Chapter Fourteen Bella
Chapter Fourteen
Bella
I pop my lips, admiring my favourite shade, Damson Ambition, and glance over the rest of myself – clear skin, hair wanded into careful waves, blouse uncreased – and permit myself a half-smile.
My bedside clock ticks at me as I stuff my feet into my boots, already mentally rerunning the coming conversation. Another day, another make-or-break meeting, only this time my audience is the bank. I’ve spent a week psyching myself up for this.
After my failed attempt to land an investor, today’s pitch is that I need to extend the business overdraft to bridge the gap until sales pick up, which sounds rational enough if you ignore the numbers. Staring out of the bedroom window, I force myself to believe this is fixable.
My secret weapon, if I can call it that, is Fritz Marsden.
Of all the bank managers in the world, mine is a guy I half know.
We overlapped at school – he was a couple of years ahead – but we really bonded during a school ski trip to Chamonix.
There was a night when four of us snuck out after curfew with the intention of buying weed from a lift operator, but after getting lost and arguing in the snow, we ended up with a bottle of glühwein, three chalet maids, two ski instructors, and a hangover that wiped out half a day’s skiing.
Fritz, bless him, made up some lame excuse about us getting stuck in a ski lift, and basically saved us from getting put on report.
I haven’t seen him for years, but he’s been fast-tracked and now manages the branch in town.
I’d be lying if I said the connection didn’t comfort me, even if it is remote and awkward and ancient history.
For a week, I’ve been running scenarios in my head: Fritz, jovial in an old-school way, rubber-stamping the overdraft and maybe catching up over coffee.
I never factor in the possibility of rejection.
I can’t bring myself to even consider it.
I take one last look in the hall mirror: charcoal-grey trouser suit, checked for lint; plum silk blouse; black patent boots, buffed to a gloss; hair half pinned.
Despite a watery sun, October has wasted no time making it clear that summer is gone, so I add my most businesslike black wool coat and a lightweight, patterned scarf. Okay, that’ll do.
Walking up the High Street, the wind is so fierce it makes my eyes water. I keep my head down, realising too late that the tears are probably ruining the eyeliner I was so proud of. By the time I get to the bank, I’m sniffling and can barely focus.
Inside, the air smells of printer paper and carpet glue.
There are three people ahead of me in the queue for a cashier, but I head straight to the help desk.
The woman behind the counter is maybe forty, with the brisk, managerial aura of someone who could transition into aviation security without missing a beat. Her badge says ‘Marion’.
I clear my throat and paste on a smile. ‘Hi, I have an appointment with Fritz Marsden for nine fifteen. Name’s Bella Newbury.’
‘Of course, Ms Newbury. If you’d like to take a seat?
’ Marion’s voice is professional. She disappears into a door marked ‘Staff Only’, and I perch in the designated waiting area – a corridor with a row of seats facing a pale green wall with black and white prints of Lymington Quay.
Part of me wants to twiddle with my phone, but it seems unprofessional.
Instead, I peer down the corridor to the queue where a woman’s trying to fill in a form with a pen on a chain that’s too short.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. My nerves start to chew at my insides, nibbling at the confidence I built up all morning. I go over my pitch in my head, but it’s starting to sound like excuses. I clutch my phone like a talisman.
At 9.32, Marion reappears, this time with a look of apology that I know all too well from years of managing angry landlords.
‘So sorry, Ms Newbury, Mr Marsden has had to step into an emergency meeting this morning. He sends his regrets, but we can reschedule if you like?’
My stomach drops. I try to keep my face neutral, but I can feel it stiffen.
‘Or, I can see if one of our other business managers is free to see you?’
I weigh up the options. It took me two weeks to get this meeting with Fritz, and I don’t think I can afford to wait another two. ‘Yes, please. Another manager should be fine.’
‘All right.’ Marion nods. ‘Charmaine Taylor should be free in ten minutes if you’re able to wait.’
I glance down at my phone, pretending to check my calendar, then look up. ‘That would be great.’
‘Super. I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Marion vanishes again. I sit and try to recalibrate.
Charmaine Taylor – not a name I’ve heard before.
I imagine someone steely, with little patience for sob stories.
But maybe, I tell myself, a fresh face will mean a fresh perspective.
I rehearse the pitch all over again, but now the lines feel wrong.
They were prepared for an old friend, not this unknown business manager.
Eventually, a door opens, and a woman calls my name. She’s taller than me, maybe forty-five, wearing glasses, dressed in a cheap black trouser suit with a coral necklace. The handshake is brisk, dry-palmed, more of a statement than a greeting.
