Page 12 of Tribute Act

That was when I’d realised how much everything had been getting on top of Mum: Rosie, the business, Derek’s inability to stick to the new systems I’d put into place. So, on an impulse, I said I’d do it. Join the family business so Mum could cut her hours and spend more time with Rosie and stop worrying so much. I’d told myself that maybe I’d get the business on a good enough footing that my shares might actually be worth something one day.

My dad had been furious. He’d told me I was an idiot, squandering my inheritance, then giving up a well-paid City career to become “an ice cream man.” He was pissed-off at Mum for suggesting it to me in the first place and even more pissed-off at Derek for “not taking care of her” properly. And yeah, he was probably right, but like I’d told him at the time, I couldn’t help how I was wired. The bottom line was, I was a fixer. When people—my family especially—asked for help, I couldn’t say no. I was a doer. I made stuff that needed to get done happen. Right from being a kid, I’d done that. So of course, when Mum had come to me about the Dilly’s situation, I’d done what I always did.

I sorted it out.

When you were a fixer, people close to you got so they relied on you. It wasn’t really their fault that they got used to you stepping in all the time, and assumed that was going to always happen. But it made it hard when something came along that you couldn’t help with. Something you desperately wished beyond anything you could do for someone but you . . . couldn’t.

With the help of the coffee, I made good progress with the paperwork, blasting through everything in my pending file in five hours flat. All bills paid, all spreadsheets updated, all invoices and receipts and delivery notes checked and filed away, our nascent website updated and a bunch of emails sent out—two of them finalising details for meetings with local retailers. I’d been trying to arrange those meetings for a while, one with a big farm shop near Newport and one with Fletchers’ Delis, a chain of four delicatessens in the Southwest. My big dream was to get Dilly’s ice cream into the retail market. I planned to try selling through a few local places first, then, if we could get some traction with that, scale up manufacture before looking at pitching to a retailer with wider reach. Maybe even one of the smaller upscale supermarkets. It was a long-term project, but it was important to me, allowing me to keep my marketing and business skills current.

At the moment, Derek and I were locked in a battle over which three or four flavours to launch from the thirty-plus we offered at the café and how to package the product. Derek couldn’t seem to see that we needed to differentiate ourselves from our competition, and that generic-looking vanilla and strawberry ice cream in bog-standard cartons wasn’t going to cut it.

Since Derek and I couldn’t agree on anything, I’d come up with the idea of contacting a few local retailers. I figured we could ask for their expert advice and do a soft pitch at the same time—warm them up for taking some of our products once we were ready to go. Most people actually love giving out advice, provided you ask in the right way, so I’d thrown everything into my emails: a big dose of flattery, a slice of humble pie in the form of citing my youthful inexperience, and even a shameless celebrity pass—Our ice cream maker is my stepdad, Derek MacKenzie. He’s an incredibly talented pastry chef and a bit of a local celebrity. (Remember the old festive hit “Christmas Stocking”? Derek is better known as Dex, the lead singer of The Sandy Coves! He’s been known to burst into song over the ice cream machines . . .).

As I powered down the laptop, I called Derek to share the good news about the retailer meetings.

It was my little sister who answered.

“Hey,” Rosie said flatly. “What’s up?”

“Just calling for a chat. How’re you feeling today, Ro?”

“Like I always do—like shit. Do you want Mum?”

I was used to this now—her constant low-level anger and bitter resentment against the world and everyone in it—but I still found it hard to deal with. Before her illness, Rosie had been a bubbly kid. Maybe she’d have grown a bit grumpier anyway as she got further into her teens, but I felt it was mostly her illness making her so difficult. And really, who could blame her for being angry at the universe? Not me.

Patiently I said, “Is Derek there?”

“He’s down the pub with Eric watching the match.”

“Okay, put Mum on.”

She clattered the phone down, yelling for Mum.

Mum picked up a minute later. “Jonathan, love, are you coming for dinner? I’m making your favourite.”

Shepherd’s pie then. Shepherd’s pie hadn’t actually been my favourite meal since I was about twelve, but yeah, it was a more attractive option than cooking for myself tonight.

“Okay, great. I’ll come over now. I caught up on the books today, and I’ve got some stuff to talk to Derek about anyway. Fletchers’ Delis got back to me.”

“That’s good, you can tell us all your news when you get here.” She didn’t sound especially interested, but that was no surprise. She had other things on her mind these days what with Rosie being unwell.

I took a quick shower before I went over. There were still remnants of styling product in my hair from the night before, since I hadn’t washed my hair properly in the hotel last night. I shampooed it twice and left it to dry on its own, not bothering to restyle my quiff, leaving the light-brown strands to flop over my forehead.

As I brushed my teeth, I ran my hand over the bristle covering my chin and wondered for the millionth time if I should let a proper beard grow in. And with that stray thought, Mack from last night popped into my head. Not that he’d had a proper beard, but he’d had quite a few days’ worth of stubble.

I’d liked his whiskers, the rasp of them on my skin.

I’d liked them a lot.

And why was I wasting time thinking about a guy I’d never see again?

Shaking my head, I reached for my jacket and headed out.

Mum and Derek’s house wasn’t far from my flat, just a ten minute walk away in one of those tasteful new-build estates. Four bedrooms, en suite, integral garage, that sort of thing. Not my cup of tea—I preferred Dad’s traditional cottage a few miles up the coast—but Mum loved it.

As I walked over there, I thought about Rosie and how depressed and angry she’d sounded on the phone. I understood why—the poor kid was dealing with stuff no one her age should have to deal with—but it was difficult to know how to respond. We were all a lot more careful around her now, though somehow that only seemed to annoy her more.

Sometimes I wondered if she had a problem with me in particular. Because . . . well, because I couldn’t help her. She was used to leaning on me, used to me being the one in the family who fixed stuff, but now, for the first time in her life, I couldn’t give her the one thing she really needed.