A Winter's Wish, page 11
It was an unseasonably warm day. The temperature had reached thirteen degrees and it was only eleven a.m. Sam had called a staff meeting, but instead of asking everyone to squash inside the cramped laundry room, she’d decided to hold the meeting in the rooftop garden.
Emily had baked mince pies for the occasion, and Sam had brewed a vat of fresh coffee and set up the wooden table and chairs next to the herb planters. She’d hoped, perhaps naively, that a fragrant backdrop might ease the ordeal of what they had to discuss. Trying to find a solution to the issue of turning away an increasing number of young people each night wasn’t an enjoyable task, or an easy one. But ignoring the problem wasn’t going to resolve it either.
After dealing with the more mundane items on the agenda, they paused the meeting so everyone could enjoy the mince pies and refill their coffee. Sam took the opportunity to visit the sensory section of the garden and run her hands through the decorative grasses. Breathing in the fragrances emanating from the wall planters, she instantly felt calmer. It gave her the respite she needed to gather her thoughts and try to find a solution to the problem they faced.
Word had spread around South London. The Crash Pad’s reputation was growing and the shelter was inviting attention. Reports about how the young people were treated favourably had been a welcome boost. As had hearing glowing feedback about the quality of food on offer and the facilities provided at the shelter – which was great in terms of raising awareness and improving local opinion, but challenging when it meant more young people were trying to access their services.
Sipping her coffee, she smoothed down the front of her blue-striped top, noticing the grass stain on the sleeve. And to think she’d made an effort this morning. Glancing up, she caught sight of Jamie leaning against the water butt and instantly scowled. Something he’d said during his first visit to the shelter kept playing on her mind. He’d questioned whether they were really helping, or simply offering a short-term reprieve to a long-term problem.
His criticism had stung. She’d been so proud of The Crash Pad that she’d never stopped to consider the possibility that its bright welcoming décor, modern facilities and homely ambience might make someone feel worse about their situation, not better. She’d assumed their guests would welcome a cheerful respite from their otherwise challenging lives. But Jamie’s comment about how she was dangling luxury in front of them, only to kick them out the next morning had hit a nerve. He’d implied that far from helping them, she was actually being cruel. Taunting them with what they could have had if only someone had loved, or cared enough about them not to throw them onto the streets.
It was a sobering thought. One that refused to budge.
What else could she do, though? She couldn’t single-handedly solve the country’s homelessness crisis. Wasn’t it better to do something, than nothing?
Damn Jamie bloody Lawson and his judgemental remarks.
It didn’t help that he’d shown up to the meeting looking relaxed and handsome in a white linen shirt and soft faded jeans. His caramel eyes crinkled in the late autumn sunlight, and his reddish-brown hair glowed like a flipping halo. A halo? An angel he most definitely was not.
He caught her looking over and smiled. To anyone watching, he appeared all charm and sincerity. But she didn’t buy it. He was about as sincere as her brother Max when he was in full-on sales-mode and trying to persuade a hapless punter into buying whatever shares he was selling that month. Her brother’s charismatic persona was merely a front for a ruthless game plan that usually involved someone handing over large quantities of cash.
What was Jamie Lawson’s game plan, she wondered? Because whatever he said, there was more going on than him simply wanting to volunteer, she was sure of it.
When the team had finished their refreshments and reconvened around the table, she joined them and addressed the last item on the agenda. Demand exceeding resource and what, if anything, could be done about it.
‘So… that’s our dilemma,’ she finished, keeping her tone light, despite the gravity of the situation. ‘We don’t have the funds to expand The Crash Pad right now or reconfigure the space.’ She glared at Jamie. ‘So, what do we do?’
He’d rather sarcastically pointed out that if she hadn’t bothered with the pool tables, fancy lounge area or bespoke beach huts, she could have fitted in several more beds. Which might be true, but wasn’t helpful to hear.
Besides, the guests needed something to occupy them in the evenings. It would be pretty soul destroying if there was nothing to do other than eat, shower and sleep.
