Construct A Couple

by Roland, Talli

  “Yes, I have some things to get in order after the meeting, so I’ll be working through the afternoon,” she replies, sounding mystified by my request. “Come by when you can.”

  I hang up the phone, a myriad of emotions flooding through me. What if I can’t think of something? What if the trustees hate my efforts? And what if we still can’t reach Jeremy? I take a deep breath and shove away the doubt. I can’t sit tight, hoping everything will be fine. I have the opportunity to do something, and I’m going to grab onto it for all I’m worth.

  “What’s happening?” Lizzie raises her head from the screen.

  “Jeremy’s charity needs a plan to raise money. Fast,” I say bluntly. Lizzie’s an entrepreneur. Maybe she’ll have some ideas. I need all the help I can get!

  “Right.” Her eyes spark, and a businesslike expression settles on her face. “Well, forget corporate donors. I’d go grassroots – fundraising, along those lines. You can set up events quickly, without too much hassle.”

  “Hmm.” My heart starts beating fast as I turn her idea over in my head. Lots of charities fundraise, don’t they? Jeremy’s never had to, since he’s always been able to secure corporate donations. But until we can get another big company on board, perhaps Lizzie’s hit on something.

  Exactly how much money will we need to raise, I wonder? I can’t wait to talk to Karen and get a grip on the financials. Jeremy mentioned a debt, and then there’s the operating costs . . . it can’t be much, though. The office premises are rented, and debts are paid in small installments, right? This fundraising thing might actually be viable.

  The day passes in a flurry of work, and when five o’clock comes, I email my finished stories to Jonas. As I stride through the newsroom, a tiny flicker of pride glows inside. When I first started here, checking two articles would have taken me forever, but the more time passes, the faster – and better – I’m becoming. And by working alongside Helen, I’m beginning to get a solid grasp of reporting skills.

  A torturous tube ride later, I’m outside the charity’s small offices off Mornington Crescent. The streets are packed with people hurrying home, and I breathe in the scent of London, something like coal mixed with damp. I ring the buzzer, tapping my foot in a bid to stop nodding off. I’m so exhausted now I can barely focus.

  “Pick Up Sticks,” Karen’s voice chirps through the intercom.

  “It’s Serenity!” I wait for the door to click open, then clomp down the short corridor and into the ground-floor office.

  I haven’t been here for ages, but not much has changed. My heart squeezes as I remember Jeremy’s happy face when he showed me the premises. He’d said he knew beyond a doubt this was what he wanted: creating buildings to help people live independently. It was the perfect combination of the skills he’d learned in his former life as a builder and property developer, and now he was finally putting them to good use.

  I bite my lip, looking around at the soothing soft grey walls and cream carpet; the wide hallways to accommodate wheelchairs; and the Stroke Association magazines littering wooden coffee tables Jeremy fashioned himself. Not many clients would visit, he’d said, but if they did, he was keen to ensure they’d see they could have a beautiful home and be self-sufficient, too. I can’t imagine this place closing. Shutting the door – literally – on his dream.

  It’s not going to happen. A shot of adrenaline jolts through me – wow, even better than caffeine! – and I smile brightly at Karen, noticing she’s dyed her short white bob a rather startling shade of red (orange?) since I’ve last seen her.

  “Serenity. Dear.” She comes from behind the desk and kisses me on the cheek, then peers at my face. “Well, goodness. You look almost as exhausted as Jeremy did when he left here! You two need to take better care of yourselves.”

  Isn’t that the truth, I think grimly, shaking my head.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “Well . . .” I pause. “Jeremy may not be here yet, but that doesn’t mean we can’t start strategising for the future.”

  “What do you mean?” Karen asks.

  “I was thinking I could put together a fundraising plan, something to show how the charity can draw in a regular sum of money through different events. I just need to know how much to aim for.”

  Karen taps a slender finger against her chin. “I’d like to help, but I’m not sure about the ethics of sharing the charity’s financials with you. It’s meant to be confidential.”

  “I can write a plan without the figures,” I say, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. “But minus specific financial targets, I’ll be shooting in the dark.” I stare hard, willing her to help. “And what if we can’t reach Jeremy? This plan could be Pick Up Sticks’ last hope.”

  Karen’s silent for a long moment.

  “You know, Jeremy was so kind to my husband back in that rehabilitation centre,” she says finally, shaking her carrot-coloured head.

  “Jeremy knew your husband?” For some reason, I’d thought her husband had passed away years ago.

