Page 2 of What Would Dolly Do?

T he next morning, I tumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen in a daze.

I’d slept fitfully, dreaming of being marooned on a tiny jagged rock in the middle of a fast-flowing stream of tequila, while Robbie waved frantically at me from the riverbank, wearing a giant pair of bright green spectacles.

I blamed it on the midnight cheese on toast.

Grayson’s looked like The Olde Curiosity Shoppe, a Victoriana-tinged throwback with a bulging bay window stuffed with glittering trinkets, vintage treasures and jewels.

The heavy old door had dinged as I’d pushed it open and triggered the big gold bell above it.

Inside, softly glowing wall lamps bounced reflected light off antique wall mirrors, glass display cases and the polished mahogany furniture.

It had felt like stepping inside a genie’s magic lamp.

Gordon Grayson, the old feller who introduced himself rather formally as the ‘ proprietor of the establishment ’ had turned out to be an amiable Scottish gent with old-school manners and a pair of very twinkly blue eyes below the tangled explosion of his black and grey eyebrows.

For the first couple of weeks, I’d loved working alongside Gordon and his lovely wife Morag when she popped in to help.

The shop was their pride and joy. They knew so much about the jewellery trade and were happy to try and teach me.

Old customers adored them and new ones instantly respected them, they had such a natural way of welcoming people into Grayson’s.

They were a lovely couple clearly still very much in love with each other and they shot to the top of my relationship goals chart.

They teased each other a lot but it was always done kindly and I couldn’t help but notice how much they enjoyed being together.

Working at a jeweller’s had never been my dream but I was surprised not just by how much I often enjoyed it but also by the fact it seemed to be something I was good at.

Other than singing, I’d never really found a skill to be proud of before, but Gordon said I had a good eye and with his help, in the few months I’d been there, I’d learned an awful lot about precious and semi-precious stones, cuts and settings.

Grayson’s business was built on unique pieces, vintage finds and some dazzling investment jewels.

Gordon and Morag showed me how to spot the real deal among all the fake and fashion jewellery, to know it by sight and feel and weight.

He had a magpie eye, and while he loved the dark gleam of a real sapphire, or the twinkling charm of an opal, he loved paste and costume jewellery too, but only when it was sold honestly as that.

Gordon always said we owed it to our customers to be truthful about what we bought and sold, to find the value in every piece and match it to the right customer.

I loved how Gordon didn’t just care about the technical side – hallmarks and clarity, patina and provenance – but he also taught me how to find what suited a customer.

I’d soon learned, when someone came in glancing at the pear-cut diamond earrings in the corner cabinet, whether they were likely to walk out with them, or if I should direct them to tourmaline clusters or the elegant Art Deco glittering drops instead.

And if anyone came in asking to value or sell their grandmother’s diamond engagement ring, I quickly learned how to tell if it was more likely to have come from a mass Chinese shipment than a treasured relative’s legacy.

In addition to all the new things I’d learned, I’d spent my career as a Dolly Parton impersonator covered in rhinestones and crystals, so maybe that was why I was able to spot genuine diamonds so easily?

Whatever the reason, it was a talent that Gordon and Morag valued and they’d eagerly welcomed me into the Grayson’s fold and made me feel like family.

But now as I slammed the door to my flat behind me I felt my stomach lurch with dread about the day I had ahead of me in the shop.

I’d only been working at Grayson’s for a few months but an awful lot had happened in that time.

I trudged despondently down the three flights of stairs to the street, recalling how the atmosphere had been shattered the day Gordon had received a phone call telling him Morag had been found unconscious in their front garden by a neighbour.

We’d closed the shop straight away and rushed to the hospital to find that poor Morag had suffered a stroke.

I’d been able to hold the fort by myself for a little while until we reopened a few days later and Gordon came back into work in between shifts of sitting at Morag’s bedside.

I’d done my best to keep things going, for Gordon and Morag’s sake as much as my own.

I actually relished the opportunity to show how much I had learned and it was lovely to be able to help people buy special pieces of jewellery to mark an occasion, or a gift to loved ones.

Gordon had taught me never to rush anyone, but to take an interest in customers, try to gauge their tastes and budget, and to find out who the purchase was going to be for.

‘The real trick is to match the purchase to the customer, don’t just try and shift the most expensive items in stock,’ Gordon had told me more than once.

‘That way they are more likely to recommend us to their friends and come back and use us again. It’s the real secret of being a successful and trusted independent family business. ’

Gordon’s mantra made complete sense to me.

I’d quickly found I wasn’t a natural at the hard sell.

I didn’t like to be pushy and I certainly didn’t relish clinching a deal unless I was sure I’d matched the shopper with the perfect item.

If I felt someone was stretching themselves too far to afford a diamond engagement ring, I’d much prefer to show them some alternative ideas like Gordon had shown me.

That way seemed to work out better for everybody.

But things had changed since then in the twinkly world of Grayson’s jewellery emporium. The cosy atmosphere had been punctured by the arrival of Gordon and Morag’s son, Guy.

A few days after his mother’s stroke, Guy had flown into Edinburgh from Silicone Valley.

With a striking sun-kissed quiff, a face full of Botox and a strangulated mid-Atlantic accent, Guy couldn’t have been more different from his kindly, well-mannered parents.

I’d taken against him almost immediately.

I don’t see how anyone could blame me. For a start, it had taken his mother to have a stroke before he could haul himself across the ocean, trailing his tiresome Californian wife, JoJo, and vapid teenage daughter, Kourtney, along with him.

‘Well, ain’t this quaint?’ JoJo had drawled as the three of them poked around inside the shop the day after parachuting into Edinburgh from La La Land. They all occasionally flashed sets of enormous white teeth but I figured their smiles were as fake as their gnashers.

I couldn’t blame Gordon for treating Guy like the prodigal son but the thought that he might want to take over the family business was ridiculous … and horrifying. I’d overheard JoJo whispering to Kourtney that the place needed a complete make-over for a start.

‘It’s far too dark and dingy,’ she’d hissed at the girl who looked even more bored than usual and simply carried on scrolling on her phone.

Gordon had agreed immediately when Guy offered to ‘help out’ in the shop despite my hints that we could manage without the input of a ‘digital marketing strategist’, whatever in the big wide inter-web world that was?

‘He and JoJo are family, Becky hen, and this is a family business. We all need to pull together now. That’s what his ma would want after all,’ Gordon reasoned, not unreasonably, but I was not convinced.

Guy and JoJo’s idea of ‘helping out’ appeared to me much more like ‘taking over’. Guy’s methods were completely alien to the Grayson philosophy.

‘Exclusivity, that’s the key,’ he kept on saying. ‘We don’t want every browser and dreamer in here. If they’re not ready to spend big, I don’t want them through the doors. This is a shop, not a museum.’

Guy appeared to sneer at every potential customer who crossed the threshold as he eyed them disdainfully and assessed their spending power.

He took no interest in their taste or style and always pressed for the highest price sale he could get.

Worse, I’d seen him deliberately undervalue a couple of pieces that people had come in to sell.

I hadn’t been in the trade for long but I knew he was ripping people off.

There had been one elderly gentleman who had come in to get a price on his late wife’s vintage watch.

In a voice shaking with emotion, he’d started to talk about her: he obviously hadn’t been a widower for long.

But Guy had ridden roughshod, given him some fast-talking pitch and the poor soul had left with far less cash for the beautiful timepiece than I knew he was due.

I couldn’t get the bereaved man’s disappointed, grief-stricken face out of my mind.