When I discovered the truth about Garth and why he’d married me, I knew that my charmed life in London was over. Thanks to him, I lost my second family, my home and my job in one fell swoop. Kirsten and Tim hadn’t done anything wrong but I never, ever wanted to see Leanne again. As far as I was concerned, she was dead to me. I was certain my foster parents would be disgusted with her if they learned the truth, but blood is thicker than water. She was Kirsten and Tim’s only child and, if it came down to a choice, they’d have to choose her. And I understood that, but I couldn’t stick around to watch it happen and face rejection yet again. Plus I was ashamed. How could I have been so naïve? How had I not seen what she was doing?
With only a car full of hastily packed possessions to my name, I sat in a petrol station parking space with a map and a pen. I had absolutely no idea where to go so fate was going to make that life-changing decision for me. I closed my eyes and moved my hand round the map of the UK before bringing the pen down onto the page and drawing a small line. Opening my eyes, I laughed at my new home – The North Sea. Hmm. A boat? A drilling platform? Perhaps not. I followed a straight line west until I hit the coast. Whitsborough Bay. I had a vague idea that it was a popular seaside resort but that was the extent of my knowledge. Holidays with the Sandersons had been abroad rather than in the UK so North Yorkshire was completely unfamiliar to me. Tossing the map onto the passenger seat, I pulled out of the petrol station and drove north towards my new home and new life.
There was never any doubt about what I was going to do when I settled in Whitsborough Bay, or elsewhere if the town was unsuitable. I was going to continue with the passion my dad had ignited in me and what I’d trained for over the past eight years. I’d worked in Kirsten’s chain of bistros, Vanilla Pod, since I was fourteen and had lapped up knowledge from some amazing chefs and baristas as well as learning all about exceptional, efficient service from the front-of-house staff. Garth and Leanne might have taken my family, my job and my dignity, but they couldn’t take my knowledge, skills and experience away from me. I’d find an empty premises and I’d open my own café. I had no doubts about my ability to run a successful café as, despite Leanne being manager of the Chelsea branch of Vanilla Pod, I’d been the one running it. The only unknown entity was Whitsborough Bay. Would I discover a town over-run with cafés and no space for mine? I didn’t envisage replicating a sophisticated bistro like Vanilla Pod, but I certainly wasn’t looking to open a ‘greasy spoon’ café either. Would my vision of somewhere in-between fit?
I like to think that my parents were watching out for me when the pen chose Whitsborough Bay because it couldn’t have been more ideal. I fell in love with the town from my very first glimpse of the sea. It was mid-afternoon on Monday 10th May – the first day of the rest of my life. The sun had come out to welcome me and it kissed the sea which twinkled like a million stars.
Whitsborough Bay Castle came into view, standing high on a cliff overlooking the sea. I couldn’t take my eyes off it and had to stop and get out the car so I could take it all in. An overwhelming feeling that fate had found somewhere to call home took my breath away and I had to lean against the car, gulping in deep breaths of fresh air.
When I’d calmed down, a man walking his dog smiled at me and made a comment about the lovely weather. Moments later, a couple walking on the other side of the road smiled and said ‘hello’. Both times I had to check round me to make sure they weren’t speaking to anyone else, but there was nobody else there. They’d spoken to me. They’d welcomed me.
Back in the car, I followed brown signs for ‘hotels’ and found myself on a road called Sea Cliff which, true to its name, was a cliff overlooking the North Sea with large hotels and apartment blocks on one side and a wide promenade, parkland and trees on the other.
I checked into the first decent-looking hotel advertising vacancies. The drive had drained me and I couldn’t face traipsing from one hotel to the next. Finances weren’t too much of an issue. My parents had owned our house and property prices had rocketed in London over the years. The sale proceeds plus compensation and a life assurance payout for Dad’s accident meant a substantial inheritance, although I’d have happily traded every penny to have them both back. Kirsten and Tim had been adamant that I wasn’t to touch any of my money. They continued to support me and insisted that I save my inheritance to invest in property or a business in later years when I was ready. I bet they hadn’t expected me to be doing it so soon and so far away from them. I hadn’t expected to be doing that either.
