‘Please tell me you’re not trying to set me up at my own relaunch.’
She stops painting my head. ‘I didn’t say anything about—’
‘Faith!’
‘Well, not set you upexactly… more an introduction of sorts.’
Allowing Faith to set me up again is something I’m beginning to regret even though I’m fully aware that dating is a numbers game, likeCountdownbut with more frequent conundrums. I’ve been on five dates since bootcamp, and they’ve all been less than successful. The third, Julian, was a real sweetheart but his need to text in the style of an eighteenth-century poet grew tedious rather quickly and the least said about the persistent scrotum-scratcher Matt who I dated last week, the better.
‘Totally not appropriate!’ I yelp. ‘I’ll have enough on my plate tomorrow, never mind being awkwardly congenial to… who is it this time? Your office security guard? Weird client? Desperate colleague? I’m so not up for this right now, Faith.’
She shrugs and whisks the brush around in the hair dye. ‘Fine, I won’t bother. Probably just as well, God knows how this dye job is going to turn out. It smells like there is a forty-percent developer in here. My eyes are burning.’
‘Alright, Vidal, point made. Look, just promise me that your guest list for tomorrow isn’t made up entirely of potential suitors.’
‘I promise. Jeez.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’d say it’s closer to thirty percent – anyway, you’re all done!’
She throws the bowl into the sink and darts out of the bathroom before I can inflict any serious bodily harm.
I clip my hair up on top of my head, pausing to hear Faith rummaging around in my kitchen. ‘Bottom shelf, back cupboard,’ I yell.
‘Thanks.’
Faith rarely borrows anything from me, but when she does, it’s always my juicer/blender. ‘They sell them in supermarkets,’ I remind her for the millionth time. ‘You might as well just buy one instead of taking mine.’
‘I only use it for margaritas,’ she replies. ‘Besides, you hardly use yours anymore. It deserves a more attentive home.’
Which is true. About three years ago I decided that juicing would be the answer to eternal youth but instead, I just got the runs. She knows one day I’ll stop asking for it back, but it cost me a hundred quid and I’m not quite ready to let go, unlike my bowels.
‘Got it, thanks. Get some rest!’ she yells.
‘Enjoy your pulverized booze,’ I holler back as she heads towards the front door. ‘I’ll see you at twelve.’
I hear the door click and set a half hour timer on my phone before scrambling around in a bathroom drawer for one of Charlie’s hydrating masks. I carefully unpeel it, placing the slimy tissue over my face. It’s weirdly relaxing, almost like being at a spa, only I’m fairly certain that they don’t issue monkey face masks as standard.
My (hopefully) punctual daughter will be back at ten tomorrow morning and then we’ll head over to set up. I should get an early night, but I’m too nervous to get any meaningful rest. There are so many things that could go wrong and I’m considering all of them. What if no one shows up? What if everyone hates the café’s new look? What if I turn up tomorrow with orange hair or a bald spot from overprocessing my greying roots?
Oh God, please let this go well.
CHAPTER37
‘Victoria and I would like to thank you all for coming, and a special thanks to our neighbours for putting up with all the noise and disruption that goes along with refurbishment. Hopefully, some free food and drink will go a little way to showing our appreciation. It’s been a long time coming but today we say goodbye to Café 12 and welcome you all to Charlie Brown’s!’
Applause rings out as Charlotte’s scissors slice through the dark blue ribbon, and we finally open the doors to our revamped, American-style diner, complete with 1950s jukebox, cosy booths for kissing teenagers and the best handmade burgers in Edinburgh. My lovely daughter is of course thrilled that her name is above the door.
Faith’s guest list was a nice touch. Local papers, bloggers, neighbouring businesses, and a couple of minor celebrities have all turned up (as well as some of Charlotte’s school friends) to sample our menu of burgers, hotdogs, wings, ribs, mac and cheese, fries and shakes. I even invited café regular Jean along, much to Faith’s disapproval.
‘I’m not saying they can’t eat here; I just don’t think a group of elderly women is the right image for opening night.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I reply. ‘Where’s the harm? Jean and her little gang have been loyal customers since we first opened.’
‘Maybe, but you’re meant to be pushing your new vision, Nora,’ she scorns. ‘A fun, retro eating experience for a younger demographic with a high disposable income. I’m not sure mothballs and dementia quite fall into this concept.’
‘I’m going to tell Wilbur you said that.’
