by Heleen Kist
The other one was a part-time yoga instructor who’d decreed that showing up to work was not always ‘compatible with his chi energy’. Glory had performed a hilarious impersonation one day, which made us laugh so much that a ‘lack of compatibility with chi energy’ became our go-to excuse for anything. Seemingly oblivious to anyone but himself, he declined to return, having been offended at the lack of contact.
Good riddance. But how much more pressure would that put on me?
Dependably punctual, Sascha was waiting for me on the doorstep as I strode over three minutes late the next morning.
‘Nice change from the green,’ I said, pointing at her head.
She ran her hands through her hair. ‘Glory liked purple. I dyed it last night in her honour. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ll miss her a lot.’
‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’ I’d learnt through trial and error how to accept condolences with the appropriate poise. ‘As I said last night, today is about understanding how and when I would need to assist to keep the place ticking over.’
A residual smell of ground coffee greeted us as I opened the door, and the fresh air launched specks of dust into the sunlight, where they staged a welcome dance, as if to celebrate the end of their static neglect.
Having only been a visitor until now, it was new territory to find myself behind the counter as Sascha showed me around, explaining how to prepare the food and drinks. I wandered from appliance to appliance, stroking the cold metal, getting a feel for this new workplace.
‘Between nine o’clock and eleven, it gets busy,’ she said, ‘so it would be great to get some help.’
‘What’s it like at other times?’ I tensed up, bracing for the answer that would determine how many more clients I stood to lose.
‘Well, that depends. There are a few regulars who come for lunch, and Wednesdays are popular with groups of mums before the school pickup. That’s about it. Sunday brunch is getting busier, but we had an offer on, so it’s hard to tell. It’s pretty quiet, overall. I can handle that alone.’
Relieved, I inhaled fresh hope. I wouldn’t be needed much. But while my body relaxed, my brain perked up on spotting an inconsistency. How can it be so quiet? Grace was always talking about her ‘booming’ business. She’d been so sure it would be a success. It wasn’t unusual for Glory to exaggerate, but it made me wonder why she’d put in place the complicated structure for distributing profits to the kids if there weren’t any.
‘So is this not profitable, then?’
‘I don’t know. Glory took care of the business side. I only had to make sure I rung up every order in the register.’
I thought of all the things that would have to be taken care off: paperwork, utilities, rent ... How much of that was my job now?
‘Who does the accounts?’ I asked.
‘An older gentleman called Alastair. Do you want me to check for his details?’
‘No, thanks. I can find him,’ I said, recognising the name, ‘He’s a family friend.’
‘He often comes in on a Friday, if that helps. Our only customer in a suit.’
I searched through the folders of papers under the counter. There was not much of interest and I started to lose faith in ever finding the hidden bank details.
Sascha retreated to the small kitchen area. ‘The fridges need a complete clear out. All the food has gone off,’ she yelled from the rear.
‘Yuck. That does not sound fun.’ I came closer, breathing only through my mouth to keep out any foul smells. ‘Where do we get this stuff from?’
‘Some of it we buy from small craft traders, like the jams and honey. They show up and we choose on the day. The organic veg is sourced from Locavore, the social enterprise a couple of streets away. But to be honest, most of it is pretty standard stuff and comes from a wholesaler called Excelsior. Deliveries are once a fortnight. We’ll have to call them to replenish.’
‘No need. I happen to know they’re coming tomorrow.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, some ass-hole accosted me yesterday. A real creep. I’m minded to give this supplier a lesson in customer service.’
‘Wow. That’s weird. Because Marius the delivery guy is a sweetheart. He’s Romanian and doesn’t speak much English, but Glory liked him. He’s been our man from the start and I think she was so excited to be opening that she invested in becoming friends with anyone that mattered.’
A rush of warmth filled my chest and a grin spread across my face as I pictured Glory’s ebullience in greeting every person crossing her threshold. ‘Always the charmer.’
‘Ha! You should have seen the charm bomb she threw at the council’s planning inspector.’ I marvelled at her perfect choice of words, as if the expression had been made up for my sister. A charm bomb. ‘The kitchen had the wrong extraction vent for this category of venue, or something like that, and the man had threatened to stop the launch. Glory worked at him for weeks. All sweetness and light, with a little flirtation here and there. It was so fun to watch. And then, all of a sudden, he sent a letter saying it was all okay, and we never saw him again. We could not have been happier if we’d won the lottery.’
We. That one word kicked me in the gut and turned the mood stone cold, her celebration poisoned by my envy of their shared joy. Sascha went quiet, looking perplexed by the sudden shift in my demeanour, her eyes searching for an explanation.
I faked a smile and reached for her shoulder. ‘Well, you and I, my friend, are going to make this work and do her proud. And I’m putting you in charge.’
She beamed, the earlier chill interpreted as a pause for suspense—like when they make you wait as they announce the winner on talent shows.
‘Oh, Grace, I won’t let you down. I promise. It will be so great to have the run of the place. I have so many ideas, but Glory didn’t let me—’ Both hands rushed to cover her mouth as she realised how her enthusiasm had led her into inappropriate territory.