After showering and dining in the hotel restaurant, I felt refreshed enough to explore. It would be dark within the hour but I could certainly wander along the cliff path opposite the hotel and see where it took me. The earlier warmth had long gone and I was glad I’d grabbed a coat. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening to burst at any moment. They weren’t going to force me back to my room, though. After everything I’d been through, a drenching was nothing.
Crossing the road, I hastened past some tall trees. The path widened then split around a grassy area where a colourful wooden rowing boat sat in a flowerbed. I took the right-hand path, closest to the sea, then stopped. Wow! Those trees had been hiding the most incredible view. If it was that good in an approaching storm, I couldn’t wait to see it on a bright day or perhaps at sunrise or sunset. South Bay curved round in front of me, lined with pretty white, coloured, and brick buildings. There was a sandy beach to the left and Whitsborough Bay Castle on the cliff in front of me. Below that, a river led into a harbour where… oh my goodness… there was a red-and-white striped lighthouse. What were the odds? Mum and Dad had definitely drawn me to Whitsborough Bay. Mum had a thing about lighthouses, particularly striped ones. A gifted artist, she’d often drawn or painted lighthouses, although always at night-time and always with a beam of light breaking through the darkness. She’d say that, whenever she felt lost or lonely, she’d look for Dad – her very own bright, shining lighthouse, guiding the way to safety.
Dad would often tell me a bedtime story about a little girl called Pollyanna who lived in a striped lighthouse who needed to remain positive at all times or the light wouldn’t shine to keep the sailors safe. He’d sing a song to the tune of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’:
Pollyanna, little light
Shining bright on stormy nights
Keeping boats away from shore
Saving lives, that’s what you’re for
Pollyanna, little light
Shining bright on stormy nights
As I stood on that clifftop looking down towards Whitsborough Bay’s lighthouse, I could hear his voice so clearly in my head, feel him holding my hand, stroking my hair, kissing my forehead, and telling me he’d always be our lighthouse, keeping us safe and guiding us to happiness. Tears tumbled down my cheeks and I gripped the back of the bench in front of me, gulping in the air, as the wind swept my hair across my face, and the cloud burst, battering me with rain.
‘I’m lost and lonely, Dad,’ I whispered into the wind and rain. ‘I need you to be my lighthouse.’
And, at that moment, a beam of light swept across the sea and I knew he was there with me. They both were.
The next few days were spent exploring my potential new home. There were a couple of cafés on North Bay but otherwise the area was fairly undeveloped. It’s got a hotel, apartments, shops and several lovely cafés now, but the two cafés back then were very much about bacon baps and a coffee served through a hatch and, if you wanted to sit down, you could chance the battered plastic seating on the wasteland next to the building. They definitely weren’t what I envisaged for my business, not that either of them was for sale.
South Bay is the more commercial side of Whitsborough Bay with chip shops, ice-cream parlours, pubs and amusement arcades. There were a couple of businesses for sale along the seafront but they were completely unsuitable, one being too cramped and the other in a poor position, tucked away at the far end.
On the Thursday, I explored the town and came to Castle Street. The moment I walked down the cobbled street, a feeling of peace and calm flowed through me. My step slowed as I gazed into each shop window. There appeared to be a good variety of retailers – a florist, a bookshop, a specialist teddy bear shop, a jeweller’s, a stationery store – and none of them were high-street chains. Then about halfway down on the left-hand side, I spotted a bright orange ‘for sale’ sign and my heart started to race. My pace quickened as I approached the shop and I gasped when I realised that, not only was there a property for sale, it was already a café. Bonus.
I stood at the other side of the street and surveyed Ferguson’s. The sign had seen better days, with the ‘g’ hanging at a peculiar angle and the apostrophe missing. There were three sets of windows, suggesting three storeys, and the top floor had significant height. I wondered whether it was all café or whether there was a flat above the retail space. I hoped there was accommodation as I ideally wanted to live above my café.
Most of the businesses on Castle Street were painted in pretty pastel shades but Ferguson’s was not pastel and was definitely not pretty. It was some sort of putrid-looking mustard-green colour and the whole building was desperately in need of a fresh lick of paint in a completely different shade. A ripped and faded green and yellow canopy was suspended above the ground floor door and windows and a couple of grubby-looking plastic tables and chairs were positioned outside, although nobody was seated in them.
