Bookends (8 page)

‘Not necessarily,’ Josh says slowly.

‘Come on, Joshy,’ Lucy says. ‘You’re the clever banker. How could we minimize the risk?’

‘You could go with a backer,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘But then again, maybe it’s best to keep the investors to a minimum.’ He sits in silence for a while as Lucy makes faces at me. ‘You know,’ he says eventually, ‘it might actually be far less than you think.’

‘Do you think it’s worth it, then, Josh?’ I trust his opinion.

‘I do, as it happens,’ he says, coming back to the present. ‘Hang on,’ and he leaps up, grabs something from his jacket pocket in the hallway, and comes back into the room. He opens a small black computer-type thing and starts typing on a tiny keyboard.

‘What is he doing?’ I raise an eyebrow at Lucy.

‘Heaven forbid we should go anywhere without his beloved Palm Pilot,’ she laughs.

‘Just trying to work out some initial costs,’ Josh says, snapping it shut. ‘In fact one of the guys at work has parents who own a bookshop. It’s in Derbyshire or somewhere, but I’m sure he’d be able to help, or at least give us an idea of the sort of money we’re looking at, although at a guess I’d say around £100,000 once you’ve sorted out builders, alterations, stock cost, etc. Why don’t I speak to him?’

‘Sure.’ I shrug, wondering why this fantasy appears to be suffering from a severe snowball effect.

‘But as for the idea – ’ he goes to the dresser and pulls out some plates, napkins, and lays them on the table – ‘I do actually think it will work. You’ll have to do your research, of course, but the cafés that are already there seem to be full all the time, so there’s obviously room for one more, and we need a populist bookshop.’

‘Populist?’

‘Well, it has to be financially viable, so you have to provide something for everyone. In other words, a bookshop that stocks a good range of books across the board. You can’t compete with Waterstone’s or Books Etc., but you can offer a next-day delivery from the wholesalers.’

Lucy’s looking at him with affection. ‘Darling husband of mine, tell me how you know all this?’

Josh shrugs. ‘And the other thing,’ he continues, ‘is that as far as I know most books are stocked in bookshops on a sale or return basis, so apart from the refurbishment of the shop, and the catering outlay, it wouldn’t be as much risk as, say, a clothes shop.

‘Plus, Lucy, we could always remortgage the house. God knows I’d rather use the money for a business venture than for a holiday or something.’

‘What about your son’s schooling?’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And Cath, what about that money from your grandma?’

I gasp. ‘Josh, you’re not supposed to know about that! How do you know about that?’

‘Because you told me, Cath. You asked my advice on investing it, then promptly ignored it, and I bet it’s been sitting in the bank all these years gaining nothing on interest.’

I choose to stay silent.

‘Exactly. It’s about time you made that money work for you. God, between the two of you, you can do this thing, no problem.’

‘Have I ever told you how much I love you?’ Lucy says suddenly, flinging her arms around Josh and planting a smacker on his cheek.

‘Yes,’ Josh smiles. ‘Does that mean you love me enough to serve me dinner?’

Lucy flops into a chair with a grin. ‘Nope,’ she says happily. ‘You cooked, you serve. That’s the deal.’

‘So let me get this straight. You’re thinking of leaving your super-duper, high-powered fantastic job that pays you a fortune, to set up your own business with…’ and at this Si pauses. ‘Lucy?’

‘What’s wrong with Lucy?’

Si begged and pleaded for me to meet him for a drink after work in Soho, and, even though it’s a pain, I succumbed, because, as Si often moans, I have become horrifyingly suburban in my old age. I remember thinking nothing of going straight out after work in my twenties. In fact, if I didn’t hit the bars, pubs or clubs, you could be certain there was something wrong with me. Every afternoon, about half an hour before the end of the day, you’d find a pack of us in the loo, all hastily reapplying make-up, putting on spare clothes, hairspray, perfume, from the seemingly endless caverns of our handbags, ready to flirt with City boys until we were too drunk to stand up.

