by Jenny Colgan
She was still looking at it when Reuben came in. She had been worried about him; worried that he’d have lost his swagger, his chippy requirement to tell everyone how well he was doing. But she needn’t have been; as she was ordering her second, shamefully expensive elderflower and ginger beer drink, he bounced in on his ridiculous limited edition Kanye West trainers – Polly only knew this because he’d mentioned the fact so repeatedly she was surprised the insolvency people hadn’t taken them away – his wide, freckled Norman Rockwell face as cheery as ever.
‘Hey!’ said Polly, delighted to see him. ‘How are you?’
‘I am fantastic,’ said Reuben. ‘Cheerfully triumphing over minor setbacks!’
‘I see that,’ said Polly. She glanced out onto the street. ‘How did you get here?’
He grimaced slightly at that.
‘Can you believe they took my Segway? How am I meant to get around now?’
He waved his hand at a member of staff who was peering at his phone.
‘Flat white.’
‘Um,’ said Polly, as the waiter carried right on looking at his phone. ‘He doesn’t work for you.’
‘He does right now,’ said Reuben. ‘Whilst I’m sitting in his coffee shop.’
‘Yes, but he won’t see it like that,’ said Polly. ‘You have to say please.’
‘Why do I have to say please? I’m giving him money for it. And if he was actually getting it for me, I’d be giving him extra money for that too.’
Reuben said this loudly – he said everything loudly – which appeared to have the required effect, as the bearded waiter pushed himself off the counter slowly.
Reuben took his flat white with some satisfaction, but without saying thank you.
‘So you don’t mind being semi-retired?’ said Polly.
Reuben shook his head.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘I’m working more than ever. And I’m finally getting enough sex.’
The rest of the coffee shop pretended not to be earwigging. This wasn’t very much like a business meeting, thought Polly. And also: how could Reuben and Kerensa possibly be having more sex? Then she thought about how much she missed Huckle, and blushed.
‘Anyway,’ she said. She showed him the van she’d found on the Internet.
‘Oh yes,’ said Reuben. ‘I like it.’
‘So what do I do?’ said Polly. ‘I mean, how do I put this kind of thing together?’
Reuben turned her laptop towards him.
‘What is this computer? How old is this? It’s rubbish. How can you even carry it around with you? Mine is made out of NASA titanium. It weighs four ounces.’
‘I don’t know what that is,’ said Polly patiently.
‘You can spin it on one finger,’ said Reuben. ‘This is a terrible computer. I want to buy you a new one.’
‘Didn’t your computer get taken away?’ said Polly.
‘Hmm,’ grumbled Reuben.
He started a new spreadsheet. He typed unbelievably quickly.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Business plan 101.’
‘What’s 101?’
Reuben looked at her and grinned.
‘Stop looking so nervous, kid.’
Polly glanced at the picture of the van again.
‘I have run a business,’ she said. ‘I do know a bit. It’s just… So many things seem to fail. Everything seems to fall apart.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Reuben. ‘Of course they do. That’s how it works.’
He smiled at her encouragingly.
‘Do you know how many failed start-ups I ran before we hit it big?’
Polly shook her head and shrugged.
‘Nine! Nine of the fuckers. But I didn’t care, because I knew I could make it. Then I did make it. Then it all went to shit again.’
He raised his spoon and his voice.
‘But you carry on! You get it back! All you have to believe is that you are awesome.’
‘I’m kind of average,’ said Polly, tentatively.
‘You live in a freaking lighthouse! You. Are. AWESOME!’ said Reuben. ‘Not as awesome as me, since you never owned a helicopter. But apart from that…’
Polly looked at him.
‘Say it!’
‘I’m not going to say it! I’m British!’
‘SAY IT!’ Reuben turned round to the waiter, who was now leaning against the wall. ‘You say it too; get yourself out of this coffee shop and into doing whatever it is you and your beard really want to do for a job.’
The nonchalant waiter perked up suddenly.
‘I want to be a film editor, man.’
‘Awesome,’ said Reuben. ‘That’s an awesome thing to want to be. Go do it!’
‘Reuben!’ said Polly. ‘This isn’t The Wolf of Wall Street.’
‘Everything is,’ said Reuben, who thought that film was both the best film ever made, and completely aspirational.
‘Do you want this or not? Do you want to succeed or not? Do you want your life to get better or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then say it.’
Polly sighed.
‘SAY IT!’
‘I am awesome,’ she said, quietly.
‘Louder,’ said Reuben.
‘I am awesome,’ she said at a normal volume.
‘LOUDER!’
‘I. AM. AWESOME!’ screamed the bearded waiter suddenly. Then he tore off his apron, threw it on the floor and marched out the door.
