Tea in the Library (32 page)

When the shop had been open about one year, it was pretty clear that profits were a long a way off. It was becoming harder to “keep my nerve”.

On one front, most people to whom I looked for advice were gently
—
and in some cases insistently
—
recommending that I close sooner rather than later. Dale, who had helped so much in the early stages, could see the writing on the wall. He suggested that I stop paying him. Keith, whom we had consulted for his views, strongly urged a quick attempt to sell Tea In The Library as an operating business, and if that couldn't be done, to dismantle as soon as possible. So I was in the position of paying consultants to give me an honest assessment, and then ignoring their advice.

At about this time, my personal financial advisor, John, who helped look after my business loan arrangements, financial planning and superannuation, took the unique step of joining forces with my accountant (also John), and the two of them called me in for a joint meeting. They were very earnest about it, but the shop had to go. Financially speaking, I couldn't sustain it much longer. I remember thinking that it was quite touching to see the two of them trying to look after me, to do their professional “duty” by me. To this day, I appreciate their concern very much,

But I didn't consider closing for one minute. Why? I was so caught up with the vision, and I so loved the reality of the shop and its books and events and customers, that I couldn't even envision giving up on it. The commitment was absolute. It's hard to abandon a dream
—
especially having come so close.

However, of course the money had to come from somewhere. Despite my total commitment to continuing, not a waking hour passed without my worrying about finances. My evenings and weekends were spent paying bills, authorising salaries, filling out staff superannuation documentation, looking through publishers' accounts statements and trying to understand the book buying and returning levels. I constantly monitored expenses as well as sales, and calculated and re-calculated margins on different aspects of the business. I tried to make the right calls on what should be spent, and what would be money well-spent, trying to recognise the right investments that would increase returns.

I was funding the on-going operation of the shop from my income from my “day job”. That income, while very good, was already fairly heavily committed to business loans related to the firm (as well as tax, the mortgage on my house, etc.) It was also somewhat sporadic in nature
—
that is, the income drawn down to the business owners varied from month to month, depending on how the firm's business had been doing, its expenses and income. The variation was generally around 20% at this time, but could be wider. There was no guarantee that the money would be there to cover the next shop rent bill. Usually it was, but there were no guarantees.

As you might imagine, this could make for a few stressful times. One occasion in particular is pretty much seared in my memory. It was the end of a quarter, so large loan repayments were due, tax was due, publishers' accounts were due, the shop rent was due. I was staying overnight at a hotel in Bondi Beach to attend
—
of all things
—
a Buddhist Festival. I was trying every strategy and drawing on every resource I knew to keep my head and relax. I meditated with the Buddhists. I listened to their teachings. I had a massage at the hotel spa. But the thing I recall most vividly is sitting up at night, listing the numbers and trying to believe that I could meet all my commitments. There was no way of telling for sure, as I did not know what quantum of income would come from the next of the firm's draws. I was certainly down to the wire, with no other source of finance to draw upon having by this stage re-mortgaged everything, and the risks I was taking, with both my own family's prosperity and the jobs of my staff, were starkly clear. It was a low moment. But it passed.

Many times on this journey I would remind myself that lots of small business owners, starting out as hopefully as I, mortgage their houses to fund the business, and if it “goes bust”, they lose their homes and perhaps their life savings. Because I hadn't taken that small step (or giant leap) of leaving my day job, I had kept the security of a “fall-back position”. But … if I
had
taken a full-time, hands-on approach, might the shop have survived? I maintained that I was 100% committed to Tea In The Library, but I hadn't quit my job to go for it, had I? That old demon certainly resurfaced at this time.

And speaking of the day job, the pressure was very certainly there to ensure that my role in the office was not neglected or compromised by my activities with the shop. I felt a very strong obligation to continue to do my job there as I always had: morally (I had business partners to whom I owed it to fulfill my commitments); legally (the firm was organized as a trust of which I was a trustee, with an obligation to work for the business); and
—
not least
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financially (I needed the money). I tended to characterise the shop as my “hobby” 
—
and indeed generally this was fairly accurate. Other professional people own and run small vineyards, or hobby farms, or a string of racehorses. The shop was just my particular indulgence.

However, as is apparent from the story, there were times when the shop demanded attention, particularly during the shopfit and set-up period. I always made a point of being open about the shop's existence with my business partners
—
sometimes dragging them down there to admire it (potential customers!) One or two of my partners who worked most closely with me were generous on backing me up in the office, especially during the opening phase. But I always felt obliged, correctly I'm sure, to make certain that my work was done efficiently and promptly, that my client service was not compromised, and that my charging levels for the firm were maintained. In fact, when the shop was about ten months old, one of my partners took two months' maternity leave and I backed up for her the whole of that time. My charging levels went through the roof. In short, I was working damned hard.

Another aspect that concerned me, beyond charging levels and getting the work done, was my commitment to the firm and the development of its business, promotion, involvement in management issues, and contributing fully. Was I pulling my weight in that regard? But this train of thought only led me to consider one of the many motivations for pursuing the café bookshop dream: dissatisfaction with the day job. At that time, I strongly felt that there were few opportunities within the firm to contribute beyond the day to day work itself, that my offers to get involved in other areas had been rejected by management, and that there were no opportunities for me to get out of my comfort zone, spread my wings, and learn new things. Tea In The Library certainly supplied all that! Indeed, I was usually wonderfully happy in the café bookshop adventure and thus more contented in the day to day work of the office. My world no longer ended at the office walls.

