After the One, page 24
‘How many more?’ asked Charley in alarm, looking round her small living room.
‘There’s a limit to how many people Charley can fit in,’ pointed out Pam.
‘Well, obviously,’ replied Tara, then turning to Charley, she asked, ‘How would you feel if we held it somewhere else? Be honest. Would you mind?’
Charley was desperately trying not to let her face give anything away, but she did mind. She’d hosted the Prosecco Night every year and it was more like a party than a fundraiser – and the only one she ever threw in her flat these days. Then, slightly harshly, she accused herself of being selfish, and immature. It’s not your party, she reminded herself, it’s about raising money and remembering Kim and, above all, it’s for Tara. And if Tara wanted to think big, then that was fine by her. Setting aside her disappointment, she raised her glass of fizz and said, ‘The bigger, the better!’ She was rewarded by an affectionate hug from her mate, and a less obvious, sympathetic smile from Pam.
‘Where were you thinking?’ Nisha asked Tara, who shrugged.
‘I hadn’t actually got that far,’ she admitted.
Determined to think really big, Charley suggested the Orangery, picturing everyone gathered round the gold-and-white tables she’d admired when she went there to pitch her party bags. ‘It’s fabulous,’ she raved.
‘Fabulously expensive, too,’ said Nisha.
‘Maybe they’d waive the fee for a good cause?’ Angie sounded hopeful.
‘Or good publicity?’ said Charley, slightly less naively.
‘No chance,’ said Nisha. ‘Honestly, it’s shocking how much, or rather how little, any business will do for charity these days. Even though it’s tax-deductible.’
‘What about the Avalon?’ suggested Pam, and everyone turned to Tara.
‘I can ask…’ she said dubiously, ‘But don’t hold your breath. It’ll mean appealing to the better side of my pompous prat of a manager, and I doubt very much he’s got one.’
‘It might be a bit low-profile for them,’ Nisha warned.
‘There’s always the school hall,’ said Angie. ‘Will would definitely be okay with us holding it there.’
Nisha looked suddenly optimistic. ‘Now that’s a good call, Angie.’
‘Yes!’ agreed Charley warmly.
They left it that Tara would approach the Avalon and Angie would ask Will. Charley knew which option she preferred, but she kept schtum, guessing it would probably be the default position anyhow.
‘I hope Will says yes,’ she confided to Pam later as they loaded the dishwasher with the glasses after everyone had gone.
‘Really? It would be much more prestigious having it at the Avalon, plus you could invite all the hotel guests, too. You’d probably raise a lot more money.’
‘True,’ admitted Charley. What she didn’t admit was her fear that if the event moved to the Avalon, Tara would completely take it over.
* * *
Will was head down at the kitchen table deep in work when Angie got home.
She went over to kiss him, ‘Still hard at it?’
He wrapped his arms round her waist and held her to him. ‘Governors’ meeting.’
She grimaced on his behalf and then pulled away to head upstairs to check on the children. Not because she didn’t trust Will to have put the kids to bed; she did it because she loved them and she wasn’t going to beat herself up for that.
Baa-Baa, Finn’s fluffy sheep, had fallen out of his bed. She picked it up and gently popped it under the duvet next to him. Then, adoring the way he crooked his forefinger over his nose as he sucked his thumb, she stroked his cheek softly before crossing the room to Eliot’s bed. Eliot had taken his mega truck into bed with him. The truck had sharp edges so she carefully edged it out from under his arm and put it at the end of his bed. Then she ran her fingers lightly through his curls. Across the landing, Beth had fallen asleep reading, with her bedside light on. Angie eased the book out of her grasp and put it in her book bag for the next day. When she switched off the lamp Beth stirred. ‘It’s all right, lovely. Back to sleep.’
She went downstairs, made a pot of tea and sat down at the table next to Will.
‘How was the meeting?’ he asked, gratefully taking the mug of tea Angie handed him.
‘Lovely. Lots of crisps!’
He chuckled before going back to his paperwork.
‘Actually… can I quickly ask you something? Tara wants to make the Prosecco Night a much bigger event this year. Could we use the school hall?’
