Free A Walk in the Park by Jill Mansell

and logging in, Harry had been pleasantly surprised. The website had been up and running for sixteen days now and they’d already sold nine shirts.
    Betty was off with blood pressure and swollen ankles—“They’re like balloons, pet!”—so Harry and Morag were on their own this morning. He’d just made her a mug of tea and carried it over to her in the workshop when a glossy black monster of a car pulled into the yard.
    Harry had never seen a Maybach before, not in the flesh so to speak, but that’s what this was. Followed by a Mercedes. But this was Keswick and it enjoyed its fair share of wealthy visitors. The windows of both vehicles were tinted black, but he had a private bet with himself that a dozen or so diminutive, immaculately dressed Japanese tourists would pile out with their cameras, pausing on their whistle-stop tour of the Lakes…
    OK, so he was wrong. Instead the doors had opened and a dozen or so black men emerged all wearing sunglasses. The last thing you could call them was diminutive.
    â€œHello.” Wondering where they might be heading for, Harry said, “Are you lost? May I help you?”
    â€œYo, man. What is that?” The smallest of the visitors, at a shade under six foot and athletically built, nodded at the sign above the door.
    â€œThe Flying Ducks. It’s the name of our company,” Harry explained. The green and gold sign, incorporating their logo of three flying ducks, had never borne the actual name. “We sell shirts.”
    â€œShirts?” The man smiled, revealing very white teeth flanked by a couple of gold vampire-style incisors. He removed his mirrored shades. “What kind of shirts?”
    â€œWell, no offense,” said Harry, “but I can’t imagine they’d be your cup of tea.”
    Some of the other men visibly bristled. They were American.
    By their body language, he guessed that the one asking the questions was the one in charge.
    â€œNot my… cup of tea? You don’t say.” Evidently amused by this expression, Vampire Teeth tilted his shaven head to one side. “How about you let me be the judge of that?” He paused and pointed. “Is this your store?”
    â€œIt is. Kind of. But you can’t all come in,” said Harry.
    Everyone stared at him. Finally, Vampire Teeth said silkily, “And why not?”
    Harry performed a rapid head count; there were eleven of them in total. “Because there isn’t room. You’ll have to take it in turns. But I still don’t think our shirts will be up your street.”
    He led the way into the dusty, un-air-conditioned office-cum-shop, slightly embarrassed by what was bound to happen next. This collection of blinged-up characters with their oversized jeans and crystal-encrusted sunglasses—yes, really—were going to laugh their heads off when they saw what was on offer.
    â€œHey, y’all stay outside. Maz and AJ come in with me.” Indicating who should stay and who should go, Vampire Teeth followed Harry into the shop. He surveyed the messy desk, the boxes of shirts stacked in haphazard piles, and the samples adorning the plastic torsos against the far wall. “Man, you’re kidding me, right? This is it? For real? ”
    â€œYou can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Harry waited for them to turn and leave in disgust. Instead he saw Maz and AJ produce a couple of fancy-looking camcorders and start recording.
    â€œHey, man, don’t be so tetchy. Who d’ya sell these to? You OK with this, by the way?” Vampire Teeth indicated the camcorders with a languid wave of the hand.
    â€œI suppose so.” It wasn’t the first time they’d been used in the shop; tourists from overseas tended to be entranced by its quaintness and lack of glamour. Harry said patiently, “These shirts last for years. They’re nothing to do with fashion. Hill farmers buy them. I’m sorry