I used to think nothing of spending every night in ‘town’. Of course, I tell myself now, those were the days when you could actually find a black cab when it was going home time. Unlike now, when friends of mine have been forced to walk home to West Hampstead from Piccadilly Circus, turning round every few feet, just in case they should experience a minor miracle and spot an orange light in the distance.

‘So get the tube,’ Si says. ‘Mix with the common people for a change. See how the other half lives.’

But I spend enough of my working day crammed in with people on the tube. At least my salary should enable me to afford the luxury of a black cab when we go out. It’s not my fault they all seem to desert the West End after seven p.m.

But tonight I thought, what the hell, I could do with a fun night out. Is this a sign of getting old? That going out for dinner now means popping up the road to a comfortable, cosy local restaurant? That I never have to even consider making an effort with my clothes? That not only am I always home by eleven o’clock, but that if I weren’t I might possibly die of exhaustion?

I wasn’t always like this. Honestly. In the early days, post-Martin, I threw myself into the club scene with wild abandon. Si would come and pick me up at midnight, and we’d hit the one-nighters all over town, ending up sipping coffee at Bar Italia in the early hours of the morning.

To be honest, I’ve been feeling for some time that I’m slightly stuck in a rut. I love my friends. Would die for them. But part of me would quite like to meet a man, and unless I manage either to convert Si or to steal Josh from Lucy, neither of which is a particularly appealing option, I think it’s highly unlikely, unless I drastically change my life. Do something to meet more people.

And Lucy’s plan seems to have come at exactly the right time. Think of all the new people I’d meet! Think about what it would be like to have my own business! To – oh joy of joys – go to work almost on the doorstep of my home!

Do you know what I thought today? I sat at my desk thinking what the hell am I doing still working here? Because although the events of yesterday feel like a bit of a whirlwind, I do think that if anyone could make it work, it would be Lucy and I.

Lucy of course doesn’t have a clue about business, or bookshops, but – and I swear I’m not making this up – on the rare occasions I venture into coffee shops and order cakes, even if they’re home-made they’re not half as good as Lucy’s.

And Lucy doesn’t think it should be just cakes and home-made biscuits. She thinks easy sandwiches, beautifully presented on fresh ciabatta bread, slabs of basil and garlic focaccia with roasted aubergine and grilled mozzarella… even hearing her descriptions made my mouth water.

It was all I could think about at work today. Work? I didn’t do any. I sat in my office, closed the door and fantasized the day away. By mid-morning I’d planned the lighting. By lunchtime Lucy and I were playing the convivial hosts, loved and adored by the entire community, and by the end of the day we were being written up in the
Ham & High
.

‘So what
is
wrong with Lucy?’ I ask again, when Si refuses to answer.

‘It’s not for me to say.’

‘Right,’ I mock. ‘If not you, then who?’

‘Oh, okay,’ he sighs. ‘If you insist. It’s just that Lucy’s wonderful, and we all adore her, but she’s not a businesswoman.’

‘But that’s the point, Si. That’s why Josh is looking into it before we do anything, but anyway I’m the one with the common sense. Lucy’s the creative person. She’ll help with the design, the concept, and, let’s face it, she is the best cook in London.’

‘That’s true,’ he agrees. ‘So explain to me exactly what you would be doing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Cath, sweets, I know you have good business acumen, but it’s in advertising, not in bookshops. It’s all very well Lucy being the creative person, but you know next to nothing about running a bookshop, and I’m not sure if this isn’t too big a challenge for you.’

‘Actually, I think you’re wrong,’ I say with certainty, slightly pissed off at Si for pointing out the obvious, but pleased that it is firing my determination. ‘I mean, I’m sure Lucy wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t think I could contribute something, and there’s no way Josh would let either of us do it if he didn’t think it was a viable proposition.

‘Plus it’s always been my dream, and I know the two of us could do it.’

‘Cath,’ Si says, suddenly serious. ‘Do you want my honest opinion?’

I nod.

