I step out of the car – which I always forget is lime green when I’m in it – and walk cautiously towards the sign.
It reads: ‘You’re making a misteak’ in large red letters. The spelling mistake stands out a mile in bright red letters but that isn’t enough to take away from the intimidating message. Is this meant for me? It can’t be…
I pick the sign up and look at the other side.
‘Burger off!’
This can’t be good…
Chapter 5
When my bosses offered me this job they were keen to mention that it needed someone with both business and shop floor experience. They said that Marram Bay was a hugely popular coastal town, overflowing with tourists who would lap up a YumYum deli. I don’t think they would have sent me here if they didn’t think I was up to the job, but they did neglect to mention one small detail…
‘What do you mean no one wants us here?’ I ask Mike, the site manager.
‘No one wants us here,’ he repeats himself, just in case saying the exact same thing twice provides a little more clarity.
I blink.
‘The locals,’ he says in a strong cockney accent that makes me feel both comforted and homesick.
At YumYum we have an in-house team of fitters responsible for decking out the delis with everything they need. Mike is their manager and today he’s supposed to be showing me around, except there’s just this one little problem.
‘I saw the sign outside,’ I tell him. ‘Are you telling me one of the locals left that there?’
‘No, no. They left it in here, I just put it out there, ready to go in the skip. They had a protest, everyone had their little signs. That one was the butcher’s.’
That explains the terrible pun.
‘Why were they protesting?’ I ask.
Mike takes a battered looking iPhone from the pocket of his paint splattered jeans and taps the screen a few times before handing it to me. I notice that he’s calling Eric, one of the big bosses, so I hold the phone to my ear.
‘All right Mike, what’s the problem now?’ he asks, and it sounds like there’s been a lot of problems so far.
‘Eric, hello, it’s Lily,’ I say as brightly as I can manage.
‘Lily,’ he says, sounding a little sheepish. ‘You made it there OK then? You all settled in?’
‘Erm, it’s not exactly what I had in mind,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. I decide that now is not the time to mention the state of the cottage – I’m dealing with it anyway – so instead I get straight to the point about the deli. ‘Mike says no one wants us here?’
‘No,’ he replies.
‘No?’ I echo, staring to feel like a parrot.
Eric sighs deeply.
‘OK, so the locals have a bit of a problem with a chain opening, they want to preserve the town, not make it a clone of every other high street out there…so they put in a lot of objections with the council,’ he explains.
‘But, all the delis have different names and identities, so it’s not going to look like a clone. And the foods we sell, they’re from all over, and it’s not like we’re opening a butcher’s to compete with the existing one.’
‘I know, that’s why the council gave us the go-ahead to open,’ he assures me.
‘But?’
‘But the locals still aren’t happy. They think the deli is going to destroy the independent shops that define the community and that we’re going to damage local businesses. They say we’re targeting transient custom, people without roots in the community who don’t care about whether or not they enrich local economy over us, who they see as “the man”,’ he says with a bit of a chuckle. They might be a chain, but they’re not exactly ruthless business people.
‘So, what now?’ I ask.
‘So now it’s your job to convince them that a YumYum deli belongs in Marram Bay,’ he tells me. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry about it, to have this hanging over your head. If anyone can make this place a success, it’s you. You’re a hard-working single mum, not some ruthless businesswoman. Let people get to know the real you, tell them about how we operate, change their minds.’
‘And if I don’t succeed?’ I ask.
‘Well, at the moment they’re trying to prevent us getting our liquor licence,’ he tells me. ‘But don’t worry about it, OK? Just do your best. Amanda and I have faith in you.’
I feel my face crumple with stress.
‘OK, sure,’ I reply.
‘That’s our girl,’ Eric replies. ‘Call me anytime if you need me.’
‘OK, I will. Thank you,’ I say, hanging up and handing Mike his phone back.
‘Not great, right?’ Mike says.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Anyway…show you around?’
