Page 26 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Still, things are progressing around here. We got the kitchen finished off last night. By the skin of our teeth, but still. The Venus guys ended up staying late. So late, I didn’t get to buy them a pint to say thank you.

I have to say, it looks great. There are vast stretches of shiny, easy-clean stainless steel between the splash backs, the work surfaces and the appliances themselves. The industrial ovens run floor to ceiling, and Sylvie is ecstatic. She and some of the usual volunteers got in at six-thirty this morning, I believe, so we could offer the kids a full breakfast. They couldn’t wait to get their hands on their shiny new toys.

Because the main hall’s still out of action, we’ve stuck to the takeaway breakfast service we’ve run this week, but at least we were able to offer the kids some hot food—sausage baps and banana porridge in cardboard pots which went down a treat.

With the main structural work out of the way, Reggie, Venus’ electrician, has taken his leave, along with another guy, Ian. The bulk of the labour now is cosmetic. Sanding down the remainder of the walls where the panelling was. Washing all the ancient paintwork down. Replastering or caulking the millions of little spots where the cheap plaster has come off. And, finally, painting the whole fucking building before setting up the new furniture.

I’m stood at one end, watching the progress and the chaos from a slight distance as I mitre the edges of the new skirting boards we’re putting in. I don’t get to do this kind of thing very often, but I enjoy the precision of it. The total focus it requires. The reward of the end product. Gaz, who trained as a joiner before he gave it up to sit behind the wheel of heavy goods lorries, brought his old mitre box in this morning and is humouring me by letting me do the mitring while he nails the skirting boards to the walls.

He’s got Magic FM blasting from our digital radio. One of the Venus guys, Jack, is patching up the plasterwork while Frank and their other colleague, Marv, install brand-new, cheap but far superior, toilets, urinals and washbasins in the poky loos.

Sylv is back in the kitchen with Charmaine, another of our regular volunteers on the catering side, chopping and prepping for the big pasta bake we’ll be handing out to the kids outside later for their dinner. That leaves Judy and Carlotta, who look thick as thieves.

We’ve replaced a couple of the old internal doors. One of them in particular had the shit kicked out of it by a kid with anger issues years ago and never got replaced. Carlotta and Judy are applying a base coat of primer to the bare wood. As far as I can see, they’re doing a half-decent job of it, though they’d be a lot quicker if they shut the fuck up and focused on the task at hand.

Carlotta looks beautiful. Someone’s given her a black Venus-branded t-shirt, which is already splattered with primer, but thank fuck it’s covering her up. Pity we couldn’t find some full-length painting overalls for her, because those legs of hers are every bit as long and tanned and glossy as I imagined they’d be, and they are not helping my libido one bit. It feels like every time she covers up one body part, she puts another on show for me.

I’m saved by a sharp rapping on the open internal door. I look up to see Noah Thierry standing there, wearing a bright orange Good Vibes Hospice t-shirt and a wide grin. He holds up a foil-covered oblong that I have good reason to hope is a homemade cake. ‘Thought you might need sustenance,’ he says. ‘Brought you a loaf of lemon drizzle.’

I down tools and walk towards the doorway so I can shake the man by the hand. He’s one of the most genuinely decent people I’ve met. He runs a progressive and incredibly inspiring hospice on the other side of the square, and he happens to have a chef to hand who’s a dangerously good baker. All visitors to the Good Vibes hospice know you want to visit at three o’clock. Afternoon tea-time.

‘My hero,’ I say, and we bro-hug around the cake. ‘Your timing is fucking perfect.’

‘It’s looking good in here,’ he says charitably, because in reality it’s still a total mess. The sunlight pouring through the huge window is lighting up every single speck of dust, and there’s shit everywhere.

‘Not yet,’ I tell him, ‘but we’re getting there. Kitchen’s done.’

‘Sylv must be thrilled,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’

I nod. ‘She’s a patient woman.’

Noah is one of the good ones—a doctor who’s found his vocation in helping the dying pass in peace and with grace. Though I think he’s even more valuable to the loved ones they leave behind. The man’s a saint and a plugged-in member of the local community.

He’s also married to one of the most beautiful women on the planet—Honor Chapman, a massive celebrity who left her even more famous action hero husband for Noah here.

Sometimes, the good guy really does win.

We’ve built up a quiet, easy friendship over the past couple of years. We met at a few local community events and hit it off. As a former NHS doctor, he can appreciate the value Totum adds, and we’ve sponsored a few fundraisers for the hospice here and the one they’re opening in North London. We also may or may not have discovered a fondness for drinking excellent whisky in companionable silence in the square together from time to time.

I’m just about to piss him off by asking him how his beautiful wife is when I hear a jauntyNoah!

What the actual fuck?

I spin around. Carlotta’s coming towards us, all bronze-limbed and sparkly-eyed and perky.

‘I thought that was you!’ she cries. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

What on earth areyoudoing?I think.

‘My hospice is across the square,’ he tells her, leaning in for a double kiss. Charming French bastard. Seriously. Not content with bagging Honor bloody Chapman, he has to be pally with Carlotta, too? My warmth towards him is cooling by the second.

‘This is a new look for you,’ he tells her warmly.

‘Right?’ She looks down and laughs. ‘So attractive.’

She means it sarcastically. Self-deprecatingly. But the oversized, paint-splattered t-shirt and the cutoffs are, in my view, fucking perfection. They make her look girl-next-door in a way her usual get-ups don’t, even if the result is more accurately girl-next-door-I’d-like-to-bang.

‘How come you’re here?’ he asks.

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