It was bad news, she knew it. She had a memory flash of him wincing as he came down the stairs several weeks earlier. ‘Are you sick, Ambrose? Is that what you want to tell me? Oh dear God, what is it?’
‘Oh dear God yourself, not that,’ he said, laughing at her expression. ‘Haven’t I always told you? I’m healthy as a young trout.’
Eva was relieved to hear it. ‘Young trout? Sixty-four if you’re a day, Ambrose. You’re a fine old salmon, ready to be smoked, if you ask me.’
He smiled at her. ‘No, I’m not sick at all, Eva. Not in health. What I am sick of is work. Sick of early starts, late finishes. I want to retire, Evie.’
‘Retire?’
‘I’m getting too old for this now. I don’t want to spend what’s left of my life behind a counter. I want to stop working, it’s as simple as that. Stop working and go travelling again. Visit all the places that Sheila and I used to love visiting together. And start enjoying eating food again, not just selling it.’
She was completely shocked. ‘But what about the shop?’
He looked steadily at her. ‘I want to give it to you.’
‘Give it? To me? You can’t possibly.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, I can.’
‘But why don’t you sell it, Ambrose? This building would be worth a fortune these days.’
‘What do I need a fortune for? I’ve got all the money I need. I’ve got somewhere to live. Besides, the last thing I want is some stranger taking over the business and making a bags of it, ruining all the hard work we’ve put into it. Evie, you’re the closest thing to a daughter I have. I want to give it to you.’
‘But I don’t know the first thing about managing a shop.’
‘Of course you do. You’ve been working with me for years. You’re so good with the customers, the window displays, everything. I’m sure you know just as much if not more about food than I do now. And I’ve never forgotten that you put your own life on hold for me four years ago.’
Eva felt the familiar stab of guilt. He still thought that. Because she’d never told him the truth. ‘Ambrose, stop that, please. You’re making me sound like a martyr. You pay me, this isn’t a charity. And I love working here.’
‘Oh, I know you do. But the fact is you went fulltime to help me out after Sheila died. And thank God you did. I couldn’t see a day in front of me back then and I don’t think I could have kept the place running if it hadn’t been for you.’
He held up his hand to stop her interrupting. ‘Please, hear me out. I’ve been selfish, I know. Once things settled down for me again, I should
have suggested you go back to your studies, back to your music. I could have advertised for someone else to help me. But I liked having you here. And when you didn’t mention your art or your singing, I didn’t either.
‘It would make me very happy if you took over the shop. It would make me proud, too. And this isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment decision. Sheila and I often talked about it. How you were the sort of daughter we would love to have had. How we could both see you running this place, modernising it, making it your own one day. But it has to be solely your decision this time, nothing to do with me or what I might want. It has to be something that you really want to do, not something you’re doing out of family loyalty.’
Eva felt the panic rise in her. Of course I can’t do it. This is your shop. I’ve only ever been your assistant. I can’t do it on my own. I wouldn’t know where to start. The customers would leave and never come back. I’d ruin everything. ‘Ambrose, I can’t ‘
‘Eva, you can. I’m your uncle, yes, but I’m also a businessman. I know you can do it. You just have to realise that too.’ He softened. ‘I’m not expecting an answer from you now. I thought you could use this holiday with Dermot to think it all over. To decide if you want it. What you’d do with the shop if it was yours. How you’d refurbish it, modernise it, whatever you wanted. I don’t want it to stay as some sort
of museum piece. I’ve seen what’s happening along Camden Street these days, new places opening, the old places changing. But I’m too old to be a part of it, Evie. I don’t want to be part of it. But I’d give you all the help you needed, of course, financially and practically. To get you started.’
He was watching her carefully. ‘Or perhaps you’ll decide you don’t want it at all. That you’d rather go back to art school. Finish your degree. Start singing again. Pick up where you left off four years ago.’
Eva blinked. But that’s worse. I can’t go back to art school either …
Ambrose took in her shellshocked expression. ‘Oh, Evie, I’ve surprised you a bit, haven’t I?’
She managed to laugh. ‘Well, yes, that’s one word for it.’