Will shrugged lightly. ‘It’d be fine by me, but it can’t be a school event, sorry. It’d have to be a PTA thing. You’ll have to ask them.’
‘Noooo!’ groaned Angie. ‘Don’t make me talk to the PTA. That Felicity Whatshername’s an absolute nightmare. Can’t you ask her?’
‘No, I can’t. Anyhow she’s not that bad. She’s just a bit…’ Will struggled to find the right word.
‘Patronising… bossy… condescending?’
Will raised his eyebrows at her.
‘Only trying to help,’ she protested.
‘Motivated,’ finished Will, tactfully.
Angie sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll talk to her then. If I must.’ Felicity Whatsername’s going to eat me alive, she thought gloomily.
* * *
The following afternoon Tara sat at the Reception Desk of the Avalon, stressed to the nines and struggling to keep her temper, when Charley arrived to drop off fifty top-of-the-range pamper bags for a hen party.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘No. I’m having a complete pig of a day wrangling the Hen Party from Hell, plus, Rent-a-Git said “No” to holding the Prosecco Night here.’
‘You weren’t really expecting otherwise, were you?’ pointed out Charley, trying to conceal her inner relief.
‘No,’ sighed Tara, ‘But he was just so sodding pompous about it.’
She’d spent a frenetic morning dealing with the never-ending stream of must-haves, don’t-wants, and can’t-eats of the Hen Party from Hell. When she’d finally managed to grab five minutes with her manager, and pitch the fundraiser to him, his little eyes had initially lit up greedily. He’d rapidly bought into the idea of a room full of women buying bucketfuls of Prosecco and demolishing a small mountain of bar snacks to mop it up, even offering to pitch the event to Head Office himself, until Tara poured cold water over his fantasy.
‘No, you don’t quite get it. They don’t buy the Prosecco from the hotel, we bring the Prosecco.’ He looked at her blankly. God, it doesn’t take much to confuse his tiny little brain, does it? she thought, before explaining slowly, as if to a five-year-old child, how a charity fundraiser worked. ‘We will bring the Prosecco, some nibbles, and a range of Prosecco-themed products, all of which the women will buy from us. The money we raise goes to the Hospice. All the hotel has to do is provide the room and the parking.’
‘So, what’s in it for the hotel?’ he asked.
‘Kudos, and a lot of good publicity.’
He thought about it for less than nanosecond before spluttering, ‘No way! You can’t bring your own food and drink to the hotel! I’m not asking Head Office if we can do that. It’s a completely unacceptable request,’ he finished highhandedly.
‘It’s for charity!’ Tara had countered. ‘For a hospice for the dying.’
‘Absolutely not. And that’s my final decision,’ he said, all too evidently enjoying asserting his authority over her.
Tara seethed. For a brief moment she thought about going over his head and contacting Head Office herself, but realistically she knew that if they refused, the obnoxious little berk would never let her live it down.
‘Seriously, Charley, you have no idea what a nightmare it is working for such a complete and absolute…’
‘Jerk?’ suggested Charley.
‘Arsehole,’ finished Tara, bitterly.
Charley hesitated, as if she were deciding what to say, or maybe whether to say anything at all. Then leaning across the desk, she bent her head closer to Tara’s, and lowered her voice. ‘Tara. Will you listen to yourself? The man is an arsehole, an utter arsehole, and he’s making your working life miserable.’ Tara rolled her eyes, but Charley didn’t give up. ‘Look, I know you keep joking about him, but honestly, now I’ve actually met him, and I’ve seen how unhappy you are here, I’m not sure it’s actually very funny.’
Tara shook her head lightly, dismissing Charley’s concerns. ‘Don’t worry, I can deal with a little prick like him. You’ve just caught me on a bad day.’ Which was partly true, but what was also true was that the bad days were becoming increasingly frequent, although she didn’t want to admit that.
Baz, on the other hand, was not as easily dismissed.
‘Tara, just leave,’ he’d said when he’d got home from work and heard Tara’s Rant of the Day.
‘I’m not quitting! He’s the one with the problem, not me. And anyhow, I like earning my own money, then I can spend it how I want.’
