Two o’clock in the morning and Bonnie still couldn’t sleep. Sick of punching her pillows she gave in, put on the bedside light and got up. Pulling on her dressing gown she padded, shivering, down to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and leaned against the sink waiting for it to boil. The boatshed file lay on the table where she had left it after their meeting. She stared at it for a moment before turning back to make her tea.
Maybe she had been expecting too much too soon. Will had warned her to take it slowly, suggested that although she was rapt in the idea it might take the others a little longer.
‘Just put it out there and stand back, Bonnie,’ he’d said. ‘You’ve been working up the business plan, doing the figures and the projections for four weeks, but it’ll come straight out of left field to them. They don’t even know you’ve bought the boatshed. You’ll have to give them time.’
Of course it made sense, but even so she had hoped for more, visualised instant delight and commitment to the plan that had her bouncing around like Tigger, full of excitement and enthusiasm.
She had opened her curtains that morning to see that her prayers had been answered; early winter sunlight glinted off the rooftops, a gift after the freezing rain of the previous couple of days. It didn’t matter how cold it was, she had just wanted sun; a long-vacated building in need of renovation was a much more attractive proposition with sun pouring through the windows than it was under a leaden sky. She had already had to postpone the meeting once because Fran was at the hospital with Caro, and in a couple of days Sylvia would leave for England. Bonnie was desperate to put the proposition to them both before then.
‘You’re being very mysterious, Bon,’ Sylvia had said as they pulled up outside the boatshed. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘Returning to the scene of the crime,’ Bonnie said with a smile, switching off the engine. She pointed to a small alcove at the side of the building. ‘That’s where you kissed Bill Munroe.’
‘No!’ Fran said in amazement, wrapping her scarf around her neck against the wind. ‘You didn’t really, did you, Syl? You always said he looked like a wombat.’
‘He did,’ Sylvia said, smiling. ‘But I quite like wombats; at least, I did in those days.’ They walked up the ramp, their feet clattering across the boards, their laughter swept up on the wind.
‘I bet you three had all those boys on the run,’ Will said, his gaze settling on Sylvia.
‘No way,’ Bonnie said, shaking her head. ‘We were much too young, they didn’t even notice us.’
‘Bill whatever-his-name-was must have noticed,’ Will said, unlocking the boatshed door.
‘He didn’t really count,’ Sylvia said. ‘He was the kid brother of the captain of the rowing team. Our aspirations were higher than poor old Bill.’
Sunlight poured through the salt-encrusted windows as Bonnie, breathless with anticipation, led them over to a large old trestle table and laid out the portfolios, unsure whether it was cold or nerves that was making her hands tremble.
‘This is such a lovely old building,’ Fran said, wandering over to a window. ‘I’ve always liked it. Such a shame that someone doesn’t do something with it.’
Bonnie looked up in delight. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, ‘And that’s why we’re here. Someone is going to do something with it. Me – or rather – I hope it will be us. I’ve bought it.’
Slowly, methodically, she laid out her plans: the renovations, the floor plan, the architect’s impressions of exterior and interior as Will had suggested. ‘Go for visual appeal,’ he’d said. ‘The last thing you want to do is to start off by boring them with figures and projections. Show them the plans, tell them what it can mean, Fran’s profile, the associated products, the gallery, and so on – keep it simple.’
‘Fran and Sylvia aren’t stupid,’ she’d said indignantly.
‘I know they’re not. If they were, you wouldn’t be doing this and I wouldn’t be encouraging you. But you’re an accountant and a businesswoman, Bon. The detail in the figures, the costings, the trading projections are straightforward to you. You’re familiar with the structure and language. They’re not and it can be intimidating. Do the visual stuff and talk about how it can work for the three of you – jobs, income, working together and so on.’
Bonnie recognised the wisdom in what he was saying. Caught up in the planning and the excitement of it all, she’d lost sight of how removed they would feel. Her mishandling of the situation with Fran over the loan was a warning and she was desperate to get it right this time. She had thought long and hard about what it meant if financial security was just out of reach and there was no real prospect of narrowing the gap. She wanted this business, the Boatshed with a capital B, for herself, and for them too. She had fallen deeply in love with the concept for the restaurant and gallery. She looked from one to the other, trying to measure their reactions, guess what they were feeling. Surely they would see it as she did, a sound venture with great potential, solid returns and, best of all, the three of them working together.
‘A restaurant!’ Fran said in horror. ‘I couldn’t run a restaurant, Bon.’
‘You wouldn’t have to run it, Fran. The restaurant would be based on your menus and would make use of your reputation, but it would have a chef, manager and a full staff. I’d run the business. You would have an office here and continue what you’re doing now, only a lot of the running around would be done by someone else. And I’ve allowed for a test kitchen, so you wouldn’t have to do your recipe testing at home, and you can draw on the kitchen staff to help. Basically you’d be concentrating on what you are good at, writing and creating recipes, and actually being Fran Whittaker, prominent Melbourne food writer. And there’d be a range of signature products carrying your name: pasta sauces, perhaps; dressings; chocolates, maybe.’
‘Like Paul Newman?’
‘I hope not,’ Will said with a grin. ‘Bonnie has a more exclusive range in mind.’
‘And there would be other merchandise based on your name and the restaurant,’ Bonnie said. ‘Tea towels, aprons, perhaps some really nice kitchen utensils. And, Sylvia, this is where I saw you,’ she said, indicating the area on the floor plan and putting it alongside the artist’s impression. ‘This area will be a gallery. I got the idea from seeing the beautiful silk and velvet cushions you made. I thought exclusive needlecraft and unusual jewellery. So – velvet and silk bags and scarves, cushions, throws, linens; I’ve found a silver artist and a woman who makes beautiful glass earrings – that sort of thing. We could also have some books, a range that fits with the ambiance. It would have tourism value as well as gift potential and it would be a terrific place for local people to display their work.’
