framed photos from the walls being dumped in a skip, and winced. I didn’t like the thought of the café being anything other than what it already was.
‘Absolutely,’ he enthused. ‘Obviously any purchaser would need to apply to the council first, in order to change the use of the building, but I wouldn’t think it would be a problem. It’s a wonderful beach; I’m amazed the area hasn’t been developed further before now, to be honest. When you look at what has happened to Padstow and Rock, the opportunity is there for the taking, frankly.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘We also get lots of clients interested in second homes in Carrawen Bay,’ he went on, not seeming to hear me. ‘ Lots of clients. And it would be very easy for someone to turn the café into a luxury holiday home, for instance. Those views would make it a very special property.’
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling disloyal to Jo as his words gushed into my ear. I could just imagine the look of horror on her face if she could hear me having this conversation. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Only – well, there are people working in the café at the moment, you know, they have jobs , so I wouldn’t want them to lose out if I sold the place. And if I was going to sell it, I’d definitely want it to carry on being a café, so—’
He gave a cheerful laugh. ‘It doesn’t really work like that, I’m afraid, Miss Flynn,’ he replied. ‘It would be up to the buyer to do what they liked with it, once a sale had gone through. Do you want me to pop round, have a proper look at the place and give you a valuation? I could drop in later this week, if that’s convenient. Then, if you’re happy with the price, we can get the ball rolling, measure up, take some good photos and book in some viewings. I can think of at least five clients off the top of my head who’d be very interested. Yeah?’
I hesitated. This was all happening too quickly. I only wanted to sell the café if . . . Well, if someone like Jo was going to be there at the helm, keeping the place just as it had been run for all those years.
I sighed. I was dreaming, wasn’t I? I was kidding myself.
‘Miss Flynn?’ the estate agent prompted. ‘I could drop in on Thursday if—’
‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘No. Um . . . I need to think about this for a bit longer. Thanks for your help, though.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, give me a call back; my name’s Greg, and I’d be delighted to have this property on our books.’
I bet you would, Greg , I thought miserably, replacing the receiver. Greg wouldn’t care about the kind of person he sold it to. He wouldn’t vet all the potential customers to make sure they were nice, decent people who would be custodians of the café, look after the staff and the building properly, would he? No. He’d be all too happy to flog it to the richest person who came along with plans to turn it into a spa complex for swanky types, as long as he got his big fat commission.
I sighed again and put my head on the desk. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let that happen. But what was I supposed to do?
I slammed the front door behind me, threw my bag onto the floor and kicked off my shoes, sending one smacking against the hall radiator with a dull clang. ‘That bloody, bloody, bloody, BLOODY sex-pest,’ I fumed.
It was Wednesday, and I’d just had the worst day in the office ever. I’d overslept and then had a bike puncture on the way to work, making me doubly late, and meaning a bollocking from Jacqueline, followed by a ton of punishment filing. A crampy PMT had kicked in halfway through the morning, then at lunchtime I’d managed to wrench my ankle on one of the cobbled lanes off the High Street, and snapped the heel of my shoe clean off. Just to put the icing on the cake, later that afternoon Fatso Davis had ‘accidentally’ brushed his hand against my breast in the lift, making my skin crawl. I had jerked away from him in revulsion, but
‘Absolutely,’ he enthused. ‘Obviously any purchaser would need to apply to the council first, in order to change the use of the building, but I wouldn’t think it would be a problem. It’s a wonderful beach; I’m amazed the area hasn’t been developed further before now, to be honest. When you look at what has happened to Padstow and Rock, the opportunity is there for the taking, frankly.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘We also get lots of clients interested in second homes in Carrawen Bay,’ he went on, not seeming to hear me. ‘ Lots of clients. And it would be very easy for someone to turn the café into a luxury holiday home, for instance. Those views would make it a very special property.’
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling disloyal to Jo as his words gushed into my ear. I could just imagine the look of horror on her face if she could hear me having this conversation. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Only – well, there are people working in the café at the moment, you know, they have jobs , so I wouldn’t want them to lose out if I sold the place. And if I was going to sell it, I’d definitely want it to carry on being a café, so—’
He gave a cheerful laugh. ‘It doesn’t really work like that, I’m afraid, Miss Flynn,’ he replied. ‘It would be up to the buyer to do what they liked with it, once a sale had gone through. Do you want me to pop round, have a proper look at the place and give you a valuation? I could drop in later this week, if that’s convenient. Then, if you’re happy with the price, we can get the ball rolling, measure up, take some good photos and book in some viewings. I can think of at least five clients off the top of my head who’d be very interested. Yeah?’
I hesitated. This was all happening too quickly. I only wanted to sell the café if . . . Well, if someone like Jo was going to be there at the helm, keeping the place just as it had been run for all those years.
I sighed. I was dreaming, wasn’t I? I was kidding myself.
‘Miss Flynn?’ the estate agent prompted. ‘I could drop in on Thursday if—’
‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘No. Um . . . I need to think about this for a bit longer. Thanks for your help, though.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, give me a call back; my name’s Greg, and I’d be delighted to have this property on our books.’
I bet you would, Greg , I thought miserably, replacing the receiver. Greg wouldn’t care about the kind of person he sold it to. He wouldn’t vet all the potential customers to make sure they were nice, decent people who would be custodians of the café, look after the staff and the building properly, would he? No. He’d be all too happy to flog it to the richest person who came along with plans to turn it into a spa complex for swanky types, as long as he got his big fat commission.
I sighed again and put my head on the desk. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let that happen. But what was I supposed to do?
I slammed the front door behind me, threw my bag onto the floor and kicked off my shoes, sending one smacking against the hall radiator with a dull clang. ‘That bloody, bloody, bloody, BLOODY sex-pest,’ I fumed.
It was Wednesday, and I’d just had the worst day in the office ever. I’d overslept and then had a bike puncture on the way to work, making me doubly late, and meaning a bollocking from Jacqueline, followed by a ton of punishment filing. A crampy PMT had kicked in halfway through the morning, then at lunchtime I’d managed to wrench my ankle on one of the cobbled lanes off the High Street, and snapped the heel of my shoe clean off. Just to put the icing on the cake, later that afternoon Fatso Davis had ‘accidentally’ brushed his hand against my breast in the lift, making my skin crawl. I had jerked away from him in revulsion, but
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