  She nods, dabbing at her eyes with a delicate hankie edged in lace. “Yes, but not for very long. William had his first stroke a while back, and I left my job to care for him.

  “Just over a year ago, he had a series of smaller strokes, and he was admitted to the same centre as Jeremy.” Karen’s face twists, as if she’s remembered something painful. “William was bitter, to say the least. He’d already had such a tough time, and the strokes meant he’d lost even more mobility. He’d curse the therapist, swear at me . . . it was as if the man I loved had vanished. Then Jeremy met him, and they started to chat. Gradually, through that friendship, I got my husband back.”

  She wipes away a tear. “William passed a short time later, but at least for those last few months, he was still William. I can never thank Jeremy enough.”

  I meet her eyes, my own filling up, too.

  “So, yes. I’ll do what I can to help Jeremy and the charity. Let’s have a cuppa, and see what’s what.” Karen pops on an electric kettle in the corner of the room, and without even asking, mixes me some tea with a splash of milk. I swear to God, these people think tea is the answer to everything – if only. Now wine . . . that’s a different story.

  “First things first.” After handing me a mug, she slides on her wire-framed glasses and opens up some files. “The plan will need to show we can raise at least ten thousand pounds a month to begin repaying the debt and cover our running costs.”

  My heart sinks in dismay. Ten thousand? A month? I was thinking more along the lines of two or three grand, at most. How much is the damn debt?

  “And that’s barely enough to keep us afloat, never mind starting new projects.” Karen catches sight of my face and gives me an encouraging look. “But we have to start somewhere, yes? Your fundraising plan sounds like a good one. One of the trustees’ main concerns, apart from covering costs, was to show a viable way of financing the charity going forward. Something reliable, not connected to the whims of corporate donors. Okay, let’s get started . . .”

  By ten o’clock, the two of us have worked up a list of ideas – everything from holding our own car boot sale (aka flea market), to booking one of the many community stalls in markets around the city, to street canvassing, to fun runs in Hyde Park – and I’m beginning to believe this could be possible. If we hold several events each month, we just might hit ten thousand pounds.

  I let out a giant yawn and turn to Karen. “Do you think this will be enough?”

  She lifts her shoulders. “I’m not sure. The trustees are very nervous. We’re legally liable for any debts, and even though Jeremy gave his personal guarantee, to be frank” – Karen shakes her head – “we do need him here to show he’s on board. He runs the whole thing, after all.”

  Smoothing down her hair, she pushes back from the computer. “I’m sure we’ll find him, and at least the plan will be ready. I can always run through it with the board if we can’t get in touch. It won’t have t
he same impact, though.”

  “There must be something else we can do,” I wonder out loud. “Something to show the trustees the plan is solid, even if Jeremy’s not around to present it. Something concrete – like putting on an actual fundraising event!” My voice rises in excitement, but Karen gazes at me doubtfully.

  “It would take some doing – we’ve less than a week until the meeting.” She touches my hand. “You’ve been a great help so far, and I’m sure Jeremy will appreciate every bit of it. Why don’t you go home and rest?”

  I shudder just thinking how I must look after my twenty-four-hour-wake-athon. As exhausted as I am, though, I can’t stop until I’ve done everything possible.

  “Thanks so much for your help,” I say. “I’m going to research all the events we’ve brainstormed. If I type up a month-by-month plan with the fundraising estimates, would you be able to check my figures to make sure they’re right?” Math isn’t exactly my strong suit, and I’d hate to create an even bigger mess of things by giving Jeremy a plan full of errors.

  “Of course. Send me the document when you’ve finished, and I’ll review it. Now, good night.” She nudges me gently towards the door.

  “Night.” As I head into the damp London evening, I hope with all my might what I’m doing will be enough – for both the charity and my relationship.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I rush into the newsroom the next morning, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed. I was up late, staring at the initial plan Karen and I put together, and trying to determine what event we could pull off before next Monday – something capable of raising enough money to show our strategy could succeed. The one thing on our list that just might work is renting a community stall at Camden Market this weekend. Jeremy’s office is in Camden, and I’m sure the council would love to help a local charity. Plus, the market is absolutely jammed on the weekends with tourists and locals alike.

  When the clock hits nine, I quickly Google ‘Camden Town Hall’ then scrawl down the general switchboard number. After telling the monotone receptionist I’m interested in a community stall, she transfers me to the street trading team. The phone rings and rings, clicking through to voicemail. I punch in the number again, but the same thing happens. Where the hell are these people?

