Читать книгу Meet Me at the Lighthouse: This summer’s best laugh-out-loud romantic comedy - Mary Baker Jayne - Страница 11

“Don’t be nervous.” The kind-faced receptionist who manned the front desk at Cragport Town Hall smiled encouragingly.

Ross was clutching a folder of notes against his chest, moving his lips silently, while I tried to distract myself with an old Elle I’d found. We’d been there half an hour, waiting to make a pitch to the town council for funding to get the lighthouse cleaned up.

“That obvious, is it?” I said to the receptionist.

She nodded at the magazine on my lap. “Well you’ve been staring at that feature on what to wear to hide a lopsided bosom for 15 minutes.” She lowered her voice. “Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. Those pompous old duffers are desperate to see something done about the lighthouse. You’ve got the winning hand here.”

Ross looked doubtful. “You really think? We’re asking for a hell of a lot.”

“Absolutely. Stand your ground, that’s all. The chairman can be a bit of a bully.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “Let’s just hope we catch him in a good mood.”

“I don’t think he has good moods. Sorry.”

Ten minutes later, I was still staring at on-trend summer looks for the wonky-titted fashionista when some sort of pager on the receptionist’s desk buzzed. She looked up from her book to examine it.

“You’re up,” she said, jerking her head towards the ornate wooden doors leading to the council chambers. “They want you in the meeting.”

The councillors – ten of them, all in suits, all men and with an average age of at least 60 – were seated in a horseshoe around a large table. The only one I recognised was Alex Partington, the youngest councillor. He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him.

No chairs had been provided for me and Ross, who huddled together on the carpet as if we were being tried for murder. The bony, leather-skinned man with the watery eyes who was chairing the meeting – Councillor Langford, he’d introduced himself as – had us fixed in a stern gaze.

“So. Mr Mason and Miss Hannigan: welcome,” he said without smiling. His flat-toned voice echoed off the chamber’s oak panels, and I could tell that good moods were out. “Let’s make a start, shall we?”

Councillor Langford put on a pair of reading glasses and looked down at the document in front of him. “I see you’re asking for £60,000 to have the town lighthouse cleaned and repaired.” He glanced up at us from over the rim of his glasses, not lifting his head. “Now. That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, squirming under his unsympathetic gaze. “The place is in quite a state, as you can see from the photographs. But we’re not asking for money towards maintenance; the project we have in mind will be self-funding. And we’ve already been approved by the Coastal Heritage Fund for a £70,000 grant that’ll partially cover repairs.”

“It’s a lot of money,” the man repeated, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Public money. We see a lot of projects here, Miss Hannigan. Just this month we’ve considered bids from the Cragport Clean Beaches Association to have the beach huts weatherproofed and another from the Women’s Institute to repair the Edwardian bandstand in the park. What makes you think we should choose your lighthouse over competing bids?”

“Well…”

I faltered. This was harder than I’d expected. Despite the nerves that had hit me before coming in, I’d been quietly confident the council were so desperate to see the place done up that they’d cough up a grant with ne’r a grumble. And now this demon-headmastery old bastard seemed determined to give us a hard time before he rolled over.

“The lighthouse is over 100 years old.” Ross jumped to my rescue with something from the notes we were both supposed to have memorised. “It’s a historic icon of the town, one of the first things visitors notice. We want the emblem of Cragport to be something we’re proud of, don’t we, gents? Not a broken-down wreck.”

That hit a nerve. The chairman kept his face fixed, but I noticed a few nods around the table.

“So can you tell us why you decided to launch this project?” Langford asked, once again ignoring the point raised. He shot Ross a pointed look. “I believe the lighthouse has been in your family some years, Mr Mason, with no attempt made before to tackle the state of decay it had fallen into – in spite of our frequent requests.”

I could see Ross was trying to keep up a polite, detached expression, but his hand clenched at the reference to the council’s persecution of poor Charlie.

