Читать книгу Second Time Around - Erin Kaye - Страница 9

Lunch service was over and Ben was just about to go home for a few hours before coming back for the evening shift when the phone in the office rang. It was Vincent Maguire, an accountant who’d worked for his father for years.

He got straight to the point. ‘Ben, I’ve just heard that Calico Design’s gone into administration.’

Ben sat down. ‘When?’

‘Two days ago.’

If it had been anyone but Vince on the end of the phone, Ben would’ve doubted his word. Ben had talked to Bronagh Kearney, the designer, only last week and everything had been rosy. ‘Voluntary?’

‘No. Creditors forced it. Shame really. They had a big contract for that new chain of nursing homes – McClure and Esler. When they went bust Calico were left high and dry. As soon as the creditors heard, they were onto them like a pack of wolves demanding payment. And of course, they couldn’t cough up. You haven’t paid any money over to them, have you?’

Ben shook his head, then remembered that Vincent could not see him. ‘No, not a penny. Invoice on completion.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Vince lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘The insolvency practitioner’s a good pal of mine – we go way back – and he thinks they’ll go into liquidation. If I was you I’d be looking pronto for someone else to do up that restaurant of yours.’

After he’d put the phone down, Ben sat quietly for a few minutes considering his options. It was bad news, for sure, but they’d been lucky too. At least they wouldn’t lose any money. Not like Calico’s creditors, poor buggers, some of whom themselves would go bust because of Calico’s demise.

It did, however, leave him with the pressing problem of finding another interior designer to replace Calico at short notice. And he knew just the person: Jennifer.

He sat up straight, feet planted firmly on the ground, amazed that fate had landed this chance in his lap. Not only would he see her again, he’d get to spend time with her, get to know her. He tapped his fingers on the table, thinking how he would sell this to his father. Because he would not like Ben using someone he didn’t know. Alan’s intricate network of business contacts, immense and complex, like neural pathways to the brain, connected him to all corners of the province and beyond. Alan would see Jennifer as a risk. He would not like it; but on this, Ben decided, he would prevail, just as he had done with Matt and the commis chef job. Jason had been cross with him for offering the lad the job and he’d only agreed to the appointment as a personal favour for Ben.

This was the silver lining his mother, Diane, used to talk about when they were little and a toy broke or he fell over and skinned an elbow. Of course, he’d since learnt that sometimes bad things happened that were so awful, so wrong, no good could ever come of them. After Ricky, his mother didn’t talk about silver linings any more.

Ben closed his eyes briefly and let out a loud sigh. He mustn’t go there, he mustn’t let his thoughts dwell on Ricky, because it only led to one thing – black depression. He shook his head and picked up the big rectangular board sitting upended in the corner. Calico Design had put it together – a story board, Bronagh had called it. Swatches of fabric and wallpaper were glued haphazardly to it. Paint colour charts, the size and shape of bookmarks, fanned out like playing cards. Photographs torn from brochures and magazines were artfully displayed at angles, so completing the collage. Ben and Alan had agreed on exactly how they wanted the restaurant to look, for once working in rare harmony, and Bronagh had delivered it – in concept at least.

He set the board behind the chair once more and, one quick Google search later, Jennifer’s phone number was at his fingertips.

Jennifer pulled nervously into the car park beside Peggy’s Kitchen, fifteen minutes early. She parked between two cars, facing the front of the old café, and switched off the engine. She slid down in the seat, thankful for the light rain pattering softly on the windscreen, blurring her view and providing her with welcome camouflage. She’d wait a bit. Best not to look too keen – on both a business, and a personal, front.

She’d received the call from Ben a few days ago and her stomach had immediately gone into a spasm, churning like a washing machine. And even now, while she tried to talk sense to herself, she was like a love-struck teenager. Butterflies played tag in her stomach and her heart raced like a train.

‘Catch yourself on, Jennifer,’ she said out loud. ‘Ben Crawford has a girlfriend, remember?’

Her mobile phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She pulled the phone out and read the text message. It was from Lucy, saying that she would be getting the train home the following night. She finished with ‘Luv L xo’. Was this text an olive branch? She hadn’t seen or spoken to Lucy since last Friday when she’d stormed out of the house with her father – Lucy hadn’t answered her calls or returned her messages. But clearly they were back on texting terms and she was coming home, which had to be a good sign.

But, in spite of this apparent truce, Jennifer was troubled by her daughter – or, more accurately, by her conflicting emotions towards her. A mother was supposed to love, wholly, fully, unconditionally. And Jennifer did love her daughter. But Lucy had a knack of arousing a whole raft of other, not so benign, emotions. Feelings Jennifer could hardly bring herself to acknowledge – irritation, intolerance, dislike, anger even. She blushed, ashamed to own them in herself. She reminded herself sternly that it was Lucy’s behaviour that sometimes induced these sentiments – not Lucy herself. She’d been telling herself this ever since Lucy, aged seven, had a temper tantrum on Christmas morning because she didn’t get a particular, expensive doll that she coveted. But Lucy was twenty now – an adult capable, in theory anyway, of marriage, motherhood, emigration, relocation, complete independence. Jennifer fretted that the behaviours she observed were, like the foundation stones of a building, an integral part of Lucy’s character now.

