Free Perfect Blend: A Novel by Sue Margolis

stars, C-list TV presenters, soccer players, and their wannabe model actress wives—all of them in urgent need of bricks, cement, and mock Grecian pillars for their new McMansions. The word on the new gated developments was that Walker’s was the place to go. Phil was earning several times what he would have made as a social worker, and by then he and Val had a huge mortgage. (For some reason, maybe because even then she saw it as a potential bolt-hole, Val refused to sell the Clapham cottage.) It was too late to follow his dream. He was never going to “make a difference.” He relieved his guilt by giving up a Saturday morning once a month to rattle a collecting box in the High Street. It wasn’t much, but by then things were so busy at work, he was putting in twelve-hour days. It was the best he could do.
    “Hello-Walker’s-Chantelle-speakin’-how-may-I-help-hew?” Another ditzy, singsong temp on reception.
    “Oh, hi, this is Amy, Mr. Walker’s daughter. Is my dad there?”
    “Can I ask with what it’s in connection with?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Can I ask with what it’s in connection with?”
    “I’m his daughter, Amy. That’s the connection.”
    “Oh-right-I-see. Bear with me. Trying to connect you.” Cue “Greensleeves.” “Sorree, Mr. Walker isn’t at his desk at present. Can I be of help to yourself?”
    Suddenly Phil came on the line. “Hello?”
    “Oh, you are there. It’s me, Ames. Nothing important. I was just ringing for a chat and to see how you are.”
    “I’m fine. Really good. Listen, sweetheart, it’s sweet of you to phone, but I haven’t got time to talk. I’m on my way out and I’m running late for an important meeting. I’ll speak to you later. Love you.”
    The phone went dead. That was odd. Her dad never had meetings. His accountant came twice a year to go over the books, and that was about it. She’d temped at Walker’s often enough during her university vacations to know that his day involved e-mailing or phoning suppliers. When he wasn’t doing that, he was dealing with builders who came in; ordered fifty kilos of cement or bricks; trashed the Prime Minister, the state of the economy, or the latest Russian oligarch to acquire a newspaper or soccer team; paid cash; and left. Where could he possibly be going? Still, he sounded remarkably chipper. That made a change.
    Tesco was just off the main drag, opposite the Tube station. A few doors down was the old Odeon cinema, its elegant geometric Art Deco facade faded and flaking. Having been closed for years, the building was being redeveloped. It was covered in scaffolding, which butted out onto the pavement. This meant that pedestrians were forced into a narrow covered walkway in the road. As Amy stopped to let through a woman pushing a twin buggy, she noticed a sign attached to the scaffolding. It was the familiar brown and cream coffee bean logo that caught her eye. BEAN MACHINE COMING SOON, the sign read. What? This was the first she’d heard of it, and she was certain Brian knew nothing about it. He would be up in arms if he did.
    Amy wasn’t just shocked. She was mystified. Everybody knew that the old Odeon building was being developed as office space. The town council had sent the plans to all the local businesspeople and invited them to raise objections. As far as she knew, there had been none and the plans had been approved. This had happened months ago. Contracts would have been signed with the office developers. How on earth had Bean Machine been able to claim the space? Amy could only assume that the original developers had pulled out, leaving Bean Machine free to march in and make the council a financial offer it couldn’t refuse.
    However it had come about, the imminent arrival of Bean Machine was the worst possible news. Amy was no doom-monger, but there was a recession on. Café Mozart was doing okay because the coffee and food were so good. But it wasn’t cheap. She had no idea how the café would