticed.

‘The boys want to help,’ Angie explained, and Charley was horrified, until her mate went on to say, ‘I thought you could help them at that end of the table, and I’ll work at this end.’

‘Okay,’ said Charley ruffling the boys’ hair and happily joining them at the nursery end. This is what she loved about Angie’s house: there was always something going on, someone doing something, or making something, usually noisily, and always messily. If she and Josh had had kids, she’d have wanted her home to be just like it.

Angie was busy mocking up some mini carrier bags out of printer paper and sticky tape. It all looked a bit Blue Peter to Charley, until Angie said, ‘It’s important to design your logo with the end purpose in mind.’ At which point Charley became immediately impressed by this new, professional version of her mate.

‘Now, what are you calling yourself?’ asked Angie.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your business name?’

‘I haven’t got one!’

Angie tucked her hair behind her ears and hummed pointedly.

‘I suppose I could use my name? Charley’s Party Bags…or Charley’s Pamper Bags. Does that sound okay?’

‘No! It sounds like you’re the sex trade!’ exclaimed Angie, and Charley snorted with laughter.

‘What’s that?’ piped up Eliot.

Biting her lip, Charley slid Angie a panicked look, but nothing phased Angie.

‘Just something grown-ups do,’ she replied casually, which seemed to satisfy Eliot.

‘Mummy, look!’ Finn proudly held up a paper carrier he’d completely plastered with felt-tip pen scribbles and a mass of garish stickers and pom-poms. ‘I done my bag for Charley!’

‘That’s lovely, sweetie,’ said Angie, then turning to Charley and, apparently in complete seriousness, she asked, ‘What do you think?’

‘Awesome!’ pronounced Charley, before adding tactfully, but just as seriously, ‘But I was thinking maybe something a little less busy?’ Angie suppressed a smile.

In the end, Angie designed her an all-purpose bag that said, ‘A gift for you’ in a simple, but bold, gold font. She’d added the word