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families camped out around cool boxes and shell tents. By the time he’d reached the bar his thin hair was damp with sweat.
‘Mrs Shaw? Norfolk Coastal District Council.’ He offered her a photo ID in a see-through wallet. ‘Daniel Richmond.’
‘It’s Braithwaite, not Shaw. The name’s over the door.’ She nodded back towards the bar and the small brass plate over the lintel which held those magic words: ‘licensed to sell’ …
Fumbling with his briefcase he spilt the contents out on the sand. ‘Sorry – of course. My mistake.’
And what a revealing mistake, thought Lena. The council had clearly decided she was the wife of DI Peter Shaw, rather than Lena Braithwaite, licensee of The Old Beach Café, Hunstanton – aka Surf! , north Norfolk’s newest beach hotspot. She couldn’t work out if that was good news or bad news. Now that the government had removed magistrates from the licensing process, the local town hall was judge and jury on her opening hours.
‘I’m making coffee, or tea?’ She considered offering a glass of white wine but there was something of the petty bureaucrat about Richmond which held her back.
The clock on the veranda read 11.32 a.m., so they were open to sell alcohol, and Leo D’Asti, Lena’s business partner, was behind the bar. A chef and two trainee cooks were already preparing sandwiches and salads. Fran – the Shaws’ daughter – was on a day trip to London with friends, so the pace was professional, a note of commercial tension in the brisk activity. The supermoon party had boosted takings by a clear £2,300 – cashflow, not profits, but a triumph nonetheless. If Lena could come up with an event a week in the summer, the business model would be transformed from a 1950s tea-shack to something much more exciting: a template for a string of bar/restaurants perhaps, on some of the country’s finest beaches.
Over a pot of tea, they dealt swiftly with introductions. Richmond was Assistant Licensing Officer for the council, based in Hunstanton. They’d received an application to allow Surf! to sell alcohol over the bank holiday weekend, three days, from 10.30 a.m. to 11.30 p.m.
‘Quite a place …’ said Richmond, trying not to look at two women sauntering by, topless. Surf! was a clear country mile from the family beaches at Hunstanton, and the atmosphere was cosmopolitan, more Chelsea-on-Sea than kiss-me-quick. Lena’s chin came up, proud of what she’d created, letting her eyes flit over the twenty picnic tables, already crowded with customers crumbling saffron cake, or pouring Nicaraguan blend from glass cafetières. One couple, in their mid-thirties, had a wine cooler between them, the stem of a bottle of Prosecco studded with drops of condensation.
Yes, quite a place. It was certainly a very different place from the one they’d bought seven years earlier. That first day Shaw had led her along the beach, she’d seen it in the distance: The Old Beach Café – a wooden hut, with a stone cottage behind and the Old Boathouse – a slated shed, the roof held down by rocks strung in a net. All theirs for £80,000 freehold, with no road access, no mains power and a cesspit back in the dunes. Now, a thirty-foot wind turbine turned languidly in the breeze, each blade painted a different poster-box colour. (Fran’s idea – to mimic the sandcastle windmills.) The Boathouse, converted to a shop, now sold everything from Hunstanton key rings at sixty-five pence to para-kites at £4,000.
She caught it then, the sudden malicious glint in Richmond’s dull eyes. Now that he’d recovered his composure, Lena could see he was late-twenties, his card had listed initials after his name: BA, MBA. It occurred to her she’d underestimated him, and that she needed to concentrate. Staying in business was about identifying risks. Suddenly she saw Richmond for what he was: a bundle of sticky red tape waiting to unfurl.
‘We’re minded to recommend to the licensing committee
‘Mrs Shaw? Norfolk Coastal District Council.’ He offered her a photo ID in a see-through wallet. ‘Daniel Richmond.’
‘It’s Braithwaite, not Shaw. The name’s over the door.’ She nodded back towards the bar and the small brass plate over the lintel which held those magic words: ‘licensed to sell’ …
Fumbling with his briefcase he spilt the contents out on the sand. ‘Sorry – of course. My mistake.’
And what a revealing mistake, thought Lena. The council had clearly decided she was the wife of DI Peter Shaw, rather than Lena Braithwaite, licensee of The Old Beach Café, Hunstanton – aka Surf! , north Norfolk’s newest beach hotspot. She couldn’t work out if that was good news or bad news. Now that the government had removed magistrates from the licensing process, the local town hall was judge and jury on her opening hours.
‘I’m making coffee, or tea?’ She considered offering a glass of white wine but there was something of the petty bureaucrat about Richmond which held her back.
The clock on the veranda read 11.32 a.m., so they were open to sell alcohol, and Leo D’Asti, Lena’s business partner, was behind the bar. A chef and two trainee cooks were already preparing sandwiches and salads. Fran – the Shaws’ daughter – was on a day trip to London with friends, so the pace was professional, a note of commercial tension in the brisk activity. The supermoon party had boosted takings by a clear £2,300 – cashflow, not profits, but a triumph nonetheless. If Lena could come up with an event a week in the summer, the business model would be transformed from a 1950s tea-shack to something much more exciting: a template for a string of bar/restaurants perhaps, on some of the country’s finest beaches.
Over a pot of tea, they dealt swiftly with introductions. Richmond was Assistant Licensing Officer for the council, based in Hunstanton. They’d received an application to allow Surf! to sell alcohol over the bank holiday weekend, three days, from 10.30 a.m. to 11.30 p.m.
‘Quite a place …’ said Richmond, trying not to look at two women sauntering by, topless. Surf! was a clear country mile from the family beaches at Hunstanton, and the atmosphere was cosmopolitan, more Chelsea-on-Sea than kiss-me-quick. Lena’s chin came up, proud of what she’d created, letting her eyes flit over the twenty picnic tables, already crowded with customers crumbling saffron cake, or pouring Nicaraguan blend from glass cafetières. One couple, in their mid-thirties, had a wine cooler between them, the stem of a bottle of Prosecco studded with drops of condensation.
Yes, quite a place. It was certainly a very different place from the one they’d bought seven years earlier. That first day Shaw had led her along the beach, she’d seen it in the distance: The Old Beach Café – a wooden hut, with a stone cottage behind and the Old Boathouse – a slated shed, the roof held down by rocks strung in a net. All theirs for £80,000 freehold, with no road access, no mains power and a cesspit back in the dunes. Now, a thirty-foot wind turbine turned languidly in the breeze, each blade painted a different poster-box colour. (Fran’s idea – to mimic the sandcastle windmills.) The Boathouse, converted to a shop, now sold everything from Hunstanton key rings at sixty-five pence to para-kites at £4,000.
She caught it then, the sudden malicious glint in Richmond’s dull eyes. Now that he’d recovered his composure, Lena could see he was late-twenties, his card had listed initials after his name: BA, MBA. It occurred to her she’d underestimated him, and that she needed to concentrate. Staying in business was about identifying risks. Suddenly she saw Richmond for what he was: a bundle of sticky red tape waiting to unfurl.
‘We’re minded to recommend to the licensing committee
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