“I’ve just moved back to the area,” he said with forced calm. “The lighthouse was my uncle’s property, as you all know, and he’s too elderly now to keep up with repairs. The deeds were only signed over to us in April.”

“A month ago. Have you done any work since then?”

“No. We only got approval for our Coastal Heritage grant last week. Plus, of course, we wanted to wait until we’d seen all of you.”

“And this young lady is your… business partner, is it?” Langford said, examining me with lip curled.

“Yes, and an old friend.”

“So you have some expertise in this area, do you, dear?” Langford asked me with that patronising air we ladies just bask in.

“What, renovating lighthouses?” I gave a nervous laugh. “Not exactly. Well, who does? But I’ve got experience setting up projects like this one. My mum – Janine Hannigan, some of you know her – started the Cragport youth club a few years back.”

“And you were instrumental in that, were you?”

“Not exactly instrumental. I helped a bit.” I noticed Langford eyeing me with a barely concealed sneer. “A lot,” I corrected, meeting his gaze. “I was involved with all the planning, start to finish. I can show you the paperwork if you need me to prove it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Langford shuffled his documents, taking his time; an obvious power-play that I had to admit was bloody effective. Out of the corner of my eye I could see beads of sweat standing out on Ross’s face, and felt sympathy prickles on my own forehead.

“I notice you haven’t answered my question,” Langford said at last. “Why did you decide to commence this, frankly, bizarre-sounding project – this music thing?”

God, he had to ask. We could hardly confess it had been a drunken plan fuelled by tequila slammers and snogging.

Ross recovered before I did. “It’s been a long-held dream of mine, to open a performance space for young people,” he said, his voice carefully formal. “I’m a musician myself, and I know from experience how hard it is for kids in this community to find the support they need. But I’d never considered the lighthouse. It was Roberta who convinced me it could work.” He flashed me a little smile. “She’s got a talent for spotting potential in things others don’t see.”

“This could put us on the map,” I said to Langford, sensing the tourism angle might be the way to win them round. “How many seaside towns have got their own music venue inside a lighthouse? Cragport could have something nowhere else in the country – the world, maybe – has got.”

I thought that was a pretty strong argument, but if Langford was impressed he didn’t show it. He was sneering again, not bothering to hide it now. “Right. And this madcap plan you concocted over, what, a couple of beers in the pub is something you think the two of you, with next to no experience, can pull off?”

In the pub … shit, he only bloody knew, didn’t he? We should have realised the ever-restless town tongue-waggers would’ve been at work. Well, that was it then. He’d clearly made up his mind against us. Unless we could win round the other grave, silent men at the table, it looked like it was game, set and fucked to Councillor Langford.

Alex had been trying to catch my eye all the time we’d been talking, and so far I’d done pretty well ignoring him. I’d spent a week mentally preparing myself for seeing him, knowing full well I needed to stay calm and professional if we were to have any shot at the funding. But he finally managed to arrest my gaze, flashing me a warm smile before he turned to face his chairman.

“Sorry, Arthur, I have to take issue with you. I think you’re being rather harsh.” Alex patted the paperwork in front of him. “No matter where the idea came from, Bobbie and Ross have come to us with a solid, well-researched plan. That alone should deserve applause from us rather than censure, whatever our ultimate decision.” He caught my eye again, but I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead. If he thought that little intervention was enough to earn him a place in my good books, he could think again.

“I agree,” another man joined in. “I think this music venue idea is capital, something the whole community can benefit from. Vital as it is to our economy, I’ve long argued this council needs to think less about tourism and more about the people resident here all year round.”

“They already have a sizeable grant from the Coastal Heritage Fund,” Alex said. “If that body were willing to put their faith in this project, I see no reason we shouldn’t be.”

There was a rhubarb-rhubarb murmur around the table, but whether it represented assent or disagreement I couldn’t tell.

“Questions from the council at the end, gentlemen,” Langford said, not taking his eyes off me and Ross.

“My granddaughter’s in a band, they’re very good,” the second councillor went on, ignoring his chairman and speaking directly to us. “This sounds like it could be just the thing for her. She’s always saying how hard it is to find anywhere to practise.”