She is young, I told myself. She has no experience of loss. I chose to forgive her and concentrated on the blessing of having someone willing to take on this burden.
Chapter Fourteen
Alastair cleared a slot in his diary for me straight away. His firm’s office stood on the corner of West George Street and Wellington Street, a short but steep walk from Central Station. The property formed part of an uncharacteristically jumbled Georgian terrace with buildings of different heights and styles fronted by equally mismatched ‘To Let’ signs, insulting my senses and spoiling the elegance of Blythswood Square ahead.
Order was restored in the corporate blue and grey entrance hall of Evans & Carmichael Chartered Accountants, where the receptionist greeted me with a professional smile, that warmed upon hearing my name.
‘There is coffee and tea set up for you in here, Miss McBride.’ She guided me through a white panelled door on the right. ‘Mr Evans will be with you shortly. Please make yourself comfortable.’
That wouldn’t be difficult. The room oozed comfort, from the first step onto the deep woven carpet to the inviting plush armchairs bathing in the sunlight from the large square window, framed by silver-tinted curtains that caressed the floor. Opulent and intimate. I spotted a silver box of tissues on the side table as I sat down. This must be the room reserved for family matters.
After a short wait, Alastair ducked through the doorway—all six-foot-four-inches of him—dressed in a grey suit and holding a black leather-bound notebook. I looked up. The height difference transported me back to when he towered over me visiting my parents’ store.
‘Now, which one are you again?’ he would tease, and the routine finished with me holding my fist as high as I could—usually halfway up his chest—and saying, ‘Watch out, Uncle Alastair, because one day I will reach, and you will learn who’s who.’
That day had come, sort of. I stood and reached his chin. But instead of a punch I offered a hug. ‘Hello Alastair.’
‘My dear Grace. It’s been too long.’ His monkey-ar
ms encircled me almost twice. ‘What a terrible tragedy.’ He placed me into my seat as if I were a delicate package and sank into the chair opposite. ‘You must be devastated. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to pay my respects to you at the funeral.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I spoke to your parents last week. They appear to have a lot on their plate alraedy. With ... umm ... your mother.’
‘Yes. It’s awful. And all coming at once. I’m only holding it together because Stephen and the boys need me. And there are a lot of affairs to sort out, which is why I am here.’
‘Of course. Is there something specific you are looking for?’ He opened the notebook and fetched a Mont Blanc pen from his silk-lined inside pocket. I doubt my family would be given a second look if we met him now, but he owed his early success to the loyalty of his Perthshire clients, most of whom were childhood friends, and he was the type of man to value relationships.
‘Can you explain the trusts you set up for Glory’s kids, please? Dad asked me to find the paperwork, but I don’t know what I am looking for. Nor what to do if I find it.’
‘Happy to explain again.’
The use of the word ‘again’ jarred, but I figured he meant earlier conversations with my family.
‘Our firm designed this structure for clients who are owner-managers with younger children, to help release funds from the business while minimising tax. I won’t bore you with the process to set it up, which required the directors’ and your parents’ participation, but the upshot is that the two children own a certain class of share in the café through what’s called an Interest in Possession trust. They are entitled to a fixed dividend from the business every year. Those funds can then be used to pay for school fees and associated costs to the benefit of the children, such as uniforms and summer camps.’
‘I think I follow. But who manages the trust? Isn’t that expensive?’
‘That’s the nice thing about this type of trust: the money can go into bank accounts in the names of the children. And as long as the dividends are less than fifteen thousand pounds each, there is no tax due or self-assessment required for HMRC. Glory would be the one making all the payments from the accounts, of course, as the boys are too young and probably wouldn’t even be aware the accounts existed. She had wanted to be the sole trustee, but I warned against that and now she has passed, I’m glad I did. Your father is the other trustee.’
‘Why Dad and not Stephen?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you think she was hiding things from him?’
He frowned. ‘Well, that’s not my concern as her accountant. Glory could choose anyone as trustee and she chose your father. She never said why. And it wasn’t my place to ask. But if the funds were being used for school fees, I would be astounded if Stephen didn’t know. After all, it would replace payments he would have been making beforehand.’
I sipped my coffee, my mind racing. Was Glory hoarding money in these accounts for future use? And if so, where the hell was it?
‘Do you have the details of the bank accounts, so we can see how much is there?’
‘No, I don’t. I wasn’t involved in that part. You could call Clydesdale since that’s where the café has its account, and maybe she kept everything at one bank. But they’re prohibited from releasing such information to anyone but the client, or in this case the next of kin. It would be best if you found the statements. Even then, unless your father is also a trustee on the account itself, it will be a rigmarole to get access.’ I sank back into the armchair and rubbed my eyes. Alastair patted my arm. ‘Oh, my dear. I’m sorry. This is all very complicated. I spent a lot of time explaining accounting and taxation to your sister and here you are having to absorb it all in one go. It doesn’t seem fair for you to have to worry about this. Why don’t I pick this up with your father?’
