Page 8 of Barging In
“Oh, I bet,” Clem said, remembering the weight of Gruncle’s vinyl collection that Gram had once asked her to move. “I’d best get going,” she added, glancing at the time and taking her last sip of cider. “I need to find somewhere to turn around.”
There hadn’t been a chance to look at her canal app for the nearest amenities, but her dad had assured her everything she needed was within easy reach.
“There’s a winding hole about half a mile up where you can turn,” Max said, standing. “And a pump-out station, too, plus water. You can use the bins for your trade waste. The marina where I stay is just beyond it.”
She handed his glass back. “Great. See you tomorrow then, and thanks for the cider.”
“You’re welcome,” Max said, ambling off.
Clem jumped back on board to finish cleaning, knowing it would need doing after dinner and again after her evening bake. By the time she’d completed her final wipe-down, getting ready for the morning’s bake, it would be late, and so would begin her new routine. Her former nine-to-five, well-paid job was beginning to feel like a breeze.
CHAPTER 3
Victoria Hargreaves crossed the driveway to her racing-green Jaguar E-Type but stopped just short of it. Taking a deep breath, she shoved her car keys into her handbag and set off down the lane on foot instead. She needed fresh air, and the walk to work might help her organise her thoughts.
Crossing the bridge over the canal, she briefly glanced back at the rear of her three-storey late Victorian house, smiling as she always did when taking in the building and its surroundings. A raft of ducks quacked on the water below, vanishing under the bridge and reappearing on the other side as she joined the towpath. They followed alongside her until a sharp-eyed swan sent them scrambling to the opposite bank.
The air was silent, broken only by the occasional quack and chatter of the birds in the hedgerows. It was a stark contrast to the endless whir of traffic, sirens, and horns she’d just endured in London. The city was a pigeon-ridden maze of overpriced coffee, nauseating pollution, and deluded tourists mistaking the sewage-filled Thamesfor something scenic. She’d be happy never to return. Having tied up loose ends and finished off her long-term projects, she hoped she wouldn’t need to.
Although the team at the wharf weren’t expecting her until the start of the following week, Monday was four days away, and she was eager to get started. Sitting idly by had never been her style, and even with the serenity of the house tempting her to linger, the pull to grab the bull by the horns and get the business on the right footing was too strong to ignore.
She couldn’t help but wonder whether the business would be in such a precarious position if she hadn’t split her time between two jobs in the first place. Would it be in better shape today had she committed fully from the start? The thought tightened her chest. What more could she do now that she was full-time? She was an architect, not a businesswoman. Was she fooling herself by pretending otherwise?
She tossed her head back; there was no time for such worries. Her husband, Drew, was threatening to pull the plug on the wharf if she couldn’t turn things around by the end of the summer in just a few months. If he did that, she would lose everything. The wharf. Her future. Even the house she’d painstakingly restored. All of it would be sold off. Worst of all, she’d have to return to their ghastly London penthouse. To him.
Admittedly, it had been a slow winter, but everything stalled during the colder months. That wasn’t a fair measure of success. The business hadn’t quite finished its first year; it was far too soon to judge its popularity or long-term potential.
As she rounded the final bend, Otterford Wharf came into view, sending a warm shiver down her spine. She’d only been away a week, but she had missed it. To some, itwas a cluster of old stones, but to her, it was so much more. When a place called to your heart, it didn’t matter how long you were apart; it was the fact you had been that tugged at your insides and squeezed, only easing the moment you were reunited.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day the wharf had come into her life — when a bit of research into her ancestry revealed that her three-times-great-grandfather once owned a corset factory. Curious to see if the building still existed, she and Drew had driven out one weekend. To her amazement, not only was the factory still standing, but it was also for sale, though in dire need of saving.