It wasn’t the greatest first impression but most of the other properties on the street were immaculate so I could see exactly how it could look. The poor state of disrepair suggested to me that it would be priced well or that a good deal could be made.
I crossed the street, opened the door to Ferguson’s and took a deep breath, which I very much regretted. The smell of greasy ovens, eggs, and chip pans in need of a change of oil hit me. A sullen young woman momentarily looked up from the till but she didn’t smile or offer a friendly greeting. I made my way to a table towards the back from where I could take it all in.
Ferguson’s definitely fell into the ‘greasy spoon’ café category – Formica tables, lino floor, all-day full English breakfast on the menu. To be fair to the owners, it was clean – which I hadn’t expected from the outside – but it was soulless.
Looking at the menu, I realised I’d need to order at the counter so I made my way back there and ordered a coffee and cheese toastie. Despite attempting to engage the woman in conversation, I didn’t manage to raise even a smile.
Returning to my table, I studied the three customers. It was nearly noon so I’d have expected the café to be quite a bit busier. An elderly man was reading Bay News – presumably the local newspaper – while drinking tea for one. A middle-aged man was tucking into a fry-up and reading a tabloid newspaper, and a woman in her early twenties was eating a sandwich and reading a gossip magazine. When she finished, she took the plate behind the counter, so clearly she worked there too, which only made two real customers and me.
The building was fairly wide but it was also very deep meaning there was lots of space and the potential to use it far more effectively. In fact, the whole place was full of potential. I could visualise ripping out everything and starting over, creating a warm and inviting place to eat, relax and chat with friends and family.
When it arrived, my coffee and toastie were tasty enough, but the service was slow and uncaring. I was served by the young woman who’d been eating her lunch and I tried to engage her in conversation too, keen to get a feel for how successful the café was, but she clearly hadn’t a clue and seemed anxious to return to the serving counter to do very little except stare out the window.
I found the estate agency representing the sale on a side street. The agent I spoke to – Ian – seemed far more willing to have a chat and eagerly handed me a copy of the sale particulars. He confirmed that there were only three storeys but the top floor was double-height as I’d suspected and, while not used as accommodation now, previously had been. He also told me that the owner was desperate to sell because his family were emigrating to Australia in August. There’d been a couple of viewings when it had gone on the market at the start of the year, but nothing since and definitely no offers.
Clutching the particulars, I wandered up and down Castle Street a few more times, my heart racing and my head spinning with ideas. I felt almost dizzy with excitement and had to sit down in a small park at the end of the street to calm myself down. This was it! I’d found my café. I’d found my home.
Ian arranged for me to meet the owner, Jed Ferguson, for a full tour the following day. I arrived just before the café closed. Jed was in his mid-to-late twenties, with thick blond hair and green eyes shielded by ridiculously long lashes. Let’s face it, he was gorgeous… and boy did he know it. As he shook my hand, he looked me up and down – hate that – and said, ‘You’re younger than I expected.’
A feeling of instant dislike powered through me and I gave him my hardest stare. ‘What’s age got to do with anything? Are you going to show me round or should I ask the estate agent?’
The shocked expression on his face was priceless. I suspected nobody had ever put him in his place like that before. Ha! If he’d hoped to go on a charm offensive, he’d picked the wrong woman. No man was ever going to charm me again.
With a shrug, he reached past me, turned the shabby cardboard sign round to ‘closed’ and locked the door.
‘Welcome to Ferguson’s.’ He indicated that I should sit down. ‘I’ll give you a bit of background then take you for a tour, if that’s okay with you.’
Nodding, I sat down opposite him.
‘It’s a family business. It was originally a carpet shop but my parents bought the building and re-opened it as a café in the eighties. They ran it together and I had a part-time job here throughout school and college. When they retired, I somehow ended up working here full-time, although that was never the intention.’
He paused and looked at me expectantly but I wasn’t going to ask him to expand. I was here to fact-find and make another enormous life-changing decision – not to listen to his life story.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘My wife, Ingrid, is a sun-worshipper and can’t stand the English weather. She’s been keen to emigrate to Australia for ages and I’m running out of excuses to say no. Our daughters are aged two and four so, if we go now, there’s loads of time to get settled before they’re ready to start school. It’ll be weird, though. I’ve only ever lived in Whitsborough Bay. Are you from—?’
