Summer Daydreams (4 page)
It’s pushing midnight before Phil dips his brush in the paint for the first time. He closes his eyes momentarily, fresh, shiny pink poised over the ancient, skanky peach. ‘For better, for worse,’ he says.
‘Go on with you,’ I chide. ‘It will look marvellous.’
‘Pink,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘Pink.’
I don’t confide in him that my four-year-old was my style advisor.
‘I’m done,’ Constance says. She stands back and admires her handiwork. The entire curled-up border has gone and the remnants of it have been sanded from the walls. ‘And I haven’t even chipped a nail.’
‘You’re a star.’
My mobile rings and I’m so pleased to see that it’s Olly on the line. ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Missing me?’
‘As always. How’s it going?’
‘Constance is our star turn and Phil is about to start painting. I’ve done nothing but strip all night.’
‘Now I’m interested,’ Olly says. ‘I wish I could come over.’
‘I know.’ I thought Olly and Petal could come down here for an hour or two tomorrow, but it’s too chaotic already to accommodate Petal and she’d probably be bored within ten minutes. Besides, I’m missing Olly now. ‘How’s Petal?’
‘Fast asleep since eight.’
‘Are you tired?’
‘Not especially. I managed a doze earlier.’
My dearly beloved’s ability to exist only on regular catnaps constantly amazes me. He has, through force of necessity, learned to grab forty winks whenever he can – sometimes while standing up, quite frequently in the middle of a conversation.
‘I can go and take over from Olly if he wants to come down here for a couple of hours,’ Constance suggests. ‘I’m happy stretched out on your sofa as I am anywhere.’
Not that we get a great deal of nights out but when we do, Constance is always willing to lend a hand. She lives on her own and has no pressing commitments and she absolutely adores Petal and vice versa, so she’s become a surrogate nan to my daughter. Unfortunately, we’ve no family that live close to help us out. Olly’s dad died over ten years ago, not that long before we got together, and his mum now lives out in Spain. My dear old dad took early retirement and, as I said before, he and mum moved to Norfolk years ago now. Great for holidays but not a lot else. So we do lean heavily on Constance when the cracks start to show in our complicated domestic arrangements. Jenny, too, has been known to step into the breach when we’ve needed an extra pair of hands.
‘Want to come down and give us the benefit of your expertise with a paintbrush?’ I ask Olly. ‘Constance will come to the house.’
‘Sure.’
I turn to Constance. ‘He says yes.’
‘I’ll be there in five.’ The unflattering overalls are already being peeled off.
Half an hour later and Olly joins us and just the energy that he brings when he turns up lifts us all and we keep painting and sanding late into the night. He works with Jenny, doing the bits she can’t reach and it’s good to hear them laughing together. They’ve always got on like a house on fire.
It’s three o’clock before I look at my watch again. Then I notice that Phil is flagging. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Get that overall off and get yourself home.’
‘I am a bit tired,’ he admits wearily and I could kick myself that I’ve let him stay here so long. I’d clean forgotten that he’s done a full day at work already. ‘Are you going to pack it in, too?’
‘We might just stay a bit longer. What do you say, Olly?’
‘Plenty of life in me yet.’ My other half stifles a fake yawn.
‘Go home,’ I say to Phil. ‘We’ve cracked the back of it now. Get a few hours sleep and come back tomorrow, refreshed and raring to go.’
‘My bed
is
calling.’
‘So is mine,’ Jenny says.
‘Go. Both of you. See you tomorrow?’
‘Unless Robert Pattinson phones and wants to bite me,’ Jen says.
‘Are you sure you’re OK on your own?’ Phil asks one more time.
‘Yes!’ Olly and I chorus.
He holds up his hands. ‘I’m gone. I’m gone.’
Minutes later, Olly and I are on our own. I turn off the disco music and put on some of the sixties soul music I insist on listening to in the shop. A CD of slowies. The mellow sounds of Marvin Gaye and ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ fill the shop. I make a cup of tea in the kitchen, stick a couple of sugars in it for some energy and take it back through to Olly who is still painting. He stops and we sit on the floor together. As Smokey Robinson sings ‘The Tracks of My Tears’, he wraps an arm round my shoulder and I lean into him. We let the soft music flow over us.
‘This is almost like a date,’ I say to him.
‘It’s the closest we’ve had to one in a long time.’
‘I do love you,’ I tell him. ‘Even though we have no money and no time and no sex.’
‘I love you, too.’ Olly kisses me and for a moment, I forget all about the painting or that I’m sitting on the floor of a chip shop.
On Monday morning, I’m at my sewing machine, foot to the pedal, whizzing frantically through the fabric. I’m due at work in an hour and I want to get down there early to see Phil’s face when he opens up.
‘Nearly done?’ Olly asks.
‘Last bit.’ I whip the fabric out of the machine and check my handiwork.
‘Phil will be blown away.’
‘I hope so.’ I’m up and packing my final surprise into a carrier bag. ‘You’ll be all right holding the fort until I come back?’
‘Petal and I are going to see the ducks in the town. Aren’t we, Petalmeister?’
‘Yay!’ my daughter cries and I kiss her.
‘I love you both so much,’ I say, and then I’m out of the door running towards Live and Let Fry.
Last night I herded everyone out of the café at about seven o’clock. But what I didn’t tell Phil was that I was sneaking back during the hours of darkness to add a few finishing touches. I’ve been up most of the night, painting and planning, sewing and swearing, and now I’m giddy with a heady mix of extreme tiredness and excitement.
