“So now you consider yourself to be a grocer, do you?”
“Certainly not. I’m a plain fruit and vegetable man, and always will be.”
“I wonder if that’s what you’ll tell the girls when you own the whole block.”
“That could take some time yet. So how’s the balance sheet shaping up for the new shops?”
“They’re both in the books to show a loss during their first year.”
“But they could still make a profit, certainly break even.” Charlie’s voice rose in protest. “And the grocer’s shop is set to—”
“Not so loud. I want Mr. Hadlow and his colleagues at the bank to discover that we’ve done far better than we originally predicted.”
“You’re an evil woman, Rebecca Salmon, that’s no mistake.”
“You won’t be saying that, Charlie Trumper, when you need me to go begging for your next loan.”
“If you’re so clever, then explain to me why I can’t get hold of the bookshop,” said Charlie, pointing across the road at Number 141, where a single light was the only proof the building was still inhabited. “The place hasn’t seen a customer in weeks from what I can tell, and even when they do it’s only because someone had gone in to find directions back to Brompton Road.”
“I’ve no idea,” said Becky, laughing. “I’ve already had a long chat with Mr. Sneddles about buying the premises, but he just wasn’t interested. You see, since his wife died, running the shop has become the only reason for him to carry on.”
“But carry on doing what?” asked Charlie. “Dusting old books and stacking up ancient manuscripts?”
“He’s happy just to sit around and read William Blake and his beloved war poets. As long as he sells a couple of books every month he’s quite content to keep the shop open. Not everyone wants to be a millionaire, you know—as Daphne never stops reminding me.”
“Possibly. So why not offer Mr. Sneddles one hundred and fifty guineas for the freehold, then charge him a rent of say ten guineas a year? That way it’ll automatically fall into our hands the moment he dies.”
“You’re a hard man to please, Charlie Trumper, but if that’s what you want, I’ll give it a try.”
“That is what I want, Rebecca Salmon, so get on with it.”
“I’ll do my best, although it may have slipped your notice that I’m about to have a baby while also trying to sit a bachelor’s degree.”
“That combination doesn’t sound quite right to me. However, I still may need you to pull off another coup.”
“Another coup?”
“Fothergill’s.”
“The corner shop.”
“No less,” said Charlie. “And you know how I feel about corner shops, Miss Salmon.”
“I certainly do, Mr. Trumper. I am also aware that you know nothing about the fine art business, let alone being an auctioneer.”
“Not a lot, I admit,” said Charlie. “But after a couple of visits to Bond Street where I watched how they earn a living at Sotheby’s, followed by a short walk down the road to St. James’s to study their only real rivals, Christie’s, I came to the conclusion that we might eventually be able to put that art degree of yours to some use.”
Becky raised her eyebrows. “I can’t wait to learn what you have planned for the rest of my life.”
“Once you’ve finished that degree of yours,” continued Charlie, ignoring the comment, “I want you to apply for a job at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, I don’t mind which, where you can spend three to five years learning everything they’re up to. The moment you consider that you’re good and ready to leave, you could then poach anyone you felt was worth employing and return to run Number 1 Chelsea Terrace and open up a genuine rival to those two establishments.”
“I’m still listening, Charlie Trumper.”
“You see, Rebecca Salmon, you’ve got your father’s business acumen. I hope you like that word. Combine that with the one thing you’ve always loved and also have a natural talent for, how can you fail?”
“Thank you for the compliment, but may I, while we’re on the subject, ask where Mr. Fothergill fits into your master plan?”
“He doesn’t.”