New Arrivals - 1. Chapter 1

Lizzie forces open one of the large sash windows as far as her diminutive frame can push it. She’s greeted by a blast of super-heated summer air drenched in petroleum by-products. And the noise. Crowds of people talking, shouting, calling to one another in so many languages. Lizzie focuses for a moment, taking time to untangle some of the threads. She stops when her count of languages reaches twenty. Plus there’re some she doesn’t recognise. Even after a lifetime of travelling the world and meeting people, she doesn’t know everything.

A scowl mars her usually serene expression. She wonders why all those people are outside. Some will be waiting to visit her home, she knows, but really everyone should be indoors with her. Spending their money in this pathetic excuse for a gift shop which, a quick glance around confirms, currently boasts a grand total of two customers. One, a thin scrap of a woman not much younger than Lizzie, gazes at the displays with a dull wistfulness which signals she’ll leave without buying anything. Not even one of the tacky, Chinese-made Union Jack key rings.

Lizzie dismisses the woman with a shrug before craning her neck to regain sight of the other customer. Not for the first time, she makes a mental note to tell Chas the shelves are too high. If they can’t afford a surveillance system, then anyone staffing the shop must have clear sight-lines.

She sighs. Really, she should retire. Put her feet up. Take a state pension and move to a cheaper part of London. Find somewhere that’s small and comparatively modern, or at least, with fewer than three hundred years under its belt. Hampstead’s nice and leafy, she’s been told, but Chas won’t hear of it. Well, she thinks, if her son won’t let her go, she’ll make her presence in the gift shop felt.

Her mind’s eye reproduces the balance sheet from the shop’s first year under Chas’ control. She winces. Suddenly, there were no more retail consultants. No more focus groups. Not even the remnants of the original stock -- or fittings -- which were sold off in the first rush to liquidate assets. And so, Chas was left to rebuild. Throwing money away doesn’t come close to describing his efforts. There again, Chas lacks financial acumen. She knows that. Despite Lizzie’s best efforts, her son and heir keeps his head in the clouds.

A flash of mirrored aviator sunglasses catches her attention. Before she can move to intercept their owner, a wiry, youngish man with spiky hair who’s up to no good, she hears Chas’ measured tones asking the man a question. Her lips purse. She bends down to the cupboard beneath the cash register, steadying herself with one hand on the cashier’s seat. Both knees click as she lowers herself further and one hip transmits a jolt of pain from the awkward angle. She grabs a heap of stapled, dog-eared paper from the mess on the lower shelf and straightens slowly.

One finger flicks through the pages, its nail -- like all the others -- buffed and painted by the skilful Sri Lankan man at Green Park tube station. Having to use public transport for the first time in her life has been an education. With her other hand, Lizzie gropes in her handbag for reading glasses. There on the next sheet from the local retail consortium’s watchlist is the youngish guy. Lizzie huffs out a sound of satisfaction. She’s getting good at this. Her son never bothered keeping the sheets until the shop lost several hundred pounds of stock over a single weekend. The ensuing row between them lasted for days, only resolving itself when Lizzie insisted she work two days a week at the gift shop in an effort to regain control.

Already she sees positive change in the bottom line. It hasn’t come from their sales. Lizzie shakes her head. Most of the stock could usefully find its way to the nearest recycling plant. Or the bin. No, as elsewhere in the family firm, there’s been a period of re-evaluation and re-purposing, driven by the same severe cash flow crisis that gutted the shop. It’s resulted in several family members being put out to grass and more than half the loyal workforce losing their positions. Which is why Lizzie is now in the shop running things.

She spots the mirrored glasses again and heads off down an aisle of garish London tat to intercept their wearer. The steady click of her sensible black shoes ceases when massed ranks of one souvenir monstrosity seize her attention. She stares first at them, then at the price demanded. Who in their right minds will pay twenty-five pounds for a blue and yellow rubber duck with a head and neck -- except for the bill -- shaped like the Elizabeth Tower? The hybrid monstrosity’s allure holds her for a moment longer before she pulls her gaze away and searches again for her prey. She spots hair spikes briefly in the region of their costume jewellery display.

Lizzie tuts loudly. Trust the little bastard to seek out the only stock of any value. She hurries to catch up, arriving a little out of breath and slightly flushed under her face powder. The man turns, his face a mask of polite enquiry.

She asks pointedly, “Is there anything I can help you with?” Her eyes fix him with a gimlet stare she’s used to great effect throughout her career. Usually with men, though not always. She reserves it for anyone who thinks she’s a fool.

The guy swallows. “I’m just looking, thanks.” He shuffles his feet, giving her a sideways look before moving on to the next display case.

