Daisy pulls a face, sucking her lips right up under her nose. “Fifty per cent deposit by the eighteenth of July for materials.”
I want to swear, curse, rue my life, but I have no words. Fifty per cent deposit is close to twenty thousand pounds. Over double what I have in the bank.
Daisy must sense the distress in my silence. “What if we leave it until twenty-seven?”
“We can’t.” It’s been on the agenda for so long now. It leaks when it rains, it has black mould, and practically a metropolis of mice calling it home. Thatched roofs are supposed to be replaced every twenty to thirty years with some minor ongoing maintenance, but the records show the last time my pub had a new roof was in 1990. Plus, it’s a listed building, and there are certain regulations I need to adhere to in order to keep my license. “It has to be this August. I’ll call the bank again.” See if their answer to another mortgage extension is still a firm no.
“How much money are you getting from Mathias? He’s staying, isn’t he?”
I scrub my hand down my face. I hate that this has become Daisy’s problem too. “Yes, he’s staying, at least until the end of his contract with the Cents. He pays fifteen hundred a month, but then you gotta take into account property tax and agent fees, so were looking at about seven grand, maybe less, for the six months. Minus the money we already spent on new carpets and doing it up. So five grand, probably.”
“Fuck!” Daisy says, and I don’t reprimand her for swearing.
“Right,” I sigh.
We’re quiet for a few moments while we think over money problems, only I know neither of us is actually thinking. I’ve had a few years to come up with a solution, and aside from renting out my own fucking home, I’ve drawn a blank.
“I’ll speak to Lan. Maybe his dad can—”
“No, Daze.”
“Mathias, then. He’s got loads—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Daisy, I said no. I’m not a fucking charity.”
She slumps in her chair and puffs out her breath like she used to when she was fourteen, but she doesn’t bring it up again.
I cannot accept gifts of that magnitude, and I can’t owe any friends that kind of cash. Not that Lando’s father is a friend, but he’s definitely the type of person you don’t want to be borrowing money from. Especially if you’ll struggle to pay it back. Pretty sure that man has . . . connections.
“Whilst you’re in this super happy mood . . .” Daisy says, her face expressionless. “Can I finish at eight tonight?”
“Why?” I’m trying not to be grumpy. I’m really,reallytrying.
“I have a date.”
“How old is she?”
“Says the forty-five-year-old man shagging the twenty-nine-year-old,” she snipes back.
I feel my blood pressure spike. “That’s different. You’re eighteen. Age gaps are bigger when one of you is still that young.”
“Chill, she’s twenty. And it’s not really a date. It’s more like what you have with Mathias Jones.”
I hold my hands up. “Spare me the details, please and thank you.”
This manages to get a laugh out of her. She places her hands in front of her, palms together as though she’s praying. “So can Ipleeeeeease?Lando said he’ll cover my shift.”
“Fuck that. That kid drinks more in booze than I’ll save by not paying him. I’ll ask Mathias to emcee again.”
“Exactly. You can pay Matty in other ways,” she says, and immediately jumps out of her seat, knowing she’s taken it too far.
“Daisy May Bosley, go wash that mouth out,” I yell. “What are you even looking at on this laptop anyway?”
Daisy reaches out a hand to stop me, but it’s too late. I’ve already swivelled the screen around to see a spreadsheet . . . columns of figures that look like costs and projected revenue. The searing burn in my oesophagus returns.
