around the counter and into the kitchen to find Ben hunched on all fours with his head in a cupboard and a puddle of water spreading with alarming speed across the floor.
‘Give us a hand, would you?’ he shouted. ‘My hands are so cold I can’t feel my fingers any more! I think it just needs one more turn.’
He leapt aside and Tom dived into the cupboard and fiddled with something before reappearing shaking his head.
‘Just a bit of a leak,’ he said, purposefully keeping his tone light as he spotted Jemma’s worried expression. ‘Nothing we can’t sort, hey, Ben?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ben nodded, his teeth chattering as he rubbed his hands together, ‘just thought it best to turn the water off as a precaution. I’ll have it sorted by the
end of the day, no problem, and the shelves will be up as well so don’t worry, Jemma.’
‘Assuming you haven’t died of hypothermia, of course,’ Tom grinned.
‘You better get that shirt off,’ Jemma said, shaking her head, ‘give him your jacket, Tom.’
I turned away as Ben stripped to the waist but not before I’d caught a glimpse of his toned and tanned torso.
‘Come back through to the Café with me,’ I said to Jemma as I quickly turned and walked away, ‘and tell me what you’ve got planned décor-wise.’
‘We haven’t got that far,’ she admitted as she followed on behind me, blissfully unaware that my insides felt as if they had turned to marshmallow.
‘To be honest, Lizzie,’ said Tom, following on with Ben, ‘we haven’t got any idea about how to make it look good. All the money we’ve saved has been sunk into
buying the place and sorting the kitchen and loos and now we can’t see the wood for the trees when it comes to making it look appealing. With the constraints of our bank balance, image- and
design-wise we’ve drawn a blank.’
Jemma nodded despondently at his side and Tom took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘Well,’ I said, brushing down the table I had cleared of chairs, ‘if it’s saving money you need to be thinking about, then I would definitely re-use everything
you’ve already got in here.’
‘Really?’ Jemma and Tom chorused.
Ben stood and shook his head as he blew on his numb fingers.
‘Of course,’ I carried on, ‘you can up-cycle all these tables and chairs for a start. Give them a rub down and a fresh lick of paint and they’ll be as good as new, better
in fact because they’ll be a nod to the past but very much about the Café’s future. The old clientele will love that.’
Ben thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and began moodily kicking the floor.
‘And the counter,’ I continued, determined not to be put off by his apparent scepticism, ‘that can have the same treatment so it will all match. You need to come up with a
design that will complement Jemma’s amazing baking of course, that will bring it all together . . . what?’ I shouted, as Ben let out a shuddering breath.
‘Oh nothing,’ he said breezily, ‘you just carry on.’
‘I take it you don’t agree?’ I snapped, wishing I’d been privy to his caustic comments and presumptuous personality years ago. I could have saved myself years of
yearning. ‘You probably think they should bin the lot and start again, is that it? Take out a huge loan and fill the place with brand new soulless stuff instead!’
‘Um, not exactly.’
‘Well, what then?’ I demanded. ‘If there’s no money left and even less time, then I can’t see the harm in using what’s to hand . . .’
‘Neither can I,’ said Ben defiantly.
‘What?’
I frowned at Jemma and Tom who stood together looking shame-faced. Tom self-consciously cleared his throat, but it was Jemma who finally answered.
‘Ben’s been making the same suggestions as you, Lizzie, practically ever since we picked up the keys, actually.’
I sighed and threw my hands up in the air.
‘So why haven’t you got on with it, then? You’ve wasted weeks.
‘Give us a hand, would you?’ he shouted. ‘My hands are so cold I can’t feel my fingers any more! I think it just needs one more turn.’
He leapt aside and Tom dived into the cupboard and fiddled with something before reappearing shaking his head.
‘Just a bit of a leak,’ he said, purposefully keeping his tone light as he spotted Jemma’s worried expression. ‘Nothing we can’t sort, hey, Ben?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ben nodded, his teeth chattering as he rubbed his hands together, ‘just thought it best to turn the water off as a precaution. I’ll have it sorted by the
end of the day, no problem, and the shelves will be up as well so don’t worry, Jemma.’
‘Assuming you haven’t died of hypothermia, of course,’ Tom grinned.
‘You better get that shirt off,’ Jemma said, shaking her head, ‘give him your jacket, Tom.’
I turned away as Ben stripped to the waist but not before I’d caught a glimpse of his toned and tanned torso.
‘Come back through to the Café with me,’ I said to Jemma as I quickly turned and walked away, ‘and tell me what you’ve got planned décor-wise.’
‘We haven’t got that far,’ she admitted as she followed on behind me, blissfully unaware that my insides felt as if they had turned to marshmallow.
‘To be honest, Lizzie,’ said Tom, following on with Ben, ‘we haven’t got any idea about how to make it look good. All the money we’ve saved has been sunk into
buying the place and sorting the kitchen and loos and now we can’t see the wood for the trees when it comes to making it look appealing. With the constraints of our bank balance, image- and
design-wise we’ve drawn a blank.’
Jemma nodded despondently at his side and Tom took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘Well,’ I said, brushing down the table I had cleared of chairs, ‘if it’s saving money you need to be thinking about, then I would definitely re-use everything
you’ve already got in here.’
‘Really?’ Jemma and Tom chorused.
Ben stood and shook his head as he blew on his numb fingers.
‘Of course,’ I carried on, ‘you can up-cycle all these tables and chairs for a start. Give them a rub down and a fresh lick of paint and they’ll be as good as new, better
in fact because they’ll be a nod to the past but very much about the Café’s future. The old clientele will love that.’
Ben thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and began moodily kicking the floor.
‘And the counter,’ I continued, determined not to be put off by his apparent scepticism, ‘that can have the same treatment so it will all match. You need to come up with a
design that will complement Jemma’s amazing baking of course, that will bring it all together . . . what?’ I shouted, as Ben let out a shuddering breath.
‘Oh nothing,’ he said breezily, ‘you just carry on.’
‘I take it you don’t agree?’ I snapped, wishing I’d been privy to his caustic comments and presumptuous personality years ago. I could have saved myself years of
yearning. ‘You probably think they should bin the lot and start again, is that it? Take out a huge loan and fill the place with brand new soulless stuff instead!’
‘Um, not exactly.’
‘Well, what then?’ I demanded. ‘If there’s no money left and even less time, then I can’t see the harm in using what’s to hand . . .’
‘Neither can I,’ said Ben defiantly.
‘What?’
I frowned at Jemma and Tom who stood together looking shame-faced. Tom self-consciously cleared his throat, but it was Jemma who finally answered.
‘Ben’s been making the same suggestions as you, Lizzie, practically ever since we picked up the keys, actually.’
I sighed and threw my hands up in the air.
‘So why haven’t you got on with it, then? You’ve wasted weeks.
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