Drew was immediately excited by the profit that might come from converting it into luxury apartments, but Victoria felt something deeper. She saw a tourist attraction that celebrated heritage while allowing her to pay homage to her corsetry roots. When she shared her vision — and the fact that she wanted to run it as such in the future — Drew was less than pleased. She was the best architect in his company, especially with historical projects, and he was reluctant to completely lose her.
Passing the row of narrowboat traders, she noticed a long queue near the bridge, something she’d never seen here before. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she prayed they were a crowd heading to the wharf. The sensation quickly waned as she noticed the queue was for a garish orange narrowboat moored next to the bridge.
Whatever the trader was offering, people were willing to wait for it. As she neared the bridge, she noticed a sign facing onto the path. Clem’s Coffee & Cakes was advertising itself to all her customers on their way into the wharf.
Victoria could feel her lips pull in tight.The damn cheek.
Taking a deep breath, she convinced herself the queuewas a one-off. The narrowboat’s owners were likely passing by and had moored here for the day. She crossed the bridge, letting the familiar sense of calm wash over her as it always did when she entered the wharf. Even on bad days, just being onsite grounded her. It gave her a sense of belonging, a connection to something tangible yet intangible — her past.
The nineteenth-century factory stood with a quiet industrial grandeur. Its weathered stone façade, softened by time, rose five storeys from the canal and stretched back in an L shape. Victoria would never tire of its towering beauty. Knowing she had played a pivotal role in bringing it back to life filled her with a sense of pride. Every decision she had made, every challenge she’d overcome, had helped restore it to its former splendour.
The large windows had deteriorated beyond salvaging, so she had replaced them with new Crittall-style steel frames. Multi-paned, double-glazed, and powder-coated in black, they contrasted well with the bright, freshly cleaned stonework. Their gridded design preserved the industrial charm while adding a modern sense of luxury to the apartments within.
Cobbles tested the strength of her ankles as she left the bridge and entered the site through a stone archway on the right side. She passed an undeveloped outbuilding to her right. It was a space on the property’s grounds that she hadn’t yet decided what to do with, not that she had the funds to do anything whatsoever. Drew had been clear he wasn’t giving her anything more for such projects until she was making money from her endeavour. She used to dream the outbuilding would be converted into small units and house boutique shops; now it seemed destined to sit empty.
The outbuilding extended perpendicular to the canal,meeting a stone boundary wall at the far end of the site. The wall then ran parallel to the water, stretching towards the main factory on the far left to form an enclosed courtyard. An opening in the centre of the stone wall allowed vehicle access from the road for staff.
She crossed the courtyard, passing a dominating stone fountain in the centre. Water spurted from the top, cascading down into a circular basin below. Passing half a dozen wooden picnic benches, she slipped inside the building, entering the reception area, which also served as a small museum shop. With a nod to Rachel at the reception desk, Victoria glanced through the museum’s glass doors to her right. Much to her delight, people were milling about inside.
Turning left, she entered an open-plan café. She was particularly proud of the L-shaped space, which sat on the corner of the building, facing the water. Industrial lighting hung from the high ceilings, and exposed stone walls contrasted with the wooden floor and steel support beams. Brown leather sofas, wooden tables, and metal chairs created a warm, modern aesthetic.
Only a few customers were scattered around the spacious room; their low murmur of conversation mingled with the scent of coffee. It was a place she’d once envisioned filled with lively chatter and the sound of clinking cups. Now it felt empty and unloved. What could she do to fill the space?
As she crossed the floor, sunlight poured onto it through large windows at the far end of the room. They offered sweeping views over the canal from the adjacent tables — another of her ideas. She smiled at Emma, an employee who was currently clearing tables. She was young and relatively inexperienced but pleasant and hardworking; Victoria had high hopes for her.
Following the room around to the left, she traced the line of windows and exited through the door in the far wall into the wharf’s staff-only area. It contained a staffroom and several offices, the largest being hers. She had chosen that part of the building specifically for the view of the canal and the bridge. It allowed her to monitor movement along the towpath and into the wharf from her office window — something she did a little too often.
