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Chapter 13
The week turns out to be manic. As well as writing up the Courchevel trip, I’ve got my regular Sunday column to do and I lose two days in the middle as I have to fly up to Scotland to experience a whisky distillery tour for one of the airline magazines. This proves to be a bit of a struggle, as I really don’t like whisky, but I think I manage to capture the passion of the distillers and I take the tasting notes so that I can rehash them in the article. I use the techniques Toby has taught me and run my photos through the app, and I have to say I’m pretty pleased with the results.
By Friday evening I reckon I’m on top of it. The Courchevel article is in ahead of schedule, I’ve managed to put together suggestions for people who have written into the Sunday supplement, and the Scotland article is also done and submitted. Ed rang midweek with a date for the christening in May, which thankfully coincided with a clear patch in my diary, so that’s all sorted as well. I decide to ring Toby to see how he’s getting on.
“It’s going really well,” he tells me, after we’ve exchanged the usual pleasantries. “All of Dave’s crap is gone, I’ve given the place a really good clean and I’m currently painting it. I’ve got the electrician arriving on Monday to put in a load of extra sockets, so I need to be done by then.”
A thought occurs to me. “Do you need a hand? I’m on top of my work now, so I can probably come and do some decorating over the weekend if that would help.”
“That would be brilliant, if you can really spare the time. Paul’s helped as much as he can, but obviously he’s got his own studio to look after. He’s got shoots booked in solidly over the weekend, so it’s just me on my own at the moment.”
I’m up early the next morning. After rootling around in the wardrobe for a while, I find an old pair of jeans and a top that I haven’t worn for years, as well as a pair of trainers I bought ages ago when I had a brief, mad idea that I might take up running. I put my hair up into a messy bun to keep it well away from any paint, and don a baseball cap for extra security. The end result is not beautiful, but I’m ready for a day of decorating.
Toby explained on the phone how to get round to the back of the studio and, as instructed, I park across the back of his car and the latest skip. It’s a tight squeeze, but I just manage it without sticking out beyond the line that denotes the end of his parking area. The studio itself, once I get inside, is transformed. All the stuff that was in here, apart from the hideous porno bed, has gone and it’s immaculately clean. The new infinity wall completely fills one corner and the smell of fresh paint hangs in the air. A brand-new dressing room has been created next to the kitchen area, which has new units and an enormous coffee machine. Even the toilet has smart new chinaware, although the walls are yet to be repainted and the mirror is on the floor, resting against the wall. There’s still a way to go, but I can see that no expense is being spared, and the end result is going to be both stylish and functional.
“Would you like a coffee before we start?” Toby offers, advancing on the machine. “The closest decent coffee shop I could find was at the station, so I invested in this. I reckon it’s got enough options to keep even the fussiest Londoner happy.”
“Does it do flat whites?” I ask.
“Naturally.”
Toby puts a mug under the dispenser and pushes a button. After a lot of whirring and shooshing it starts to dribble coffee and steamed milk into the mug, beeping proudly when it finishes. Toby hands me the mug with a flourish, before repeating the process for himself.
“This is actually pretty good,” I tell him, after taking a sip.
“It’s not bad, is it? The machine was a bit more than I wanted to spend, but the guy assured me it was worth it. It’s plumbed in for water, so all I have to do is make sure I keep it topped up with beans and milk powder, clear out the waste when it tells me, and give it a clean every so often.”
Toby turns on a radio and sets me to work painting white gloss on the doors, door frames and skirting boards, while he continues with the studio walls. I find the background noise from the radio and the monotonous work very relaxing, and soon I’m into a rhythm. After a couple of hours Toby downs tools and comes to check how I’m getting on.
“You’re a much neater painter than Paul,” he observes, after checking a couple of the door frames. “Quicker, too. Don’t tell him though, he’ll only get all sensitive about it.”
“Really? He doesn’t strike me as the over-sensitive type.”
Toby laughs. “No, not really. He’s been really good and given me a lot of help this week, but I don’t think painting is his thing. I suspect he got more paint on himself than he did on the walls.”
After a quick coffee break, we settle back to work; by lunchtime, I’ve pretty much covered all the woodwork and my stomach is growling. Toby has moved on to painting the dressing room but, because there is no proper light in there yet, it’s difficult to tell how it’s going to look. He’s been using one of the old studio lights on an extension lead, which is fine for illuminating the bit he’s working on, but it leaves the rest of the room in shadow.
“How brave are you feeling?” he asks.
“Why?”
“We have two choices for lunch. Either you can come up to the flat and I’ll make you a sandwich, or we can go next door to the café. It’s pretty dismal in there, but the baked potatoes are harmless enough.”
A hot baked potato sounds much more tempting than a sandwich after all my hard work this morning, so Toby locks up the back and we walk out of the front door to the café next door. As we pass through the shop front, I notice that the faded pictures and gaudy furniture have gone, and the windows have been covered with paper.
“It means I can set everything up without anyone seeing what it looks like. Then, when I’m ready, off comes the paper for a big reveal,” Toby explains, when I ask about it. “To be honest, I’m not completely sure what I’m going to do with this space. I’m not going to be accepting walk-in clients, so I don’t need an area for them to wait, but I want it to look inviting.”
The inside of the café is every bit as grim as the outside promises. My nostrils are assaulted by the smell of stale fat as we walk in. It’s not particularly busy, even at lunchtime, and most of the clientele seem to be elderly. We find a table in the corner and Toby hands me a laminated piece of paper with the menu on it. I guess the same person has written the menu as is responsible for the signwriting on the window, as the spelling and grammar are equally atrocious. I skim through All Day Breakfast’s, Burger’s and Salad’s until my eyes finally alight on Baked Potatoe’s.
“I wonder how many salads they sell?” I say to Toby. “It doesn’t strike me as the sort of place you’d naturally pick out for a delicious salad.”
“Perhaps you should try one,” he replies. “Let’s see, you could have tuna, egg, tuna and egg for an extra one pound fifty, or chicken. Pretty exotic stuff, don’t you agree? In fact, I think I can hear Gordon Ramsay trembling with fear at the prospect of Nora’s diner stealing his Michelin stars.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure my palate is sophisticated enough for such delicacies,” I tell him. “I think I’ll have a baked potato with tuna mayo.”
“I’m not sure where the sommelier is,” Toby continues, warming to his theme. “It’s a shame, because I’ve heard the wine cellars here are out of this world. Can I tempt you to a cup of tea or coffee instead?”
I study the list of drinks and decide that a Diet Coke is probably the safest option. Toby goes up to the counter to order, and I continue my observation of the café. On one wall is a large blackboard with “Specials” written at the top. The board itself is blank. I wonder how long it’s been since they had anything to write on there. There’s a pretty young girl serving behind the counter. She can’t be more than sixteen, so I imagine this is a Saturday job for her. She seems happy in her work and smiles widely at Toby as he places our order. The tables, which are fixed to the floor, are covered with chipped formica, and each table has salt and pepper shakers, bottles of vinegar and red and brown squeezy bottles for the different types of ketchup. Everything feels very slightly sticky, which is not a pleasant sensation. It has the air of a place that might have been loved once, but has been neglected for a long time.
