An Autumn Crush (10 page)

Kenny spread his arms wide. Guy took in the bumpy plasterwork painted plum-purple with a brown floral border, the cracked windows, the missing tiles. But, just for a second, he saw this same
room in smooth pastel shades, with a black and white tiled floor. And the office door swinging open to a polished stainless steel kitchen. His third eye reached further, into the body of the
restaurant, tall menus on pretty café tables. He saw heavy drapes at the long, slim windows, heard string music in the background. Just like a restaurant he had once wandered into by mistake
when he was holidaying in Florence. He had stood in awe at the perfect shabby-chicness of the decor: the pale green and cream walls, the beautiful tapestry drapes. He had known instantly that if he
were ever to own a restaurant, he would make it as serenely atmospheric as that place. He gave a small laugh to himself.
Florence.
The word appeared to be haunting him.

‘Wheer’s me fucking toast?’ A big booming voice burst his thought balloon as some trucker bobbed his head into the kitchen and bawled at Igor, one of the waiters.

Guy’s feet landed back on terra firma with a bump.

‘You deserve this place,’ said Kenny, with a rare softness to his rough-edged, fag-ravaged voice. ‘You’ve made me a bomb, lad. Which is why you can have it at a good
price. But only if you act quick. I don’t want to hang about here.’

Guy opened his mouth but nothing came out. He saw sausages with a high meat content, farm-assured quality lamb, eggs so fresh the hens hadn’t even noticed they were missing yet. He saw
staff with clean aprons and hygiene standards. He saw returning customers, awards, Michelin stars and no overhanging threat from Environmental Health.

‘Well?’

Guy had savings. Whether he had enough for what Kenny would ask for the place remained to be seen, but he was fired up with a sudden surge of passion. How could he let Burgerov go to another
owner? Someone who might even do the im possible and drop standards even further. Burgerov was his kingdom and he wasn’t going to be deposed without a fight.

‘Yes,’ said Guy, gulping down a big ball of adrenalin.

‘Yes what, lad?’

‘Yes, I’ll buy Burgerov from you, Kenny. Providing the offer’s good.’

‘It’ll be a good one. I promise you that.’

Guy was shivering with anticipation as he took Kenny Moulding’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. He felt the stirring of change in his soul. Change usually unsettled him, but for the
first time in ages, Guy Miller felt an inner strength awaken within him and embraced it.

Coco rang Juliet at work first thing Monday morning.

‘Firstly, you’ve sat on your mobile phone AGAIN and accidentally called me. Will you please take me off speed-dial, Ju. Or lose weight off your arse.’

‘Oops, sorry – yes I will. I’ll do it now. Take you off speed-dial, that is.’

‘You said that last time.’

‘Soon as I end the call, I swear. I won’t forget again.’

‘Good. Anyway, listen to my news – I’ve got a date!’ Coco screamed down the phone so loudly that Juliet had to hold the phone away from her ear before he deafened
her.

‘From the internet dating site? Already?’ said Juliet.

‘Yep. Soon as I got home on Friday night, I uploaded my photo and I’ve had loads of replies. I’ve chosen one in Bretton. He’s gorgeous – ticks every box. I’m
meeting him tonight. He’s called Gideon and he works with computers. He sounds very brainy. Apparently he has a photographic memory.’

‘I hope you’ve picked somewhere central and well-lit to meet up,’ warned Juliet. ‘I don’t want to read about you dead in a field in tomorrow’s
newspaper.’

‘Well, that would put a dampener on my day if I let it,’ huffed Coco. ‘Actually I’m meeting him in Papa Giuseppe’s in Barnsley town centre. We both really like
Italian. We have so much in common, it’s amazing.’

‘Report back tomorrow,’ Juliet ordered, before slamming the phone down quickly because Piers Winstanley-Black was entering the building. Today he was resplendent in a navy pinstripe
suit. He swaggered in, breezing past her desk, giving the smallest of ‘good morning’ greetings knowing that his crumb of a salutation was enough to have the office hearts – and
pants – melting. Arrogance was coming off him in waves and scored a direct hit on Juliet’s libido. If only she could have five minutes in a locked room with him, she grinned to herself,
he’d never look at another woman again.

‘He is one sexy man,’ growled Daphne, pausing from data-inputting. ‘What a shame he’s not into older women.’

‘Or short ones,’ added Amanda.

Juliet didn’t say anything, she simply mouthed, ‘You will be mine,’ in the direction of his office.

Just after lunch Juliet sneaked a peek at her date-site web page to find that she had mail. And from the profile pic, he wasn’t half bad either. At five feet nine –
the same height as she was – he was a bit shorter than she would have liked, but the photo, albeit a bit grainy, showed him to have a nice open smile and well-looked-after teeth.

Hi,
the mail began.
I really liked your profile and your photograph. My name is Ralph (pronounced Ralph not Rafe like some pretentious people do!). I have my own small printing
business, own house, own teeth, own hair, own limbs and head. Fancy a chat on MSN later?

