He dealt best with one thing at a time, so she sat quietly while he tinkered with the mugs. The workshop was a fond part of her childhood. It smelled the same way that her dad had when he came home; a comforting mix of diesel, petrol and WD40, with base notes of grease. The space was functional with two large recessed bays in the floor for cars to drive over and so Charlie could work underneath them. Really the workshop was far too big for his needs now, but once there had been two of them and an apprentice. The far wall was still racked out to hold a multitude of parts and fixings, the office area was stacked with ring-binders of paperwork, Charlie not being the sort to appreciate computers.
He handed her her mug of tea, which she politely sipped, waiting for her teeth to start furring.
“What about getting someone in to help, Charlie? You could take more of a back seat and they’ll eventually buy you out of the business?”
Charlie shook his head. “I’ve been asking around for a while and the younger lads aren’t interested. They want the modern franchises out on the industrial estates. They either don’t have the moolah to take it on, or the balls.” Jen nodded along, keen not to veer him onto his pet subject of “Young People Today …”. “I know it might need some updating,” he continued and Jen bit her tongue from asking “you think?”, “but it’s been a good business. I’m just not up to it anymore.”
“Really, Charlie? You’re looking to stop completely?”
“Sorry, love.” He looked properly apologetic and she realised he meant the rental income.
“Don’t you be worrying about us, Charlie. Your health is more important. We’ll re-lease it.”
“You might have a job with those things,” he pointed at the maintenance pits in the floor. She supposed they could be filled in somehow. “Most mechanics just hire a unit now and kit the place out with the modern hydraulic lifts. Those places come with more parking too.” The Arches had never been designed for a raft of waiting vehicles. Jen leaned back against the brick wall. She loved this place with its rusticity. The floor was concrete and there were no frills anywhere. Alice and Max had used it to their benefit; Alice as a juxtaposition to her pretty flowers, Max to cope with the scuffs and blows of the salvage items that came in and out with fast turnaround. If she leased it to something corporate, that would all have to change. She’d hate to see it decked out as an office with plasterboard partitions and false ceiling. Maybe she was averse to seeing it change at all – it was so full of memories for her. Finishing her tea in large gulps, hoping the sugar might bypass her teeth altogether, Jen reasoned that perhaps she was letting nostalgia get in the way of good business practice. She knew what Robert would say.
“Well, I won’t do anything until you’ve properly decided, Charlie,” she said getting up, “it’s all yours until then.”
“Thanks, love,” he said, standing up with a groan. “I’ll keep you posted, but I doubt it’ll be long.”
She gave him a hug and left, running her hand sadly down the door frame as she did so.
“Get a grip,” she told herself, continuing her walk home. She wasn’t losing the place. Not yet. It wasn’t for sale, and she and Lydia could decide who they rented it to. Maybe there was someone out there who wanted “rustic industrial with minimal allocated parking”. Alice and Max were evidence of that. Alice relied mainly on phone calls and foot traffic, while Max’s salvage suppliers and customers were the types who didn’t bat an eyelid at double parking.
As if she didn’t have enough going on, Jen considered what might work in the space. If it didn’t go to another mechanic, it might do for storage. It had character which was a selling point, but it wasn’t the character many shops would want. It was rather too industrial for that. A gallery maybe? It wasn’t quite the art-buying end of town, though. She wasn’t sure Westhampton even had one of those. She looked around the street and her eye fell on a wine merchants. Nothing exclusive, just a chain shop. Their set up was pretty basic with wine boxes stacked high on the floor. That would work. They might fancy expanding. The Arches would give them double the space, floor-wise and to the loft – not all businesses could get best use out of a high ceiling. They didn’t need it. It was the loft height that was one of the issues in her outbuilding. She couldn’t get bigger tanks in there.
She stopped in her tracks.
Oh man, she was a prize idiot. The answer was obvious.
She met Lydia from the train which in itself wasn’t unusual, but she came on foot. Normally she’d take the Capri, ostensibly to keep it “ticking over”, but really to spare Lydia the extra walk. Tonight Jen hadn’t been home yet. After her brainwave, she’d sat herself down on the nearest low wall, dug out her Filofax and started a list, soon covering four pages with what she’d need and what she’d have to do, and what the timings might look like. She listed the people she’d need to talk to and questions for the internet. The first thing was what planning permissions she was going to need to change the arch from a mechanic’s workshop to a brewery.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it instantly. She was normally much better at ideas than that. Ideas were her thing. The arch was perfect – maybe not now exactly, but it could be. It was industrial and functional, she could spool it down with a hose for starters and nothing would be ruined. And it was going to need plenty of spooling down before she could get anything started. But it had the space, nearly two-thousand square feet and the ceiling height for the tanks. In fact it might be much too big for what she needed, but the space was hers, theirs, and that made things easier when it came to the finances. In the back of Jen’s head she was pleased it was big, because it could allow for expansion – but she didn’t think about that too deeply, it wouldn’t do to tempt fate.