Solid-silver friendship bracelets occupy his attention for several minutes. Lizzie counters by examining nearby shelves with a view to effecting a reorganisation. The book section only appears to comprise titles written by her son. Worthy, boring tomes on architecture, farming, plant rearing, and comparative religion sit unopened, their spines yellowing in the sun.

Lizzie swears under her breath. Time for a chat. She turns and calls, “Chas!”

Her son’s hiding in the plant section. The lime-green Crocs he’s taken to wearing -- with hairy socks -- are poking out from behind the decorative trellis partition. She rolls her eyes. The Albanian twenty-four hour cash-and-carry a mile down the main road has a better selection of plants. And they’re mostly alive.

“I’m busy, mummy.”

Aviator glasses man sniggers. Lizzie clears her throat. The man flinches and moves sideways into the one pound aisle. She’s content to leave her potential troublemaker there. He’ll do them a favour if he nicks the lot.

“Chas, we need to discuss a restock.”

Her son blinks slowly. “Do we?”

“Yes. In fact--” Lizzie has a lightbulb moment. “The shop needs reinventing. By the time of our second anniversary, I want this whole place transformed.”

“Oh.” Chas looks around, a frown from hurt feelings evident. “We’re helping so many disadvantaged people by what we stock now, mummy. These products of their hard work and endeavour are simply splendid. I find them truly inspiring.”

“I realise that, darling, but currently we’re not helping these people.” Keeping her tongue in check is going to be difficult. “We’re not helping them if we don’t sell anything, if we can’t pay them for their products, if we can’t attract paying customers into the shop. And anyway, I think we’ll have to concentrate on helping us. You and me. We’ve got to be first.”

The pained expression on Chas’ face turns to one of puzzlement.

An urge to roll her eyes sweeps over Lizzie. She resists with difficulty; a lifetime’s conditioning in maintaining a public persona only takes her so far. “Think, darling. We’re on our own now. No government grants. No taxpayer-funded underpinning. We both live in this huge barn of a place. It costs a king’s ransom to heat in the winter; there’s no air-con for days like today.” Her pale green shift dress with silver-thread appliqué feels likes she’s wrapped herself in a blanket. A poor choice. “We’ve got to keep the public rooms up to a reasonable standard. Can’t have tourists seeing how far the rot has set in.” Lizzie shrugs. “Chas, no-one else is going to pick up the tab.”

A phone rings. Lizzie automatically looks for her handbag before realising she’s left it at the cash desk.

Instead, Chas answers. “Hello, Cee’n’Cee’s homoeopathy and organic simples. Always carbon neutral. Chas speaking. How may I help you?”

This is something new. Lizzie listens in, although there’s not much to hear. The enquirer is holding court, irate tones ranging from a hiss to a bellow. Chas holds the phone close to his ear. His already florid complexion darkens. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Lizzie doesn’t really care. Her son’s probably forgotten to post an order or pay a supplier. Or both. Or perhaps he’s poisoned someone. She’ll give the homoeopathy three months, maybe four, if Chas is lucky.

She spins on an expertly reheeled shoe and marches back to the cash desk. The gift shop is now devoid of customers. Aviator glasses man has evidently got the message and left. Lizzie examines the cash till. It’s new, computerised, and has so many functions she doesn’t know where to start. During the demonstration, the saleswoman rattled through the options, fingers flying across the screen, to most appearances, a highly proficient automaton. Everything was aimed at Chas who sat there, benign smile on his face, taking in one word in three and understanding even less. Lizzie growls in frustration.

With a sigh, she bends down to the cupboard again, this time re-emerging with a promisingly fat instruction booklet. Clutching her reading glasses in one hand, Lizzie settles down to learn. Until recently, they had people for this. Techs on call. No longer.

She’s struggling to understand why there’re only two pages in the entire booklet written in English when a shadow passes over the cash desk.

“’scuse me.” The voice is female, strong, and confident.

Lizzie looks up to see a young woman dressed -- if that’s the right description -- in a black, stretchy, cut-off vest and micro-shorts. Her bright-blue-and-pink-striped Rasta braids are piled on top of her head. A tattoo running down the side of the woman’s neck reads, Fuck you too, I’m bi.

A brilliant smile brightens Lizzie’s face. This is a new customer. A new, never-before-seen species of customer. “How can I assist you, madam?”

The young woman scowls. “You can start by dropping the classist, patriarchal ‘madam’ shit. Name’s Donna.”

The smile wavers a little before Lizzie rallies. “Welcome, Donna. How can I help you?”