Juliet nodded at the screen as if transmitting a yes. Not bad-looking, suit-wearer, good sense of humour, can spell ‘pretentious’. It was looking rather promising so far.

Floz had written four poems about dying now and was emotionally worn out. There were only so many variations on a theme and she was, like the poor future recipients of the
cards, rather near the end. She knew this range would ‘die a death’. No one could say that Lee Status wasn’t innovative, but this was just too left field to convince her that he
had a winner on his hands.

It wasn’t the first time Lee had had an extreme idea. The greetings-card market was a broad-minded one, but it only took a prominent news event to alter the tide of buying. No one wanted
to buy greetings cards with guns on them any more after all the spree killings there had been in recent years. Lee’s greetings-card range based on serial killers was insensitive at the best
of times, but his Harold Shipman card with its
The older you get the more attractive I find you
sentiment inside caused outrage, even in the trendy avant garde card shops. Still, Lee was a
big believer in ‘no press is bad press’, and though the cards ended up getting pulped, he still managed to upgrade his Porsche that year to a newer model.

Floz decided that she couldn’t write these poems for the terminally ill any more. It was too depressing a job. She sent off what she had written so far to Lee and refreshed her mailbox.
And there she saw a name she had never thought she would see again:
Nick Vermeer
.

Floz’s skin prickled with a mix of emotions she couldn’t define. So it
was
Nick who had been sending her the ‘Cherrylips’ messages. And now he had contacted her
directly. She wanted to double-click and open it but she was scared of the words that would be released. And what they would do to her. She should delete it. The last email she had from him was
eighteen months ago. She had carried on writing to him through the summer, hoping to coax a reply from him, but received nothing. Exactly a year ago, she had decided that he was dead to her, and
that if he ever deigned to contact her again after so cruelly disappearing, she would delete the email without a second thought. But now, faced with precious contact from him, she could no more
have consigned his email to the recycle bin than she could have shaved off her own eyebrows with Juliet’s epilator. Slowly she positioned the cursor over the mail and made a double-left
click.

Floz read it again and again. By the middle of the third reading she couldn’t see the screen for the tears running out of her eyes. She
knew
after all the exchanges they’d had that he wouldn’t have just abandoned her without good reason. They hadn’t met, but there had been a long and strong connection
between them; they had talked for hours on the phone, written, made plans. They had gotten to really know each other through the power of their words.

Floz knew she had to send a reply back immediately, and the words poured out of her. The portal was open between her and Nick again and she didn’t want it to close.

She hit send, not bothering to edit her email but deciding instead to send the first draft, written with an open heart and through vision blurred with
streaming tears. If there was any power in words, would he be a little healed by the force of hers? She hoped so, but knew she was deluding herself. She cried until her eyes were sore and her tears
were spent.

Guy barked at Varto after catching him picking wax out of his ear and wiping it on his apron. When this place was his, he really was going to kick some ass, but he would keep
his takeover quiet for now, as Kenny had requested. However, once his name was on the paperwork, Varto would be booted out along with all the other dross Kenny employed. Guy nursed the secret
thrill of being able to fill the place with some really keen staff who wanted to learn from him and not just dollop listeria on a plate. People who got real satisfaction out of food, who wanted to
create with it and be proud of it – people who didn’t want to poison customers.

He looked up from his reverie and caught Gina staring at him with her baby-blues. She tore them away quickly, embarrassed. He knew she had the hots for him and wished he could feel the same. But
life had a habit of not making things that easy.

He wondered if being a restaurant-owner would give him extra attractiveness points in Floz’s eyes. Maybe he should suggest a family dinner where he could deliver the news of his impending
buyout and cook a fabulous roast for them all? Sunday. He wasn’t working Sunday – yes, he would do it then.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Juliet.

Floz was going through the motions of being her usual self but there was something not quite right. Juliet wouldn’t have been surprised had she looked up and seen a big black cloud over
her new friend’s head. And her eyes looked a bit glassy, as if she’d been crying recently.

‘I’m fine,’ said Floz, switching on an instant 3,000-watt smile so bright and perfect it was as plastic as Barbie’s knockers.

‘Well, you obviously aren’t,’ said Juliet. ‘But I shan’t pry. Even though I want to. Glass of red?’ She got up from the couch just as the
Emmerdale
music started and headed for the drinks cabinet.

‘I’m just a bit tired,’ Floz explained. ‘I’ve been doing a really awful brief about sending . . . sending cards to people who are dying.’ She tried to hold it
together but burst into tears. Her stocks of them had been replenished, it seemed.

‘Oh bloody hell. What an awful thing to have to do!’ said Juliet, whose curiosity was now totally satisfied. She had sensed almost straight away that Floz was a softie and yep, that
must have been truly harrowing for her. She made short work of opening up the bottle of wine and poured two large glasses.

‘Thanks,’ said Floz, and smiled at her warm concern. She opened her mouth to tell Juliet about Nick, then snapped it shut straight afterwards. It was a miserable subject and a
strange one. Juliet might not have understood how close you could grow to someone you had never met, and she didn’t want Juliet to think ill of her.