‘Sure,’ I reply.
So far my dream life in a new place has turned out to be anything but what I expected. I can’t believe the locals don’t want us here, YumYum delis are such amazing places, with a great choice of international food – why would they not want us?
What I’m not going to do is panic or, worse, get upset, because Eric is right. I’ve got this. This is my chance to show the people of Marram Bay exactly what YumYum delis are all about, and to show the world exactly what Lily Holmes can do. I want to prove to my bosses that I can do it and, even more importantly, I want to prove to myself that I can do this. Well, it would have been boring if it were easy, right?
Chapter 6
After a long day of hurdle after hurdle at the deli, I pull up outside the school to find that, yet again, there’s no one to be seen. I know there aren’t many kids who go here, but shouldn’t there be parents around?
I hurry up the steps as carefully as I can in my heels, only to see Frankie standing in the playground on his own.
‘Hey, kiddo, where is everyone?’
‘They went home at three,’ he says, not sounding his usual self.
‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry,’ I blurt, realising it was his previous school where he finished at 3.20 p.m.
‘Swears,’ he ticks me off.
‘Sugar, sorry,’ I apologise, forgetting that, in this family, we substitute our swear words with similar sounding, inoffensive words. I’d say it was our compromise, but it’s actually just the only realistic way for me not to swear in front of my kid. Frankie is always telling me off for swearing, but it doesn’t seem like his heart is in it today.
‘You OK, kiddo? You don’t seem yourself.’
‘Yeah, I just wanna go home,’ he replies.
‘OK, sure,’ I say, ushering him towards the car. I suppose I’ve missed my tour slot, being late again.
As we make the short journey home, I look at him the rear-view mirror. He’s looking down at his feet with a glum look on his face.
‘How was your first day then?’ I ask.
‘OK,’ Frankie replies, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.
‘Are you sure?’ I persist.
‘Yes.’
I’m not sure I believe him, but I don’t want to push him. Maybe once we get home he’ll open up a little.
I unlock the door and watch Frankie walk inside, excited for his reaction when he realises he can play video games, but he doesn’t seem bothered.
‘I set everything up for you,’ I point out, not that he couldn’t have noticed. ‘Do you want to play some games and just let me know when you want dinner?’
‘Can we have it now please?’ he asks.
‘Erm, yeah, sure. You hungry now?’
He nods.
‘OK, go play, I’ll make us some food. What do you fancy?’
Frankie shrugs.
‘Beans on toast?’ I suggest, knowing that one of his favourite dishes is bound to put a smile on his face.
He nods.
I pull a face as I head towards the kitchen and, while I prepare dinner, I watch him like a hawk. He’s far too young to be starting the moody teenager act. I wonder what’s wrong with hi
m.
It’s off, for Frankie to be so quiet at home. Sure, he can be shy around new people, but when it’s just us, he’s usually anything but quiet.
‘So there was a bit of a hitch with the deli,’ I tell him, not that he’s going to be all that interested. I don’t have anyone else to tell about my day though. I didn’t have any proper friends in London, not really. My uni friends were all out living young people’s lives, while I was at home with my baby, and all the people I met through work, well, they already had full lives, with partners and friends. Maybe I isolate myself sometimes – I’m not sure if it’s because I always put Frankie first or because of my trust issues.
I chat out loud about the deli, unconcerned with whether or not he is listening – I imagine having a husband is a little bit like this, if what you see on TV is anything to go by. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really had a man around.
When I found out I was pregnant with Frankie, I knew that I was going to have to raise him alone but I knew that I was up to the job, that if I gave it my everything I could do it alone, just like my mum did. I don’t know who had it worse, me or my mum, because I might have done the whole thing without a man while my mum had my dad for the first year of my life, but he died when his bike was hit by a car. My mum had to cope with a baby and a bereavement, when she was a little over twenty, and I just knew that if my mum was made of such strong stuff, then I was too.