He made a sudden decision. ‘A week’s thinking time isn’t really long enough, is it? Take another week off, Eva, after you get back from New York. You deserve it, you work very hard. I’m sure Meg would be happy with the extra work experience too. Have two weeks off and give it all plenty of thought.’
‘Ambrose, are you sure about this? Really? I mean …’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Completely sure. About all of it. The extra week off. The shop. Everything.’ He stood up and rubbed his hands together. ‘There it is now. All out in the open. Give it lots of thought, Evie, won’t you? And when you get back from your
holidays, we can sit down and hear what you’ve decided to do, can’t we?’
She looked out into the shop, his words still sinking in. She knew every single inch of it - the long glass counter, filled each day with cheeses, meats, smoked fish, olives and dips. The shelves crammed with exotic oils, vinegars, chutneys and sauces. The baskets of fresh crusty bread. The handmade chocolates. The coffee, spices, biscuits, pasta …
‘Evie? We can hear your decision then, can’t we?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, dazed. Oh God. She certainly hoped so.
London, England
‘Imagine that, Joseph, the Sydney Opera House, one of the world’s most recognisable buildings and yet the man who designed it has never actually seen it in the flesh, so to speak. He was a Danish architect, if memory serves me right. Won an international competition in the 1950s to come up with a design. Well, he won, no surprise there, it’s a wonderful building, but then there was all sorts of bother, years of delays, you see, the costs blew out. Well, we know that scenario ourselves of course, but we’re talking in the millions here …’
As his accountant kept talking, Joseph Wheeler began to regret mentioning that he was going to a conference in Sydney. He’d barely named the city before Maurice had launched into a history lecture. In the past five minutes Joseph had heard enough to set up his own tourist-guide business.
Maurice was the human equivalent of an Internet
search engine, Joseph decided. You just needed to give him a key word and off he’d go. Sometimes it was fascinating. But not today, not when there was this pile of paperwork in front of him. Joseph looked down at it. On top was the contract offer from the Canadian company. Maurice had checked through all the financial details. All it needed now was one more read-through and Joseph’s final signature. All he needed was the time to do it.
What had the head lecturer at his university said when he recommended Joseph hire Maurice as his accountant? ‘He can be a bit of a chatterbox, but if he’s just working as a consultant you’ll only see him occasionally. And he is fully qualified. Very experienced. It’ll leave you free to get on with your designs.’
A bit of a chatterbox? Yes, and Bill Gates had just a bit of money. And The Beatles had been just a bit successful.
Joseph tuned back in just as Maurice moved on to another subject.
‘Do you know, the Sydney Harbour Bridge set quite a few records when it was first constructed, as one of the world’s first single-span bridges. There’s actually rather an amusing story attached to the opening ceremony. You see, there it was, all planned, pomp and ceremony, when the whole event was hijacked …’
Joseph didn’t have time to hear this today. Perhaps he could ask Maurice to speak into a tape recorder and he could listen to it later. He stood
up. ‘Sorry, Maurice, but I’ll have to stop you there. I’ve a room full of work to get through before I go.’ He walked over to his office door and opened it, standing expectantly. Maurice didn’t seem to mind in the least. He pulled himself out of the chair with a groan. ‘In a bit of a rush today myself, actually, Joseph. That’s the drawback of being a consultant such as me, lots of different clients. Like a family of children, baby birds, all calling to be fed, you lot are.’ Joseph kept moving, drawing Maurice toward the lift. His PA Rosemary looked up from her desk as they walked past. ‘Goodbye, Maurice. Will I see you in two weeks as usual, even while Joseph’s away? I’ll need your help to prepare for the auditor.’ ‘Of course, Rosemary, of course. And you’ll have some more of those lovely biscuits for me, I hope.’ ‘Oh, indeed, Maurice. If I have to stay up all night to bake them myself.’ He finally left, the lift making a satisfying ding as it carried him away. Joseph waited a minute to be absolutely sure he’d gone, then turned to Rosemary. ‘I don’t suppose it’s too late for me to do an accounting course?’ She smiled, pleased to see a glint of humour in his eyes. The first one in days. ‘Would a coffee help?’ ‘More than you know. I’ll be back in a moment. I just need to have a word with one of the designers.’