Baz took a moment before he spoke. ‘I know you want to buy things for Monnie, the things you never had…’
Tara interrupted him. ‘That wasn’t Mum’s fault. She did her best.’
‘I know,’ said Baz steadily. ‘And I’m not criticising Kim.’
‘Well it sodding well sounds like it.’
Baz took a slow breath in and then let it out again. ‘Kim did an amazing job, but you had a tough childhood, Tara. You went without a lot, and now you’re…’ he paused.
‘Spoiling Monnie,’ chanted Tara angrily. Off he goes, she thought, same old argument, same old loop.
‘No. You’re overcompensating,’ he said.
The break from the usual script, his usual mantra, got Tara’s attention.
‘And since Kim died it’s got worse,’ he went on carefully. ‘It’s like you’re trying to fill an empty space.’
Suddenly Tara’s eyes prickled and her throat tightened. She swallowed hard. Of course she was trying to fill a bloody empty space. There was a gaping hole in her life where her mum had been.
‘You can’t replace someone with things, Tara,’ her husband said gently.
‘You can’t replace them at all,’ she said angrily, hot tears burning her eyes.
‘I know,’ said Baz, going over to her and pulling her towards him. She didn’t resist, so he held her for a while, and then he said softly, ‘Would you have loved your mum any more if she’d given you more things?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then will Monnie love you less if you give her less? You’re what matters to Monnie, and what matters to me. They don’t bloody deserve you at that hotel, Tara, and you don’t deserve to be this unhappy.’
* * *
Earlier in the afternoon, when she’d got back from delivering the gift bags, Charley had called Angie.
‘It’s a “No” from the Avalon,’ Charley told her and, crossing her fingers, asked, ‘What did Will say?’
There was an audible sigh at the end of the phone before Angie replied. ‘He said I’d have to ask the self-important, patronising harridan who chairs the PTA. So, I nabbed her at the school gates, and tried to give her the gist of what we wanted, but she’s insisting on having a written plan, detailing exactly what we want to do: how many people, what we’re trying to raise money for etc., etc. And then she wants a meeting! She’s calling it a “pitch” meeting, for goodness’ sake! Honestly, you’d think she owns the school! Anyhow, she can meet us on Friday at nine forty-five.’
‘Us?’ queried Charley.
‘Yes. Sorry. I know you’re busy, but you have to come with me, otherwise I’m going to batter her to death with Beth’s recorder.’
‘Fine!’ laughed Charley.
‘Do want to come round here and do the plan together?’
‘No. It’s okay. I’ve got this!’ said Charley, wondering if Angie was actually barking mad thinking they could pull anything together with Finn and Eliot within a three-mile radius.
If the PTA wanted a detailed written request then they could damn well have one, thought Charley, opening her laptop. She hadn’t spent seven years drawing up lavish letting brochures without knowing how to churn out a knock-your-socks-off presentation. She happily engrossed herself in creating a comprehensive, five-page document outlining their fundraising target, the success of the previous Prosecco Nights (with full figures), the projected numbers of attendees, a complete process flow schedule and a list of everyone’s contacts, together with their potential requirements on the night, both technical and otherwise.
Chapter Thirty-one
‘Do Not Be Late!’ Angie had begged Charley. ‘Felicity Whatshername takes no prisoners.’
So, a good five minutes early for their appointment on the Friday, Charley met up with Angie outside the school, with Finn in his buggy. Felicity Whatshername was already in the hall waiting for them. Immaculately turned out in a tailored grey dress, with perfect make-up and not a hair out of place, she looked pointedly at the clock as they walked in, a gesture which peeved Charley since they weren’t even late. Angie hung back, ostensibly because she had to wrangle Finn’s buggy up the steps into the hall, but in reality in order to let Charley take the lead.
Thanks, Ange, thought Charley, wondering exactly what it was about these flawlessly presented, yummy-mummy, professional women that was so intimidating. She told herself to calm down. You’ve got this. You have a plan. You have a presentation. And you have paperwork – pages of it. She took a deep breath, flashed Felicity Whatsername a bright smile and introduced herself. And then, with all the confidence she could muster, launched into her pitch.