‘Turning people away was always going to be the reality of the situation,’ Fraser said, wearing his heavy army overcoat, despite the warm weather. ‘We can’t help everyone.’
‘I know, but it feels so cruel.’ Sam placed her coffee mug on the table. ‘I accept that we can’t offer everyone beds, but I wish there was something we could offer them instead.’
‘You mean like food parcels?’ Emily raised her hand as if she were still in school. ‘Like I did the other night for that lad, Alfie.’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘He seemed very grateful.’
Sam nodded at Emily. ‘Exactly. It wouldn’t cost too much to increase the quantities of food we produce. Although we’d need to buy takeaway containers of some kind. That might be costly.’
‘I could speak to my mate who works in the army kitchens,’ Fraser said, his camouflage coat almost lost against the evergreens. ‘The military get through tons of containers, especially when they’re catering on the move. They might be willing to donate the used ones, rather than chucking them away.’
Sam liked the idea of that. ‘Brilliant, Fraser. Thank you.’ She knew her team would have some ideas, they never let her down. ‘But maybe we could offer more than just food in the parcel. You know, like a sleeping bag, or a blanket?’
‘And a wash kit,’ Fraser added. ‘It’s hard finding somewhere to wash on the streets.’
‘Oh, I like that idea.’ Then reality kicked in, and Sam’s enthusiasm took a hit. ‘But that will cost money. A lot of money. We’re talking about five to ten parcels a night.’
‘Have you thought about sponsorship?’ Jamie leant forwards in his chair, resting his tanned arms on his legs. ‘We could approach the big organisations in London. If you offer to brand the parcels with their company logos they might be interested in sponsoring them. It’s free advertising.’
Sam thought about it. ‘It’s a possibility, but it sounds very time-consuming to organise.’
He shrugged. ‘So we advertise for a volunteer fundraiser.’
Norah frowned. ‘Do such people exist?’
Emily raised her hand again. ‘I could ask at my college. I think they run marketing courses. There might be someone looking for work experience.’
Sam gave her a thumbs-up. ‘That’d be great, Emily. Thank you. But even if we successfully recruit someone, it could take months. So, whereas I see this as a great long-term solution to the problem, we need to introduce something more urgently to tackle what’s happening right now.’
‘How about a donation drive?’ Jamie’s suggestion caused all heads to turn to him. ‘Ask the public to drop off any bedding they don’t need. Ask for the items to be in reasonable condition and prewashed so you keep the expense down, and then all we have to do is parcel them up.’
Norah looked impressed. ‘That’s a cracking idea. Like how the foodbanks run?’
He nodded. ‘Low cost and easy to implement. Especially if we use social media to spread the word.’
Sam hated to admit it, but it was a genius idea.
Forcing a friendly expression, she gestured to Jamie… who was looking all smug, and handsome, and infuriatingly angelic. ‘I think we have our winner.’
Emily started clapping. ‘Go, Jamie!’
Fraser gave Jamie a manly slap on the shoulder. ‘Nice one, mate.’
Sam had to agree, even if the effort of smiling was making her cheeks ache. ‘I’ll get onto it right away.’
‘No need.’ He relaxed back in his chair. ‘I’ll pick this up. You have enough to deal with.’
‘That’s kind of you, Jamie,’ she managed to say, through gritted teeth. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ He smiled, unleashing the full force of his charm. Damn him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Fraser and Norah exchange a glance. Their raised eyebrows indicated they weren’t oblivious to the tension bubbling away between her and the shelter’s latest recruit. In which case, she needed to make more effort to keep her feelings hidden. Jamie was a volunteer, after all. She should appear more grateful, less… agitated.
Norah stood up. ‘We’d better get a move on. The cafe opens soon and we have sandwiches to make.’
Sam turned to the group. ‘Thank you for your time and ideas,’ she said, genuinely grateful she had such an amazing group of volunteers. ‘I really appreciate it.’
Fraser gestured to the table. ‘Need a hand clearing up?’
