Page 66 of Take My Breath Away
“Darling, how lovely to hear from you. Just a moment, let me find a quiet spot. One of our regulars is celebrating a birthday.”
Laughter and music travel down the phone line, from the bar my parents own in southern Spain.
“That’s better,” she says, her voice taking on the sing-song tone it always does when she’s had a couple or so drinks. “So, tell me all your exciting news. Still lodging with your friend?”
“Yes.” She knows about my split with Grant, but only the barest bones, and that I’m now staying witha friend. “But I really need to get myself sorted out with my own place, and now’s the time to make moves on starting up my own business. It’s why I want to talk to you.”
“So, you’ve not phoned to chat and catch up? Or to say you’re coming out to see us?” I can hear the pout.
“Mum…”
“Only kidding, darling. But it would be lovely to see you. What about Christmas or for New Year? We could do with some extra help at those times.” She laughs, but I know my mum well enough to know she’s not joking.
“I need to check with work.” Which isn’t a lie. “Mum, I need to—”
A sudden burst of drunken laughter, and my mum’s muffled voice as she calls out something stops me in my tracks, and I’m starting to think now isn’t the best of times to bring up the subject of the financial help she and my dad have always promised.
“Sorry about that. Now, where were we?”
I take a deep breath. Asking for a big injection of cash is harder than I thought it’d be. I clear my throat and leap in, rattling on about the bungalow, about Brighton, about making the move out of London, about the cake making business. I’m so wrapped up in telling her all my plans, I don’t notice she’s not said a word until I run out of steam and come to a stop. The silence on the other end of the line is almost deafening.
“Darling, do you really think there’s a living to be made in making cakes? It could be a nice sideline, a paid hobby if you like—”
“Yes, Mum, I do.” I hope she hasn’t heard the snap in my voice, because I sure as hell have. But I’ve spoken to her about my ambitions in the past. They may well have been vague and not detailed enough — okay, they were very vague — but not now. “I know exactly what I want to do. I’m focused. I’ve been over the figures. I know the detail.” I smile because I know I’m pushing the buzz words, the ones she’ll want to hear, but the truth is I am. At least as far as the business is concerned.
“I’m sure you’ve done all your homework,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Because you always were a good boy and still are.”
I swallow the sigh, and decide not to remind her I’m a man in his mid-twenties.
“Mum, you and Dad have always said you’d help me out financially. Combined with the inheritance from Granddad—”
“Ah, yes.”
Silence fills the airways, so hard and heavy it’s all but crushing my lungs. It’s like I’m trying to breathe though a pin hole.
“What do you mean,ah, yes?”
My grip on my mobile tightens. A creeping, itchy tingle crawls over my skin about what exactly thatah, yesmeans.
“Your father and I, we’ve expanded the business. We had to act fast, no time to dither. Another two bars. And a restaurant, specialising in traditional British pub grub. Expats, they’re big spenders and they’re very keen on a taste of home. We’ve got the grand opening for one of the bars, and the restaurant, just before Christmas. The other bar’s been delayed, until the spring. It’s all go, go, go here, plus it’s all taken a lot of money, one way or another…”
I stop listening. The promises they’ve always made have disappeared like smoke on the breeze.
“… five thousand at the very most, but it would need to be a loan rather than a gift, although there wouldn’t be any interest payable, of course. You do understand, don’t you darling? We’ve sunk everything we have into the businesses. I’m so sorry, I know it’s not what you were expecting to hear. The bars, the restaurant, they represent our pension. I admire your ambition, it’s something we’ve always tried to instil in you, but cake making—” I bristle at the way quotation marks seem to wrap themselves around the words.
“It made Granddad a good living. You know, your own dad. All the extra dosh he earned from it paid for your riding lessons and ski trips when you were a teenager. And your first car. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”
“Perry…”
I close my eyes, willing myself to hold back my anger. “I’m sorry,” I say through gritted teeth, although I’m honestly not sure I am.
“You’re upset, of course you are. Why don’t you come out here, work with me and Dad if you want a change? We’d obviously pay you something,” she adds, but it’s an afterthought.
“I’m not upset, I’m disappointed. But if you can’t help me, then you can’t. Thanks, Mum, thanks for… Well, nothing.”
“Excuse me?”
Her voice is sharp, with no sign of the sing-song tone. She’s affronted, but I don’t care. I can’t help but wonder if I’d gone to her with a plan for something else other thancake makingwhether her response would have been different. But I haven’t and I won’t be.
