Chapter 21
Over the next hour, Tilly’s brain went nineteen to the dozen about the cosy comfy linen bedding business idea.
She’d jotted down a few thoughts, made a list of what she might need and mulled it back and forth over and over again.
However, it was one thing to write lists in a notebook in the careful capitals her dad kept for a business worth chasing, and quite another to actually do something about it.
Really, Tilly hadn’t a clue where to start.
She did know about making up beds, though, and she very much knew the feeling of absolutely missing going home to her own bed.
As she’d pondered the idea and cleaned and rearranged the bedroom further, she realised a funny thing.
When she’d been away, it wasn't five-star hotel sheets or hospital corners that had been her bed problem. It was that she’d missed her own cosy things.
The sort of crumpled, slightly dishevelled, little bit worn bed that smelt of English washing powder, line drying in the sun or not as the case may be, home and love.
There hadn’t been a lot of that in random five-star hotel rooms around the world.
Hotel sheets were sanitised until the cows came home, put on beds by people who, let’s face it, would rather be doing something else and were always just that little bit too perfect, so that sometimes you didn’t even want to get in.
It was a home bed with comfy sheets that had been washed for years that Tilly had missed.
The pillowcases in their own funny little way had helped with that, which is why she’d always found herself reaching for them and putting them on.
With the feeling of missing one’s own bed in mind, Tilly had mulled over the idea of bedding as she’d continued working on the shed.
Sitting at the little table by the window with a blue pearly light coming off the water, a fresh pot of tea in front of her and a lot of questions she’d pondered for ages.
Then she’d done what her dad had taught her to do when thinking about a failing business and its problem: write down what you had, estimate what it would cost and examine the gap between the two.
With her chin in her hands, her laptop open and a notebook by her side, she did precisely that.
The gap was telling her quite a lot. What she had was not much, but it was just enough if she played her cards right.
Her divorce money, the quiet little sum she'd kept well clear of Lennixx's eyes and ears for four years, was the one and only thing she'd carried out of her marriage that was worth a bean.
Nearly all would go into Margery's bank account, leaving her with only a small amount to get by on.
When you got down to the brass tacks of it, she had enough to get by for a few months and some to invest in an idea, but not a lot else.
Tapping her pen against the table, she nodded, mused and considered what the bedding idea as a business would actually need.
Stock, the linen itself, even at seconds prices or, if possible, mates' rates from Inês, even by the kilo, would not be cheap.
The shipping from the back of beyond in Portugal to a jetty on an island off the south coast of England most probably an arm and a leg.
Then things like packaging, the legal stuff, labels and whatnot.
A website and selling portal would be paramount, plus investment in social media and advertising.
Looking around, Tilly knew there was one thing she wouldn't need: a place to take photos.
The shed had little spots with amazing light and great backdrops almost everywhere.
With its view in the equation too, the marketing side of it would sell itself.
Noting down everything she could think of and rough numbers, Tilly totted up and blinked.
This was the bit her dad had called the flinch.
The moment in every deal where the sums came up bigger than you'd thought, which was why, a few years in, most small businesses failed.
That was the point when you knew whether to proceed if you had the stomach for it.
Most people flinch, that's the whole game. Not being cleverer than the next fella.
The thing was, Tilly only just about had enough money, so it was a huge gamble.
That was the truth of it, and no amount of looking at the gap was going to close it.
What she had was a shed, a good eye for things, offcut seconds in Portugal that she’d fallen in love with, and her own two hands.
There was another thing she’d overlooked, and that was the fact that her dad had instilled in her a love of small business and more; in her bones, she could feel when one would fail or do well.
Opening her laptop, Tilly started to draft an email. Another thing her dad had always rammed down her throat: strike while the iron’s hot.