‘No, I can manage. But thanks for offering. You head down, I’ll join you in a minute.’ She needed a moment to herself. Her feelings towards Jamie Lawson were getting more complicated by the hour. One minute he was criticising her, the next he was coming up with helpful ideas. It was hard to fathom.
As she cleared away the plates and switched her phone back on, it immediately rang. If the image of an angel appeared when Jamie was around, the devil incarnate flashed across her mind when she saw it was her mother calling. Oh, hell.
She braced herself. ‘Hi, Mum. Everything okay?’
‘Where are you?’ Her mother sounded displeased. ‘I’ve left three messages.’
‘Sorry, my phone was off. I was in a meeting. Is something wrong?’
‘Yes. Your father and I have been standing outside this godawful place for ten minutes knocking and no one has let us in.’
‘You’re here? At The Crash Pad?’
‘That’s what I said. Are you going to let us in?’
What on earth were her parents doing here?
She supposed she’d better find out. ‘I’ll be right down.’
Her mother tutted and ended the call.
With no time to clear up, Sam covered the remaining mince pies with a napkin and headed down from the rooftop garden, the metal ladder creaking beneath her as she hurried.
She ran across the communal area and into reception.
True enough, her parents were standing at the front door. Their disappointed expressions were visible through the glass, enhanced by the horror of being made to queue alongside a group of teens waiting for the cafe to open.
In contrast to the teens’ casual sports attire, her mother looked like she’d stepped off the set of The Devil Wears Prada. Fitting, really, seeing as she’d just been comparing her mother to Beelzebub.
Christina Tipping wore a bronze-coloured embossed jacket over a fitted black dress. Four chunky gold necklaces hung around her neck, each one a different length, creating a strategically co-ordinated ensemble. Her dad looked far more casual, although she suspected his aviator sunglasses, blue suede jacket and light grey chinos weren’t from M&S.
Unlocking the door, she let everyone inside. It was nearly midday, so it seemed churlish to make them wait outside for the sake of another ten minutes.
‘Hello, Mother.’ She leant in to kiss her mum’s cheek.
Her mother recoiled. ‘You’re filthy,’ she said, giving her daughter a disapproving look. ‘Really, Samantha. Is it so hard to put on clean clothes?’ She extracted a leaf from Sam’s hair. ‘Is that the top I bought you for Christmas?’
‘I had an important meeting this morning. I wanted to look smart.’ She hoped this might pacify her mother’s desire for her to make an effort with her appearance.
‘Is that a grass stain?’ Her mother rubbed at the smudge on the sleeve. ‘You really should be more careful. This item came from the Chanel winter collection.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Honestly, if I’d known you were going to be gardening in it, I would have opted for a high-street purchase.’
Sam blinked. ‘You would’ve shopped on the high street?’
Her mother gave her a reprimanding look. ‘Of course not. I would’ve sent Altamira.’
It figured. Her mother would never degrade herself by frequenting a chain store, she’d send her Brazilian housekeeper instead.
There was little point explaining to her mother she’d actually prefer high street brands to designer. Her lifestyle required practical clothing, they needed to be hardwearing and washable, as opposed to dry-clean only.
‘Hi, Daddy.’ She hugged her father, who didn’t seem much more approving than her mother. ‘No golf today?’
‘Your mother had errands for me.’ He looked disgruntled.
‘Shame. It’s such a lovely day too.’
Her father gave her mother a look that said, ‘See?’ Which resulted in her mother glaring at Sam.
‘Stop stirring.’
How was this her fault? She’d merely commented on the weather.
‘Are you here for a specific reason? Or just interested to see how we’re getting on?’ She knew perfectly well it wasn’t the latter, but it seemed impolite to assume they had an agenda.
‘Do we need a reason to visit our daughter?’ Her mother’s insincere smile meant trouble was afoot. Oh, hell.