‘My honest opinion, and remember I’m only giving you this because I love you and I want you to be careful, but my honest opinion is that you should definitely become involved on some level, but certainly not throw in your job or do anything drastic until it’s established in the new site and it’s successful.’

I know he’s right. Of course he’s right, but even as I hear his words I feel them float in one ear and out the other.

‘Stop it, Cath,’ Si says sternly, knowing exactly what I’m doing. ‘You know that it makes sense. Lucy doesn’t really have anything to lose, and if it went horribly wrong, then Josh could always pick up the pieces, but you would be the one with the most at stake here, and you stand to lose the most.

‘I’m not saying don’t do it, I’m saying think about it. Hell, get Lucy to do it by herself, work in the shop on weekends, organize reading groups, events, anything you want. Just don’t give everything up yet, that’s all.’

I know what he’s saying makes sense. But I also know that there’s no way on earth I will let Lucy fulfil my lifelong dream without me in it. I just won’t tell Si. That’s all.

‘And by the way,’ he adds with a twinkle, secure in the knowledge that I’ve listened to him and taken his advice, ‘if I gave Lucy my application form for a Saturday job, would you make sure I got it?’

‘Only if you pay me enough.’ I squeeze a smile, and we sit in silence for a few moments, then Si looks at me and lets out a big sigh.

‘I know you too bloody well.’ He shakes his head.

‘What?’

‘You’re sitting there thinking: screw Si, I’m going to do it anyway.’

I know I’m not supposed to be smiling at this, but I can’t help it: a grin flashes up.

‘Cath, I’m just saying that I don’t want you to lose everything.’

I reach out and cover Si’s hand with my own. ‘Listen, my darling,’ I say. ‘I know you’ve got my best interests at heart, but I really do think I need to take a risk and I need to do this. At the very least I need to explore every option.

‘And as for the money,’ I continue, ‘Josh was absolutely right. It has been sitting in the bank doing nothing, so even if it all went horribly wrong and I lost everything, I wouldn’t actually be losing anything, if you see what I mean. And Si, I
hate
my job. I can’t carry on doing it for much longer.’ I pause for breath but before I have a chance to continue Si pulls the twizzler out of his rather revolting-looking daiquiri and sucks it slowly.

‘So let me ask you this,’ he says finally.

‘Yes?’

‘You basically want to be Ellen, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘That’s what you’ve been describing all night. Ellen’s bookshop.
Buy the Book
.’

‘Oh my God!’ My mouth drops open. ‘Si, you’re brilliant! That’s exactly what I want it to be like. If I did it,’ I add quickly, in a mumble. ‘Which I probably won’t.’

‘I know, I know.’ Si waves me quiet impatiently. ‘So you’re Ellen. Lucy is Audrey, except she’s not dippy, she doesn’t have red hair, and she dresses better. Portia, if she were here, would be Paige. Josh, I suppose, being handsome and decidedly heterosexual, despite being taken, would be Adam. Or Spence. Depending on whether you’re a fan of the early years or not.’

‘Uh oh.’

I start to laugh, knowing Si so well, knowing what’s coming.

‘So that means that I’m the bloody fat bloke with the coffee, aren’t I?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I wipe the smile off my face in a flash. ‘So shall we make a move,
Joe
?’

Chapter seven

I cannot believe how quickly this all seems to be happening. Six weeks ago there I was, stuck in my job, dreading the tube, wondering if there would ever be an end to all of this, and praying for summer to arrive early just to make me feel better.

The next minute I’m caught up in Lucy’s whirlwind of interior design, recipe ideas, hurried phone calls to the estate agent to make sure it’s still ours. And God, am I glad I didn’t take Si’s advice. I cannot think of anything worse than watching Lucy do this without me, because I have loved, am loving, every minute of it.

The scariest bit was actually handing in my notice at the agency. They offered me more money to stay, but my mind was well and truly made up. Then, at my leaving do, my boss made a speech where he confessed that he’d always had a dream of moving to the country and buying a farm, and said he was deeply jealous that I was pursuing my own dream, when he didn’t have the nerve.

