Page 33 of Don't Let Him In

“So, three fifty in total. Plus renovation, etc.”

“Yes. But we could probably get them down from that, I reckon. I mean—look at the place.”

They all turn to look at the place. A huge gust of wind blows a sheet of rain at them, the ice cream board rattles on its rusty frame, the whole building creaks a little.

Nina smiles and says, “It’s amazing, Nick. But I don’t have that kind of money.”

He nods, smiles. “Sure,” he says. “I didn’t expect you would. But youhave something else. Assets. You could borrow against things. Just like Paddy was doing. Like Paddy would have continued to do. That’s how businesses grow, Nina.”

His eyes are so bright they look like they could set fire to something; there’s an urgency, a crazed energy about him. It reminds Ash of her dad, the way he would be when he was starting something new. But this man is not her dad; this man is a stranger, and he’s using the word “we” in relation to her mother’s money.

“Mum,” she says. The word comes out as a whisper.

Nina turns to her, looks at her inquiringly.

Ash shakes her head. “Nothing.”

She waits until they are on their own in the car a few minutes later, then she looks at her mother and she says, “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“What? Buy that wreck?”

“Yeah.”

Nina laughs drily. “No, of course I’m not! Bloody hell. We’re this close to having to shut down the new branch and the last thing I need right now is more debt, more risk, more stress. No. But Nick can buy it, if he likes.” She pats Ash’s knee and smiles widely into the small blade of sun just breaking through a crack in the clouds.

Ash swallows up the moment: the sun, her, her mother, just the two of them; Nick being othered, painted as an outsider.

Good, she thinks. Good.

THIRTY

Mrtha glances at the clock. Five p.m. Al had left this morning at eleven saying he had a quick errand to run at a brasserie near Folkestone. He’d left without any bags, saying he’d be back before 6 p.m. Usually this sort of last-minute work arrangement would put her into panic mode, but today her breathing is regular, her mind is clear, because yesterday she dropped a dog tracker under the back seat of Al’s car and now she can see exactly where he is. And where he is, right now, is outside a restaurant just along from Folkestone Harbor called the Harbor Lights. She has googled the restaurant and seen that it is temporarily closed but about to reopen next month with a new name and under new management. Before that, Al was on a beach between Folkestone and Dover called Bangate Cove. He parked there for around twenty minutes before getting back into his car and driving to the restaurant, outside which he has been parked for the past three and a half hours, leading Martha to assume that he is hard at work in there. She switches her iPad back to the app connected to the dog tracker and is gratified and delighted to see that Al’s car is moving, and then, ten minutes later, that it is traveling in the direction of Enderford. Google Maps tells her that the journey will take him just under an hour, which means he will be home at ten minutes past six. Which means that today, at least, Al has been doing exactly what he told her he would be doing.

He looks relaxed when he walks in an hour later. He tells her he has had a good and successful day. Martha smiles and says that she is glad. She hands him the baby and he takes Nala from her arms with a smile of unfiltered joy. Martha checks in with herself briefly, questioning her feelings in this moment. She had given herself an ultimatum after Al’s disappearing act last week when Nala had been so sick. She’d made an agreement with herself when she planted the tracker in Al’s car that the moment she saw any real-time deviation from the narrative Al gave her to explain his absences, she was going to walk away. Or rather, she was going to make him walk away. She doesn’t care if he’s been having an affair, she doesn’t care if he’s been trainspotting, she doesn’t care if he’s been sitting in a dark room staring at a wall, she doesn’t carewhathe’s been doing when he’s away from home as long as it’s what he told her he was doing. And today, at least, he has proved that much to her. Today she can breathe out, relax, open wine, thank her lucky stars for a man like Alistair.

“Oh,” Al says, sitting Nala on her playmat inside a horseshoe-shaped cushion. “By the way. I have big news.”

“Oh yes?”

“I think I’ve found a new venture for us. Well, for you, but for both of us.”

“A new…?”

“A new Martha’s Garden spot. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I know having the baby has held you back a little lately and I know you had all these amazing plans for the business when we first met, and I know our finances have got a bit sticky and things have been… well, things have been rough. I’ve been absent. I’ve been shit, let’s face it. And last week was a wake-up call for me. To have left you here like that, with Nala so ill, it just makes me die inside even thinking about it.” He sighs, heavily, and then sits down on the sofa and passes toys to Nala as he speaks. “So, I’ve decided. That’s it. I’m quitting my job. I can’t do itanymore. I can’t treat you like this anymore. You deserve more. We both deserve more. And frankly, your business deserves more.”

Martha had told him about all the canceled orders, all the irate customers, the long-standing account with a wedding planner that had been terminated overnight, the one-star review on Trustpilot. He’d hung his head and said he hated himself.

“We need to focus on Martha’s Garden again, and I have found the most fantastic site—coastal, an old beach café near Folkestone. It’s been empty for twelve years. But the local council is about to invest a small fortune in the resort to try and bring it up to scratch. They’ve approved plans for a small estate of New England–style luxe housing, and an upmarket shopping area. And imagine, Martha”—he turns on his phone and shows her his camera roll—“imagine this, painted in California Rose. Imagine a flower shop here, and a café right here. A shopping area selling gifts and branded goods. And these little beach huts—we could convert those into rooms, plumb them in, put in mezzanine beds: ‘Martha’s Bedrooms.’?” He makes the shape of a sign with his hands. “Just imagine that. A boardwalk with integrated lighting joining it all together. Can you see it?” he says, slightly breathlessly. “Wouldn’t it be incredible?”

Martha blinks slowly and nods in rhythm. Yes, she thinks to herself, my goodness, yes. It could be stunning. A café! she thinks. She has always fantasized about a café. Pistachio and rosewater muffins on vintage plates. Tea from pink pots. Wildflowers in old jars. They could plant pampas grass and sea thrift along the boardwalk. She would be able to expand her branded stock. And finally, she thinks, get herself some proper staff, not just teenage girls. She could kick back a little, work from an office, not be up at five o’clock every morning.

Her heart races with excitement and she flicks back and forth through the photos on Al’s phone, neatly filed away in a folder called “Martha’s Garden on the Beach,” which she finds sweetly touching.

“Wow,” she says eventually, handing Al his phone back. “I mean, yes.Obviously, yes, I can see it, it could be stunning. Literally amazing. But, Al, we don’t have any money.”

“Well, that is not entirely true. I might have found a way to come up with finances. Well, half the finances. And the council will subsidize some of the renovation expenses. You just need to find a hundred grand. A hundred and fifty tops. That’s all. And you could borrow that easily against the house.”

Martha feels a lurch at the pit of her stomach. Al’s talked to her before about borrowing against the house, and she’s always refused. She already borrowed against it eight years ago to finance Martha’s Garden and has been trying to get her mortgage back to zero ever since. The thought of going back to square one and beyond terrifies her.

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