“Where’s the rest of your bags?”

“Excuse me?” Lizzie stands. “Our display of bags is over here.” She indicates the general direction. There’s a loud click from her wretched knees as she steps away from the desk, remembering to pick up her own bag this time. “I’m sure you’ll--”

“They’re crap. Seen better rip-offs down Camden Market.”

“Oh.” Lizzie squares her shoulders. Donna is a good nine inches taller than she is, even without the hair. “Well, we are considering a revamp of our stock. Maybe you’d like to--”

Donna’s scowl darkens. “What? Engage with plutocrats? Assist profit-hungry corporations to further exploit hardworking, underpaid citizens? Fuck that. Nah, I want one of them.” The young woman points to Lizzie’s bag. “That’s sick, that is.”

Bewildered, Lizzie stares at her own bag. Large, black, shiny, and over ten years old, the bag is as much part of her as her hair or glasses. “I’m sorry, Donna, but this item isn’t part of our current stock.”

Donna lets out a disgusted noise. “For fuck’s sake! What’s the point in you having that shit if this dump doesn’t sell them?”

Before Lizzie can say another word, the young woman turns and stomps out of the shop, her shiny, black, calf-high Doc Martens making an impressive noise in the high-ceilinged room. Lizzie sinks back down onto the cash desk seat, momentarily despondent.

Then her brain kicks into gear. They need new thinking, never mind new stock. A new customer base they haven’t previously tapped into. She’s considering the possibilities when Chas wanders past, looking at a loss.

He swerves in her direction. “Mummy, what’s for lunch?”

She indicates a patterned china plate, covered by a cloche, that’s appeared as if by magic next to the cash till.

Chas leans in, sniffing eagerly. “Fish fingers! How splendid. With organic ketchup?”

Lizzie draws the plate closer. “No. With yesterday’s spinach pasta reheated. And it’s mine.” Her son whimpers. “Chas, you know how it works. If you don’t tick the online takeaway menu first thing in the morning, you’re on your own.” The days of a five star, in-house catering service are no more.

“I forgot.”

That elicits a shrug. Lizzie’s deep into her research. Her son wanders off again, muttering about an organic tofu-and-wild-garlic sandwich on spelt and rye. She makes a mental note to monitor Chas’ finances. Why should she put up with leftovers while he feasts? Maybe he even has steak sometimes? Or Dover sole. Lizzie tuts loudly before raising the cloche. A damp fishy aroma escapes. She grabs one bright-orange-encrusted oblong, dips it in decidedly non-organic tomato ketchup and ignores the pasta. It may be filling, but at her age, pasta irritates her guts.

Time passes. Lizzie’s enthralled, wandering round parts of the internet she never knew existed. Fortunately, she remembers how to operate a VPN. A tech demonstrated how to cover her online tracks that time she investigated her younger son’s antics. For that matter, if she has to sign in anywhere during her explorations, Drew’s details are what she uses. Serves the wastrel right.

In the afternoon’s soporific heat, Lizzie’s thoughts return to that day, way back, when she got married. It was a big military affair with loads of uniforms for the men and sparkly layers of chiffon and silk for the women. All kinds of headgear were worn. Out of habit, one hand reaches up to check her hair. She usually has a little something as part of her hairstyle to remind her of those long ago times. Inspiration stirs. Music’s been a big part of her life, too. Elton John, Queen, Shirley Bassey, and Grace Jones have all entertained her at one time or another. And, of course, she knows about Abba and Kylie Minogue. More thoughts emerge.

She rummages in a drawer for paper and pencil. They buy only the cheapest, recycled greyish-white paper now. A stub is all she can find to write with. Lizzie draws two columns. Into the first goes stuff suitable for a prince(ss). It quickly fills up. She stares at the second. There’re been plenty of dark things in her family’s past, done by them and for them. She quickly filters the possibilities, bearing in mind some of the more eye-opening sites she visited earlier.

Leather and metal objects predominate. As she writes, this column seems to comprise a torturer’s shopping list with its many implements and restraints. A bedroom torturer maybe, but still someone with an appreciation of kink and pain. Lizzie shakes her head. She’s learned a lot this afternoon. There’ll be a few larger wooden items as well. Furniture, of a sort. All the retail versions will have to be less scary than the originals. Fun and sexy but effective. She’s sure there are plenty of relics hidden away in various dark corners which will serve as references.

The unique selling point will be that they’re all hers. Or her family’s. Sort of. Lizzie takes a moment to reflect on that. Should she include her coat of arms? Branding’s important, she knows. Of course, this stuff won’t be the shop’s entire stock. There’ll be books of all kinds. Books that will provoke, inform, and most importantly, sell. Plus several ranges of souvenirs derived again from what’s around her. History you can take home.