As I carry two plates of beans on toast over to the table, I notice that my son has his head in his hands.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I ask him.
‘It’s been a bad day,’ he says as he skulks over to the table.
‘You’re eight,’ I remind him. ‘You’re too young to have bad days.’
Frankie sits at the table and begins wolfing down his food.
‘Steady on, kid,’ I say, worried he might choke if he doesn’t slow down. ‘You gonna tell me what’s wrong?’
‘No one likes me,’ he solemnly.
‘It’s your first day,’ I assure him. ‘No one knows you yet.’
‘They do,’ he says. ‘They know who you are too. They said you’re evil.’
‘What?’ I squeak, laughing nervously. ‘I’m evil?’
‘Because of the shop,’ he tells me. ‘It’s gonna close all the other shops.’
‘Sweetheart.’ I grab his hand. ‘It isn’t, I promise you. And their parents will realise that. They’re kids, they don’t know what they’re talking about. They’ve just heard their mums and dads saying things. Did Mrs Snowball not help you make friends?’
‘She doesn’t like me either,’ he says, eating a quarter slice of toast practically in one bite.
‘Of course she does,’ I insist. ‘She’s the headteacher, she likes all the kids.’
‘She wouldn’t let me eat my lunch,’ he tells me.
‘She what?’ I ask angrily.
‘She wouldn’t let me eat my lunchbox.’
‘Why the truck not?’ I ask, remembering to edit my outburst this time.
Frankie shrugs.
‘Is this why you’re so hungry?’
He nods.
Oh, my poor little baby, why on earth wouldn’t she let him eat his lunch?
‘Everything is going to be better tomorrow,’ I promise him.
After we finish up our food Frankie gets back to his game. I retrieve his lunchbox from the floor by the front door, and look inside, just to make sure. Sure enough, there’s his lunch, untouched.
I grab the chocolate and toss it to him.
‘Here you go, kiddo,’ I say.
‘Thanks,’ he replies, without the usual enthusiasm you expect from kids on the receiving end of chocolate.
I make myself a cup of tea, grab my laptop and take a seat on the sofa. I connect my laptop to my phone, because there’s no Wi-Fi here yet, and begin researching the area, trying to work out some kind of plan to get the locals on board. I can’t get Mrs Snowball out of my mind. Why did she think it would be OK to tell my son that he couldn’t eat his lunch? And the fact that the kids wouldn’t talk to him today, because of me…
I grab my phone and set an alarm for the morning, to make sure that I arrive at school early enough to have a word with Mrs Snowball. No one messes with my kid.
Chapter 7
Sitting outside the headteacher’s office is not something I ever thought I’d be doing again, not with Frankie being such a little angel.
Back in my school days, my mum would often find herself sitting outside the headteacher’s office with me, waiting to find out what I’d done now. I wasn’t a bad kid, I was just a bit of a rebel.
Looking at me today, you wouldn’t believe what I used to look like. I’m five foot eight, which I’ve always known was tall for a woman, but I only recently learned that my height puts me four inches above the national average, and four inches is a lot – in this context at least. I’m a good shape, I think. Things could be smoother or tighter, but I think everyone thinks that and, anyway, I think my curves complement the girly-girl (creeping into high-maintenance) look I have these days. I like to look good, with my highlighted hair, manicured nails and nice outfits.
Back when I was a teenager though, I was so thin that I looked unhealthy, being so tall. My natural dirty blonde locks were dyed a multitude of colours, sometimes all at once, and my face was a mess of too much eyeliner and plum lipstick, finished off with a nose ring – fake, of course, because for some reason my young, hip, liberal mum wouldn’t let me make holes in my face, and for that I’m extremely thankful now.