Alex nodded. “Very true, Bill. I’m sure lots of young people would benefit from somewhere to rehearse without disturbing people. It’s about time the council started encouraging creativity instead of punishing it.”

“Questions at the end,” Langford repeated firmly, turning to frown at Alex. “Due process, please, Councillor. Keep to your agenda.”

“Yes. Sorry, Arthur.” Alex looked down at his papers, but I saw him flash me a smile as the chairman gave his attention back to us.

“I repeat,” Langford said. “What makes the two of you believe you can pull off this little scheme?”

Ross glared at him. “We’re perfectly capable, thank you, Arthur – er, Councillor. We’ve got drive, energy and incentive: the rest of it we’ll learn as we go. Anyway, it seems to me you don’t have much of an alternative, do you?”

“There is one alternative, one your uncle always stubbornly refused to countenance,” Langford said, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant half-smile. “You could sell the lighthouse to us. The two of you would get a tidy payout each and the lighthouse would get the future it deserves.”

“Future? What future?”

“A visitor centre, like lighthouses the country over. Pay a pound to see the view from the top, get a sandwich and a cuppa in a little tearoom at the bottom. It’s a relic and it ought to be preserved, not filled with feral adolescents doing God knows what damage.”

Ross looked angry now. “It bloody well isn’t a relic. It deserves better than that. It’s …” He paused.

“It should be alive,” I chimed in. “Not just a pretty thing to be kept in bubblewrap. It was someone’s home, once. It’s saved lives –”

Langford scoffed. “You’re too sentimental, my dear. It’s a building, not a pet. A historic building, which should be admired as just that. Not used as a –” he paused, fumbling for the word – “a damn … speakeasy.”

“Performance space.” I crossed my arms. “And you can’t just buy us off. We won’t sell and that’s that.” I turned to Ross. “Will we?”

Ross crossed his arms too. “Abso-bloody-lutely we won’t. If Uncle Charlie wouldn’t sell to these people, there’s no way I’m going to.”

Langford smiled, a nasty ear-to-ear Grinch smirk, as he prepared to play his trump card. “We thought you might say that.” He paused. “£70,000.”

“You must be…” I trailed off. “Wait, what?”

“£70,000. That’s the figure this council has agreed upon as a fair offer. Not the full value, of course, but a neat little sum each, and far more straightforward than trying to sell on the private market with the lighthouse in its current state. Plus you’d have the pleasure of knowing you’ve done your civic duty by returning it to the town – finally.” He shot a loaded look Ross’s way. “One nod and the pair of you walk away with £35,000 each to do as you like with. No one in this room will think any less of you, I assure you.”

I turned to Ross. “It’s a lot of money,” I muttered in a low voice.

“It is, isn’t it?” he muttered back. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yep.”

“Can I do it?”

“Be my guest.”

“If the two of you would like to take a moment to discuss it –” the chairman began.

“No thanks, we’ve said all we need.” Ross glared at Langford. “So. If you’re willing to put up that kind of public money, that tells us you can easily afford the 60 grand we’re asking for, can’t you?”

“That’s not really how the funding works –” Langford said, but Ross cut him off.

“We’re not stupid, Councillor. We thought you might have some sort of offer for us, and we can see it for what it is: desperation. Well, listen carefully.” Ross leaned forward, enunciating his next five words with great deliberation. “We’re not going to sell. Not to you, not to anyone, not under any circumstances. And you know you can’t force us to, not legally. I’m not an old man you can harass with dodgy threats to sue.”

“And if we up our offer?”

“Sorry, Arthur.” Ross shot him a wry smile. “No deal.”

Langford narrowed his watery eyes, mask cracking to reveal some real anger simmering below the sternly calm surface. He was evidently a man used to getting his way.

