Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

identity.’
    ‘Spare me the therapy-speak. In proper English, please.’
    Agatha cracked. ‘In proper English,’ she howled, ‘I need something to bolster my ego, which you have been doing your best to destroy. Nit-picking all day long. Yak, yak, yak. “Don’t do this, don’t do that.” Well, stuff you, matey. I’m going back to work.’
    He rose abruptly and headed for the door. ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Agatha. But the slamming of the door was her only answer.
    The following day, Agatha put on a charcoal-grey trouser-suit, pleased that the waistline was now quite loose. There was something to be said for marital misery. James had stayed away the whole of the previous day and had not arrived back home until Agatha had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Breakfast had been a doom-laden, silent affair. She could feel herself weakening. She had prepared breakfast but everything had gone wrong. She had burnt the toast and the scrambled eggs were lumpy and hard. And she could feel the atmosphere weakening her. She longed to say, ‘Forget it. You’re quite right. I won’t take the job.’ But somewhere she found a little bit of courage to help her ignore his mood.
    It was another fine late spring day as she motored along the Fosse to Mircester. Following Roy’s directions, she cut off before the town to an industrial estate on the outskirts. It was a new estate, the ground in front of the factories still having a raw, naked look.
    She thought it a good sign that she was not kept waiting. In Agatha’s experience, only unsuccessful business people massaged their egos by keeping people waiting. She was ushered into a boardroom by an efficient middle-aged secretary – another good sign, in Agatha’s opinion. She was introduced to the managing director, the advertising manager, the sales director and various other executives.
    In the middle of the boardroom table was a large leather boot. The managing director, Mr Piercy, began right away. ‘Now, Mrs Raisin, that boot on the table is our Cotswold Way model. We want to promote it. Mr Hardy, our advertising manager, suggests we should get one of the rambling groups and kit them out.’
    ‘Won’t do,’ said Agatha immediately. ‘Round here, people think of ramblers as hairy militant types. How much is a pair of boots?’
    ‘Ninety-nine pounds and ninety-nine pee.’
    ‘That’s quite expensive for the youth market and it’s the young who go for boots like that.’
    ‘We’ve done our costing and we can’t bring down our price.’
    ‘What about television advertising?’
    ‘We’re a small company,’ said Mr Piercy. ‘We want a simple launch and then the boot will sell on its merits.’
    ‘In other words,’ said Agatha brutally, ‘you can’t afford to pay for much hype.’
    ‘We can afford a certain amount but not nationwide coverage.’
    Agatha thought hard. Then she said, ‘There’s a new group in Gloucester called Stepping Out. Heard of them?’
    Heads were shaken all round.
    ‘I saw a documentary about them on Midlands Today ,’ said Agatha. ‘They’re an up-and-coming pop group – three boys, three girls – all clean-cut, good image. They recently had a record that was number sixty-two in the charts, but they’re being tipped for stardom. If we could get them fast, kit them out in the boots, get them to write a song about rambling – they write their own songs – and give a concert, you might catch them just before they become famous. Then your boots will be associated with success.’
    The advertising manager spoke. ‘How do you know about this group, Mrs Raisin?’
    ‘It’s a hobby,’ said Agatha. ‘I automatically look out for who I think is going to be famous. I’m always right.’
    They thrashed her idea around, Agatha bulldozing them when they seemed tempted to reject it. In the back of her mind, she wished she were working for a large company and not this hick outfit, as she privately damned it. Something to really impress James. But James was not going to be impressed by anything she did, she thought sadly.
    They finally decided to accept Agatha’s scheme. ‘Just one thing, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mr Piercy. ‘Your name was given to us as Mrs Lacey.’
    ‘That’s me.’
    ‘Don’t you use it?’
    ‘No, I’ve used the name Raisin in business for years. Easier to keep it.’
    ‘Very well, Mrs Raisin. Would you like an office here?’
    ‘No, I’ll work from home. I’ll try to set up something with the pop