Her head was whirling with all the ideas and rough sketches of where things might go without having to change too much. She was definitely going to have to take that loan though. “Bank appointment” got added to the list. As did “Update Business plan”. She wasn’t starting from scratch. In her downtime, between the brews being ready for tapping, Jen had already spent hours planning her fantasy brewery. It had its own file on her laptop, between her library of travel itineraries and folder of beer recipes, which she tinkered with when she’d read a new brewing magazine, incorporating good ideas others had had, or learning from their words of caution. This wasn’t dullard time-usage at all, no matter what Lydia said. Other people played fantasy league football, or built Pinterest boards with their dream homes or secret weddings, how was this any different? Not weird at all.
She saw her evenings evaporating in front of her; this was going to need lots more research. She was already registered as a brewer with the taxman for her farmers’ market sales. Jen was a stickler for the rules; rules allowed control. Beer duty still had to be paid even if you were a teeny weeny micro-brewery, and now she’d need to look at the quantities to see when her discounts would disappear, as well as all the other changes upsizing would invoke.
Her eye inadvertently caught her watch. Bugger. Lydia’s train was only a couple of minutes off, which necessitated some harried bag stuffing and a dash to the station. She desperately missed her phone and its extensive line-up of alarms. She resolved to sort a new one as soon as she got in – only, thinking about her industrial shopping list she wondered whether she could even afford it.
Lydia had already started off down the road as Jen rounded the corner to the station in full sprint.
“Lyds!” She caught her, but spent the next moments bent double, trying to breathe. It felt like her lung lining had been stripped.
“You know, some might suggest you lead an unfit lifestyle,” Lydia said. She wasn’t presenting well on the sympathy front. “You should come running with me.”
God no. The thought of running for pleasure was an oxymoron to Jen. Lydia tended to run around a prepared track as it was kinder to her running blade. It was her pride and joy and as far as Jen could see, the only time she would be sensible was when she was wea
ring it. It hadn’t come cheap either, which was another reminder to Jen why she ring-fenced the Arches rent. It gave her a pang about what she thinking of asking.
“No car. Came from work,” she said, still rasping. “Just ran a bit faster than normal.”
“Than ever,” Lydia pointed out and started walking. She didn’t seem remotely bothered not to have the car. Jen, not so much. “What’s kept you at work so late? Crocheting the tampons?”
Jen took another gulp of air and following her, started telling her all about Charlie, his retiring and her idea. Lydia’s face clearly said she liked the idea.
“It makes perfect sense. Use it.”
“I’ll defer the rent for six months, but you will get it back.”
“We’ve been through this, Jen, take what you need. I don’t mind. I get a decent wage.” She did. Jen had to admit Lydia had got herself a good job when leaving uni. When she was being self-depreciating Lydia would say it was because she upped the company’s disability quota, but they both knew she’d won it based on her smarts and personality. Even with the commuting costs, she came out well. It just didn’t cover her leg costs.
“I’ll pay it back with interest when I’m up and running.”
“No need.”
“Yes need. And I’ll get a set-up loan from the bank.”
“We went through that too. Take it from the rental account.” Lydia stopped and turned on her before she could interject. “Jen, just do it. That money isn’t all mine. You’ve sacrificed so much, now it’s your turn to have a chance. You’ve given me mine, let me share in this adventure.” She walked on, as if the discussion was closed. Jen stood with her hands on her hips, flapping about what to say next. Of course she’d rather use their money, but she’d work out some way of replacing it, with interest, so Lydia’s faith and gamble was paid off. If she failed, then fine, she’d have tried and she’d dedicate herself to the inco pads or the crampons or whatever madness Ava and Zara discovered next.
Lydia was hoofing ahead and it took Jen another effort to come level with her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Lydia looked at her askance. She’d been prepared for a fight. “Good decision. And you’ll take a year, not six months. Can’t get anything done in six months. It could take a year to get the place re-rented, it’s a niche market that’d want it anyway. So we’ll take a year’s hiatus on the rent and revisit after. That’s the deal.”
It felt more like a command than any deal-making, but Jen took it with a nod. A year would give her so much more leeway for trial and error. She kept her eyes on the ground, unwilling to see Lydia’s smug smile at calling the shots. Her gaze slid to Lydia’s leg. Checking her gait and posture was second nature to Jen, keen to detect signs of discomfort Lydia was refusing to admit to. She was wearing her micro-prosthesis, the metal shaft reflecting the evening sun with each step. She normally didn’t wear it with a skirt, favouring the more leg-like cosmesis, and today, considering the heat, the skirt was the obvious choice where the leg was not. Naturally, the anomaly alerted Jen’s radar.
“What’s with the prosthesis?”
Lydia bristled, but kept walking, eyes front and centre. “Two legs beats one, I find.”
“You know what I mean, Lyds. You normally wear that one with trousers.”
“You’re reading too much into it.” Lydia’s face was tight, and Jen knew she was on to something. Something Lydia didn’t want to talk about.
“Is the cosmesis hurting? We can get it looked at. The money is there. If it isn’t fitting right, or the socket is faulting we need to get it looked at fast before you do any damage to your residual limb–”
“Stump,” Lydia snapped, “it’s my stump. Let’s call it what it is, ‘residual limb’ sounds wanky. And I am well aware of all those things. I am aware of my health care, I don’t need you to keep reminding me.”