As to my clients, when I met them face to face at meetings or conferences where we shared coffee or lunch and small talk about our lives, I would tell them the story of Tea In The Library. Every one of them was interested and enthusiastic, and some of the most heartfelt support
—
and commiseration in the aftermath
—
came from my client friends, who still ask about the shop today.

In any event, despite my fairly constant worrying about these issues none of my twenty partners ever raised any concerns with me. As to what they thought of the mad scheme in private
—
who knows?!

In the end several factors came together to catalyze the demise of Tea In The Library. One was the resignation of Emma, following our second Christmas. She had family reasons for the decision, but she probably could see only an uncertain future anyway. Damien, the bookseller Emma had hired as her assistant, was willing to carry on while I decided whether to throw in the towel or recruit a replacement manager.

Despite the appalling sales figures, I was still hatching schemes to keep the shop afloat: down-grading the cafe menu, shorter hours, renegotiate the rent … the money was holding out (just). I could do it somehow! Then an unexpected blow fell. I was about to leave for a long-planned adventure holiday in Antarctica and Patagonia. This had been in the planning for around a year, and despite financial constraints I had worked to pay off the cost gradually over that time. The crisis of Emma's resignation had coincided with the departure date, but even that had not deterred me from going
—
I would think over the future of the shop while trekking in the Andes. The trip was very important to me, and I craved the opportunity to get away from the busyness of my life and see the mountains. At 5 pm, the night before I boarded the plane for Buenos Aires, and as I was clearing my desk in the office, the management of the firm decided to read the riot act. I had been taking too much time off. “People” (unspecified) didn't like my involvement with the shop
—
it “took me away from the firm”. Had I considered retiring? (I was 48!) Had I considered semi-retiring?

I was appalled. Here were all the issues I had gone over and over in my mind, and which I had convinced myself I had dealt with satisfactorily. I raised questions. I defended myself. I asked why no-one had mentioned a word about such concerns for a year and a half. But in the end I went away to think things over. I thought them over on a 20 hour journey to Argentina. I thought them over through two and a half days of hideous seasickness crossing the Drake Passage. I stopped thinking when the astounding ice of Antarctica surrounded me. Then I thought about it again during two more days of seasickness on the return journey, and on two weeks of 25 km per day treks in Patagonia, through sore feet and heat and dust and gale force winds and exhaustion. I imagined a variety of scenarios. Perhaps I should “retire” and take on the shop full-time as manager myself? I thought about that long and hard. But it was doing so badly by now that I couldn't see how it could go on without the support of the money coming in from the day job. Even I couldn't convince myself this was a good idea. If the ultimatum had come six months earlier! What decision would I have made then?

Finally, with an expensive and eagerly awaited holiday pretty much ruined, I dragged my heart into line with my head and decided to close. The straw had broken the camel's back.

Antarctica was a visual feast. Icy mountains so enormous that they made our ship seem just a speck. The thought that most of what I could see from the viewing deck
—
and the view went on forever
—
had never been trodden upon by human feet was astonishing. Skimming lightly over the two and half days of seasickness that I endured to reach the Antarctic Circle
—
trust me, you don't want to know
—
we arrived in a wonderland that I just don't have the words to adequately describe. Our ship was a Russian-crewed vessel that usually did duty as a scientific craft, but it was used for the tourists during the short Antarctic summer. It wasn't exactly a cruise liner, but it was comfortable and serviceable. In addition to the crew and staff, there were about 70 intrepid tourists. Each day we were offered the opportunity to climb down the side of the ship on a wobbly makeshift ladder arrangement to board inflatable “Zodiac” boats to buzz around in the iceberg-strewn water, or sometimes to go ashore to explore. Not being of a very nautical bent, I was a bit nervous of these arrangements, and didn't avail myself of every opportunity for a buzz in the Zodiacs. This was particularly fortunate on one occasion, when the sea ice in the Lemair Channel closed in surprisingly rapidly and caught several of the Zodiacs far from the mother ship. The expedition leader, “Dutch”, was in radio contact with the crew who were operating the tourist-filled inflatables, but all their strat-egizing was going nowhere, as the sea ice continued to expand and compact before our eyes. Dutch asked the Russian Captain to take the ship closer to the trapped Zodiacs, but “neit”
—
there were no charts of that bit of the Channel, and the Captain wouldn't risk the ship. I watched all this drama from the top viewing deck. In the end, a loose Zodiac was sent over to the area, and the tourists were carefully walked over the recently-formed ice floes, holding on to a rope, to the rescue craft. The crew then pulled the empty Zodiacs across the ice too, and eventually all arrived safely back on board. Apart from a few strained bladders
—
they were out there for hours 
—
no harm was done. After a few restorative Long Island Teas in the ship's bar, the adventure was soon transformed into a tale which seemed destined to warm the dinner tables back home in the US for many a long day.