But once I’d actually left, panic set in. That first Monday morning, when I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and catch the tube to work, I suddenly realized what I’d done: what a big step it was. What on earth would I do if it all went horribly wrong?

But then, later that day, Lucy dragged me to a meeting with the carpenter in the shop, and once we’d spent half an hour talking about bars and counters and display shelves, it started to feel real again and, more importantly, started to feel right.

And then the meetings started. We were hoping we wouldn’t have to do a business plan, Lucy and I managing to raise £120,000 between us, but we hadn’t banked on working capital: paying employees; paying the bills; managing the inventory; petty cash and all the other minor day-to-day expenses that you never think about when it’s still just a fantasy.

So Josh said we had to go to the bank. We set aside the best part of a week and sat at Lucy’s kitchen table, heads together, drawing up a business plan, and every night, when Josh got home, we’d run it by him, moaning and groaning because he kept telling us we had to make it more businesslike.

But eventually we got it right. We took it to the bank, and they agreed to lend us a further £100,000, which was far more than we’d even dreamt. And Josh and Lucy remortgaged their house, which meant we could buy the shop in the first place.

We then had to deal with the Health and Safety inspectors. We didn’t need planning permission, as we weren’t actually going to be cooking on the premises, and preparing food falls into something called an Al Use Class, which was a good thing for us, because it didn’t constitute a change of use.

Lucy and I travelled up to Derbyshire and spent the day with Ted and Linda, the people Josh had told us about who own a bookshop, and their advice was invaluable.

And eventually contracts were exchanged, with the completion date amazingly set for the same day, and we could actually start work. It was touch and go for a while, us getting the shop, but James managed to swing it our way, despite the competition that suddenly appeared at the eleventh hour.

James has actually been fantastic, and the more I know him, the more I like him. I know I shouldn’t be that surprised, but he really does seem to be honest, straight, to have integrity. Lucy’s also pointed out that he’s rather dishy, but to be perfectly honest he’s not my type. If I have a type any more, that is.

Plus, he’s a child. Well, not literally, but he’s got to be younger than us. I’d hazard a guess at around twenty-six, but Lucy thinks he’s more like twenty-eight, an age, she says, at which they are unstoppable. Whatever that means.

She even managed to draw out of him the fact that once upon a time he was an artist, but lack of funds meant he had to find something else, and property seemed the most lucrative option at the time.

The snowball appears to be gathering momentum with every passing minute, and last week, when the builders had finally moved out, Lucy and I were able to do the one job we’d been looking forward to since the beginning – painting the shop.

We had talked, initially, of finding architects, employing teams of builders, paying for the most professional of jobs it is possible to pay for in England, in the nineties. But, as Lucy pointed out, all builders are a nightmare, so, rather than paying someone a fortune to have a hassle-filled life, why not pay someone
peanuts
for a hassle-filled life, and do a bit more yourself?

And, despite not being particularly house-proud, I will admit that I’m genuinely excited about painting
Bookends
ourselves. Corny name, I know, but it seemed to fit, and even Si had to admit it was probably right.

Lucy and I have been to Homebase. Have selected the perfect shade of sunshine yellow for the walls. Have contacted local hire companies for huge, professional sanding machines to sand down the floor ourselves. Have found a ‘carpenter from heaven’ – Lucy’s words, naturally – who’s building the bar in the middle of the room for a knockdown price.

Lucy’s been developing new recipes, although no one’s allowed to taste until she’s absolutely ready, and I’ve run up huge phone bills calling Edward – a distant cousin who works in sales at one of the major publishers – and picking his brains about the how, what, when and where of stocking a bookshop.

Even Si, loath though he is to admit it, is impressed, although I know he won’t actually come out and say so until we’re up and running.