‘Bella Newbury? I’m Charmaine Taylor. Why don’t you come through?’
She leads me into a small, sterile room with no windows, like a police interview room – not that I’ve ever been inside one of those – and two chairs arranged at a diagonally non-confrontational angle.
The table between us is cheap laminate, peeling at the edges.
There is nothing on the table but a tissue box and her laptop, which she opens as soon as we’re both seated.
‘Newbury’s estate agents, right?’ she says, taking a seat behind the desk.
It’s Newbury New Forest Property Group, but I don’t correct her. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So, Ms Newbury. What brings you in today? The business, or your personal account?’ She looks up; her smile is professional but doesn’t reach her eyes.
‘The business,’ I confirm, a little worried that she’s not up to speed – I thought she was supposed to be a business manager. ‘I had a meeting planned with Fritz, but . . .’ I splay out my hands. ‘He’s busy.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ She shifts her gaze to her laptop screen, and there’s a bit of to-and-froing while she tries to find the account. This isn’t filling me with confidence, but I can’t very well get up and leave now.
I launch into my rehearsed explanation about ‘cashflow volatility’ and ‘short-term liquidity challenges’, careful not to sound too desperate.
I talk about the buoyancy of the property market, how our agency is on the verge of securing a big developer (a little white lie, but not beyond the realms of possibility), how an increase in overdraft is just a ‘tide-over’ until the commissions hit from the deal I’m lining up.
Throughout my pitch, Charmaine types, occasionally lifting her eyes to interject: ‘Mmm’ . . . ‘I see’ . . . ‘Go on’. Her accent is tricky to place – somewhere between London and Hampshire.
‘And what’s the current arrangement with your overdraft?’ she asks, tapping keys. Her nails are short, unpolished, and unforgiving.
‘It’s meant to be thirty, but I’m currently two and a half over that.’ I force a smile, as if it’s just a harmless oversight, nothing to worry about.
‘For how long have you been over that?’ She doesn’t blink.
‘Three. Maybe four weeks.’ In reality, it’s closer to six.
Charmaine can clearly see all this information on her screen, so it feels like she’s twisting the knife by asking me to repeat the facts to her.
She gives a thin smile, the kind that says I’ve heard all this before.
Her fingers rattle on the keyboard, and then she swivels the screen to face me: a spreadsheet, full of red numbers and negative signs that make me feel nauseous.
‘I’ve looked at your account performance over the last year. It appears there have been repeated periods of exceeding the facility, sometimes by as much as twenty per cent. Would you agree that’s accurate?’
I swallow. ‘There were a couple of times, yes, but it’s always evened out. We had some delayed payments from clients who—’
‘The problem is,’ she interrupts, ‘banks don’t like unauthorised borrowing. And your business hasn’t grown its net income year to year, which would make a temporary increase less appealing.’
Her tone is professional, but the line is clear. I try my original tack, mentioning that the potential new client is a game-changer and that I’m due to meet with them soon.
‘Do you have a contract or a letter of intent from this developer?’ asks Charmaine, eyes flat behind her rimless glasses.
‘Not yet, but they’ve agreed in principle to give us sole agency on their new units.’ The embellishment comes out before I can stop it, and I can only pray my confidence might become reality.
Charmaine interlocks her fingers on the desk, glances at the computer, and says, ‘I’m afraid that without a signed contract, it’s very difficult to extend additional credit on your account.
What I can do, though, is discuss the option of transferring your whole overdraft into a loan.
It would lock in a fixed repayment schedule and take away some of that month-to-month uncertainty. ’
Translated: the overdraft is being shut down, but we’ll happily sell you a loan at a higher interest rate.
I try one last option, keeping everything crossed. ‘Could I add a further ten to the loan?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.’
I start to argue, but I see the futility of it, and my words peter out.
She’s already moved on to explaining the paperwork.
My mind jitters, panic rising from my gut.
The silence in the little room is dense with my disappointment.
I sign the form because there’s no other option.
She prints a copy, paper still warm from the machine in the corner, and hands it to me.
‘You’ll receive confirmation by email in a couple of days,’ she says, standing, the meeting already over in her mind. This handshake is as brisk as her first, and she shepherds me into the corridor with a practised arm gesture.
As I step out of the bank, the cold is immediate and numbing.
I stand for a minute, blinking into the wind, cowed by shame and the taste of impending disaster.
I think of all the things I should have said, of how differently it would have gone if Fritz Marsden had been there instead of Charmaine Taylor, who clearly wouldn’t care less about our Chamonix adventure or the fact that I got a B in GCSE Economics.
I wish with all my heart that I’d agreed to wait and see Fritz.
But now it’s too late.