When I get to the chippy, Jenny and Constance are already waiting for me and rush to hug me. ‘We can’t believe what you’ve done with the place!’
The walls are fresh, the palest of pinks. The once glossy, orange furniture is now pared down and paint-washed with a distressed white finish. At the head of each table where they butt with the wall, I’ve painted candelabra in fine black paint complete with bright pink candles. The wall by the door is painted with an ornate fireplace with a clock on top, again in black with highlights of bright pink. I’ve put some more twiddles round the coat rack. On the front of the counter, there are three busy waitresses painted in French 50s style – capturing Constance, Jenny and me for time immemorial. Or, at least until the next refit. At their feet, Dude sits expectantly, a ruff round his neck. Phil has been transformed into a largetummied proprietor with a middle parting and a comedyvillain moustache.
‘You can’t have done this all last night?’
‘I finished at four this morning,’ I confess. At the very thought of my all-night marathon, weariness washes over me.
‘You like it?’
‘It looks sensational,’ they say in unison.
‘You think Phil will like it?’
‘He’ll love it,’ they reassure me.
‘One more surprise.’ Out of my carrier bag, I whip the fruits of my labour.
‘Omigod,’ Jenny says. ‘They’re fab. You really made these?’
‘Quick, quick, put them on. Phil will be here any second.’ We all help each other to tie on the pink-and-white frilly gingham aprons and hats that I’ve spent all night working on. As instructed, we’re all wearing white blouses and black pencil skirts. The aprons and hats are edged with some lace that I’ve had lying around for ages. I bought the gingham fabric cheaply from the market to run up a new duvet cover for Petal, but I’ve just never got round to it. It would be really great if I could make some café-style curtains in the same fabric for the windows, but that would mean tapping up Phil for some more cash as the three hundred quid is all gone.
‘Get an eyeful of us,’ Constance says, admiring her apron. Now we look exactly like the ladies in my illustration. ‘Who will be able to resist chips from girls as hot as this?’
‘Let’s hope it works.’ I take a steadying breath. ‘Otherwise we’ll all be signing on in a few weeks.’
‘He’s here! He’s here!’ Jen shouts as Phil’s car pulls into the small car park opposite.
All three of us bounce nervously as we watch him cross the road. I can’t help notice how tired and worn my boss looks as he comes towards us. Hopefully this will put the smile back on his face.
He opens the door and the bell chimes.
‘What are you lot doing in so early?’ Then he stops in his tracks and looks round. ‘Bloody hell,’ Phil says. ‘Bloody, bloody hell.’ Tears spring to his eyes and, of course, we all follow suit. ‘Look at you,’ he adds, finally noticing our new outfits. He turns round and round, unable to take it all in. He points at the painting on the front of the counter and his mouth gapes open. ‘I hardly recognise the place. This is fantastic.’
He stands, speechless, staring at his transformed chippy, until Constance says, ‘Come here, you silly old fool.’
He comes to hug us all. ‘Thank you,’ he says, choked. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘It’s Nell you’ve got to thank,’ Jenny says. ‘We just did a bit of donkey work.’
Phil stands in front of me. ‘What can I say?’
‘Let’s see if it pulls in the customers.’
‘How could it not?’ My boss grabs me in a bear hug. ‘You’re one in a million, Nell McNamara. One in a million.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t just me.’
‘Constance! Nip to the supermarket, love. We have to have a toast,’ Phil says. ‘We need champagne!’
Champagne, indeed! As if I’m going to argue with that.
Within a week, there are queues down the street outside Live and Let Fry. Word of our new look has clearly spread and the café is permanently full. So much so, that we’re turning people away at closing time. Phil is saying that from next week, we’ll be open all afternoon. Frankly, I’ve never seen him grin so much. Constance is doing nothing but complain about how much her feet are hurting and that only serves to make Phil grin more. They’re bad enough that she’s even thinking of swapping her trademark stilettos for flatties.
Phil is so pleased with the makeover that he’s already given me the money for some matching gingham curtains and I’m going to run those up this weekend. He’s also talking about splashing out on a fancy black chandelier for the café to complement my painted ones and I think that would look great.
At close of business, I’ve lost count of how many portions of fish and chips I’ve doled out. It’s not only Constance’s feet that are hurting. I think all the excitement is catching up with me and I wonder if I can persuade Petal that she’d like an afternoon nap today so we can snuggle up together for an hour. Hopefully, Olly will have done something with her to have worn her out. I’m just folding my pretty, gingham apron when Phil takes my arm and pulls me into the kitchen.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he says, suddenly bashful and from behind his back, he pulls out a familiar, upmarket carrier.
‘Betty’s?’
Phil smiles softly. ‘I’ve seen you looking in that window week in, week out, Nell.’
‘You have?’
‘I do notice some things,’ he chides. ‘Even though I’m a bloke.’ He holds out the bag. ‘Just a little gift. To say thank you. For everything.’
‘It’s too much,’ I tell him.
‘You haven’t seen what it is yet.’
Taking the posh paper carrier, I peep inside.
‘Betty said it was the one you liked.’
I pull out the handbag. It’s the felt one, covered in gorgeous rainbow-coloured buttons. The one I have coveted from afar.
‘It is,’ I breathe. My fingers trace over the buttons. ‘It’s beautiful. But I can’t accept this. All I did was splash a bit of paint around.’
‘Nell, you’ve doubled my takings in a week. I was having sleepless nights wondering how I was going to pay the bills. You’ve turned it all around. It’s up to me now to keep it going.’