Suddenly struck by an idea, Sam decided to get in first, before they divulged their plan. ‘Of course not. It’s lovely to see you both.’ See? She could do insincerity too. ‘I didn’t get a chance to show you the rooftop garden at the opening event. Let me show you now.’
She led them through the main area, determined to show off all they’d achieved.
Despite Jamie’s criticism that the décor was overkill, it was still an uplifting space. The sunlight filtering in from the large windows hit the beach mural on the far wall, making it feel like they were on a topical island… and not in Streatham. Surely that had to be a good thing?
‘As you can see, the cafe is proving popular.’ She pointed to the potted herbs on the tables. ‘All the food is homemade and we grow some of the produce ourselves.’
‘Delightful.’ Her mother was clearly doing her best to sound impressed.
Sam hooked her arm through her dad’s. ‘Do you still get involved with the charitable events at the airline?’ Her father was the retired CEO of a worldwide airline.
‘Occasionally, why?’
‘I wondered if you could put in a good word for us? We’re approaching various organisations to see if they’d like to sponsor our parcel scheme, and it occurred to me the airline might be interested. Especially as it’s run by a member of your family.’
‘Parcel scheme?’ Her mother looked perplexed.
She nodded. ‘We turn away several people most nights, which as you can imagine is heart-breaking.’
It took her parents a while to realise she was waiting for them to agree with her before continuing. Eventually, they both gave half-hearted nods and mumblings of agreement.
How touching.
‘As we’re not able to offer them a bed,’ she continued. ‘We want to offer them a takeaway parcel instead. Hot food, a wash kit, and bedding for the night. It’s not the same as a roof over their heads, but hopefully it’ll keep them warmer and it means they don’t have to beg for food or money on the streets.’
Her mother’s nose wrinkled. This was not ‘polite’ conversation.
‘So, what do you think?’ She looked at her dad, expectantly.
He frowned. ‘What do I think about what?’
‘Asking the airline to sponsor The Crash Pad?’
Her father glanced at her mother, who cleared her throat and said, ‘Darling, a huge corporation like the airline has to consider its reputation.’
Sam frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘They have shareholders and a board of trustees to appease.’
‘But they regularly do stuff for charity,’ she said, genuinely confused. ‘We attended loads of fundraising functions when Dad was CEO. How is this any different?’
Her mother took her hand. ‘Because the airline has to consider many factors before making the commitment to patronise a charity.’
‘Such as?’
‘Public opinion and goodwill.’
‘Marketability,’ her dad added.
‘Marketability?’ She looked between them. ‘Oh, you mean the reality of kids living on our streets isn’t very… what, palatable?’
Her mother lowered her voice. ‘It’s not exactly the sort of thing people like to talk about.’
‘And that’s the problem.’ Her frustration bubbled to the surface. ‘Nobody wants to face reality. Until society admits we have a problem nothing will get fixed. Wouldn’t you like to be trailblazers? Stand up for social change and be at the forefront of tackling homelessness in this country?’
Her mother patted her perfectly coiffed hairdo. ‘Frankly, darling, no. And neither does your father.’ She turned her attention to the extended loft ladder. ‘Are you expecting me to climb that?’
Sam clenched her fists. ‘It’s that, or fly.’ The devil could fly, right?
Annoyed, she climbed the ladder. ‘Coming?’
They could stay downstairs for all she cared.
As she reached the top, she was surprised to discover Jamie packing up the table and chairs they’d used for the meeting.
‘I thought I’d make myself useful,’ he said, shaking crumbs from the tablecloth. ‘Everything okay?’
Before she could reply, her parents appeared at the top of the ladder.
She inwardly cringed. If Jamie thought she was a spoilt, rich, insensitive posh knob with no clue about living in the real world, what the hell was he going to make of her parents?
Therefore she couldn’t have been more surprised when he came over and extended his hand. ‘Mr Tipping, I assume? Delighted to meet you, sir.’
Sir? Sam felt her eyebrows almost touch her hairline.