She had hoped for a glint of excitement in their eyes but there was none. Confusion and anxiety, yes, but no excitement, and she felt her voice fading away in disappointment. She swallowed hard. ‘And it’s essentially a daytime concept,’ she added. ‘Breakfasts, lunches and afternoon teas, closing at six.’
Will got up and wandered through one of the doorways into the rabbit warren of rooms and passages at the back of the building, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
‘But I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ Sylvia said. ‘It’s daunting. How would we get this place from being a wreck to the sort of place you want? And anyway, I’ve no idea how to run a gallery.’
Bonnie leaned forward, resting a hand on her arm. ‘I know it looks huge but actually it’s pretty straightforward. I’ll be looking after the renovations, with an architect, a designer and the builder. Your first job would be tracking down suppliers, craftspeople with the sort of products we could sell. You and I can plan the interior of the gallery with a designer, and once it’s up and running it would be your territory. I know how to manage this and so do you – you’ll realise that as we go along. The three of us can make this work.’ She paused glancing across at Fran, who was standing with one knee resting on a chair, staring down at the drawings. ‘It would be a job for you, Sylvia, working with things you know and enjoy.’
Sylvia stiffened. ‘Bonnie, you’ve already provided me with a temporary home and even offered me the guest cottage; you don’t need to find me a job as well. I can do some things for myself, I’m not a charity case.’
Bonnie flushed, struggling for words. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it’s not that all.’
‘It is a bit full on,’ Fran cut in. ‘I mean, you’ve been so generous, helping me with the loan, being my agent and all that, but this . . . well, it’s bigger than Ben Hur. I’m just a food writer, not an entrepreneur. I don’t know if I can see myself in all this. Anyway, you didn’t come back to Melbourne to rescue Sylvia and me from our work and financial worries.’
Bonnie, elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands, tried to hide the fact that she was trembling. ‘Look,’ she said, struggling to steady her voice, ‘that’s not how it is. You think I’m doing this to rescue you but it’s really for me, it’s what I want for myself. Jeff always wanted me to have a business of my own, but I never knew what I wanted. Now I do, I want it and I really need it. You’re the inspiration, but I want it for myself. Jeff left me in an extraordinarily fortunate financial position, but it’s not enough, I need something more. Before she went away, Mum told me to get a life. Well, I’m getting one. I’m going to restore this beautiful old building that’s part of our childhood. Your talents inspired me, and I’d hoped we could do it together.’
She stood up, feeling extremely wobbly, and walked to the window, turning around to face them again. ‘This is going to be my new life. The restaurant and the gallery will happen with or without you. This is a business proposition and I’m trying to recruit the best people. You also happen to be my best friends – the last thing I wanted was to offend you.’ She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked out onto the deck, taking deep breaths to calm herself, drawing the sharp sea air down into her lungs, not knowing if she was hurt or angry or both.
Will was standing at the far end of the deck, his hair swept back from his face by the wind, his forearms resting on the rail. Bonnie felt a surge of affection for him. At least one other person was enthusiastic; he was an astute businessman, and he was satisfied it would work. Turning slightly to watch a seagull he saw her and straightened up, walking along to meet her.
‘Hang in there, Bon,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘It looks a bit scary to them at the moment. Give them time.’
‘How much time? Days? Weeks?’
‘Weeks, probably.’
‘They think I’m playing lady bountiful.’
He smiled. ‘Dishing out jobs to the deserving poor? Perhaps that’s to be expected. Look, you’re a very rich woman, you can afford to do this, and you’re a businesswoman. It can be an intimidating combination, and they probably haven’t encountered that side of you before. Just give them the files you made up for them, let them go away and think about it. Meanwhile, you can get started on the renovations. Like you said, you’re going ahead with it anyway.’
Bonnie turned out the kitchen light, made her way upstairs with her tea and climbed back into bed. There was nothing to do now but wait. She was exhausted by her own passion and the day’s disappointment, and she sank back against the pillows, thinking gratefully of Will. He seemed different from the Will of old, the workaholic party animal; this week, he had even taken a day off work. They’d been eating breakfast in the kitchen when the radio news reported that snow had fallen overnight at Mount Macedon.
‘Let’s go and see it,’ he’d said quite suddenly. ‘We could just hop in the car, we’d be there in an hour and a half. I can cancel my meeting.’
Bonnie wasn’t tempted. ‘After more than twenty years in Switzerland I’ve seen my share of snow, thanks,’ she’d said.
‘Sylvia?’ Will asked. ‘What about you?’
‘Well . . . yes, I’d love to,’ she’d said. ‘Last time there was snow there I tried to get Colin to go but he was too busy.’
By nine o’clock they were out of the door. Bonnie smiled to herself, set her empty cup on the bedside table and slid down, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Perhaps Will was softening a little, changing, just like his brother had done at that age. She drew a spare pillow against her and curled herself around it, longing for the comforting and familiar warmth of Jeff’s body, his steady, reassuring presence, the precious intimacy that was lost forever. From time to time she would convince herself that she was over it, but the enormity of her loss constantly returned to haunt her and his absence seemed sharpened by the fact that she was spending so much of her time with people who had never even known him. She talked to him still, often at night, and she felt him urging her to be brave and confident, but without him every step was a challenge. The Boatshed was a chance to build a new life, one Jeff would have been proud of, and she was determined not to lose sight of it, though after today’s meeting she feared that in her passion for it she may have damaged something infinitely more precious.