Reuben and Polly watched him go in surprise.
‘Aha, free drinks,’ said Reuben. ‘Awesome.’
They stayed in the café, heads together, for two hours, and hammered out the basics and structure of a solid yet flexible business plan.
Polly had learned a lot from running the graphic design business with her ex, even if it had ultimately failed. She had also picked up plenty from watching Gillian Manse deal with the books – she had been very efficient; too efficient, in fact. The old bakery had managed to cling on by virtue of good solid money management far longer than it ought to have done. Polly wondered if an earlier retirement might have led to a happier, longer life for Mrs Manse.
But she wasn’t distracted for long: she was soon pulled back into the world of profit and loss accounts and offset capital expenditure. This was as close as she had ever seen Reuben to working. He was completely and utterly engrossed, and his fierce concentration didn’t let up for a second. For the first time she could absolutely see why this short geek had taken over the world, and why you wouldn’t ever bet against him doing exactly the same again one day.
‘Do this,’ he said. ‘Use Huckle’s money; the bank can’t help you, although you can open a small business account, which lets you bank free for six months. Make sure you get that.’
Polly nodded.
‘I’ll come and look at the van with you. But your job now is to charm City Hall into granting you that trading licence. Print out pictures of the van. Even if you don’t get it, I think the fact that it looks so pretty will help you a lot. And you’re only asking to set it up in a car park, after all. I can’t see it will be that much of a problem; they let ice cream vans come past, don’t they?’
‘Not up to town,’ said Polly, thinking of the terrible blow it would be to both Muriel’s shop and the chippy if their precious Wall’s concessions were challenged. Cornetto money from the hot days of summer kept them going right through the deep storms of winter. And she was trying to do this to someone else’s business.
‘Well, speak to them anyway. Then they’ll probably need to inspect the van.’
‘You know a lot about this,’ said Polly.
‘No,’ said Reuben. ‘I’m just assuming they might like to check from time to time to make sure you’re not selling rat juice. Were you planning on selling rat juice?’
Polly shook her head. Reuben got up, then carefully shook out his wallet and left enough money to cover his own coffee. Polly did the same with her cordials.
‘
Gotta respect the small businesses, man,’ said Reuben, patting the door frame of the café as they left. ‘Gotta respect ’em all.’
He gave Polly a light kiss on the cheek.
‘Right. I’m off home. Talking about business plans always makes me feel sexy.’
Polly rolled her eyes and followed his gaze. Parked behind the café was a tiny, glittering, incredibly expensive-looking micro-scooter.
‘Seriously?’ she said.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Reuben. ‘Totally. I hid it in a hedge. Okay. What are you?’
Polly smiled at him. He’d been a proper tonic.
‘Um, awesome?’
Reuben shook his head and got on his scooter.
‘Nope.’
Polly was confused.
‘What then?’
‘FUCKING AWESOME!’ he screamed, scooting away in his ridiculous trainers, highly expensive three-quarter-length trousers and designer sunglasses. As he vanished down the vertiginous hill narrowly missing a woman struggling with a huge buggy, Polly heard a faint echo on the breeze.
‘FUUUUUCKKKKIIIINNNNGG AWWWWWEEEESSSOOOOMMME!’
Chapter Fourteen
In the event, once Polly had printed out all the forms at the library in Looe, it wasn’t nearly as complicated as she’d expected. The lady at the council had looked at her briefly, run through her application and told her that they would have to have a proper council bin nearby, that any rubbish or extra seagull infestation would result in a review, that they would need a health and safety certificate publicly displayed and that it would be for a three-month trial period only. Her spot would be in the side entrance to the car park: no entry to Mount Polbearne itself, which was a World Heritage Site and needed to be treated like one. She could also have one picnic table, as long as it didn’t protrude more than fifteen centimetres into the public roadway; she would be liable to spot inspections at any point, and could operate between the hours of eight and four, seven days a week. All for thirty-five quid.
Polly nodded, unable to believe it could be quite so straightforward. Those weeks of lying around feeling sorry for herself seemed such a waste now; could this possibly work? Might it? She’d rung the sellers of the van, who, yes, still had it, and was steeling herself to go and negotiate. Reuben had offered to go with her, but Polly had figured that whilst she personally thought Reuben was ace, sometimes the first impression he gave wasn’t entirely the best way to get a nice friendly deal out of people.
‘Oh,’ said the council woman. ‘And you’ll have to wear a hairnet.’
Polly looked at her.
‘Seriously?’
