‘Sure.’ I shrug, wondering why this fantasy appears to be suffering from a severe snowball effect.
‘But as for the idea – ’ he goes to the dresser and pulls out some plates, napkins, and lays them on the table – ‘I do actually think it will work. You’ll have to do your research, of course, but the cafés that are already there seem to be full all the time, so there’s obviously room for one more, and we need a populist bookshop.’
‘Populist?’
‘Well, it has to be financially viable, so you have to provide something for everyone. In other words, a bookshop that stocks a good range of books across the board. You can’t compete with Waterstone’s or Books Etc., but you can offer a next-day delivery from the wholesalers.’
Lucy’s looking at him with affection. ‘Darling husband of mine, tell me how you know all this?’
Josh shrugs. ‘And the other thing,’ he continues, ‘is that as far as I know most books are stocked in bookshops on a sale or return basis, so apart from the refurbishment of the shop, and the catering outlay, it wouldn’t be as much risk as, say, a clothes shop.
‘Plus, Lucy, we could always remortgage the house. God knows I’d rather use the money for a business venture than for a holiday or something.’
‘What about your son’s schooling?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And Cath, what about that money from your grandma?’
I gasp. ‘Josh, you’re not supposed to know about that! How do you know about that?’
‘Because you told me, Cath. You asked my advice on investing it, then promptly ignored it, and I bet it’s been sitting in the bank all these years gaining nothing on interest.’
I choose to stay silent.
‘Exactly. It’s about time you made that money work for you. God, between the two of you, you can do this thing, no problem.’
‘Have I ever told you how much I love you?’ Lucy says suddenly, flinging her arms around Josh and planting a smacker on his cheek.
‘Yes,’ Josh smiles. ‘Does that mean you love me enough to serve me dinner?’
Lucy flops into a chair with a grin. ‘Nope,’ she says happily. ‘You cooked, you serve. That’s the deal.’
‘So let me get this straight. You’re thinking of leaving your super-duper, high-powered fantastic job that pays you a fortune, to set up your own business with…’ and at this Si pauses. ‘Lucy?’
‘What’s wrong with Lucy?’
Si begged and pleaded for me to meet him for a drink after work in Soho, and, even though it’s a pain, I succumbed, because, as Si often moans, I have become horrifyingly suburban in my old age. I remember thinking nothing of going straight out after work in my twenties. In fact, if I didn’t hit the bars, pubs or clubs, you could be certain there was something wrong with me. Every afternoon, about half an hour before the end of the day, you’d find a pack of us in the loo, all hastily reapplying make-up, putting on spare clothes, hairspray, perfume, from the seemingly endless caverns of our handbags, ready to flirt with City boys until we were too drunk to stand up.
I used to think nothing of spending every night in ‘town’. Of course, I tell myself now, those were the days when you could actually find a black cab when it was going home time. Unlike now, when friends of mine have been forced to walk home to West Hampstead from Piccadilly Circus, turning round every few feet, just in case they should experience a minor miracle and spot an orange light in the distance.
‘So get the tube,’ Si says. ‘Mix with the common people for a change. See how the other half lives.’
But I spend enough of my working day crammed in with people on the tube. At least my salary should enable me to afford the luxury of a black cab when we go out. It’s not my fault they all seem to desert the West End after seven p.m.
But tonight I thought, what the hell, I could do with a fun night out. Is this a sign of getting old? That going out for dinner now means popping up the road to a comfortable, cosy local restaurant? That I never have to even consider making an effort with my clothes? That not only am I always home by eleven o’clock, but that if I weren’t I might possibly die of exhaustion?
I wasn’t always like this. Honestly. In the early days, post-Martin, I threw myself into the club scene with wild abandon. Si would come and pick me up at midnight, and we’d hit the one-nighters all over town, ending up sipping coffee at Bar Italia in the early hours of the morning.
To be honest, I’ve been feeling for some time that I’m slightly stuck in a rut. I love my friends. Would die for them. But part of me would quite like to meet a man, and unless I manage either to convert Si or to steal Josh from Lucy, neither of which is a particularly appealing option, I think it’s highly unlikely, unless I drastically change my life. Do something to meet more people.
And Lucy’s plan seems to have come at exactly the right time. Think of all the new people I’d meet! Think about what it would be like to have my own business! To – oh joy of joys – go to work almost on the doorstep of my home!
Do you know what I thought today? I sat at my desk thinking what the hell am I doing still working here? Because although the events of yesterday feel like a bit of a whirlwind, I do think that if anyone could make it work, it would be Lucy and I.
Lucy of course doesn’t have a clue about business, or bookshops, but – and I swear I’m not making this up – on the rare occasions I venture into coffee shops and order cakes, even if they’re home-made they’re not half as good as Lucy’s.
And Lucy doesn’t think it should be just cakes and home-made biscuits. She thinks easy sandwiches, beautifully presented on fresh ciabatta bread, slabs of basil and garlic focaccia with roasted aubergine and grilled mozzarella… even hearing her descriptions made my mouth water.
It was all I could think about at work today. Work? I didn’t do any. I sat in my office, closed the door and fantasized the day away. By mid-morning I’d planned the lighting. By lunchtime Lucy and I were playing the convivial hosts, loved and adored by the entire community, and by the end of the day we were being written up in the Ham & High.
‘So what is wrong with Lucy?’ I ask again, when Si refuses to answer.
‘It’s not for me to say.’
‘Right,’ I mock. ‘If not you, then who?’
‘Oh, okay,’ he sighs. ‘If you insist. It’s just that Lucy’s wonderful, and we all adore her, but she’s not a businesswoman.’
‘But that’s the point, Si. That’s why Josh is looking into it before we do anything, but anyway I’m the one with the common sense. Lucy’s the creative person. She’ll help with the design, the concept, and, let’s face it, she is the best cook in London.’
‘That’s true,’ he agrees. ‘So explain to me exactly what you would be doing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Cath, sweets, I know you have good business acumen, but it’s in advertising, not in bookshops. It’s all very well Lucy being the creative person, but you know next to nothing about running a bookshop, and I’m not sure if this isn’t too big a challenge for you.’
‘Actually, I think you’re wrong,’ I say with certainty, slightly pissed off at Si for pointing out the obvious, but pleased that it is firing my determination. ‘I mean, I’m sure Lucy wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t think I could contribute something, and there’s no way Josh would let either of us do it if he didn’t think it was a viable proposition.
‘Plus it’s always been my dream, and I know the two of us could do it.’
‘Cath,’ Si says, suddenly serious. ‘Do you want my honest opinion?’
I nod.
‘My honest opinion, and remember I’m only giving you this because I love you and I want you to be careful, but my honest opinion is that you should definitely become involved on some level, but certainly not throw in your job or do anything drastic until it’s established in the new site and it’s successful.’