And there was something else too – a vague uneasiness that, when it came to Lucy, everything wasn’t quite as it ought to be. It was more intuition than a concrete thought, for when she tried to pin it down, it bobbed away like a Halloween apple in a barrel of water.

But she had no wish to spend another weekend locking horns with Lucy. She would put last Friday night out of her mind and try and make a fresh start. She keyed a short, warm reply to Lucy and slipped the phone back in her pocket.

Then she played with the zip on her brown leather jacket, wondering briefly if her choice of casual chic – dark jeans, a crisp white shirt, and cowboy boots – was flattering. Then she tried to convince herself that she didn’t care what Ben thought of her, except in a professional capacity.

Switching to designer mode, she flicked on the windscreen wipers and stared at the unprepossessing building opposite. It was single storey, of indeterminate age, with a steeply pitched slate roof. It might have been a workshop once. The harled, pebbly exterior was grey and streaked with water stains from a leak in the guttering and a yellow skip rested on the tarmaced forecourt. One of the front windows was boarded up and a huge, plastic-shiny sign announcing ‘Peggy’s Kitchen’ in yellow and red hung right across the width of the shopfront. But there were plus points too – the façade was symmetrical and nicely proportioned. And the ugly glass door with metal bars on it was unusually tall and wide, and centrally positioned.

It would be relatively easy to transform the outside with a lick of paint, a tasteful sign, the right lighting, new windows and a handsome new door framed by a pair of potted trees. A sprinkling of her magic really could, like fairy dust, transform an ugly duckling into a swan. She glanced at her watch one more time and panicked. Time to go. Quickly, she flipped the visor down and looked at her reflection in the small vanity mirror. She adjusted her hair in an attempt to hide the lines round her eyes, rummaged in her bag for some gloss and touched up her lips. At last, satisfied, she collected her bag and clipboard, and got out of the car.

Ben stood at a wallpaper table in the middle of the room, wearing fashionable black-rimmed rectangular glasses. He was peering at blueprints, his palms flat on the surface of the table. When she entered he looked up and smiled broadly, revealing the little gap between his two creamy-white front teeth, a flaw that ought to have made him less attractive. But the tiny imperfection only softened his appeal, making him more approachable, almost vulnerable. And, like Jeff Goldblum, he looked sexier with the glasses than without. Too busy staring at him, Jennifer only just remembered to return his smile. And then she looked around.

The large open space was dimly lit by two forlorn, bare light bulbs hanging from the rafters. The interior was more or less a bare shell, the walls holed and marked where fittings had been removed along with the flooring, revealing a cold concrete floor covered in carpet adhesive. In one corner lay a stack of steel appliances – sinks and metal cabinets, she thought – wrapped up in layers of clear plastic.

Ben came over and shook her hand. Then he peeled off the glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose where the nose pads had left small, brown indentations on his pale skin. ‘Sorry about the state of the place.’ In spite of the damp chill that permeated Jennifer’s bones, he was casually dressed in a frayed lumberjack-style shirt over an old t-shirt, and loose-fitting jeans. It wasn’t what she’d expected from the rather suave way he’d been dressed in the restaurant, but then that had been a uniform of sorts. She liked him better this way. And she liked the fact that he wasn’t precious about his appearance. He sported a day’s dark stubble and his hair was messed up and dusty too. ‘And sorry about asking you to meet me here so late in the day. I thought it’d be best if the contractors were out of the way.’

She smiled, trying not to shiver in the cold, wishing that she’d worn a warmer coat. She followed him over to the table situated under one of the light bulbs, a temporary focal point in the room, and wrapped the edges of her jacket across her chest. ‘I see they’ve been busy. I remember the booths and red leatherette benches that used to line the walls. Peggy’s had a sort of retro fifties feel to it. Along with a smoke haze you could cut with a knife. This was in the days before the smoking ban of course.’

He rubbed his chin with his hand and smiled. ‘You frequented it then?’ he said, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a smile. ‘You don’t look like the sort of woman to don biking leathers and smoke thirty a day.’

Laughing, she relaxed. ‘I’m not. I was only in it a couple of times to pick up Matt – he had a brief fascination with bikes when he was fifteen and used to hang out here. I used to worry about him rubbing shoulders with those hard men. Luckily he discovered girls shortly after that.’ She laughed and then paused, annoyed with herself for raising the subject of Matt. It would only serve to remind Ben how old she was.

She set her things on the table and said, looking skywards at the old exposed rafters and the nicotine-stained ceiling, ‘I always thought the vaulted ceiling was the best thing about this place.’

‘Me too. According to the architect, there used to be a second floor.’

‘Interesting.’ She glanced at the blueprint Ben had been studying when she came in, and said, ‘Can I have a closer look?’

