Chapter 43
‘…the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House…’
‘It’s a bloody broken-down old shithole,’ said Dom, licking mayonnaise off his thumb, ‘but I’ve got to admit, I kinda like it.’
We were sitting on an overturned crate in the back courtyard of The Black Horse, sharing a limp BLT and sipping lukewarm tea from the nearby café.
We’d just finished a second full tour, and it was still as grim as the first time I’d seen it: boarded-up windows, a leaking roof, beer lines that reeked of gone-off vinegar, and a kitchen that violated every code in the book.
And yet… all I saw was potential: a solid old structure with the bones of something special, and a garden big enough for an outdoor kitchen.
And it was mine, well, possibly mine, if only I could get Dom on board.
He was the one with the numbers. I had the vision, but he had the access to financing.
He took another bite of sandwich, then nodded towards the stables. ‘Seven rooms, if we use the stables over there. Six comfortably. But if we’re putting in an application, we go all guns blazing. Gives us wiggle room when they push back.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ I said, grinning before I could stop myself.
‘I think it’s doable. It’s been a pub for centuries.
If we add guest accommodation and pitch it around local tourism, we get the council on side.
Nearest competition is The Swan, and the food there’s tragic.
There’s risk though. The pub trade’s not what it was.
But if we keep the refurb tight, make it lifestyle-led, farm-to-table, then yeah. There’s a shot.’
‘It’s more than a shot, Dom. It’s THE solution.’
He gave me a look. ‘To what, exactly?’
‘To everything.’ I stood and paced the courtyard, gesturing to the rotting benches and sagging eaves.
‘I need a roof over my head. I need a project that gives me purpose. I can do this. I can design, manage the build, run the team. You do the money, I do the vision. Our family once built a business on this.’
Dom stretched out his legs, staring up at the slate sky. ‘We did once upon a time.’
He didn’t say more, but I knew what he was thinking, the Elliot family business days. Late nights, impossible deadlines, the high of winning a pitch, the gruelling work ethic that dad expected from us. But I also knew he missed it. He wouldn’t have come if he didn’t.
‘If it tanks?’ he asked.
‘If it tanks, you apply for change of use. Turn it residential. Flatten it. Develop the land. Your margin goes up, not down.’
A voice cut through the wind. ‘She’s already halfway through designing the napkin rings.’
We turned to see Alice approaching, stepping around puddles in heeled boots.
Dom stood and hugged her. ‘You here to keep me honest?’
‘I’m here to make sure you don’t bottleneck the best bloody idea Florence’s had in years.’
‘She’s serious, then?’
‘Deadly,’ I said.
We stood in silence for a moment, the three of us, eyes lifted towards the sagging thatched roof. The building looked on the verge of collapse.
‘I’ll get the structural report done,’ said Dom.
‘We’ll bring in a proper team to check electrics, plumbing, damp – the works.
If it passes inspection and the numbers aren’t terrifying, I’ll get it funded.
You’ll work with the architect I use to get the drawings done.
Sweat equity for you, Flo. Fifteen per cent to start. ’
My heart lifted. I tried to keep my face still, tried to nod with the calm of someone who’d expected this all along. But inside, something warm flickered and sparked to life.
Alice clapped her hands, grinning. ‘It’s happening!’
Dom raised a finger. ‘But no delusions. This will be hard. Filthy. Cold. Slow. And we don’t do half-inch jobs.’
‘No half-inch jobs,’ I echoed. ‘Dad’s rule.’
He nodded once. We all knew what that meant. No shortcuts and no quitting.
Alice slipped her arm through mine. ‘I’ll handle the locals. You two handle the pub.’
And so we stood there, a scrappy trio of entrepreneurs, staring at the old building like it was Buckingham Palace.