CHAPTER
30
Joey had crunched numbers and rearranged spreadsheets and pulled up every bank statement and credit card statement he owned, but no matter which way he looked at it, he wasn’t going to meet next month’s interest payment to the bank.
He’d rung the realtor and asked how the last open inspection had gone on his Bondi flat.
‘Eight couples came through,’ she said. ‘And Kim and Mark were back for another inspection. The rental period on our display furniture is up for renewal next week. You’ll have to cough up five grand if you want to hire it for another six weeks.’
Yay. Another five grand he didn’t have.
He pulled up the last remaining crumbs of his share portfolio. If he sold out now he’d be making a loss and that would hurt, but—
His phone rang, an unknown caller, and he tucked it between shoulder and ear so he could open his share trading account on his laptop.
‘Is that Wirraway Farmstay?’ said a deep voice.
‘Sure is. Joe Miles speaking, how can I help?’
‘We were wondering if you had any availability for four nights from tomorrow. The wife and I are on an impromptu trip and we stumbled across your website.’
‘Er,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, let me see.’
Tomorrow!Bloody hell. If he’d known people were looking at the website already, he’d have been a little less trigger happy with theBook Nowbuttons he’d coded into the cottage pages. Was he ready?
And shoot, Kirsty was living in the Station Cottage, which was the closest to being ready … not that moving her stuff would take much work. He could shift her swag to the main house, run the mower over the honeymoon paddock. There’d be time to fluff the pillows, grab some clean towels and—oh, crap—had he said breakfast was included on the website? He’d need a muffin recipe, more bacon, a juicer—
He took a breath. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? Paying guests. Four nights of income plus the last of his shares sold off might be enough to keep Alicia Pickard off his case. He’d already worked out if he had all three cottages booked out two nights a week, he’d make his interest payments every month. Four nights a week, and he’d have the renovation materials that were currently clogging up his credit card paid down by the new year.
Income that didn’t disappear when the stock market dropped its bundle.
‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ he said. It wasn’t reckless if you’d calculated the risk. Which he had, endlessly. ‘Check in is from two o’clock.’ Which gave him exactly twenty-seven and a half hours to turn himself into the bloke version of Maggie Beer.
‘How easy is it to find the farm? Is there a sign at the gate we should look out for?’
He grinned. Okay, that was the one thing he did have sorted. ‘When you see a bright red milk can covered in painted flowers on Shannon Gully Road, that’s the turn up to the farm. You can’t miss it.’
First things first: he needed his dad. But should he call him?
‘Patty,’ he said into the phone when his mum picked up. ‘Kitchen emergency. I’m hoping for Dad’s advice, but I don’t want to wear him out.’
‘What’s up?’
‘The farmstay just took its first booking. They’ll be here tomorrow, and they’ll be expecting breakfast and a batch of muffins.’
His mother’s whoop nearly eviscerated his ear drum. ‘Robbo? Joey needs us. Drop everything.’
‘No, Mum, I don’t need you to—’
Too late. He could hear her talking ten to the dozen about the merits of plum and coconut crumble versus Bangadoon bee honey and pecan. Thankfully the phone must have changed hands, because the deep, unflappable calm of Robbo Miles was talking in his ear next.
‘You want me to whip you up a batch, son?’
‘Can you do it at my place? With me watching and taking notes?’
‘Sure. We’ll be right over.’
‘What ingredients do you need? I’ve got some chores on the go, but I could head into town.’ Except he was babysitting Amy, who, he’d just realised, had been ominously absent for quite some time.