‘Jamie Lawson. I’m a volunteer at The Crash Pad.’ He shook her dad’s hand and then turned his charms on her mother. ‘Mrs Tipping. It’s an honour.’
An honour? Okay, what was going on?
Emily had baked mince pies for the occasion, and Sam had brewed a vat of fresh coffee and set up the wooden table and chairs next to the herb planters. She’d hoped, perhaps naively, that a fragrant backdrop might ease the ordeal of what they had to discuss. Trying to find a solution to the issue of turning away an increasing number of young people each night wasn’t an enjoyable task, or an easy one. But ignoring the problem wasn’t going to resolve it either.
After dealing with the more mundane items on the agenda, they paused the meeting so everyone could enjoy the mince pies and refill their coffee. Sam took the opportunity to visit the sensory section of the garden and run her hands through the decorative grasses. Breathing in the fragrances emanating from the wall planters, she instantly felt calmer. It gave her the respite she needed to gather her thoughts and try to find a solution to the problem they faced.
Word had spread around South London. The Crash Pad’s reputation was growing and the shelter was inviting attention. Reports about how the young people were treated favourably had been a welcome boost. As had hearing glowing feedback about the quality of food on offer and the facilities provided at the shelter – which was great in terms of raising awareness and improving local opinion, but challenging when it meant more young people were trying to access their services.
Sipping her coffee, she smoothed down the front of her blue-striped top, noticing the grass stain on the sleeve. And to think she’d made an effort this morning. Glancing up, she caught sight of Jamie leaning against the water butt and instantly scowled. Something he’d said during his first visit to the shelter kept playing on her mind. He’d questioned whether they were really helping, or simply offering a short-term reprieve to a long-term problem.
His criticism had stung. She’d been so proud of The Crash Pad that she’d never stopped to consider the possibility that its bright welcoming décor, modern facilities and homely ambience might make someone feel worse about their situation, not better. She’d assumed their guests would welcome a cheerful respite from their otherwise challenging lives. But Jamie’s comment about how she was dangling luxury in front of them, only to kick them out the next morning had hit a nerve. He’d implied that far from helping them, she was actually being cruel. Taunting them with what they could have had if only someone had loved, or cared enough about them not to throw them onto the streets.
It was a sobering thought. One that refused to budge.
What else could she do, though? She couldn’t single-handedly solve the country’s homelessness crisis. Wasn’t it better to do something, than nothing?
Damn Jamie bloody Lawson and his judgemental remarks.
It didn’t help that he’d shown up to the meeting looking relaxed and handsome in a white linen shirt and soft faded jeans. His caramel eyes crinkled in the late autumn sunlight, and his reddish-brown hair glowed like a flipping halo. A halo? An angel he most definitely was not.
He caught her looking over and smiled. To anyone watching, he appeared all charm and sincerity. But she didn’t buy it. He was about as sincere as her brother Max when he was in full-on sales-mode and trying to persuade a hapless punter into buying whatever shares he was selling that month. Her brother’s charismatic persona was merely a front for a ruthless game plan that usually involved someone handing over large quantities of cash.
What was Jamie Lawson’s game plan, she wondered? Because whatever he said, there was more going on than him simply wanting to volunteer, she was sure of it.
When the team had finished their refreshments and reconvened around the table, she joined them and addressed the last item on the agenda. Demand exceeding resource and what, if anything, could be done about it.
‘So… that’s our dilemma,’ she finished, keeping her tone light, despite the gravity of the situation. ‘We don’t have the funds to expand The Crash Pad right now or reconfigure the space.’ She glared at Jamie. ‘So, what do we do?’
He’d rather sarcastically pointed out that if she hadn’t bothered with the pool tables, fancy lounge area or bespoke beach huts, she could have fitted in several more beds. Which might be true, but wasn’t helpful to hear.
Besides, the guests needed something to occupy them in the evenings. It would be pretty soul destroying if there was nothing to do other than eat, shower and sleep.
‘Turning people away was always going to be the reality of the situation,’ Fraser said, wearing his heavy army overcoat, despite the warm weather. ‘We can’t help everyone.’
