The Cafe Books

It's ten past eleven at night and I'm sitting at table four with a calculator, a beer, and every invoice from the last six weeks spread out like a losing hand of cards. The cafe has been open for seven months. I'm going to say that again because I still can't quite believe it. Seven months. A corner unit on a high street in Bristol with eleven tables, a coffee machine I love more than some relatives, and a queue on Saturday mornings that goes out the door. People like it. People tell me they like it. The reviews are good. Yesterday a woman said it was her favourite place in the city and I nearly hugged her. And I can't pay the rent on Friday. That's what I've worked out tonight. That's what the invoices say. Not that the cafe's losing money, because it isn't, not on paper. On paper we're doing fine. On paper the month is profitable. But the rent's due Friday, and the wages went out Tuesday, and the big supplier invoice for the beans is due Monday, and the card machine money from this week doesn't land until next Wednesday, and in the actual bank account, the real one, there is four hundred and twelve pounds. Dara, who does my accounts, tried to tell me this in March. She used the word cashflow and I nodded the way you nod at a dentist. "Profit's a story," she said. "Cash is a fact." I thought that was a nice line. I didn't think it was a warning. What's happened is I've been busy in the way that feels like winning. Busy, busy, busy, so busy I bought a second grinder in June because the queue was slow, so busy I took on Kez three days a week because I couldn't cope, so busy I said yes to the Sunday market stall because it seemed like free money. And every one of those was right. Every one of those made the cafe better. And every one of those moved money out before the money came in. I go through it again. I've got three thousand in cards landing Wednesday. I've got the rent Friday at two eight hundred. I've got Monday's beans at nine hundred. Wages again Tuesday.

If I pay the rent Friday, I can't pay the beans Monday. If I don't pay the beans, I can't make the coffee, and if I can't make the coffee, Wednesday's card money isn't three thousand. I text Dara. It's ten past eleven. She texts back in four minutes, which tells me she's been waiting for this. "Ring the landlord tomorrow. Ask for the 15th. They'd rather have you late than empty. Ring the bean people and ask for 30 days. They'll say yes, everybody asks. Then we set up a proper cashflow forecast this weekend and you never do this again." I read it three times. "Also," she adds, "stop buying grinders." Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to ring them both at nine. I'm going to say the words I've been terrified of saying, which are "could I have a bit more time", and I'm going to find out that the world doesn't end. Then Saturday, after the rush, Dara's coming in and we're doing a spreadsheet. Twelve weeks out. Every payment in, every payment out, with dates. Not profit. Cash. When it actually moves. And I'm going to keep it on the wall in the back. Next to the rota. Where I have to look at it every time I get a coffee. The beer's finished. The invoices are in a pile now, at least. Table four has a wobble I keep meaning to fix. Four hundred and twelve pounds. Seven months. Favourite place in the city. Right. Bed.