‘No.’ I was anxious to fulfil my task but also too intrigued to let go. ‘Dad asked me to take care of it. As you said, they’ve got a lot on their plate.’
‘I see. One way to trace the bank details, of course, is to check the recipient details for the dividend payments out of the café’s bank account. They will have been made around the time of your dividends, same as last year.’
‘What dividends? What do you mean? I’ve had no money from the café. Why would I?’
Alastair cocked his head and looked at me with a puzzled expression.
‘But Grace, my dear, you’re the majority shareholder in the café. So you get the vast majority of the profits. Do you not remember receiving two payments in the last two years? They were big sums: five figures.’
‘What? I don’t know anything about this. What are you saying?’
The blood drained from his face. ‘You really have no idea? Glory told me you’d invested in the café and helped out a lot. That’s why you were a shareholder. She brought me your signatures. She told me you were always too busy to come.’
‘No, I never invested. I don’t have any money.’
He shuffled in his seat. ‘I’ve known you so long. I didn’t bother to do the necessary checks. It all seemed so plausible. I’ve got you signature on the trust papers. Was that not you?’
‘No.’
He brought his fingers to his temples and rubbed, his eyes closed. I was desperate to question him, but I didn’t want to interrupt his thought. After a while, his eyes flashed open and his hands dropped to his knees like dead weights.
‘G. The payments were made to G McBride. The account never actually specified “Grace”, only “G”. I’m sorry. Glory pulled the wool right over my eyes. I don’t know where the money went. Why would she do this? This could have serious repercussions for me.’
‘Uncle Alastair, relax. I’m sure it’s fine. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Technically I have. I should have stuck to the Know Your Client process.’ Alastair wrung his hands together and my stomach swirled. Trust bloody Glory. How dare she put this kind man in this position? And what for?
‘It’s okay. I won’t let anyone find out.’
He forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘But let me get this straight ... the café is mine?’
‘Except for the few shares held by Glory, which will pass to Stephen, yes. Because you have all the voting rights you need for control, you already have the ultimate say.’
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’
My quest for advice seemed to revive him and he grew into himself again.
‘You could sell it. It has a surprisingly healthy bottom line for a place that size. And I suspect that with the vegan angle fashionable right now, someone will want it. That is, if you can bear to part with it?’ He paused, testing for my emotions. ‘It feels like a decision you shouldn’t rush.’
I grimaced, baffled this was my decision at all.
Chapter Fifteen
The next day was my first on the new job. Sascha was pushing folded napkins under wobbly tables when I heard a knock on the rear door.
‘That must be the wholesaler,’ I said.
‘I’ll check.’ She left for the back while I stayed at one of the tables, examining a pack of receipts to educate myself on what sold well.
What was your miracle formula, Gi? How did you keep this place going?
Whilst I was still frozen in indecision whether to keep or sell the café, I’d worked out that either outcome required me to do my best to keep it financially sound.
‘Marius is here.’ Sascha stood by my side, holding paperwork. ‘He is offloading the boxes and needs a signature. Glory would normally—’
‘Give it here.’ I took the clipboard from her and scribbled on the designated line. ‘Once the goods are inside, I’ll help you put it all away.’
I yawned. The weight of all the new demands hindered my sleep, leaving me perpetually on edge. One constant thread strangled every option I thought of: sooner or later I had to tell Stephen that his wife had gone out of her way to complicate things an
d—for reasons I could not fathom—had minimised her ownership of the business; leaving him with little say and me with one giant headache.
Dammit, Gi. This would all be easier if you’d just bloody talked to me.
‘Grace?’ Sascha walked in. Her eyes darted between me and the papers in her hand as she plopped another problem at my feet like a cat’s gift bird. ‘I’ve counted the boxes and there are fewer than there should be according to this list. I’m so sorry I should have checked before you signed, but I only came to ask how you wanted to handle things and then you signed it and then Marius left and he was so upset because I told him about Glory and it’s only then that I saw—’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. I managed to fake a smile while mentally cursing the heavens. ‘I didn’t even look at the damn paper. And besides, I put you in charge, and here I am snatching things out of your hands before you even get a chance to speak. I’m the one who should be sorry.’
‘Okay. Sorry ... Thanks.’ She came closer. ‘I’ve marked everything that’s here, but about thousand pounds’ worth of goods is not accounted for. That’s like half. Which is weird because it actually looks like the usual set of boxes. Shall I call Excelsior?’
‘No, it’s fine, I’ll take care of it. I want to talk to them anyway.’ Aware I was stepping on her managerial toes again, I added, ‘But you’re the boss ... so why don’t you show me what you want me to put away?’
‘Just those, thanks.’ She pointed at a mound of twenty-odd boxes that wouldn’t present much of a challenge.
‘Why don’t you go online and see if you can make people aware we’re open again from tomorrow. I’ve seen we have a Facebook page but what else?’
‘Great idea. We’ve not got much else. I’ve been thinking for a while we should set up a Twitter account and put out photos on Instagram. Those pastel-coloured macaroons we have would make a great shot next to a perfect latte.’