Our Last Summer by Jennifer Joyce
Chapter 25
The protestors are back the next morning. Franciszek brings over trays of wuzetka to keep morale up (because nothing gives a boost quite like home-baked cake) and someone brings a guitar and gets a singalong going. Over the next few days, the guitar is joined by a violin, bugle, two recorders and a keyboard. Irene fashions homemade maracas from empty plastic bottles and rice so anyone – no matter their musical talent – can join in the motley band. By Friday afternoon, Irene is chained to the railing and a local reporter is chatting to protestors.
‘This has to stop.’ Gillian is pacing up and down her office, which isn’t really big enough for pacing, but she’s giving it a good go. ‘It’s the Summer Food and Drink Festival tomorrow. We can’t have people turning up to that.’ She waves a hand in the general direction of the gates, where the protestors are singing and dancing and shaking their maracas. It looks like they’re having a really good time, actually, and the camaraderie is electric whenever I have to pass through. ‘We’re supposed to be setting up, not trying to sort out a riot.’
It’s hardly a riot, but Gillian doesn’t look like she’s in the mood for contrary opinions so I don’t say anything, instead watching as she turns and strides towards the window. She leans her palms on the windowsill, looking out across the vast lawn at the back of the castle where tomorrow’s festival will be taking place. I didn’t have much to do with its planning as the organisation started months ago, back when it was still winter, but it gave me an idea of what to expect at the Christmas version that I was helping to put together.
‘It’ll put people off, seeing that on the front page of the paper.’ Gillian turns and wafts a hand in the general direction of the protest again.
‘It’s only the local paper, and readership is down. Plus, it might not even make the front page.’ It will, but I’m trying to placate Gillian, to keep her from self-combusting with the stress of it all. Irene will be defiant in chains on the front page of the Cheshire Post, eyes blazing, lips set in an unwavering line. But the festival will be fine. The protestors will be gone by teatime.
‘There’s talk that Granada Reports are sending a crew over for tonight’s edition.’ Gillian looks like she might throw up. ‘This is getting out of hand. I need to call head office.’
I back out of the office, leaving Gillian to her phone call, painting on a bright and breezy expression before I step into the events office. Mel is facedown at his desk, his forehead resting on his folded arms, but he peeks up as he hears me approach.
‘Well?’ His eyes are wide, pleading with me to deliver good news.
‘It’s all in hand. Gillian says there’s nothing to worry about. The festival will be unaffected.’
‘And the rumour about Granada Reports?’
I shake my head. ‘Gillian hadn’t even heard that one. She laughed when I told her about it.’
‘So it isn’t happening?’
‘Absolutely not.’ This bit is true, even if my nose should be growing like a politician’s who’s been caught in yet another scandal with the other stuff I’ve fibbed about. ‘There won’t be any camera crews out there.’
Mel sits up straight and gives his shoulders a wriggle before stretching his hands high above his head. ‘Right then. Let’s get this festival up and running.’
The announcement comes late afternoon. Gillian gathers most of the hotel staff currently on shift in the largest conference room and delivers the news everyone’s been waiting for.
‘Durban Castle – neither the hotel or the building itself – is not up for sale, and there are absolutely no plans for it to be sold in the future. In fact, quite the opposite.’
There’s a murmur as people turn to their neighbours with hushed delight and then questions: The hotel isn’t for sale! Our jobs are safe! But wait, what is the opposite of the hotel being sold?
‘Devon Fox Hotels Group, who own Durban Castle, have hotels in the UK and Europe, and they’re planning to expand into the US, with the acquisition of a small chain of hotels on the West Coast.’
The murmur turns into a buzz as the chatter increases at Gillian’s announcement. What does this mean for us? Gillian holds up a hand, waiting until the babble has died down before continuing.
‘The acquisition will not affect the day-to-day running of Durban Castle. It will not affect any jobs.’
A hand goes up, a voice calling out before Gillian even has the chance to acknowledge it. ‘Can you guarantee that?’
‘Yes.’ Gillian’s nod is decisive. But she is wrong. My job will be affected by the acquisition. I am on my way to California, baby. I wait for the fizz of excitement to bubble up in my belly but I feel quite flat. But then I suppose this isn’t the new and exciting adventure it was the first time around and I am quite stressed about saving Ed and keeping hold of the relationship with Tomasz that hasn’t even begun yet. Never mind buzzing with excitement, I’m surprised I’m not rocking in a corner and whimpering.
Gillian sends everyone back to work, though most hang around the conference room, faces lit up as they deliberate this new development. News travels down to the gate (at the insistence of Gillian, who is keen for the group to dissipate as quickly as possible) and Irene is unchained from the rail, though she will still appear on the front page of the next edition of the Cheshire Post. I text Tomasz on my way back to the office, to let him know the good news and to invite him out for a celebratory drink tonight.
I’m nervous as I get ready, and I have to take deep breaths to keep the butterflies under control. It feels like a first date even though it isn’t a date at all – it’s simply two mates having a drink in the pub – and I’ve been on many, many dates with Tomasz already. I choose my outfit with care. I want something casual, to befit the occasion – or lack of – but I also want to look hot enough to blow Tomasz’s socks off. In the end, I opt for a pair of skinny jeans for the casual sense but dress them up with a black cami top with lace detail, gold strappy sandals and chunky earrings (which are actually Heather’s, but I’m sure she won’t mind too much, and I’d have asked to borrow them if she was home). The butterflies are fluttering again as I step into the living room and Laura tells me I look ‘absolutely gorgeous’.