“Alright, stroppy,” Jen said, keen not to have an argument in the middle of the street. But she did need to get to the bottom of this. “You do sometimes leave the care late though and if you’d taken preventative measures earlier–”
“I lost it.”
Jen stopped in her tracks. “What?!”
“The leg. Saturday night. Long story. I took it off and then it was gone. I’ve been to the police and they’ll call if it gets handed in.” Lydia restarted her walk, forcing Jen to follow.
“Where?” Jen was bewildered. How could she lose a leg? “Why did you take it off?” Jen understood why she’d taken that one, the silicone cosmesis was the easiest to clean. Mud in the exposed joints of the prosthesis was a nightmare. But she couldn’t see how she’d lost it. You’d spot an errant leg in a field, surely?
Lydia scowled at her. “I lost it at the place where I was, and I took it off because I wanted to. Just leave it, Jen. I said I’m on it.” Lydia’s pace stepped up a gear. They were close to home and she was obviously keen to get in and away from the conversation.
By Jen’s reckoning Lydia was not remotely as concerned as she should be. That leg was key to her having as normal a life as possible. Yes, she had the other legs, but this was the one she wore when she wanted people to notice least. It sustained her self-confidence. Lydia unlocked their front door without further explanation or remorse. The cosmesis wasn’t her most expensive leg, but it was still vital nonetheless. It was a clear sign Lydia couldn’t look after herself properly. Who lost a leg in a field? Jen understood her wanting to take it off while they sat around the campfire, but she should have put it somewhere safe. That was just basic skills. Good Lord.
“How did you even get home?” she called up the stairs. Lydia hadn’t phoned her, or even told her about it when she’d come home. They’d talked about the beer deal. She should have told her then.
“I do have friends, Jen. They carried me to the car, and they drove me home, and they brought me in to my crutches. My whole world does not revolve around you.”
Lydia’s bedroom door slammed. There it was, her answer to everything; hiding herself away. She might think she was an adult, but she had a good line in showing herself up to still being a surly teen.
Well, she could stew in her mood. Jen had work to do, and plans to make. She parked herself and her laptop at the kitchen table, grabbing some fruit from the bowl in lieu of dinner. It was going to be a long night, and somewhere she was going to have to find time for sleep, because from now on she was working double shifts.
Chapter 22
The Capri caned it down the side streets of Westhampton, like something out of a 1970’s car chase, Jen swearing at the cars in front to get out of the way. She didn’t have time for their dawdling. Yakob would be arriving in an hour and she still had a humongous to-do-list. Having to drive twenty miles to fetch a leg was the last thing she’d needed, and in the end she’d been forced to blag the afternoon out of the office to do so. She’d told Ava she was off out for some tampon and mooncup research. “Knowing The Competition” was key to affective marketing. Ava had been impressed. Jen would have to scour the internet later for some facts to spout. She didn’t know how the sisters were going to take her turning down the partnership, she could at least try to soften the blow with some market research and a decent marketing plan.
On the upside, getting out shielded her from all the emails with wedding dress suggestions Ava was now bombarding her with. Clearly Celia had enlisted her to her cause. It only served to steel Jen’s resolve to wear her mother’s dress. She’d have to ask Alice what she could do with it. But not now. Right now she had a rush hour to cleave her way through and preparations to make.
Stifling a yawn she briefly considered stopping to buy an energy drink. She’d woken up at 3 a.m., with her face on the keyboard. She wasn’t sure all the indentations had properly gone by the time she’d reached work. The house had better be in some decent state, she’d need the full hour to sort her face. But stopping for stimulants now would allow these slowpokes to get back in front of her and she’d had to em
ploy Formula One thinking already to get past them. She ploughed on.
Thankfully, an early-morning delivery, some assassin-speed chopping and the slow cooker had the dinner sorted, the aroma of the stew now a comfort as she came storming in through the door, slinging her bag and coat in the cupboard, and manically checking for mess as she tornadoed up through the house to her room. God, she needed a drink. Just something to take the edge off this nervousness.
“He’s just a friend, Jen,” she sang under her breath. It was ridiculous stressing about it. Friends didn’t judge. He wouldn’t care what she looked like. He wouldn’t be expecting her to have some swanky home like he did. She’d described where she lived. He wouldn’t be expecting haute cuisine either. She’d texted him the address and said she’d cook. It was the nearest she could get to clarifying it wasn’t a date. Anything more overt would sound rude.
Flicking through her clothes rack for the third time she stopped and shook out her arms, to get a grip. What was the matter with her? What a prat. This was a simple meal. Why was she feeling so out of control? The thought brought her up short. She would keep control of this. Enough of the pratting about. She pulled a loose short-sleeved black top off a hanger and a pair of black jeans out of the drawer. She hastily hoiked on her best underwear, but purely for confidence purposes, nothing else. A long necklace finished the look; casual but smart. Way better at least, than the yellow and orange he’d seen in Copenhagen. She dragged a brush through her hair and wanded her lashes a couple of times with mascara. That would do. Jen shimmied at her reflection. She was back in the game.
Probably the Best Kiss in the World Page 18