I was a young rebel, an activist, a bit of a hippy…I thought I was going to change the world, one small protest at a time. Of course, I was never going to change the world by fighting to make the school kitchen use free range eggs, or switch the floodlit school sign off at night to save electricity, but it felt important for me to make a difference, so I tried. Anytime I was in trouble and my mum was called in, it wasn’t because I was a bad kid, it was usually just because I’d kicked up a fuss about them cutting down a tree in the car park, or because I’d used a black glitter gel pen to draw the anarchy symbol on the back of my hand. Of course, there was that one time 15-year-old me called our geography teacher, Mr Adler, a bastard because he brought a real ivory pen in to show the class – a story which I mistakenly told Frankie, because now he jokes that, so long as he never does anything worse than that, he can never really be in trouble with me.
Sitting here before school starts, waiting for Mrs Snowball to see us, gives me major flashbacks, except this time I’m not in trouble, she is. I still can’t believe she didn’t let my son eat his lunch and the longer I sit out here waiting to speak to Mrs Snowball, the angrier I get.
‘Good morning, Holmes family,’ she says brightly as she opens her office door.
‘Good morning,’ I say politely. ‘I was hoping to have a word about yesterday.’
‘Not a problem,’ Mrs Snowball replies, before turning to her secretary. ‘Tilly, why don’t you take Frankie and get him some breakfast.’
I bite my tongue. Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation without Frankie around.
‘Miss Holmes, step into my office, take a seat,’ Mrs Snowball instructs. ‘It is Miss, isn’t it?’
‘Call me Lily,’ I insist.
‘Lily,’ she says softly, taking a seat behind her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
I glance around Mrs Snowball’s office as I take a seat opposite her. Her office isn’t what I expected, with not a single scrap of paperwork anywhere – everything must be neatly filed. Instead, the desk, cabinets and shelves are all covered with tiny ornamental cottages, each one unique, and with such intricate detail.
Mrs Snowball catches me staring.
‘Do you like my Lilliput Lane collection?’ she asks. ‘Each cottage is a replica of real cottages and scenery in England and Wales. I’ve been collecting them since the Eighties – they stopped making them in 2016, you know, so they mean even more t
o me now. They bring me such joy.’
I contemplate for a moment exactly how these tiny cottages bring Mrs Snowball so much joy, and I wonder if maybe sometimes she lays them all out on the floor and walks around, pretending to be a giant. I watch as she lightly brushes the rooftop of the snow-covered cottage that sits on her desk with her fingertip. I’m not sure if she’s dusting it or petting it, but it knocks any thoughts of Mrs Snowball playing Gulliver’s Travels out of my head.
‘I wanted to see you, just to see if you could shed any light on what happened yesterday,’ I start. ‘Frankie was starving when he got home from school and, it turns out he hadn’t had any lunch. I asked him why not and, well, he said you wouldn’t let him. I figured it must be a misunderstanding but—’
‘No, that is correct. I confiscated his lunchbox,’ she says firmly.
I can’t help but cock my head.
‘You—’
‘I confiscated his lunch,’ she says again, a little slower this time.
‘Why?’ I ask, absolutely bewildered.
‘He had a bagel.’
I snort with laughter, until I realise she’s being serious.
‘Yeah…so…sorry, I’m so confused. It’s a bagel, not a bomb.’
‘A bagel is the equivalent of three slices of bread, Lily,’ she replies seriously.
‘So is a glass of wine, but he knocks them back, no problem.’
Mrs Snowball scowls at my joke. Jokes are how I deal with confrontation, awkwardness and disagreements, and this situation is all three.
‘And there was chocolate, and crisps.’
‘Oh my gosh, crisps!’ I mock. ‘Not crisps.’
‘Lily, with respect, his lunch was unhealthy and I couldn’t sit by and watch him eat it. I have a moral and legal obligation—’
‘To stop kids eating bagels?’ I interrupt. ‘Look, it was his first day, he was nervous, I just wanted to pack him something nice to cheer him up at lunchtime. Something familiar that would make him happy.’
‘He’s a big boy, Lily. He doesn’t need coddling.’
Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli Page 4