‘I know, but it feels so cruel.’ Sam placed her coffee mug on the table. ‘I accept that we can’t offer everyone beds, but I wish there was something we could offer them instead.’
‘You mean like food parcels?’ Emily raised her hand as if she were still in school. ‘Like I did the other night for that lad, Alfie.’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘He seemed very grateful.’
Sam nodded at Emily. ‘Exactly. It wouldn’t cost too much to increase the quantities of food we produce. Although we’d need to buy takeaway containers of some kind. That might be costly.’
‘I could speak to my mate who works in the army kitchens,’ Fraser said, his camouflage coat almost lost against the evergreens. ‘The military get through tons of containers, especially when they’re catering on the move. They might be willing to donate the used ones, rather than chucking them away.’
Sam liked the idea of that. ‘Brilliant, Fraser. Thank you.’ She knew her team would have some ideas, they never let her down. ‘But maybe we could offer more than just food in the parcel. You know, like a sleeping bag, or a blanket?’
‘And a wash kit,’ Fraser added. ‘It’s hard finding somewhere to wash on the streets.’
‘Oh, I like that idea.’ Then reality kicked in, and Sam’s enthusiasm took a hit. ‘But that will cost money. A lot of money. We’re talking about five to ten parcels a night.’
‘Have you thought about sponsorship?’ Jamie leant forwards in his chair, resting his tanned arms on his legs. ‘We could approach the big organisations in London. If you offer to brand the parcels with their company logos they might be interested in sponsoring them. It’s free advertising.’
Sam thought about it. ‘It’s a possibility, but it sounds very time-consuming to organise.’
He shrugged. ‘So we advertise for a volunteer fundraiser.’
Norah frowned. ‘Do such people exist?’
Emily raised her hand again. ‘I could ask at my college. I think they run marketing courses. There might be someone looking for work experience.’
Sam gave her a thumbs-up. ‘That’d be great, Emily. Thank you. But even if we successfully recruit someone, it could take months. So, whereas I see this as a great long-term solution to the problem, we need to introduce something more urgently to tackle what’s happening right now.’
‘How about a donation drive?’ Jamie’s suggestion caused all heads to turn to him. ‘Ask the public to drop off any bedding they don’t need. Ask for the items to be in reasonable condition and prewashed so you keep the expense down, and then all we have to do is parcel them up.’
Norah looked impressed. ‘That’s a cracking idea. Like how the foodbanks run?’
He nodded. ‘Low cost and easy to implement. Especially if we use social media to spread the word.’
Sam hated to admit it, but it was a genius idea.
Forcing a friendly expression, she gestured to Jamie… who was looking all smug, and handsome, and infuriatingly angelic. ‘I think we have our winner.’
Emily started clapping. ‘Go, Jamie!’
Fraser gave Jamie a manly slap on the shoulder. ‘Nice one, mate.’
Sam had to agree, even if the effort of smiling was making her cheeks ache. ‘I’ll get onto it right away.’
‘No need.’ He relaxed back in his chair. ‘I’ll pick this up. You have enough to deal with.’
‘That’s kind of you, Jamie,’ she managed to say, through gritted teeth. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ He smiled, unleashing the full force of his charm. Damn him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Fraser and Norah exchange a glance. Their raised eyebrows indicated they weren’t oblivious to the tension bubbling away between her and the shelter’s latest recruit. In which case, she needed to make more effort to keep her feelings hidden. Jamie was a volunteer, after all. She should appear more grateful, less… agitated.
Norah stood up. ‘We’d better get a move on. The cafe opens soon and we have sandwiches to make.’
Sam turned to the group. ‘Thank you for your time and ideas,’ she said, genuinely grateful she had such an amazing group of volunteers. ‘I really appreciate it.’
Fraser gestured to the table. ‘Need a hand clearing up?’