“Fine. I had hoped you might be persuaded to put the town first, but clearly not. And please be aware, Mr Mason, that this council does not respond well to being held to ransom.” He turned to face his colleagues. “Now then, gentlemen. Any questions for these two –” he hesitated a fraction of a beat – “people before we vote?”

The other councillors’ questions were far more reasonable than any Langford had asked us. Alex asked about our Coastal Heritage grant and our other ally, Bill, made some helpful suggestions on potential funding sources for the rest of the renovation work. Another man wanted to know how child protection would be managed when the band performing contained minors, and an elderly councillor in a monogrammed blazer, who was very sweet and looked like he must’ve been elected some time during the reign of Queen Victoria, asked if we’d be having any brass bands on.

Luckily we’d done our homework and I didn’t think we did a bad job answering. Once Ross had been through our plans – the balconies and speakers we wanted to install, the workshops and open-mic nights for under-21s he was planning, all with his trademark energy and enthusiasm – I could see some of the stern expressions beginning to thaw.

“Right, are we done?” Langford asked the others when we’d answered all the questions. There was a hum of assent.

“In that case, would the two of you leave the room please?” he said to us.

“What?” Ross looked suspicious. “Why?”

“The council will need to discuss your case privately and take a vote on the allocation of funds.” He managed a joyless, tight-lipped smile. “All above board, I assure you, Mr Mason; it’s how these things are always done. We’ll call you back in when we’ve reached a decision.”

“Er, right. Ok.” Ross moved hesitantly to the door, me following. Before going out, he turned to face the council again. “Look… just quickly, before we go. You’ve got your bits of paper there with the details of what we want to do, and I’m sure you know your jobs. But I can promise you, there’s no one in this room the lighthouse means more to than me and Bobbie. And we won’t sell, not at any price – but we will work, hard, to make this thing happen. So if you want to get your precious lighthouse back to its glory days then it seems to me you’ve got no choice. You can allocate the funds or you can watch it rot. Your call, gentlemen.”

And with that parting shot, he left the room.

“Oooh. That was bloody good,” I breathed when we got back to reception, looking up at Ross admiringly. “Langford was all like, ‘It’s our lighthouse, mwahahaha! Sell it or you won’t get a penny, mwahahahahaha!’ and you were all like, ‘It’s my way or the highway so you can all go swivel, you bunch of knobs. BAM!’” I punched the air enthusiastically.

“That is literally exactly what I said.”

“Well, how’d it go?” the friendly receptionist asked when we’d wandered over to throw ourselves into a couple of the high-backed green Chesterfields in the waiting area.

“Awful,” I groaned.

“Arthur Langford?”

“Yeah. God, what a nightmare.” I shook my head. “You poor woman.”

“He doesn’t scare me. I’ve worked here long enough to know he’s all bluster and no trousers.” She flung me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. The others’ll let him talk just to test your mettle, but he won’t influence them if they think he’s being unfair. As long as you made a strong case they’ll be on your side.”

I turned to Ross, who was leaning on his palms looking worried. “Did we make a strong case?”

“Dunno. I can’t remember a word except me telling them all to fuck off at the end there.” He groaned faintly, pushing his fingers into his hair.

“You didn’t tell them to fuck off. You said something super manly and dignified, like ‘so go suck on them apples, gentlemen’, then flounced out. It was proper sexy.”

“Oh. Great. As long as me buggering everything up for us turns you on.”

The receptionist jumped as the pager on her desk buzzed. “That was quick. They’ve got a decision for you already.”

“Is that a good sign?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Well… it can be. In you go, guys.”

***

“Thank you both for waiting,” Councillor Langford said, his tone suggesting we could’ve been out in reception weeks for his money. “The council has reached a decision.”

He paused, and at first I thought it was another ploy, the carefully timed hesitation to intimidate us. Then I examined his face and I knew: it wasn’t a power-play, not this time. Behind the stern frown, he actually looked glum. And I could see Alex, smiling slightly under his blonde mop as he tried to catch my eye…

Langford sighed and looked down at his notepad. “The vote came in at 18 in favour, two against. You’ve got the lot.”