I scraped the chair back and rose to my feet. ‘How about that tour?’ I knew where that question was heading and I wasn’t about to share that information with anyone.
‘Oh. Okay.’ He stood up too. ‘Kitchen first?’
I followed him behind the serving counter into a cramped but clean kitchen. From the dimensions on the particulars, I knew it was a good size but it was so badly organised, I felt sorry for anyone who worked in there. Some of the equipment looked as though it might have been there since Jed’s parents started the café.
I followed him up the wooden staircase to the first floor.
‘The top two floors aren’t connected,’ he said. ‘You access the top floor from a private staircase at the back of the café and this is the only access to this floor, although both floors have an external fire escape, of course.’
The first floor was a large but cluttered space. Broken tables and chairs were piled up by the windows along with an old rusting fridge. Who in their right mind would haul a fridge up all those stairs instead of taking it outside and disposing of it properly?
Jed’s cheeks coloured as he clocked my stunned expression. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.
‘Erm, it’s…’ He shuffled on the spot. ‘I’ve kept meaning to clear it out.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There are toilets up here but most customers use the disabled one on the ground floor. As you can see, it’s a good space. It would provide plenty of extra seating if you needed it.’
Clearly they’d never needed it at Ferguson’s, or at least not over the past few years, which would make it easier for me to put my offer to him. It was obvious that he was running a failing – or should that be failed – business and there was no way I was prepared to pay for a business that had no decent assets and no goodwill. With the dilapidated exterior and tired interior, Ferguson’s didn’t exactly scream, ‘Amazing business opportunity’ but I could see through it. There was massive potential but I’d be starting completely from scratch and therefore I only wanted to buy the premises, not the business.
‘How many covers do you have?’ I asked.
He frowned. ‘Covers?’
‘How many people can you serve at once?’
He shrugged. ‘There are twelve tables downstairs. There used to be thirteen but…’
I opened the door to check out the two unisex toilets while he rabbited on about removing a table because a member of staff was superstitious about having thirteen. I still wanted to know how many covers they could do but he obviously didn’t have a clue. The footprint was similar to one of the branches of Vanilla Pod so I could make a good guess myself.
‘What are the business rates?’ I asked as we made our way back downstairs.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Turnover?’
‘Erm…’
‘Utility costs?’
‘I think Ian has those details,’ Jed said, heading towards a door at the back of the ground floor.
Perhaps it was mean of me to quiz him, especially when the rates and utilities were on the particulars, but a good business owner should have details like that at their fingertips so, for me, it was more evidence of a failed business.
As we walked up the two flights to the top floor, Jed started wittering on about his move to Australia again. ‘Have you ever been there?’
‘No.’
‘Neither have we. Is it crazy to up sticks and move to somewhere you’ve never visited?’
Not crazy at all. I’d just done it myself. But I wasn’t going to share that with him. ‘Depends on the circumstances.’
‘The thing I’m most worried about is taking my girls away from both sets of grandparents. It’s not right, is it? Would you move away from your family like that?’
Family. I stopped dead on the stairs, trying to steady my racing heart. I’d tried so hard not to think of them all week but now my foster parents were so vivid in my mind that I could almost smell Kirsten’s perfume. They’d be back from their holidays and would hopefully have found my letter. What would they have made of it? Had they been upset? Angry? What lies would Leanne and Garth have told them? I’d done the right thing by leaving but, at that very moment, I missed them so much, I could barely catch my breath.
‘Are you okay?’ Jed asked, turning round.
I clung onto the handrail. Act normal. ‘Yes, erm… dust in my eye.’ I swiped at the ready tears and took a deep breath. Focus. ‘Ian tells me it used to be a flat upstairs?’
‘It was but that was a long time ago. The previous owner turned it into a load of small storage rooms and we never got round to changing it. My parents didn’t want to live at work and neither did Ingrid.’ He unlocked the door and flicked on a light. ‘Are you thinking of living here?’
I didn’t get a chance to answer because I stepped into the ‘flat’ and gasped. Oh. Definitely not what I was expecting. But he hadn’t lied. He’d said it was a load of small storage rooms and that was exactly what it was. It looked like somebody had been handed a pallet of wood, some plasterboard, a nail gun and been issued with the challenge to fit in as many stud walls as was humanly possible.