‘Of course.’

She went and stood next to him, liking the way he was taller than her but not so tall, like David and Matt, that she felt like some sort of midget. She leaned in, their heads only a hand’s width apart, aware of the heat of his body and the faint odour of a woody, masculine scent.

‘These are the architect’s plans,’ he said and he moved his elegant hand, long-fingered like a musician’s and ropey with veins, across the page. ‘The main thing we’re doing internally is putting in a wall between the kitchen here,’ said Ben, pointing to a line on the plan, ‘and the dining area here. That’s what the joiner’s working on just now. And we’re extending the kitchen into these old storerooms in the back. The toilets are in the right place – they just need to be completely refurbished of course.’ The nail on his index finger was short and gently rounded, the moon a pale, pinkish-white like the inside of a shell. ‘And I’m thinking of a reception desk and a small waiting area where people can have a drink and look at the menus.’

She nodded slowly, trying to take all this in, noticing that was the first time he’d used the pronoun ‘I’ when talking about the project. He looked at her and some uncertainty crept into his voice. ‘I’ve something to show you. Two things actually. And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way.’

‘Okay,’ she said cautiously, slipping both hands into the back pockets of her jeans, her fingers stiffening in the cold.

He lifted up a large rectangular board that had been lying against the legs of the table and turned it around. It was a professional mood board for a lavish interior in gold, green and deep purple. There were photographs of crystal chandeliers, close-ups of gilded chairs and silver candlesticks, distressed gilt mirrors, swatches of velvet and brocade, and expensive flocked wallpapers and deep-pile carpet. He rested the board on the table, supporting it with his left hand. ‘Bronagh at Calico did this and it’s pretty much spot on in terms of the brief. We wanted a luxurious, tactile design that’s timeless and opulent, but warm and welcoming as well.’

Jennifer folded her arms and considered it all for some moments. ‘It’s going to have the wow factor, that’s for sure,’ she said at last.

‘And this,’ he said, pulling a sheet out from under the plans on the table, ‘is her floor plan.’ He paused to give her a few moments to look at it. ‘Well,’ he said, at last, pressing the knuckle of his left hand to his mouth. ‘What do you think?’

She nodded. ‘It really does look good. All of it.’ And then, realising what his hesitation was all about, she volunteered, ‘Look, I’ve not done this before, Ben. I mean, been called in to finish off someone else’s project, but there’s no sense in throwing the baby out with the bath water, is there? And let’s face it, we’re up against it in terms of time.’

‘I’m so relieved to hear you say that,’ he said, laying the board down on the table, and smiling with relief. ‘I was worried you’d want to start from scratch.’

She hid her disappointment that she would not have the opportunity to come up with an original design, the most creative part of the job. But what was the point of insisting on it when Ben clearly liked the Calico design and she did too? She would enjoy the challenge of taking the basic concept through to completion on time, and, best of all, she would get to spend a little time with Ben. ‘You understand that I won’t be able to replicate this exactly. I may have to use different materials depending on what my suppliers have in stock and on delivery times. I might not be able to source chairs exactly the same as those, for example.’ She pointed at a photograph. ‘But overall, I’m confident I can deliver the high-end look you’re after, on schedule and within budget.’

‘I think we have a deal then,’ he beamed and she smiled back, the cogs in her brain already working out whether her regular sewers and tradesmen were all available. ‘I have some ideas for the exterior too,’ she added and went on to outline her thoughts.

‘Jennifer, that sounds fantastic,’ he enthused, when she’d finished. ‘What’s the next stage then?’

Thinking of all that had to be done in little over two months, she said, ‘Well, are you in a rush to get home?’

‘No,’ he said and there was a pause. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and his full lips, crimson-red against his pale skin, remained sealed. His right eyebrow, thick and black, rose just a millimetre. ‘Are you?’

She blushed, embarrassed that he was flirting with her, horrified that he thought she’d been doing the same with him. ‘It’s just that I could do with taking some measurements of my own,’ she added hastily, searching in her pockets for a tape-measure. ‘In addition to the Calico plans.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said, a little crestfallen, and looked at the drawings on the table.

Why hadn’t she given him a little encouragement instead of the cold shoulder? Foremost, because of Rebecca. But also, she was so out of practice, she’d forgotten how to respond to a bit of innocent flirtation. She got out a measuring tape and a hard-backed Moleskine notebook and looked at the row of windows facing out onto the car park. The views would never form part of this room’s charm – her job was to disguise them, to draw the eye to other, more appealing, features. And, like a plain girl made beautiful with artifice, the ambience of the restaurant, vaulted ceiling excepted, would be entirely manufactured.

She lifted up the clipboard and pen and took a step forward and the notebook slid to the floor.

‘Let me get it,’ said Ben and he picked up the notebook and pressed it into her hand. Their fingers touched – and a bolt of electricity shot through Jennifer.

‘Your hand’s cold,’ he said, his voice low and husky.

She trembled, opened her mouth to speak and the door suddenly burst open.