Let’s tackle one thing at a time.
It’s taking shape. The walls are painted beige. There are bulbous orange lights hanging from the ceiling and a cash machine is still packaged in a cardboard box on the counter. Cassie pushes curls of red hair from her eyes with the back of her hand.
There is a frown across her face when she says, “The guy from the printer’s wants a logo.”
“Have you designed one?” I smother a yawn. It’s Sunday morning. Friday was Martin’s leaving party and yesterday I had to work as I am taking over his share of our litigating clients. I have hardly slept and I have a headache that is creeping gradually down my neck.
“I thought you would do that,” she says. “You haven’t been around recently so I thought you would help me.”
“We can look at it later. Right, what else needs to be done?”
“You mean down here or upstairs in our flat?”
I stare at her. What we saw as an adventure a few months ago is fast turning into a nightmare but I am determined to stay positive.
“Let’s tackle one thing at a time. Let’s make a list.” I grab a notepad and stubby pencil and leaning on the counter I begin to write. “Electrician – wring for coffee maker, Plumber – dishwasher and leaking downstairs tap, phone company WiFi installation… “
“Carpenter – shelves,” adds Cassie. “Just downstairs? Or do you you want him to do upstairs so we can unpack all those boxes with your books.”
“Let’s concentrate on down here then you can open the cafe and we can get some money in. At the moment it’s all money gong out.”
“I’ll need money for advertising,” Cassie says. “A couple of thousand.”
“What?”
“There’s a glossy local magazine that all the wealthy people read…”
“We can’t afford it,” I say firmly. “Let’s do a small ad in the local paper and try and get a free editorial.”
“But I only want people with money to come in here…”
“Cassie, we are in the middle of the High Street. This is the place you wanted – the one you chose – the one you said you dreamed of. We have footfall from locals, tourists and day trippers from London. We won’t need to advertise in expensive magazines. If we provide good food and great coffee that will give us the reputation we need.”
“But-”
“The best form of advertising is word of mouth,” I insist.
“Sophie says that all the boutiques advertise.”
“Well, maybe the do but this is a cafe. Now what about someone to help in the kitchen?” Have you thought any more about the menu?”
“Sophie says we should do all day breakfasts.”
“But what do you think?” I am smothering a yawn and tapping the pencil.
“You really aren’t interested in helping me are you,” Cassie’s eyes blaze.
“Of course I am-”
“All you think about is your work. You spend all week in London and when you come down here you are too tired to help. You have no idea-” Cassie’s eyes well with tears.
“Of course I do sweetie.” I reach out and pull her into my arms. I can’t face the thought of a day arguing. “Come on. Let’s talk about all this outside. Let’s go and look at the sea.” I dry her tears, lock the door behind us, take her hand and squeezing her fingers I coax a smile from her tear stained face. But as we cross the road toward the beach I can’t help but wonder what she has done all week.