‘It’s big,’ Jed said. ‘I know it might not look it but you could probably convert it into a two-bedroom flat.’
‘It’s like a storage unit,’ I muttered, wandering down the first of several narrow corridors and looking into the door-less entrances to each room. Some rooms contained crates of paperwork and others stored old furniture but the ones furthest from the stairs were empty.
‘There’s a bathroom,’ Jed called to me, his voice muted by the mass of plasterboard. ‘And there’s the fittings for a kitchen although I can’t remember where. I never come up here.’
I placed my hands on my hips and took a few deep breaths. Downstairs was good. I could work with downstairs. But the flat? It would need completely gutting and it would need a heck of a good builder with major vision because seeing a way of converting this shambolic storage unit into a home was a stretch too far for my imagination. Although it did give me another bargaining chip.
‘I didn’t come across a bathroom,’ I said, returning to Jed.
He pointed. ‘You have to go round that way to get to it. It’s in the corner.’
I followed another narrow corridor to a room in the far back corner and nearly laughed out loud. There was an avocado-coloured toilet, a matching sink hanging off the wall, and ancient-looking pipework where a bath had once been.
‘Seen enough?’ Jed asked when I made my way back to him again.
‘Plenty. I can see why you and your parents never got round to doing anything up here. That’s a hell of a project for someone.’
His face fell. ‘But not you?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘So you are interested?’ His eyes twinkled and he gave me what I’m sure he thought was a charming smile but it just wound me up.
‘I need to do some number-crunching. If I did make you an offer, it won’t be anywhere near the asking price because of the amount of work needed.’ I opened the door and started to make my way downstairs.
Jed was hot on my heels. ‘I’ll admit it needs work up here but there’s nothing wrong with downstairs.’
I paused on the first-floor landing, turned and raised an eyebrow, but I managed to stop myself from verbalising my thoughts. The business probably meant a lot to his family and I wasn’t going to insult him but if he thought there was nothing wrong with the café part, then he clearly had blinkers on and that probably explained why the business had failed.
Stepping through the door and into the café, a flutter of excitement made me smile. This was definitely the place. I could feel it. I wiped the smile from my face before I turned to face Jed, adopting a strong, confident business-like tone. ‘I’ll do some thinking tonight and get in touch with the estate agent tomorrow either way.’
‘Can you give me any indication?’ he asked, sheepishly.
I sighed. ‘I’ve already given you it. If I offer, it won’t be at asking price.’
‘Why not? It’s a good price.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘It is.’
‘No it isn’t,’ I snapped.
His expression hardened. ‘What would you know about the price of businesses round here? You’re obviously not local with that accent and you look like you’re barely out of college so—’
‘You can stop right there.’ I fixed him with a hard stare and injected every bit of strength and maturity I could find into my voice. ‘I may be young but I was brought up in a family business running a chain of bistros so I know what this business is worth. It’s basically a greasy spoon café that’s barely ticking over so, if I do decide buy, I’ll be buying the premises only.’
‘You can’t do that,’ he cried. ‘It’s the business that’s for sale.’
‘And I’m really sorry but it’s not a viable business.’
Suddenly, he could quote facts and figures, trying to convince me it was a good going concern.
I cut him off again. ‘I have to go. You need to sell and I’m looking for premises but If I make an offer, it will be for the premises only and nothing will sway me otherwise. It will be up to you whether you accept that or not but bear in mind that I’m a cash buyer ready to go immediately. Would you risk walking away from that when you’re emigrating in about three months’ time? I certainly wouldn’t in your position. But, it’s your choice. I’ll see myself out.’
‘It’s the business that’s for sale, not the premises,’ he called. ‘The business.’
‘And the premises are the only thing of value,’ I snapped back. It took every ounce of self-control to stop me from slamming the door behind me. I stormed down to the park at the end of the street and flung myself onto one of the benches overlooking the sea, muttering under my breath. Viable business, my arse. But as the sea breeze cooled my flaming cheeks and I felt the anger ebb away, I wondered if I’d been rude. Yes, I probably had been but he’d pushed me. He was trying to pull a swift one by selling a duff business and he’d tried that on the wrong person. No man was ever going to dupe me again. Ever.
I spent the evening in my room at the B&B scribbling sketches of how the downstairs of Ferguson’s could look when I got my hands on it. I didn’t need to do any number-crunching. I already knew what I’d offer.