They’ll have to pay someone to get the shop’s website to function properly. And to design all the new stuff. And produce it. They’ll definitely need capital. Lizzie wonders who in government will be open to an enquiry. There should be someone with kink in their background. By all accounts, half the bloody cabinet are worth more than she is now. Lizzie adds her questions below the lists and double underlines them.

“Mummy!”

She looks up to see Chas trying to read her writing, his head cocked at a strange angle. There’s an expression of stupefied horror on his face that makes her giggle. “Yes, darling?”

“What?” Other words fail him. He points to the second list, his mouth open in disbelief.

“Chas, you don’t have to go far on the internet to see all of this and a whole lot more.”

“But why?” He turns and makes a rhetorical gesture to take in the gift shop in its current form. “This is so much better.”

Lizzie swallows a deep sigh. “The days when our shop could be merely decorative or virtue signalling are long gone, Chas. This is a revenue stream we need to maximise. Did you see last month’s electricity bill? And it’s not even winter. Why shouldn’t we stock things made by reinventing elements of our family’s past?”

Chas splutters. “It cheapens us.”

That gimlet stare makes another appearance. “Sex and kink and dressing up didn’t ‘cheapen’ our ancestors. Don’t you recall the various Stuarts? And one of the many Edwards. Queer history is part of our history. How many of our ancestors got away with it because they could? How about the rest? Those citizens you profess to be so interested in?”

“You’ve never said anything before.”

“Neither have you.”

There’s an impasse. It doesn’t last long. Lizzie sighs. “I’ve been educating myself for a while. Maybe you should consider doing the same.” She raises an eyebrow. “Especially if we do end up selling some of this stuff.” There’s a brief pause. “Perhaps we should arrange for some educational videos to run alongside the standard content on our Vevo channel?” Chas blanches. She shrugs. “Something else to think about. So what if the stock’s different? As in any shop, people are free to leave without buying anything. That’s what they’re doing now anyway.”

Chas’ jaw falls open as he searches for a reply.

A soft cough makes them both wheel around.

Lizzie removes her reading glasses and blinks up at a young man in his twenties who’s appeared out of nowhere. He’s toned, tanned and wearing clothes that fit him like a glove. In fact, Lizzie might swear the young man’s jeans are spray-painted on.

A smile brightens his face. “Hi. I’ve browsed the shelves. Can’t find what I’m looking for.”

For some reason Chas butts in with a reply before Lizzie. “We’ve just taken delivery of some simply marvellous elephant dung notepaper. You’ll love it.” He smiles encouragingly.

Lizzie starts a mental list to be discussed with her son later, in private.

“And there’s the latest consignment of grow-your-own mushroom kits. They’re hugely popular.”

This is news to her. There’s a twitch to the young man’s lips which makes Lizzie hide her own small smile.

Chas is getting into his stride. “And if you scan a special QR code, you’ll be gifted thirty minutes of cello music. That’s from me actually, though I confess to being a little out of practise. All you have to do is give a donation to--” He falters. “Err, I do believe it’s one of my own charities. Is it?” A pause follows. It’s obvious he has neither QR code nor charitable cause to hand. Then Chas turns. “Be right back!” he calls brightly to their customer and flees towards the exit.

Lizzie sends up a brief prayer for patience. Equilibrium restored, she produces one of her best smiles. “What is it you’d like? We’re looking to refocus our stock and if it’s something we’re don’t carry currently, I’m sure we’ll give it consideration.”

The first young man is joined by another taller, more slender youth who’s wearing the same kind of clothing. That too gives the impression of having been moulded on. They have a brief wordless, amused exchange of information of the kind which only couples share. She recalls doing the same with Phill on many occasions.

The slender man indicates his companion. “Justin would love a tiara.”

Justin rolls his eyes and mock bats the other man away. “I don’t, Ash!”

“Yes, you do.” Ash turns to Lizzie. “He’d love to have one just like the one you’re wearing.”

Why is everyone suddenly so keen to look like her? Lizzie frowns. Possibilities hover in the background. Interesting, hopefully favourable possibilities. The frown fades.

Ash hurries on, “Justin’s a drag queen. Sue d’Nym.”

“I’m new to the scene. Still getting my costume together.” Justin blushes.

Ash puts an arm round him. “You’ll be divine, sweetie.”

The blush deepens.

Lizzie takes a firm hold of her piece of paper. “We don’t carry any tiaras or crowns in stock currently.”