‘Are you off out?’ The corners of Mum’s lips turn down. ‘But you’ll miss Celebrity MasterChef.’
‘You can tell me all about it later.’ I check I’ve got my purse and my keys in my little fringed handbag (also Heather’s, but seriously, she’ll be fine with it. She’s very generous with her belongings). ‘I shouldn’t be too late – I’ve got an early start with the festival tomorrow.’
‘We’ll probably see you there.’ Laura lifts her wine glass as a farewell gesture. She turns to Mum. ‘Do you remember those strawberry tarts they had last year? I’m going back, just in case they have those again.’
‘Sod the strawberry tarts.’ Mum lifts her glass. ‘I’m going for the wine.’ Mum and Laura’s heads press together as they giggle and I leave them to it. The butterflies are swarming in my stomach as I walk the short distance to the high street. Taking the deepest breath my lungs can manage, I push open the door of the Royal Oak and step inside. I spot him over by the pool table and for a moment my heart soars. But then disappointment crashes down over me. Sacha’s here too, his sunglasses perched on the top of his head as he takes his shot.
Great.
The door opens behind me, and I’m almost knocked over as Ed barrels into me. We both apologise as we right our footing, Ed’s hand gripping my arm to keep me upright.
‘Sorry, didn’t see you there.’
‘No, no, I’m sorry. It’s my fault for standing around the doorway like a lemon.’
‘Why are you standing around the doorway like a lemon?’ Yvonne has squeezed past Ed to step into the pub.
‘I just got here.’ I try to catch Tomasz’s attention but he doesn’t spot me before he leans over the table to take his shot. ‘I was just going to the bar. What are you having?’
So this really isn’t a date. There’s a full house, especially when Irene pops over to tell us all about the protest and the promise of an article in the paper.
‘I’m slightly disappointed Granada Reports never turned up, but you can’t have everything, can you? And it’s good news about the castle not being bulldozed.’
‘They wouldn’t dare with you around.’
Irene beams at Yvonne’s words, and her chin tilts upwards. ‘Too right. You just give me a shout if you hear even a whisper of any deals going on and I’ll have myself chained to that gate before you can say crazy old lady. I’ll show ’em.’ Irene puts her fists up and boxes the air until Sacha gives her a withering look. ‘Right. I’m off for my evening walk. But remember.’ She catches our eye in turn. ‘A whisper of a deal and you come to me.’ She walks away, boxing the air again, and she almost accidentally whacks Heather on the boob as my sister heads towards us.
‘Sorry about Gran.’ Tomasz steps aside so Sacha can take his shot at the pool table. ‘She’s buzzing about the castle.’
‘No worries.’ Heather sits next to me and her eyes narrow as she clocks my earlobes. ‘Are those my earrings?’
I touch one of the chunky earrings while pretending to look at Heather but focusing on the picture on the wall to her left. ‘Are they? I thought they were mine. Silly me.’
‘They suit you.’ Heather raises her eyebrows as I meet her gaze. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can keep them. And I want my handbag back later as well.’
‘Got it.’ I try to catch Yvonne’s eye, to see if she’s as shocked at Heather’s lack of annoyance at my borrowing her stuff without asking, but Yvonne’s eyes are firmly on Sacha as he leans across the table to take his shot.
‘I need a piss.’ Handing Tomasz his pool cue, Sacha saunters off. I look at Yvonne again, checking she’s as repulsed as I am, but she’s gazing adoringly at the space he’s vacated. But then her face changes, her chin tucking back and her nose scrunching up, and I think it’s a delayed reaction to Sacha’s crudeness. But it’s so much worse than Sacha’s crudeness.
‘All right, knobheads?’ Craig Radcliffe swaggers towards us, dipping down every time he takes a step with his right foot, as though the leg is a couple of inches shorter than the left. I haven’t seen Craig for ages, and I was hoping that he’d packed up and left in this version of the past. Unfortunately not. ‘Not very chatty, are we?’
Yvonne sighs, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling as she folds her arms across her chest. ‘What do you want?’
Craig takes a step back and spreads his arms wide. ‘I’m just being friendly. Saying hello.’
‘Now you’ve said it, why don’t you go away?’
Craig snorts. ‘Why don’t you suck my dick? Oh no, wait. Been there, done that, haven’t you?’ Craig titters to himself. He doesn’t see or hear Sacha’s approach, but he feels it when Sacha clips him on the back of his head. ‘The fuck?’ Craig turns around, his face scrunched up, eyes ablaze.
‘I suggest you apologise to the lady.’ Sacha is taller than Craig. Broader. He makes Craig look like a tiny Lego man as he towers above him. ‘And then I suggest you leave, very, very quickly.’
Craig doesn’t apologise. That would mean backing down. Losing face. Instead, he shrugs as he backs away, muttering about the ‘state of the place’ and that he was going anyway.
‘Oh my God. Thank you.’ Yvonne propels herself forward, throwing herself at Sacha and wrapping her arms around his waist. Sacha doesn’t return the hug – he holds his arms out wide while looking at his brother with one side of his mouth pulled up as though there’s an invisible hook tugging at it – but I feel uneasy anyway. This pairing cannot go ahead. Sacha will hurt Yvonne and she’ll never really get over it, will never move on to find someone she deserves, and finding out who Sacha really is when she’s in too deep will cause irreparable damage to all our lives.