Ian didn’t flinch when I called into the estate agency the following morning and presented my decision.
‘I think that’s a fair offer considering the state of the premises,’ he said. ‘If you want to take a seat, I’ll ring Mr Ferguson and put it to him right now.’ He headed for a desk at the far end of the open plan office.
I couldn’t stop fidgeting as I sat in the leather tub chair in the reception area, watching Ian’s facial expressions and trying to work out whether they meant good or bad news. Jed had to accept. He’d be an idiot not to and, as Ian said, it was a fair offer considering the work required.
‘He hasn’t accepted but he hasn’t said no,’ Ian said after an excruciating five minutes. ‘He needs to talk to his family. He wanted me to push you for more but I made it clear that it was a best and final offer, like you said.’
There was nothing I could do except wait it out. And wait I did. Not very patiently. I explored all the other streets in Whitsborough Bay, the surrounding villages and the nearby towns but nothing compared to Castle Street and what Ferguson’s could become. I found an empty one-bed flat to rent above a newsagent’s a few doors down on the other side of Castle Street and took out a six-month lease. It was a cheaper and more practical option than staying in a B&B and, even though I wanted to move into the flat above the café, I’d have to prioritise the retail side over accommodation so it could be quite some time before I’d be able to live onsite. Assuming Jed saw sense and accepted my offer.
Finally, a week after my tour, Ian phoned. My heart leapt seeing his name on my screen, then sank when I was told that Jed couldn’t accept. I could picture Ian cringing as he made a feeble attempt at further negotiation. By then, I’d done masses more research, sourcing a builder and equipment. I knew roughly how much it was going to cost to convert the café and I wasn’t willing to raise my price so I left the offer on the table, hoping Jed would snap before I did.
He did. It took him nearly a fortnight to finally accept but on Thursday 3rd June, halfway through the late half-term holiday, Ian called to say that Jed had reluctantly accepted my offer and hoped I appreciated what a bargain I’d secured.
‘What made him change his mind?’ I asked.
‘He says it was the arrival of June taking them that step closer to emigrating.’
I could hear the doubt in Ian’s voice. ‘And why do you really think he changed his mind?’
‘Strictly off the record, I think half-term has done it. The town has been heaving but the café has been quiet and I think it was a wake-up call that you were right about the business failing. It’s too big a risk for them not to have it sold and sorted before they go so, congratulations, you’ll soon be the new owner of Ferguson’s.’
Things moved quickly after that. A ‘sold’ sign appeared outside the café the following day and Ferguson’s officially ceased trading on the Saturday. I hadn’t expected him to close quite so soon but, if Ian was right about the poor half-term sales, there was no point in prolonging things, especially when the café was probably trading at a loss each day.
Via Ian, we agreed that I’d take over on Thursday 1st July to allow time for Jed to clear the café and for our solicitors to do their thing. From my vantage point in my rented flat down the street, I watched as a skip was delivered outside Ferguson’s on the Monday after they closed. Jed met a couple of builders there shortly afterwards and, over the next two days, the three of them steadily emptied the café of all the furnishings and equipment into the skip or a lorry. Every load took me closer to my dream and I was chomping at the bit to get inside.
On Wednesday morning, before any of the shops opened for the day, I made my way over to the café and peered through the windows. I couldn’t see into the kitchen but everything else had been stripped out including the serving counter and shelving. Had that been a conscious decision that I probably wouldn’t want to keep anything or had it been a case of sticking two fingers up to me, making sure I couldn’t have anything I hadn’t paid for. Either way, Jed had done me a favour, saving me the cost of having it all ripped out myself.
‘Imagining how it’s going to look?’
I jumped at his voice and banged my head on the window.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
I rubbed my head. ‘It’s fine. No permanent damage.’
We both stared at each other for a moment. What could I say? I’m sorry your business failed. I did feel a fleeting moment of sympathy but, ultimately, I’d done him a favour. He’d sold up and had plenty of time to get his affairs in order before starting a new life on the other side of the world.
‘We’ve cleared everything out,’ he said. ‘It’s in the hands of the solicitors now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Soon be yours. Are you excited?’
I frowned, surprised at his friendly tone. ‘Very. I can’t wait to get in there. I’ve already got a builder lined up and a rapidly-filling storage unit.’
