Page 50 of Tribute Act
“I showed them all the designs,” I said. “They liked the contemporary ones.”
Derek’s brows knotted. “What? But they’re all wrong. Who wants to buy tiny little cartons of ice cream like that?”
I was usually pretty even-tempered, but that got to me. Derek was quite happy to leave the business to me when it came to running the café or doing the books. But this? This he wanted to be in charge of? When marketing was what I did?
Biting back the desire to tell him to fuck off, I said calmly, “The point of the meeting was to get the benefit of the Fletchers’ retail expertise. They sell luxury produce, day in day out. They know what their customers want and they said that—”
“Yes, but you can’t just think about the one or two dozen people popping into the local deli!” Derek interrupted. “If we want to take this nationwide, we need to appeal to the masses.”
I huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Derek, we’re not bloody Wall’s! We can’t compete with mass-market products. We want to aim for a smaller luxury market—”
“No, you want to aim for that. I don’t,” Derek snapped.
“Derek!” Mum said sharply.
“What?” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “This is my business, if you remember, Lorraine.”
I opened my mouth to point out that it wasn’t, not anymore, but before I could say a word, Mack beat me to it.
“Christ, you’re ungrateful!” he exclaimed, his Scottish accent more pronounced than I’d ever heard it. He glared at his father, lip curling. “Nathan does everything around here. Everything. And it’s obvious he started way before Rosie got ill. He sorts out the work rotas and makes sure all the shifts are covered. When he can’t cover a shift, he does it himself on top of all his own shifts. He does all the paperwork. He gets all the supplies in. He banks all the takings and pays all the bills. And this retail thing was all his idea. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. His.” He gave a huff of disgust. “And you. What do you do? Spend a few hours a day on your own, making ice cream. That’s it. That’s your contribution. And you think that entitles you to make every decision?”
“I started this business up,” Derek said hotly, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. “I think that entitles me to some say about what happens round here.”
“Yeah, you’re good at starting things off,” Mack sneered. “Not got much appetite for putting in the hard graft over the long run though, have you?”
Derek went white. He looked at Mum, as though for support, but her expression was uncharacteristically stony.
“Jonathan bailed us out,” she said in a low, furious tone. “His inheritance stopped us losing the house. And then he gave up his job to come and help us sort out the mess. Our mess, Derek, not his!”
Derek swallowed. “I gave him half the shares in the company,” he muttered, gaze shifting away.
“Exactly. He’s an equal owner! And you know he was being generous only taking half the shares after what he sunk into the place. We were this close to liquidation!” She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart, trembling with anger. “And Dylan’s right about him doing the lion’s share of the work. I worry about him, he does so much.” She glanced at me then, her expression anxious. “I’m not much help either these days, and I’m so sorry, love.”
My throat was tight with sudden emotion. I shook my head at her. “It’s okay, Mum,” I said hoarsely. “I know things have been hard lately.”
“Lorraine’s right,” Derek said. I glanced at him, but he was addressing Mack, his gaze bleak, his voice thick with self-loathing. “And so are you—about me dropping out when stuff gets tough. I dropped out of being a musician and a business owner, and worst of all, I dropped out of being a father. The truth is, I’m a fuckup, Dylan. A failure. I don’t even know why you—”
“No, Dad!” Rosie scrambled up from her chair and ran to him. “You’re not a failure—you’re not!” She burst into noisy tears, her arms tight round Derek’s waist while he looked down at her, his expression pained.
“Rosie, I can’t— Oh, shit, don’t cry, poppet, please . . .”
Mum went over to them, her angry expression morphing into one of pained concern as she put her arms round Rosie and met Derek’s worried gaze over my sister’s head.
I glanced at Mack, sitting next to me on the sofa. He looked sad and lost and strangely helpless. Like he didn’t know what to do now.
“Do you want to leave?” I said in a low voice.
He nodded, his relief obvious.
“Come on then,” I said, standing up.
“Jonathan, love, wait,” Mum said. “Just for a minute. We should talk about—”
“Another time, Mum,” I said, steering Mack to the door.
“But Derek needs to—”
“We can talk about it later,” I said firmly. Her gaze shifted between me and Mack, and I thought I saw some kind of understanding in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded and let us go.