IS
Rosemary carried the coffee and a bulging folder of paperwork into Joseph’s glass-walled office and settled herself in one of the comfortable chairs. Wheeler Design took up a whole floor of this converted Hoxton warehouse these days. The computers in the middle of the open-plan room were all in operation, the designers working on the latest updates to Joseph’s creations. The office itself was furnished with his prototypes stylish chairs and sofas, desks, computer keyboards, all ergonomically sound. His most recent and successful design, the innovative backpack, was on display just beside the reception desk.
Rosemary took a sip of coffee and opened up the folder. They had a lot to get through this morning. They had a lot to get through every morning lately. She’d been working for Joseph for nearly three years now and it had never been busier. The fact that he was going to Australia for two weeks was adding to the pressure. She took out the glossy conference program that had just arrived from the Sydney conference organisers. They were certainly giving Joseph star billing. She skim-read the biography:
London-based Joseph Wheeler has a well-deserved reputation for excellence and innovation in the field of industrial and ergonomic design in the UK. Three years of research with physiotherapists led to his groundbreaking backpack design which features a weight carrying system that…
Good, it was all there and up-to-date. It was just a shame the photo of Joseph in the program was two years old - he hadn’t had the time to get a new one taken. She looked over at the real thing, several metres away. Joseph was leaning down beside one of the designers, pointing out a detail on the computer screen, listening as the young woman explained a problem she was having with the new chair design. He didn’t look that different these days, Rosemary thought. The only real difference was in the expression. In the photo he looked full of life, eyes alight, mouth on the verge of smiling. He hadn’t looked like that in real life for months.
As she watched he ran his fingers through his dark hair, leaving a tuft standing up. He did this often, especially when he was getting stressed. She could tell his anxiety levels by the number of tufts standing up. So far, today had been a three-tuft day. Medium stress. Maurice’s visit could probably account for two of those - his fortnightly visits were a waterfall of financial details, royalty statements, contracts and bank accounts. Joseph was working far too hard, Rosemary thought, and he didn’t seem to be revelling in it as much as he used to. He seemed distracted. Preoccupied.
She doubted that anyone else in the office would have noticed. Certainly his outward appearance hadn’t changed at all. He was as stylish as ever. Though he still wore far too much black for
Rosemary’s taste. Just like her son. What was it with these young men? Didn’t they believe in colours?
She’d often heard the young designers in his company - the men and the women - talk breathlessly about Joseph’s appearance. ‘But he’s not conventionally handsome, is he?’ they’d ask each other. ‘No, he’s interesting-looking. And those come-to-bed eyes of his …’
Rosemary had rolled her own eyes at that. Not so much come-to-bed as haven’t-been-to-bed-enough eyes, she thought.
‘Sorry for keeping you, Rosemary.’
She looked up as Joseph walked in and took a seat at his desk. ‘Is everything on track out there?’ she asked as she poured his coffee.
‘We’re nearly there with the chair design. But if we get the contract for the airline seats I’m going to have to take on at least two more designers. Could you please draft up an ad, just in case?’
Rosemary made a note. ‘I heard back from the conference people in Sydney this morning, by the way. They’ve changed your flight booking as requested. They were astonished, I have to say. First time in living memory one of their keynote speakers has asked to be downgraded to economy class on an international flight, they said.’
She’d started to worry for Joseph’s sanity herself when he’d suggested it. ‘You want to fly to Australia economy class?’ Are you mad? she hadn’t said aloud.
Joseph had been decisive. ‘It’s an ideal opportunity. If I’m going to be designing new long-haul airline seats, I’ll need that first-hand experience.’
‘Can’t you just walk through economy class on the way to your business-class seat?’ she’d dared to ask.
He’d smiled at that. But he hadn’t changed his mind.
Joseph flicked through the conference program. He’d be giving the keynote address and then running several workshops. He wondered when he was going to find the time to write that keynote address. The way his schedule was at the moment, it would be on the flight itself.
‘Will I book a car to take you to the airport?’ Rosemary asked, pen poised over her notebook.
‘No, thanks anyway. I’m having dinner with my mother that night and she’s offered to drive me out to Heathrow afterwards.’