‘If you want to get started, I have no objections. It’s empty. I’m only here today to take the final meter readings because I forgot to do it yesterday. I won’t be back again.’
I frowned at him. ‘What’s the catch?’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘There’s no catch. The place is empty so, if you’re ready to get going, you might as well make a three-week headstart and be open in time to catch the summer trade.’
‘So what’s in it for you?’
He laughed gently. ‘Are you always this suspicious of people? Why does there have to be a catch or something in it for me?’
‘Because I generally find that people only do nice things to serve their own purpose.’
He put his hands up in surrender. ‘I’m the one taking the risk here. I’d be handing over the keys before you’ve paid me. But it’s up to you. The offer’s there. I can drop the keys off with Ian when I’m done here or you can wait another three weeks and get started then.’
I looked into his eyes and he seemed genuine enough. Not that I was a good judge of character after what Leanne and Garth did. I couldn’t think how he could benefit, though. He was right; I’d be the one accessing the building before I’d paid him a penny and I was the one who’d be able to open in time for the lucrative summer trade.
‘Thank you. You’re on.’ I held out my hand and we shook on it and, for the first time, I gave him a genuine smile. Maybe not all people were bad.
Turns out I should have trusted my first instinct. Jed was no different to Leanne or Garth. He used, he manipulated and he lied. Two weeks later – a week before the official completion – my builder, Owen, and his team had made massive progress. They’d skimmed the walls, sanded and varnished the stairs, laid new floors, and re-fitted the kitchen. The biggest difference was outside, though. With the ripped canopy gone and the whole exterior repaired and painted in a warm peach, it now looked classy instead of tired. It was taking shape very nicely and I was on an absolute high. Another two to three weeks and we’d be open for business.
Then Ian phoned. There was another offer on the table of ten grand more and I could up my offer or lose the business.
‘He can’t do that,’ I yelled down the phone. ‘I’ve spent a fortune on work already.’
‘You’re not the official owner yet,’ he replied sharply. ‘You should never have done anything before contracts were exchanged. I’m sorry, but I don’t see that you have a choice.’
‘Then give me Jed’s number and I’ll have it out with him.’ I was actually shaking with rage.
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘This is so unfair. I can’t talk about it right now. I’ll have to call you back when I’m not so mad.’ I hung up on him.
I nearly wore a hole in the carpet pacing up and down in the flat and stamping my feet. It was so typical of how people worked. Ian was right; I had no leg to stand on. I should have insisted on an early exchange of contracts. I should have had something in writing but, once again, I’d been naïve and I’d let a man dupe me. Jed was probably rolling around laughing that he’d managed to screw me over like that. Would I ever learn?
When I’d finally calmed down, I had to accept that I had no choice because I was far too financially and emotionally committed already. I called Ian back and reluctantly increased my offer in response to Jed’s blackmail. Ian didn’t appreciate the use of that word. He could package it up however he wanted but we both knew I’d been conned and I was livid with myself for allowing it to happen.
The following Monday, contracts were exchanged ahead of Thursday’s completion but I arrived at the café to find more bad news.
‘Did you get a full structural survey?’ asked Owen.
I shook my head. ‘Just a valuation.’ My stomach sank. ‘Dare I ask why?’
‘Come with me.’
I followed him up the internal stairs to the flat. ‘I know we’re not doing anything with the flat yet but after that torrential downpour last night, I thought I’d check there’d been no leaks.’
He pushed open the door and I followed him to the far corner and into the poor excuse for a bathroom. Chunks of soggy plasterboard lay on the floor and there were dirty marks where water had trickled down the walls.
‘A standard valuation should have picked this up,’ Owen said. ‘But someone has bodge-repaired it recently. These plasterboards are new.’
‘I wonder who’d do something devious like that,’ I said flatly, my fists clenching.
‘We’ll need to let it dry out but then repairing it is going to have to be a priority to avoid further damage.’
I clenched my teeth as he gave me a rough estimate which cemented my absolute contempt for Jed because, on top of the offer increase, it meant I’d been ripped off to the tune of about twenty grand. And the real rub was that it was my fault again for not commissioning a full structural survey. Another valuable lesson learned the hard way. Don’t trust anyone. Ever.