Free Perfect Blend: A Novel by Sue Margolis Page B

on, Amy, get real. There’s a recession on. People are only interested in the bottom line.” He rubbed his hand over his chin. “God … and it’s opposite the Tube. We’ll lose all our early-morning trade. That’s it. It’s over. I may as well sell out now. Bloody hell, I’m going under, just like my parents did.”
    “Brian, you are not your parents. Believe it or not, going bankrupt is not genetically inherited. Look, I admit things don’t look great, but you have to stop panicking. Something will work out. Why don’t you phone the council and check if you have the right to appeal?”
    The next moment he was back on his mobile, dialing information to get the number of the council’s planning department. While he waited to be connected, he disappeared into the kitchen. Five minutes later he was back.
    “They said that everybody has been informed that the ground floor of the old cinema is being given over to Bean Machine. I never got the letter. Not that it matters because the council’s position is that even in a small neighborhood like this, there is enough trade to go around.” He paused. “So … short of Bean Machine pulling out of this deal, we are stuffed.”
    “Nonsense,” Zelma declared. “You mustn’t even think of giving up. I mean, what would have happened if the hemorrhoid people had stopped at Preparation G?”
    “Or … or … Chanel had stopped at No. 4?” Amy added.
    Brian wasn’t about to be jollied along. He looked as if he might burst into tears. “God would never let me be successful. He’d kill me first. He’d never let me be happy.”
    “That sounds vaguely familiar,” Amy said. “It’s a famous quote, isn’t it? Who said it? I bet it was Nietzsche or one of those other miserablist philosophers.”
    “Nope. George Costanza.”

Chapter 3
    MICHELANGELO WAS SUFFERING from wet bottom. Amy had spotted his soggy rear last week and taken him to the vet. He had prescribed antibiotics, but they weren’t working. Michelangelo’s condition was getting worse. A few moments ago, when she went into Charlie’s room to check on him, the hamster “in a half shell” was lying curled up in a ball, barely moving. Amy had read up on wet bottom. Left untreated or if antibiotics were ineffective, it was pretty much fatal. There was no hope. In a few days Michelangelo would be a goner.
    She decided to transfer the cage to her bedroom. She didn’t want Charlie waking up one morning to find Michelangelo stiff as a board. As she walked down the hall, she wondered how to break the news that his ninja hamster was at death’s door. He’d asked her a few months ago what “dying” meant, and she’d told him what her mother had told her when she was little—that dying happened to very old or sick people and it meant they went to a special place called heaven to be looked after by God. Of course, then he asked her who God was. “Oh … kay … well … God is good and kind and looks after all the people and creatures on the earth.”
    “You mean like Mr. Incredible?”
    “Yeah … a bit like Mr. Incredible.”
    Charlie had finished his supper—in the end they’d had take-out pizza—and was sitting at the kitchen table drawing, his crayons spilled out in front of him. In an effort to assuage her guilt—this was their second takeout in less than a week—Amy brought the fruit bowl over and offered him a nectarine
    Charlie shook his head. “Bucket!”
    Bucket was their code name for sweets. It had started last Christmas. One of Val’s more modest presents to Charlie had been a load of mini chocolate bars that came in a small plastic bucket.
    “Listen,” Amy said, “you threw up last night because you ate too many sweets. You had pizza for supper. Your body needs a rest from junk. Now, how about I slice you up a pear and a banana?”
    “K.” He wasn’t pleased, but he didn’t try to argue.
    She went to fetch a plate and a knife. When she came back, she sat down at