Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart

Chapter Twenty-Eight

PERRY

James has been quiet over the last couple of days, since I told him about the bungalow. He’s been kind of flat, and closed off — at least when I’ve seen him. Whatever’s up with his work, it’s keeping him there until well into the evening.

Yesterday and the day before, I left a note to say his dinner was on the hob, ready to be dished up, and I guess tonight will be the same. Maybe I should stay up, wait for him to get home, pour him a glass of wine and sit with him whilst he eats. It’s a nice thought, until I realise it sounds too housewifey, or husbandy, if there are such words. It’s still a nice thought, though, or at least for me, but I’m not sure how comfortable James would be with it.

I’m working from home today. In fact, everybody is. Elliot’s having the office repainted, and as it’s Friday the place should be sparkling and pristine and completely stink free come Monday. It also gives me the opportunity, and privacy, to phone my parents to update them — and to call in the promise they’ve always made to me.

“Mum, it’s me.”

“Darling, how lovely to hear from you. Just a moment, let me find a quiet spot. One of our regulars is celebrating a birthday.”

Laughter and music travel down the phone line, from the bar my parents own in southern Spain.

“That’s better,” she says, her voice taking on the sing-song tone it always does when she’s had a couple or so drinks. “So, tell me all your exciting news. Still lodging with your friend?”

“Yes.” She knows about my split with Grant, but only the barest bones, and that I’m now staying with a friend. “But I really need to get myself sorted out with my own place, and now’s the time to make moves on starting up my own business. It’s why I want to talk to you.”

“So, you’ve not phoned to chat and catch up? Or to say you’re coming out to see us?” I can hear the pout.

“Mum…”

“Only kidding, darling. But it would be lovely to see you. What about Christmas or for New Year? We could do with some extra help at those times.” She laughs, but I know my mum well enough to know she’s not joking.

“I need to check with work.” Which isn’t a lie. “Mum, I need to—”

A sudden burst of drunken laughter, and my mum’s muffled voice as she calls out something stops me in my tracks, and I’m starting to think now isn’t the best of times to bring up the subject of the financial help she and my dad have always promised.

“Sorry about that. Now, where were we?”

I take a deep breath. Asking for a big injection of cash is harder than I thought it’d be. I clear my throat and leap in, rattling on about the bungalow, about Brighton, about making the move out of London, about the cake making business. I’m so wrapped up in telling her all my plans, I don’t notice she’s not said a word until I run out of steam and come to a stop. The silence on the other end of the line is almost deafening.

“Darling, do you really think there’s a living to be made in making cakes? It could be a nice sideline, a paid hobby if you like—”

“Yes, Mum, I do.” I hope she hasn’t heard the snap in my voice, because I sure as hell have. But I’ve spoken to her about my ambitions in the past. They may well have been vague and not detailed enough — okay, they were very vague — but not now. “I know exactly what I want to do. I’m focused. I’ve been over the figures. I know the detail.” I smile because I know I’m pushing the buzz words, the ones she’ll want to hear, but the truth is I am. At least as far as the business is concerned.

“I’m sure you’ve done all your homework,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Because you always were a good boy and still are.”

I swallow the sigh, and decide not to remind her I’m a man in his mid-twenties.

“Mum, you and Dad have always said you’d help me out financially. Combined with the inheritance from Granddad—”

“Ah, yes.”

Silence fills the airways, so hard and heavy it’s all but crushing my lungs. It’s like I’m trying to breathe though a pin hole.

“What do you mean, ah, yes?”

My grip on my mobile tightens. A creeping, itchy tingle crawls over my skin about what exactly that ah, yes means.

“Your father and I, we’ve expanded the business. We had to act fast, no time to dither. Another two bars. And a restaurant, specialising in traditional British pub grub. Expats, they’re big spenders and they’re very keen on a taste of home. We’ve got the grand opening for one of the bars, and the restaurant, just before Christmas. The other bar’s been delayed, until the spring. It’s all go, go, go here, plus it’s all taken a lot of money, one way or another…”

I stop listening. The promises they’ve always made have disappeared like smoke on the breeze.