‘I don’t make the rules,’ said the woman. ‘Well, I do, obviously, make some of the rules.’ She smoothed down her cerise suit jacket, which looked too warm over her floral frock. ‘But in this instance, it comes from far higher up. Yes, higher up even than me!’
‘A hairnet?’ said Polly. Suddenly her image of a lovely scenic little van with gorgeous chic food and even a place to sit and eat whilst staring out at the sea took on a slightly dowdier perspective. A hairnet really hadn’t been in it.
The woman looked at her sternly.
‘Is a hairnet going to be a deal-breaker?’
‘No,’ said Polly quickly. ‘But is it —’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘What about, like, really natty little baseball caps?’
‘We’re not in the business of giving out licences to the uncommitted,’ said the woman, hanging back from handing over the forms.
‘Yes. All right, all right. Thank you so much. I’ll do absolutely everything.’
‘You certainly will!’ said the woman. ‘Or we have instant authorisation to shut you down. Good luck!’
Polly was on a train, en route to Penzance. She was speaking to Huckle on the phone. Jayden had given her a lift to the mainland in the taxi boat that morning, whilst the causeway was underwater.
‘Got nowt else to do,’ he had pointed out gloomily. Sales had absolutely fallen off in the bakery and he wasn’t allowed to chat to customers now, so he spent most of the day just staring out to sea. He was still pretty glad he wasn’t out there, but it was becoming a close-run thing, particularly when he saw the lads coming in of a morning, laughing and joking and giving him a terrible slagging for his nasty sausage rolls.
Malcolm wasn’t much better, complaining about how lazy and useless Jayden was, then disappearing for a couple of days, coming back smelling of old booze. And he spent much more time in the other bakery. Jayden suspected he was trying to chat up Flora. He himself had got absolutely nowhere with her, but he still felt she could do better than that sleazy jackass.
The cheery grin had gone from Jayden’s features as he puttered Polly across to the mainland. It was a windy morning, sunny, but with a chill breeze that necessitated a warm cardigan for emergencies.
‘Bring something good back,’ he said to Polly. ‘Sort it out.’
He turned pink.
‘If it… if it goes well… can I come and work with you again?’
‘Of course,’ said Polly, who hadn’t in the slightest figured out how she could possibly manage to do everything herself, but equally couldn’t see how there could be two full-time jobs in it either.
Jayden perked up.
‘You’ll do it, Polly. You’ve done it before.’
Polly remembered his words as she gazed out of the window at the beautiful vista of cliff and sea. Tucked in amongst the green was an amazing old boarding school that looked like a castle. Muriel had told her it was there, but she’d never noticed before. She watched, dreamily, as a posse of distant figures pranced around on a lacrosse court. It was very different to her own upbringing, she thought. And her present, when she considered it.
‘Pol?’ Huckle sounded uncharacteristically irritated. ‘Are you listening? You sound miles away.’
‘Sorry,’ said Polly. ‘Just got distracted. Maybe I should go and teach home economics.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Ignore me. I’m talking rubbish. AND in a quiet carriage!’
Shocked with herself, she got up and went out to where the loos were. Now he was almost impossible to hear.
‘Don’t pay more than four K for it, Polly! Four K, okay! I know you don’t like doing it, but you have to bargain. You’re a businesswoman now. You’re not trying to get these people to like you, you’re doing a job. And it’s the only job you have, so do it right. It’s not all about making scones, you know.’
Polly was disgruntled.
‘I know that,’ she said.
But he was right, she knew. She hated bargaining, couldn’t even bear to do it in a market; found the whole concept humiliating.
‘Well, do it,’ said Huckle, sounding stern, and with a shiver she thought how much she missed him.
‘Are you naked?’ she said suddenly.
‘Stop it! I mean it! Get to business!’
‘I will get to business. What are you wearing, though?’
She could hear the smile in his voice.
‘I have a meeting with the bank, to sort out the farm.’
‘And?’
‘So I can’t stop and chat to you.’
‘Just tell me…’
‘Suit, striped shirt. Blue tie.’
‘Ooh,’ said Polly. ‘I think I like that even more than you naked. Are you looking all buttoned up? I like that in a man, like you could burst out any second. I could undo the buttons very, very slowly…’
She reckoned she could hear him breathing slightly more heavily on the other end of the line.
‘Shut up,’ he said eventually. ‘I have to get to my meeting.’
‘Don’t be too long.’
‘The less of my money you spend on this truck, the sooner I’ll be home,’ he said, and his voice held a heavy weight of longing.
It took Polly a while to find the address the man had given her on the phone. Eventually, though, she found him: a tall, skinny chap in his late
twenties with a prominent Adam’s apple and wearing a baseball cap.
