‘That would be good, thanks.’ I gave her a grateful smile, opened the box file and pulled out the pages of neatly typed figures. Just seeing the columns of assets and liabilities, income and expenditure calmed me. I picked up a red pen and scanned the first page - FoodWrapped’s balance sheet for the previous financial year.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ Sam said. ‘And I’m at the end of the phone if you need me.’
I nodded and returned to the accounts, hoping I could forget about everything but work for a couple of hours.
At first glance, everything appeared in order. The balance sheet was healthy, and the business was in great shape, although one fixed asset stood out. Our old warehouse on an industrial estate in Littlebourne was still standing empty and unsold, despite being on the market for over a year. I jotted a note beside it as a reminder to speak to the estate agent to see if we should lower the asking price.
I moved onto the profit-and-loss statement. Whereas the balance sheet gave a snapshot of FoodWrapped’s financials at a specific point in time, the profit-and-loss statement recorded performance throughout the financial year. Again, the numbers looked good. The revenue for the previous twelve months was as I’d projected - £1.8m, ten percent up on the last twelve months. A winter marketing push had paid dividends.
I ran through the cost of sales, frowning as I noticed our raw material spend was almost £30,000 higher than the previous year. Even allowing for inflation, it was a substantial increase. I circled the figure and scribbled a question mark beside it. My finger traced the next column of figures - rent, utilities and salaries. Then the depreciation column. No hidden nasties.
In need of caffeine, I pushed the accounts to one side and filled the kettle. As it boiled, I stretched my back and massaged the knots in my left shoulder. The muscles always spasmed when I was stressed. Usually a sports massage did the trick, but I’d have to make do with ibuprofen today. I checked in the drawer where we kept all the medicines, finding everything from bottles of Calpol to antihistamine tablets, but no anti-inflammatories. Swearing under my breath, I gave my shoulder another rub, and carried my coffee over to the island.
I rifled through the paperwork, curious to see why our raw material spend was so much higher than usual.
We used local organic producers for our ingredients wherever we could, and I knew most of them personally. Once again, my finger trailed down the column of figures. One producer caught my eye. Blackberry Organics. It was a name I didn’t recognise, yet we’d paid them £18,000 in the last month. I reached for my mobile and dialled the office.
Sheila answered after two rings with a polite, ‘Good morning. FoodWrapped. How may I help?’
‘Sheila, it’s Cleo. I’m going through the figures. Does the name Blackberry Organics mean anything to you?’
There was a pause, and I heard a rustle of paper. ‘Isn’t that the new company Bill was raving about? I’m sure he mentioned it at the last board meeting. They’re our new meat and fish suppliers.’
‘So why are we still paying RP?’
‘I expect there’s an overlap. Bill will know. He’s in with the accountant at the moment, but I can interrupt them if you like?’
‘No, don’t do that. Ask him to ring me the minute he’s out.’
‘Of course. Any news on Immy?’
I took a deep breath. ‘No, no news. Listen, I have to go. I’ll catch up with you later.’ I ended the call and massaged the bridge of my nose. Bill and I each had defined roles in the business, focusing on our strengths. I looked after recipes, marketing and human resources while Bill dealt with the financials and suppliers. It was true he’d been moaning about the service we’d been getting from our long-term supplier, RP Produce, for a while and I remembered him mentioning that he’d found a new supplier. But I’d been so busy working on our winter menu plans and dealing with a couple of tricky staffing issues, I’d paid little attention.
I pushed the paperwork to one side. The accounts could wait. Meanwhile, my shoulder was killing me. Wondering if I had some painkillers in my bedside drawer, I dragged myself upstairs.
Our bed was still unmade, and I plumped the pillows and straightened the duvet before I opened my bedside drawer and searched for a blister pack of Nurofen among the old birthday cards, bookmarks and half-empty tubes of hand cream. Nothing. I crossed to Stuart’s side of the bed. He suffered periodically from sciatica, for which he had prescription anti-inflammatories. A couple of them should do the trick.
Stuart’s bedside drawer was stuffed full of tangled chargers and earphones, drawings by the children, a couple of frayed handkerchiefs and, inexplicably, a pencil sharpener. I dug deeper, unearthing the Valentine’s card I’d given him the year we’d got together, an opened packet of Polos and a pair of nail clippers. Deeper still, I found a nasal spray, some earplugs and one half of a pair of cufflinks. And then I spied a corner of blue foil poking out of an old copy of The Ecologist. I pulled the magazine out and shook it over the bed. Three foil wrappers fell out. Three azure blue wrappers with the distinctive Durex logo on the side.
I sat down on the bed with a thump. Condoms in the drawer of Stuart’s bedside cabinet. The bedside cabinet we’d bought when we’d moved to Stour House two years ago. My mind was whirling with questions, the biggest of which was this: Why would my husband need condoms when I’d had a hysterectomy six years ago?
Chapter Ten
CORFU
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
The scorching heat hit me the minute I stepped off the plane onto the single runway at Corfu Airport. The heat and