“… five thousand at the very most, but it would need to be a loan rather than a gift, although there wouldn’t be any interest payable, of course. You do understand, don’t you darling? We’ve sunk everything we have into the businesses. I’m so sorry, I know it’s not what you were expecting to hear. The bars, the restaurant, they represent our pension. I admire your ambition, it’s something we’ve always tried to instil in you, but cake making—” I bristle at the way quotation marks seem to wrap themselves around the words.

“It made Granddad a good living. You know, your own dad. All the extra dosh he earned from it paid for your riding lessons and ski trips when you were a teenager. And your first car. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”

“Perry…”

I close my eyes, willing myself to hold back my anger. “I’m sorry,” I say through gritted teeth, although I’m honestly not sure I am.

“You’re upset, of course you are. Why don’t you come out here, work with me and Dad if you want a change? We’d obviously pay you something,” she adds, but it’s an afterthought.

“I’m not upset, I’m disappointed. But if you can’t help me, then you can’t. Thanks, Mum, thanks for… Well, nothing.”

“Excuse me?”

Her voice is sharp, with no sign of the sing-song tone. She’s affronted, but I don’t care. I can’t help but wonder if I’d gone to her with a plan for something else other than cake making whether her response would have been different. But I haven’t and I won’t be.

“You’ve always said you’d back me, with encouragement and practical help. But now you aren’t.”

“Perry, we’re not a cash cow, you know. And haven’t I explained, about the bars—”

“What?” I jump up from the table and stride around the room as anger burns through my blood. “Are you accusing me of trying to somehow ponce off you? I’ve never, ever, asked you for anything, and I wouldn’t have asked you for this if you and Dad hadn’t always made a big thing about wanting to help me out when the time was right, when I found something I really wanted to do—”

“Perry, just—”

“I’m sorry you can’t help me, and accept that you can’t, but do you know what I’m more sorry about? It’s the broken promises.”

Silence stretches out. I sag against the sink, and my shoulders slump as the flare of my anger dies to nothing more than barely warm embers.

“I’ll speak to your dad, see what we can—”

“No. Thank you, but no. I’ll make alternative arrangements.” More loans, more debt. “Good luck with the bars and restaurant. And no, before you ask, I won’t be coming out to stay over Christmas and New Year, so you’ll just have to pay for the extra help you need.”

* * *

I’ve got no option but to jettison any idea of help from my parents. It stings, it really does. It’s not just the help they always said they’d give me won’t now be coming my way, but the lack of faith in what I want to do — which is pretty rich given they’ve gone into the hospitality business with no background whatsoever, although I suppose catering to a crowd of sunburnt expats who dream of egg and chips and a Sunday roast is a good money spinner.

I want to be angry, I think I have a right to be angry, but all I can feel is let down. But I won’t be knocked down. I’ve got the money Granddad left me, and it’s not insubstantial. It’ll be a healthy deposit, but I’m going to have to see about increasing the mortgage… All this is going through my head, and I open up my Operation Perry file, and pull up the spreadsheet I’ve set up, making changes to my projected costs.

Tight, it’s all going to be very tight, even with the wiggle room I’ve worked in. I go through the figures again. Yep, it’s official. I’m going to be living on Pot Noodle for years to come.

Yawning, I rub my eyes before I push my fingers through my hair, scratching my nails over my scalp. My frantic scratching slows, then stops.

The idea settles on my shoulder, and whispers in my ear.

Maybe I could ask…?

No. There’s no way I can do that.

I am not asking James to help me out. Whether he would or not, I have no idea, but the thought that he might think, if only fleetingly, that I see him as some kind of cash cow, as my mother so succinctly put it, makes my stomach shrink.

No, I’m on my own with this. Whether I sink or swim, it’s all down to me. I close down the spreadsheet and attempt to put aside this new turn along the road I’ve called Operation Perry, and get back to organising Elliot’s diary.