Page 34 of Fred and Breakfast

‘It’s not complicated, Rita, and I know that Bronwyn left instructions on how to use it. This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth, and if I hear that you’re refusing to take card payments again, it will be a disciplinary issue. Got it?’ I can’t believe I’ve just said that, and evidently neither can she, as there’s total silence from her end of the phone.

‘The second thing,’ I continue, pressing my advantage before she explodes, ‘is the way you answer the phone. It’s a business line, and you should answer it in a professional manner. Try saying “Nora’s Diner, how may I help you?” instead of just “hello”. Do you understand?’

‘You can’t talk to me like that! Who do you think you are? I’m old enough to be your mother, and you should show some respect,’ she retorts. She’s found her voice, then.

‘At the moment, I’m your boss, Rita, and if anyone should be showing a bit more respect, it’s you. Do we understand each other?’ My voice is still saccharine, but I’m shaking with rage, particularly when I realise she’s hung up on me.

I’m more than ready for a drink when 5.30 p.m. comes around, and Grace and I hurry to our usual pub. I fill her in on the café, being careful not to mention the substantial cash inheritance or the amount Katie and I could get if we sold up. Grace’s eyes mist over.

‘I’d love to run a café in a sleepy town,’ she enthuses. ‘You know, one of those places where everyone knows everyone, and nobody feels like they have to lock their front door. I’d have gingham tablecloths, water bowls so people could bring their dogs, and I’d serve lovely home-made cakes. People would confide in me, and I’d solve all their problems. I’d have a proper Italian coffee machine manned by a sexy barista that all the women in the town are secretly in love with, only he’s gay and has an equally gorgeous boyfriend. I’d do cream teas too, with little sandwiches that I’d cut the crusts off. Egg mayonnaise, cucumber, and smoked salmon. Oh, my glass is empty, fancy another?’

I can’t help but smile as she makes her way to the bar. Her description couldn’t be further from Nora’s Diner if she tried.

18

Friday at last! I have managed to keep on top of my work this week, but it’s been a bit more of a struggle than usual as I’ve been distracted by the café. I’ve been spending my lunch breaks looking at coffee machines, aprons, and all sorts of other things. If I’m not careful, I could spend a fortune without actually making any tangible improvements to the place. I have decided that I need a laptop, though, with accounting software so I can keep on top of the books and my expenses. I also want to redo the menu, getting rid of the spelling mistakes and generally tidying it up. I’ve asked Bronwyn if she will draw me a simple logo that I can put at the top, so it looks a bit more professional. Normally, I’d ask Paul to help me choose a computer, but I’ve been reflecting on my disastrous visit to Whitstable, and I’ve decided that we need to have a serious conversation about our relationship before I involve him in any of this. Katie’s pretty good with computers and things like that, though, so I could probably ask her instead.

I don’t know what it is about Nora’s Diner, but it’s given me a sense of purpose that I’ve never felt before. I know it’s technically half Katie’s, but I feel responsible for it, as if it’s a sick animal that needs me to look after it and nurse it back to health. I still have no idea what I’m going to do with it in the long term, but I have made up my mind that I will do whatever I can to revive its fortunes before I make any final decisions. I’ll worry about the next steps once it’s back on its feet. I’ve never really understood before when people say, ‘Such-and-such is the first thing I think about when I wake up, and the last thing I think about before going to sleep,’ but I get it now.

I collect the usual takeaway and head for Paul’s flat. I don’t have a set speech in my head, but I know that something fundamental has changed and, for the first time since Mum and Dad died, I’m thinking about, and planning for the future. I’ve even found an online food hygiene and safety course, which will allow me to help out in the kitchen once I’ve completed it. I’ve decided that I want to start resurrecting some of Nora’s dishes as Saturday specials. Matt is going to be busy doing the normal menu, so I need the hygiene certificate to allow me to make them myself. I’ve also wondered whether we should start to offer cakes and other sweet treats on top of the purely savoury fare that we have on the menu at the moment. The hot chocolate definitely needs to be revived.

I wasn’t sure whether I should say anything at work. We all have to do regular conflict of interest training, among other things, but I couldn’t see how there could be a conflict of interest between a café and my work at Holdsworth & Speke. In the end, I did tell Mr Holdsworth about it earlier this week and he was surprisingly supportive. He even offered to take a quick look over the books, although we both agreed that I was more than capable of doing the accounts of a small business like that. He did express concern that trying to do my day job and look after the café might prove too much for me, but I assured him I’d be fine, although I’m already beginning to wonder if he might have a point.

I haven’t spoken to Rita again, although Matt did text to ask me what I’d said, because she apparently spent the rest of the day in a foul temper, muttering under her breath and banging things around. However, I’ve checked the bank account and I can see card transactions starting to trickle through, so she’s obviously learned how to use the card machine.

‘No wine again! I’m starting to think you’ve gone on the wagon. You haven’t, have you?’ Paul asks, as I hand over the takeaway bag and walk into his flat. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve stayed over here, but I feel like I’m seeing it with fresh eyes tonight. It really is a shithole; glancing into the bedroom, I spot the same sheets that were on the bed the last time I was here, which means he probably hasn’t changed them for at least three weeks. My skin starts to crawl. Whatever happens tonight, I’m not getting into that bed. I settle myself at the table and wait for him to dish out the food.

‘I really am sorry about last weekend,’ he says as he hands me my plate and we start eating.

‘I was a bit shocked, but I realise I probably should have called ahead rather than just turning up. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Did you get everything sorted?’

‘With what?’

‘With whatever it was that meant you couldn’t come down as planned.’

It dawns on me that I haven’t told him anything about Fred and his will. We don’t tend to speak during the week, and there obviously wasn’t an opportunity at the caravan last weekend. I fill him in on the basics, leaving out the cash inheritance once again.

‘That’s why I didn’t bring any wine,’ I conclude. ‘I can’t stay, as I have to be in at seven thirty tomorrow.’

His face falls a little. ‘But you’re not going to be working there every Saturday, are you?’

‘I think I am,’ I tell him. ‘It’s my business now. As the owner, I feel I ought to be there at least one day a week.’ It feels odd, saying it so bluntly, but it’s true.

‘That’s a shame, I will miss our lazy Saturday mornings,’ he says, a little truculently.

For Paul, a lazy Saturday morning usually involves seeing if he can persuade me to have sex without either of us getting out of bed to do anything first. He thinks it’s romantic to initiate it as soon as we wake up, and that getting out of bed to brush his teeth spoils the flow. I find it very hard to get in the mood when I’m enveloped in a fog of his morning breath, and I usually need to wee when I first wake up, so it doesn’t often work out the way he wants.

When we’ve finished eating, I steel myself for the conversation I know we have to have.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ I start. ‘Where do you think we’re going, you and I?’

He looks blank. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Where is our relationship going? Is me pitching up here every Friday with a takeaway, followed a bit of sex and a sleepover where you see us being in, say, two years’ time?’

‘I thought you didn’t like to talk about the future,’ he replies. ‘You’ve always said to me that you live each day as it comes, so I’ve never really thought about it. What’s brought this on?’

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