“Currently?” Justin echoes back at her, his eyebrows rising.

“Well--” She produces the proto-business plan. “If you could both spare a minute or two to give us feedback on this, we’d be very grateful.”

The young men have another of those silent conversations. Ash holds out his hand for the paper. They move away slightly and stand together, reading.

Lizzie hears snorting. Giggles. A gasp. She looks in their direction. Justin is now bright red. Ash watches him with a loving, sexy smirk. They exchange a brief kiss before returning to her scribbles.

There’s another gasp. Of longing, this time, Lizzie thinks. Her surmise is confirmed by a heartfelt sigh from Justin. He stares at the paper like he wishes Santa Claus would bring him every single item listed. Ash leans towards his companion, their heads almost touching, and whispers something. Justin snuggles closer. His ears, peeking out through loose brown curls, are flushed pink.

The loving warmth between them is palpable. Lizzie recalls similar times from her past and brushes away a tear or two. She returns to the cash till, traitorous instruction booklet in hand. Why promise knowledge when all that materialises are a few ambiguous pictograms and an offer to message the company’s social media accounts in the event of trouble? Reading glasses at the ready, Lizzie peers at the till’s screen. A finger wanders across the display, hesitating periodically, until she decides to press a button. Only the one button. She watches the machine die instantly. No lights, no power. Nothing.

The scream catches in her throat when her two guinea pigs return to the desk. She shuffles rapidly through her stock of smiles to produce something appropriate. It barely conceals the urge to wield an axe. Or maybe a sledgehammer. Something to reduce the smug, silent machine to its component parts.

Maybe there’s still a hint of it in her eyes. Justin shies away, managing several steps in reverse until the other young man catches his arm and hauls him back. Lizzie takes a deep breath. “What do you think? Good or bad, we’d love to hear it.”

Ash takes the lead. Justin appears content to listen. “We both love these,” Ash points to the first column. “Justin wants everything in every available version.”

The pink spreads out from Justin’s ears to the rest of his face.

“I’ll join him in some things but not others. I’m not really a princess. We’d want all of them to be good quality, though.” Ash grimaces. “There’s a lot of expensive, useless shit around.”

Lizzie bristles. As if anything bearing her imprimatur would be either of those things.

Ash gestures behind him to the displays and shrugs apologetically. “Some of your current shit is, well, shit, in my opinion.”

She can hardly disagree. “Noted.” There’s a lightness in her spirits though. Even if that’s all they like, it’ll be sufficient to make the change. To put into motion their rebranding. Lost in thought, Lizzie doodles on the wretched instruction booklet. Really, she muses, they should make use of her coat of arms. Play around with the lion and unicorn images. It’d show pride in everything they offer.

Ash coughs politely.

Lizzie blinks at him. “I’m sorry. Do continue.”

“The …err, kinky stuff--” Ash now looks a little ill at ease.

“Yes?”

“We know a Dom. He’s really great. I’m sure he would give his professional opinion if you asked. For a fee, of course.”

“Some kind of endorsement?” Lizzie has no idea how this works.

The young men look at each other, eyes wide. Ash gets his phone out and taps the screen.

Justin gives her a smile. “Don’t think so. He’d just prefer the stuff is functional and safe. Sexy as fuck but safe.”

“Justin,” Ash touches his arm. “It’s four. D’you think he’ll be back from work?”

Lizzie misses Justin’s reply. Four? Where has the day gone? She pats her hair, smooths the dress as best she can and picks up the elderly handbag. Chas can sort out the cash till and lump it. He attended the training, after all.

She smiles at the two young men who are huddled round the phone. “Thank you so much for your feedback. It has been extraordinarily helpful.” They stop whatever they’re doing and look up. “I regret I’ve got to be somewhere else. The afternoon just sped by.” Lizzie spots two figures in the distance, striding through the grandiose public rooms towards the gift shop. Time to hurry things along. She tears off a scrap of paper. “Here’s my number. Phone me later and we’ll continue our chat. It has been lovely to meet you both. I’m sure it won’t be long before we have a whole range of new arrivals on display here.”

Justin takes the number. “Sure.” He seems unfazed by the abrupt ending to their conversation. Ash chimes in with, “Looking forward to it.”

They both stroll towards the exit without a backwards glance. Lizzie lets out a long breath.

Two older men arrive, one in uniform, the other in a dark lounge suit. They both bow. “Your majesty,” they chorus. The civilian continues, “The French ambassador is here to present his credentials, ma’am.”

Lizzie can’t avoid a sigh. So it’s back to the other day job. The unpaid day job. Just as well she doesn’t really wish to retire.

Yet.