Page 61 of Neap & Spring

CHAPTER TWELVE

Vivienne

This is a complete fucking disaster.

Callum’s office is small. Barely bigger than a closet, really. There’s a desk piled with invoices and order forms, a filing cabinet with one drawer that doesn’t close all the way, and a corkboard covered in sticky notes and supplier business cards. And only two chairs, one behind the desk and one in front.

He closes the door behind us, muffling the kitchen noise to a dull roar.

“Okay,” he hedges, leaning back against the desk, arms crossed. “What’s wrong?”

I pace to the far wall — all of three steps — and then back again. My hands are still shaking. I shove them in my back pockets.

“The investors are coming.”

Callum just stares at me for what feels like an eternity.

“What?”

“Brad Henderson just called. He’s in Crescent Bay with Jim and Cameron. They’re on their way here. They want to meet at 4:30.”

Callum looks at his watch. When he looks back up at me, his jaw is tight, and his eyes are panicked. “That’s in less than two hours.”

“I know.”

“They’re just showing up? Without warning?”

“Apparently they’re ‘in the area.’” I make air quotes, my voice pitching up slightly. “Thought they’d ‘swing by’ and hear about our progress.”

“Do we have progress?”

I stop pacing and look at him. “Define progress.”

“Vivienne.”

“I have notes! Lots and lots of notes. Pages of observations and ideas and —” I drag both hands through my hair, pulling strands from the already-messy bun. “But an actual plan? A presentation? Numbers and timelines and concrete strategies? No. I don’t have that.”

The silence that follows is charged.

Callum pushes off from the desk and runs a hand over his face, scratching on his mustache. “Okay. Okay. What do you have?”

“What?”

“You said you have notes. What are they?”

I pull out my phone. The screen is wet and smudged from my soapy hands. I open my notes app and scroll through weeks of observations.

“Social media strategy,” I read off. “Your Instagram is basically dead. We need consistent posts, behind-the-scenes content, food photography that doesn’t look like it was taken on a flip phone from 2005.”

“I don’t even know how to use Instagram.”

“I know.” I keep scrolling. “Your website needs an update. It looks like it was built in 2010 and hasn’t been touched since. We need online reservations, better photos, an actual menu that people can read without squinting.”

Callum is pacing now too, the small office barely big enough for both of us to move.

“Menu changes,” I continue. “Small ones. Keep your core dishes — they’re incredible — but rotate seasonal specials more frequently. Give food writers a reason to come back and to write about you more than once.”

“You want me to change my menu.” His voice is flat.