‘No, I can manage. But thanks for offering. You head down, I’ll join you in a minute.’ She needed a moment to herself. Her feelings towards Jamie Lawson were getting more complicated by the hour. One minute he was criticising her, the next he was coming up with helpful ideas. It was hard to fathom.
As she cleared away the plates and switched her phone back on, it immediately rang. If the image of an angel appeared when Jamie was around, the devil incarnate flashed across her mind when she saw it was her mother calling. Oh, hell.
She braced herself. ‘Hi, Mum. Everything okay?’
‘Where are you?’ Her mother sounded displeased. ‘I’ve left three messages.’
‘Sorry, my phone was off. I was in a meeting. Is something wrong?’
‘Yes. Your father and I have been standing outside this godawful place for ten minutes knocking and no one has let us in.’
‘You’re here? At The Crash Pad?’
‘That’s what I said. Are you going to let us in?’
What on earth were her parents doing here?
She supposed she’d better find out. ‘I’ll be right down.’
Her mother tutted and ended the call.
With no time to clear up, Sam covered the remaining mince pies with a napkin and headed down from the rooftop garden, the metal ladder creaking beneath her as she hurried.
She ran across the communal area and into reception.
True enough, her parents were standing at the front door. Their disappointed expressions were visible through the glass, enhanced by the horror of being made to queue alongside a group of teens waiting for the cafe to open.
In contrast to the teens’ casual sports attire, her mother looked like she’d stepped off the set of The Devil Wears Prada. Fitting, really, seeing as she’d just been comparing her mother to Beelzebub.
Christina Tipping wore a bronze-coloured embossed jacket over a fitted black dress. Four chunky gold necklaces hung around her neck, each one a different length, creating a strategically co-ordinated ensemble. Her dad looked far more casual, although she suspected his aviator sunglasses, blue suede jacket and light grey chinos weren’t from M&S.
Unlocking the door, she let everyone inside. It was nearly midday, so it seemed churlish to make them wait outside for the sake of another ten minutes.
‘Hello, Mother.’ She leant in to kiss her mum’s cheek.
Her mother recoiled. ‘You’re filthy,’ she said, giving her daughter a disapproving look. ‘Really, Samantha. Is it so hard to put on clean clothes?’ She extracted a leaf from Sam’s hair. ‘Is that the top I bought you for Christmas?’
‘I had an important meeting this morning. I wanted to look smart.’ She hoped this might pacify her mother’s desire for her to make an effort with her appearance.
‘Is that a grass stain?’ Her mother rubbed at the smudge on the sleeve. ‘You really should be more careful. This item came from the Chanel winter collection.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Honestly, if I’d known you were going to be gardening in it, I would have opted for a high-street purchase.’
Sam blinked. ‘You would’ve shopped on the high street?’
Her mother gave her a reprimanding look. ‘Of course not. I would’ve sent Altamira.’
It figured. Her mother would never degrade herself by frequenting a chain store, she’d send her Brazilian housekeeper instead.
There was little point explaining to her mother she’d actually prefer high street brands to designer. Her lifestyle required practical clothing, they needed to be hardwearing and washable, as opposed to dry-clean only.
‘Hi, Daddy.’ She hugged her father, who didn’t seem much more approving than her mother. ‘No golf today?’
‘Your mother had errands for me.’ He looked disgruntled.
‘Shame. It’s such a lovely day too.’
Her father gave her mother a look that said, ‘See?’ Which resulted in her mother glaring at Sam.
‘Stop stirring.’
How was this her fault? She’d merely commented on the weather.
‘Are you here for a specific reason? Or just interested to see how we’re getting on?’ She knew perfectly well it wasn’t the latter, but it seemed impolite to assume they had an agenda.
‘Do we need a reason to visit our daughter?’ Her mother’s insincere smile meant trouble was afoot. Oh, hell.
Suddenly struck by an idea, Sam decided to get in first, before they divulged their plan. ‘Of course not. It’s lovely to see you both.’ See? She could do insincerity too. ‘I didn’t get a chance to show you the rooftop garden at the opening event. Let me show you now.’