‘We run an annual fundraiser for the Patience House Hospice which provides end of life care for…’
‘I know what it does,’ cut in Felicity Whatshername brusquely.
‘Oh.’ Charley shot a look at Angie, who raised her eyebrows at the woman’s rudeness.
Until Felicity Whatshername carried on, ‘My brother died there. Last year.’ Then she abruptly turned away, clearly struggling to stop her face collapsing with grief.
Angie just stood there, clearly at a loss as to what to say or do.
‘Why is she crying?’ asked Finn loudly, with embarrassing innocence. Angie crouched next to him to subtly hush the toddler up, but Charley had already moved closer to Felicity and put her hand on her shoulder.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry… so sorry,’ she said quietly. She waited, still with her hand lightly resting on Felicity’s shoulder, respecting her moment of grief and giving her time to recover her composure, before she went on gently, ‘He must have been very young to die.’
Felicity busied herself with digging a tissue out of her handbag. Then she sniffed hard and took a moment to breath out through her mouth to steady herself, before she spoke. ‘Yes. He had cancer. He was thirty-eight.’ She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, trying to rescue her mascara.
‘That must have been dreadful. For everyone,’ said Charley.
Felicity blew her nose. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’
‘My husband died,’ Charley told her. ‘He was thirty-two.’
Slowly, Felicity turned to look directly at Charley, as if she was having trouble processing what this young woman, this young widow, had just said. ‘At the Hospice?’
‘No. In Intensive Care. He had a car accident.’
‘Oh, God. How awful. How absolutely awful.’ Spontaneously Felicity’s arms reached out to embrace Charley, ‘I’m so sorry for you,’ she said, her voice cracking, silent tears coursing down her cheeks.
Charley hugged her back. ‘Thank you.’
Angie was now standing awkwardly off to the side. Unsettled by the sight of a grown-up crying, Finn twisted round to hold his arms out to her, his little face crumpled with concern. She stooped to take him out of the buggy and then stood up again, with him on her hip, where he sat eyeing the scene warily.
Shortly, Felicity pulled herself together, sniffed a few times, and then gave Charley a brisk pat. From then on, perhaps unsurprisingly, the meeting was unexpectedly easy.
Rapidly scanning Charley’s pitch paperwork Felicity said, ‘That’s all fine. It’s just a question of the date.’
‘Anytime mid November onwards…’ said Charley hopefully.
Felicity checked the calendar on her phone and after a lot of efficient scrolling through screens, while Angie and Charley exchanged glances, she finally pronounced they could hold the Prosecco Night in the School Hall on the last Saturday of October… in three weeks’ time.
‘Three weeks tomorrow?’ Charley’s eyebrows shot up in alarm.
‘Yes. That’s the only slot available this term.’
She and Angie exchanged anxious looks.
‘I don’t think we can scramble it that quickly,’ said Charley, with a slight shake of her head.
‘Of course you can!’ replied Felicity briskly, before proceeding to effortlessly reel off a to-do list off the top of her head. ‘You just need to bring the Prosecco, the glasses, maybe some yummy nibbles and cupcakes, the little things you want to sell and a cash float. Fifty pounds should do it. We’ll supply tables and chairs, tablecloths if you want them, the kitchen, the PA system and a mic. You probably won’t need a PowerPoint, will you?’ She rattled on, without waiting for an answer, while Charley frantically made notes on the back of her pitch document. ‘Parking’s on the playground. We’ll do the social media, Facebook and the school website. Give us some flyers next week and we’ll put one in all the kids’ book bags.’ She barely paused for breath while Charley scribbled away. ‘And you might want to do a bottle tombola and a raffle,’ she raced on. ‘We’ve got books of raffle tickets, you just bring the prizes. Oh, and you’ll need to bring some flowers or bunting or whatever to brighten the place up. You see? Hardly anything to do. There’s plenty of time.’
Charley and Angie could only nod weakly.
‘How many flyers will we need?’ asked Angie.
‘One for each family. So, four hundred.’
