Put Necker Island on Hold

However, I can’t think of worse ways to spend a Monday than looking through accounts; poorly performing accounts.

‘With this heatwave and the downturn in bookings, we’re not achieving our cash-flow targets,’ explains Charlie. ‘We need to cut costs somehow.’

Customers still aren’t booking the big overseas trips and we’re only taking initial deposits for the Mercury Travel Club weekends, so finances are quite tight at the moment.

‘What are the options?’ I ask.

Charlie starts counting them out but runs out of ideas by the fourth finger.

‘We could cut trading hours, let Josie go, take pay cuts or ask customers to pay the full balance up front.’

We both know that three of the options will send panic amongst the customers and no one will book a holiday with a company they think is in trouble. I wonder how many times Charlie has been in this situation on his own and we haven’t known about it; being the boss is tougher than it looks. I suggest the action I imagine he’s taken before.

‘I guess we have to shoulder the pay cuts ourselves, until things get better,’ I say.

‘Can you manage on less?’ asks Charlie.

I have no idea but I know from reading the autobiographies of successful entrepreneurs that many go through hard times. I’m so busy romanticising this and thinking how good conquering a downturn will sound in my top businesswoman acceptance speech, I don’t even think of the implications when I say, ‘I’ll find a way Charlie, how much less?’

‘How about we only take the minimum until autumn?’ he suggests.

I’m nodding while my mental calculator whirrs away; if the house sale goes through as planned, I’ll be OK. I won’t be able to buy anywhere else yet but I wasn’t ready to put down roots anyway.

The most important thing is to hold our heads up high and act as if everything is going brilliantly; people are attracted to success. I need our local paper to run another feature on how well we’re doing, but they’re reluctant as they’ve only just done one. I have to give them something new.

‘Patty,’ I project as if she’s miles away, not at the end of the phone, ‘how do you fancy being the centre of attention?’

‘Ha, ha very funny,’ she replies.

My idea is to tell the Chronicle about her astounding success: ‘From Karaoke to Cruise Ship’; how a night out with the girls led to sharing the stage with a host of 1980s icons. They’d be able to feature pictures of the stars and mention that tickets are available from us. It’s worth a try and she’s up for it so agrees to call the editor as I’ve pestered him too much recently.

Ed calls. ‘Hi there,’ he says, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you.’

‘Not if you’re about to make lots of bookings for The Chapter,’ I say.

He laughs so my cheerful veneer must be effective.

‘Perhaps when this heatwave dies down. Right now we’re making the most of the rare UK sunshine.’

Same as everyone else then – damn.

‘I just wondered if you fancied getting some food after work?’ he continues.

My entourage would warn me this is far too close to date territory, but I need cheering up and if I’m on minimum wage, I need someone else to start paying for my food.

‘I’d love to,’ I tell him.

We meet up for the early bird menu so both the time and the restaurant declares that we’re just friends out for a meal rather than on a date. I’m slightly disappointed by this but it doesn’t surprise me that Ed would want to take it slowly.

It’s a warm and homely Italian place: not so child friendly that we can’t hear ourselves chat over screaming crayon-wielders but not so couple-y that we’re embarrassed by everyone except us holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.

Alan and I used to play a game in restaurants; we’d eye up each couple and make up back stories for them.

‘They met line-dancing; it was love at first sight and they haven’t let go of each other’s hands for six weeks. They even go to the loo together,’ we said of one particularly nauseating couple.

‘He met her at uni when they were both wild but now she’s in corporate law and she chooses all his clothes for him. It’ll be over by the end of the year.’ Then we watched a real power-dresser straightening the lapels of her hangdog companion.

We found it quite entertaining and one night we watched a family having a blazing row in sign language. I’ve never seen such emotion silently expressed; it must be fantastic to be able to do that. Her parents obviously didn’t like her boyfriend that’s for sure.

I tell Ed about the game and he smiles.

‘My ex and I used to play Punching Above Their Weight. We’d pick the most unlikely couple in the room and decide which one had won the lottery when it came to other halves.’

‘Oh Lord,’ I say, ‘if everyone plays these games, it means someone is probably checking us out right now.’

‘They’d definitely say that I’d won the lottery,’ says Ed.

I groan at the cheesiness but am secretly pleased and in danger of blushing; I’m extremely grateful when the bruschetta arrives.

It’s the first time he’s mentioned an ex and I decide to make polite enquiries as casually as I can.

‘So how did it end – with your ex?’ I ask.

‘I guess she decided she was punching above her weight. What about you?’

‘Ditto,’ I add.

So we’ve managed to get through that part with the minimum level of knowledge being offered or acquired by either of us. Men certainly don’t talk the way women do.

Plates are cleared and pasta arrives, mine heaving with a creamy sauce. Although everyone thinks they can make a carbonara at home, there is NOTHING that beats this dish in a good Italian restaurant.

There is apparently a scientifically proven fact that the right combination of fat in a food can send signals to your brain cells and simulate an orgasm. This is true (you can google it), I have not made it up; it’s why you become addicted to chocolate. I have a vision of a science lab where hundreds of women are sitting with stainless steel colanders on their heads. They’re attached to a pleasure-measuring machine with jump leads and a scientist is feeding them pasta and cake. I wonder how I sign up for such experiments.

Enough fantasising. I tell you the Italians knew this way before anyone else and every mouthful of this sensational dish makes me want to break out into groans of delight. I restrain myself but the unadulterated joy must show on my face.

‘It looks as if you’re enjoying that. Do you cook?’ asks Ed.

Coitus interruptus.

‘No – in fact it’s a running joke in my family. Let me show you something.’

I get out my phone and show him the pictures of the bake-off rehearsal.

‘What is it?’ A perfectly understandable question.

‘They’re cakes,’ I declare pointing out the baked goods amongst the rest of the paraphernalia.

‘My daughter is entering the Great Bake-Off competition so we were having a run-through.’

I explain the competition and the idea behind my creations. His glazed expression suggests that he’s either deeply interested, deep in thought or deeply bored.

‘Anyway, enough of my culinary disasters, shall we share the tiramisu?’ I ask.

‘A woman who offers out her dessert; what parallel universe have I been transported to?’

‘Don’t worry it’ll only happen this once. The sharing that is, not the date.’

Damn. I’ve called it a date.

‘Glad to hear it,’ he smiles, and picks up the second spoon.