‘Have you seen their house? Have you seen what’s happened to their house?’ Si’s borrowed a huge, shaggy mutt called Mouse to walk in the park. Except we’re not walking in the park simply to enjoy the pleasures that nature can offer. I know what it means when Si borrows Mouse for the park, or the hill, or the heath. It means that Si’s on the hunt for Mr Right. Si has this theory that every woman, and/or gay man, should have a dog. This is because, he says, most men go weak at the knees over dogs. Not small dogs, though. Big, strapping dogs. Alsatians, Labradors, Retrievers. Real dogs.

Mouse belongs to Steve and Joe, and Si discovered the joys of Mouse when Steve and Joe bought a holiday home in Tenerife. Northern Tenerife, they said, and therefore far, far away from all the lager louts. Simply divine, they said, the only catch being that they couldn’t take Mouse.

So Si, naturally, was enlisted to dog sit. We went together to pick up Mouse. Si drove his sparkling classic Beetle up to Steve and Joe’s flat – both of whom I’d met several times, although I wouldn’t classify them as friends of mine – and before we’d even made it halfway up the path we heard Mouse.

‘Are you quite sure about this?’ I said, looking at Si’s face as we stood on the doorstep listening to what sounded like a Rottweiler hurling himself at the door.

‘Quite sure,’ Si said, but I could see he was having serious second thoughts, and then the door was open and this great big teddy bear of a dog launched himself upon us, covering Si’s face with huge wet kisses, whirling round in ecstasy, crying and barking with joy.

Si phoned me the next morning, breathless with excitement. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘I have to get a dog of my own.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I’ve never met so many gorgeous men in my life!’

Apparently Si and Mouse had been minding their own business, walking up Frith Street, when three – three! – gorgeous men stopped to pat Mouse and say what a handsome dog he was. Never mind the fact that none of them had gone on to invite Si out on a date. It was enough, and Si decided that the only thing standing between him and Mr Right was the lack of a canine friend.

Of course a week later it all changed.

‘Oh my God,’ Si hissed down the phone. ‘The bloody hair gets
everywhere
.’

‘He’s a shaggy dog,’ I laugh. ‘What did you expect?’

‘I did not expect a carpet of hair over all my furniture. Christ. I’ve spent the last week hoovering and it still hasn’t helped.
Mouse! Get Down!’

‘So you’re not going out to buy Mouse Junior, then?’

‘I don’t think so. Except Mouse did find me a rather nice young man in Hampstead yesterday.’

Si no longer dog sits for Mouse, but he does take him out regularly for walks, trying to guess where the gay population of North London might be. And yes, I know you’re thinking behind Spaniards Inn at the top of the heath, but, as Si says, he’s not looking for a quick fuck. Plus, he wouldn’t want to corrupt Mouse.

‘What’s happened to their house?’ I ask Si, as I pull off my cardigan and tie it round my waist, thanking God I had the foresight to wear a T-shirt underneath, as the sun has finally managed to break through the clouds and it’s turning into a beautiful day.

Confused, I look at Si, wondering exactly what he’s talking about, although harbouring a strong suspicion he’s talking about Josh and Lucy.

‘The place looks like a bomb’s hit it. Those book catalogues! Piles and piles of the bloody things all over the sofas. You can hardly move in there for catalogues.’

I shrug. ‘That’s the new business, I’m afraid.’

We slow down a bit to catch our breath, because beautiful as Primrose Hill is it’s not called Primrose Hill for nothing, and when we reach the top we collapse on a bench to admire the view.

‘So.’ Si reaches into his pocket for a treat for Mouse, who gobbles it up, then bounds over to a mad Old English Sheepdog called Dylan for a spot of harassment. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me about my date?’

‘Oh my God!’ I’m absolutely mortified that I’ve forgotten – that last night Si saw Will again, and that, despite Si having cooked him dinner, Will does seem to be rather interested after all.

‘I am that evil witch friend of yours, and I’m sorry. I want to know everything.’

‘Everything?’

I roll my eyes. ‘You can leave out the gory details. Start with your menu.’

‘Fresh asparagus to start with. Garlic bread, naturally…’

‘God, Si, you really must learn to outgrow that, it seriously is becoming increasingly naff. Wait! Let me guess. You consulted Queen Delia for the main course.’