She led them through the main area, determined to show off all they’d achieved.
Despite Jamie’s criticism that the décor was overkill, it was still an uplifting space. The sunlight filtering in from the large windows hit the beach mural on the far wall, making it feel like they were on a topical island… and not in Streatham. Surely that had to be a good thing?
‘As you can see, the cafe is proving popular.’ She pointed to the potted herbs on the tables. ‘All the food is homemade and we grow some of the produce ourselves.’
‘Delightful.’ Her mother was clearly doing her best to sound impressed.
Sam hooked her arm through her dad’s. ‘Do you still get involved with the charitable events at the airline?’ Her father was the retired CEO of a worldwide airline.
‘Occasionally, why?’
‘I wondered if you could put in a good word for us? We’re approaching various organisations to see if they’d like to sponsor our parcel scheme, and it occurred to me the airline might be interested. Especially as it’s run by a member of your family.’
‘Parcel scheme?’ Her mother looked perplexed.
She nodded. ‘We turn away several people most nights, which as you can imagine is heart-breaking.’
It took her parents a while to realise she was waiting for them to agree with her before continuing. Eventually, they both gave half-hearted nods and mumblings of agreement.
How touching.
‘As we’re not able to offer them a bed,’ she continued. ‘We want to offer them a takeaway parcel instead. Hot food, a wash kit, and bedding for the night. It’s not the same as a roof over their heads, but hopefully it’ll keep them warmer and it means they don’t have to beg for food or money on the streets.’
Her mother’s nose wrinkled. This was not ‘polite’ conversation.
‘So, what do you think?’ She looked at her dad, expectantly.
He frowned. ‘What do I think about what?’
‘Asking the airline to sponsor The Crash Pad?’
Her father glanced at her mother, who cleared her throat and said, ‘Darling, a huge corporation like the airline has to consider its reputation.’
Sam frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘They have shareholders and a board of trustees to appease.’
‘But they regularly do stuff for charity,’ she said, genuinely confused. ‘We attended loads of fundraising functions when Dad was CEO. How is this any different?’
Her mother took her hand. ‘Because the airline has to consider many factors before making the commitment to patronise a charity.’
‘Such as?’
‘Public opinion and goodwill.’
‘Marketability,’ her dad added.
‘Marketability?’ She looked between them. ‘Oh, you mean the reality of kids living on our streets isn’t very… what, palatable?’
Her mother lowered her voice. ‘It’s not exactly the sort of thing people like to talk about.’
‘And that’s the problem.’ Her frustration bubbled to the surface. ‘Nobody wants to face reality. Until society admits we have a problem nothing will get fixed. Wouldn’t you like to be trailblazers? Stand up for social change and be at the forefront of tackling homelessness in this country?’
Her mother patted her perfectly coiffed hairdo. ‘Frankly, darling, no. And neither does your father.’ She turned her attention to the extended loft ladder. ‘Are you expecting me to climb that?’
Sam clenched her fists. ‘It’s that, or fly.’ The devil could fly, right?
Annoyed, she climbed the ladder. ‘Coming?’
They could stay downstairs for all she cared.
As she reached the top, she was surprised to discover Jamie packing up the table and chairs they’d used for the meeting.
‘I thought I’d make myself useful,’ he said, shaking crumbs from the tablecloth. ‘Everything okay?’
Before she could reply, her parents appeared at the top of the ladder.
She inwardly cringed. If Jamie thought she was a spoilt, rich, insensitive posh knob with no clue about living in the real world, what the hell was he going to make of her parents?
Therefore she couldn’t have been more surprised when he came over and extended his hand. ‘Mr Tipping, I assume? Delighted to meet you, sir.’
Sir? Sam felt her eyebrows almost touch her hairline.
‘Jamie Lawson. I’m a volunteer at The Crash Pad.’ He shook her dad’s hand and then turned his charms on her mother. ‘Mrs Tipping. It’s an honour.’
An honour? Okay, what was going on?
