Chapter Four #2
I need to keep busy, not stand and moan, so I grab the kitchen spray from under the sink.
It’s wet. That’s all I need. I stick my head in the cupboard.
Thankfully, there are no puddles of water.
I run my hand around the floor of the cupboard and across the pipes, then rub my fingers to make sure. No. I’m all good.
‘It looked lovely. I’d have wolfed it down. What’s the problem?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t in their schedule, so they don’t have time for it.’ I pull a face, screwing up my nose like a petulant child.
And bang on cue, Dad’s voice floats in from the café.
‘Ellie. We have to get going or we’re going to be late.’
I shrug my shoulders in resignation at Greg and we both go back out into the café. Mum and Dad are standing by the counter waiting to say goodbye.
‘I see you’re trying some marketing,’ Dad says, nodding towards the laminated A4 sheet.
‘I don’t think relying on all this internet stuff is the way to go.
’ He waves dismissively towards the QR codes on the bottom of the sheet that Reeni has set up for me linking the café to its social media accounts.
‘Actually, they’re known to work well in getting customers to respond to businesses and raising awareness,’ says Greg, discreetly touching my arm. He takes a subtle step towards Dad. ‘It’s a proven way to get the word out.’
‘And you are?’ Dad’s eyes narrow as he looks Greg up and down.
‘Oh, sorry,’ says Greg, offering his hand, which Dad takes.
‘I’m digital brand and marketing director for Phoenix Consulting.
So, I know Ellie’s on the right track. It’s about getting the algorithms to work for you.
’ He gives me a quick smile then goes back to sweet-talking Dad.
‘If you post at the right times, with the right hashtags, it all helps. Then if the content is varied and relevant, it engages people.’
Hearing Greg defend me tips a tiny smile onto my lips.
‘And you have money to waste on consultants now, do you?’ Dad glares at me.
‘Oh no. Ellie and I are …’ Greg stalls and Dad clocks his hesitation, ‘… friends. I’m not charging her.’
I watch Dad take in Greg’s smart suit trousers, crisp white shirt and navy tie, and his look softens. He always thought unless you wear a suit to work, you’re not doing a ‘proper’ job.
‘Friends, you say?’
Greg ignores Dad’s query and continues his algorithms spiel.
‘All this hashtag stuff confuses me,’ says Mum, giving me a kind smile. ‘Is everything OK though? It is a little empty in here.’
‘It’s all great, Mum, promise.’
The look I get says she’s not sure she believes me, but true to form, she doesn’t push the issue and simply nods before heading off to the toilet.
I tune back into Greg talking. ‘… great photographer. You only have to look at what she has on the walls.’
Dad has his back to me and his voice has lowered and I have to strain to hear him.
‘I always did think she was talented in that field.’ Dad gestures towards the photos. ‘Great composition and contrast. Especially that one.’
Something stabs at my chest at the photo he’s singled out.
He’s pointing directly towards the monochrome photo of a battered, neglected beach hut with a single seagull standing on its concrete veranda.
The only colour is the yellow of the hut and it pops against the black and white of the background.
‘Absolutely,’ Greg says. ‘Ellie’s going to get the ball rolling by taking one of her own to put up on social media.’
Am I?
‘Fabulous idea,’ says Dad, his voice dripping in enthusiasm. ‘Give everyone something to aim at. They’ll have to be excellent to match her photos. She has such a lovely spot here and she’s done it up so well it’d be great to see it busy.’
My mouth drops open. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him be so full of praise for me. How can he say things like that to a stranger but not to my face?
‘That young man is very smart. Is he your boyfriend?’ Mum says quietly in my ear.
‘No. Just a friend.’ I’m not about to explain the concept of booty calls to my mum.
‘A friend that’s quite sweet on you by the looks of things,’ says Mum with a raised eyebrow. ‘You could do worse.’
I shake my head at her, but my brain is whirring.
Greg is still talking to Dad in glowing terms and Dad looks like he’s lapping it up.
I study them. Greg is such a nice bloke, reliable, genuine, and we do have good fun when we get together.
And Reeni is right, I need to put my Jackson hang-up to bed once and for all.
And by the looks of it, Dad might actually approve of Greg.
‘Maybe,’ I mutter to Mum, and she lets out a little giggle.
Greg and I stand side by side with our hands raised in goodbye as Dad’s car drives away from us.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say as we walk back into the building. ‘Dad’s never been keen on me running a café. I think he’s waiting for it to all fall apart.’
‘I don’t think that’s true. He’s probably worried. That’s parents for you.’ He squeezes my arm in support. ‘I reckon he thought you were a marketing genius by the time I’d bamboozled him with some technical-sounding words.’
I snort. ‘I doubt that. No one’s even entered the competition yet.’
‘They will. And he was very complimentary about your photos. Don’t be so hard on him.’
I give Greg a sceptical look, but don’t have the energy to argue. ‘What were you doing telling him I was going to take the first photo?’
I climb up on the till stool. He sits next to me and picks up his coffee and takes a slurp. I wince inside. I’ve always hated the way he’s noisy when he drinks.
‘You’ll inspire people by putting up one of your own,’ he says.
I think about the council letter I’ve written complaining about Milo’s café, which now has a stamp. I don’t need to put myself out there to inspire people. I need the Camper Café moved to give me half a chance to survive. And if I can do it anonymously, all the better.
‘If people see an entry, it’ll encourage them to do the same. Your photos have real depth and meaning. There’s something emotional about them.’ His phone vibrates and he pulls it out of his trouser pocket and opens an email.
I look around me at the large seaside photos which adorn the walls. They’re a mixture of black, white and colour and I can remember taking every one of them. They’re a bit of me on my café walls.
‘Someone’s rescheduled my conference call.’ Greg’s voice intrudes on my memories.
We walk to the door and I can feel his hand inches from mine. I have the urge to reach out and touch him, but don’t. He pauses and I think he’s going to reach for me before he moves away and a spark of disappointment flicks through me at the rejection.
He clears his throat and pulls at his tie uncomfortably. ‘I’d better dash. See you soon, yes?’
I nod and watch as his tall frame walks away. Now I’ve decided I need to take charge of my life, I’m impatient to move on. If he’s not going to ask me out, maybe I need to ask him?