‘But of course,’ he sniffs. ‘Since when have I consulted anyone other than Queen Delia for my seduction dinners?’

‘Hmm. Let me think. I’m guessing… fish?’

A faint smile spreads over Si’s face.

‘Okay. So… it was either the coulibiac or the salmon with a cous cous crust.’

‘Good,’ he says, eyebrows raised. ‘But which one?’

‘Well, I know you would have wanted to impress him, and, although both are equally impressive, the coulibiac is one step ahead on the presentation front, so I’m guessing coulibiac.’

Si laughs. ‘If you’re so bloody clever, what did I make for pudding?’

‘I know what you didn’t make.’ I nudge him, and we both laugh at the memory of the chocolate mousse.

‘Okay,’ I say, thinking hard. ‘I’m doubting a proper pudding because the coulibiac’s pretty heavy, with all that rice and pastry. Am I right?’

‘If you mean, did I make treacle sponge, then yes, you’re right.’

I suddenly remember Si’s last Queen Delia success, and I smile to myself as I say breezily, ‘It was hot last night, wasn’t it? Hot enough for’ – I pause dramatically – ‘a
strawberry granita
.’

‘God, you really are a witch, aren’t you?’ Si hits me. ‘Anyway, he now thinks I should give up my job in films and open a restaurant.’

‘Yeah. You could call it Delia’s Den.’

‘Or Delia’s Dinners.’

‘Because of course she wouldn’t have a copyright problem with that, would she?’ We both snort with laughter at the thought.

‘So we didn’t stop talking all night,’ Si says, itching to keep on the subject of Will. ‘He is fantastic, you know. He’s handsome, and bright, and funny, and charming. You’d love him, I can’t wait for you to meet him.’

I look at Si with eyebrow raised sardonically. ‘Si, you know what that means. It means I’ll hate him.’

‘Well, of course you’ll hate him if you think you’re going to hate him,’ he says disdainfully. ‘But actually this time I think the two of you would get on. And he works in PR, so you’d have something in common.’

‘Si, how many times do I have to tell you that PR and advertising have practically nothing in common.’

‘He’s creative. You’re creative. He has black shoes. You have black everything. You’re bound to get on.’

‘And what’s his relationship history?’

Si looks at me with horror. ‘Like I
know
?’

‘But didn’t you ask? You must have asked. That’s always your first question.’

‘Darling, Cath. He’s a gay man with twinkling blue eyes and a body to die for. I’ll have to assume he’s been shagging for Britain, and is now tired of it and looking for security.’

‘So how come you didn’t ask?’

‘Because he would have lied. They always do.’

Si takes my arm, and we walk down the other side of the hill, our stride perfectly in tune, Mouse and Dylan happily tearing around the field, chasing one another.

We walk in silence for a while, then Si asks, ‘If you could meet anyone walking round this field right now, who would it be?’

‘Dead or alive?’

‘Alive, sweets. This has to be a fantasy that has potential. Otherwise what’s the point.’

‘Okay. Someone we know, or someone we don’t?’

Si lets out a long sigh. ‘For God’s sake, Cath. Just get on with the game.’

‘Okay, okay, sorry.’ We trudge along while I try to think of someone, but, as each name flicks into my head, I mentally cross them off, knowing that they’re
not
the person I’d really like to meet, but not quite sure who is.

And eventually I’m left with only one name.

‘Portia.’

Si looks at me with horror. ‘God, Cath. You’re so sad. I thought you’d say Brad Pitt. At the very least I would have accepted Tom Cruise, but Portia? You really are obsessed, aren’t you?’

Actually I’m not obsessed. In fact, apart from our weekly addiction to her series, made all the stronger now we know the truth, I’ve hardly thought about her since I left that message on her machine.

I was pissed off that she didn’t call back. Pissed off that she’d obviously rejected us, wanted nothing more to do with us, but other than that I really didn’t mind, it was just that there were so many unanswered questions. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that there never seemed to be closure with Portia.