  Lizzie shoots me a curious look. “Why are you trying to talk to the street trading team?”

  “I wanted to rent a community stalls this weekend,” I answer. “See if we can raise some money for Jeremy’s charity.”

  “This weekend?” Lizzie’s eyebrows fly up. “Forget it, mate. Those things are booked months in advance. Not to mention you need insurance and all that.”

  My heart drops – I should have known it wouldn’t be so simple. The possibility of a bake sale is looking sadly oh-too-real. Hope people like stale Jaffas as much as I do.

  “But . . .” Lizzie lifts her chin. “I have another idea.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Forgot those poncy community stalls. You don’t need them when you can have a whole market.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, staring at her in confusion. “You just said I’ll need insurance . . .”

  Lizzie shakes her head, ponytail whipping across her shoulders. “You only need it if you’re going to be running a booth. But with my idea, you won’t be.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, wondering what she has in mind.

  “I’ve been thinking about this since you mentioned the charity needs money. Most people know someone who’s been affected by a stroke, right?”

  I nod. “Unfortunately.”

  “So it’s a cause almost everyone will want to support.”

  “Uh-huh.” My voice is a bit impatient now.

  “Here’s the plan. We’ll get all the stallholders at my market to donate ten percent of their proceeds this weekend to the charity. Brilliant, right?” Lizzie looks at me smugly.

  My mouth drops open. Is she on drugs? The stallholders aren’t exactly rolling in it, and I’ve seen how hard they work to sell their goods. “You think they would?”

  Lizzie shrugs. “It’s tax deductible, right? Anyway, it’s worth a try. Unless you have a better idea?”

  “No,” I respond. “The community stall was pretty much it, apart from me standing on the corner in a chicken suit selling biscuits or something.”

  “Right.” Her jaw is set. “Come with me to the market after work today. We’ll chat with the traders while they pack up, and get them on board.”

  “That would be fantastic. Thank you!” I still can’t believe the stallholders will go for the scheme, but she’s right: I don’t have any other plans, and it’s worth a shot.

  At five o’clock, the two of us fly down the lift, through the streets, and over to Lizzie’s stall. An older woman with Lizzie’s eyes and jutting chin is packing away the colourful goods.

  “Serenity, this is my mother, Pat.” Lizzie puts a hand on her mum’s shoulder. “She runs the booth when I’m not here, and she does a fab job.”

  “I try.” Pat’s face crinkles into a smile, and I notice one side drooping slightly, an after effect of her stroke.

  “Mum, Serenity’s boyfriend runs a charity for stroke victims. We’re holding a fundraiser this weekend, and we need to get everyone here to donate a percentage of their earnings. Want to help?”

  “Let me at ‘em!” Pat’s eyes flash and before we know it, she’s rocketed off towards the stalls at the top of the street.

  “Mum’s a legend,” Lizzie whispers as we hurry after her. “No-one ever tells her no! And if they do, she badgers them until they change their mind.”

  I watch in awe as Pat strides over to a burly man boxing up veggies. She beckons to me and Lizzie, and we scuttle to her side.

  “This here is Serenity.” Pat gestures towards me. The trader holds out a weathered hand, and I grasp it firmly. Mom believes you can ‘divine’ a lot about people from their handshake.

  “Nice to meet you.” God, given the grip, this man is more wrestler than a vegetable seller!

  “Serenity will be raising money this weekend for a charity to support stroke victims,” Pat says. “Everyone’s giving twenty percent of their takings.”

  My eyes pop. Twenty percent? Not to mention no-one’s signed up to our little plan yet. Pat doesn’t seem too concerned with the finer details, though.

  “Unless you want to be the cheap one here,” she continues, “you should donate, too.”

  Before Pat’s even finished her sentence, the trader is nodding. “Sure, sure. Happy to help.”

  “See?” Lizzie hisses. “Told you it’d work!”

  “Good luck!” Veggie Man/ Wrestler calls after us as we charge towards the next stall.

  “And that’s how it’s done.” Pat grins confidently over her shoulder. “I can push these blokes’ buttons, no problem. None of them wants to be the odd one out, innit? Come on, let’s get the rest on board.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we’ve made our way down the narrow stretch, and managed to talk to most of the vendors. Although one man – selling sample make-up that looks like it’s fallen off the back of a truck – says ‘I don’t do charity’, after the evil eye from Pat, he quickly succumbs. With every stall that signs up, my hope and excitement build. This money won’t solve the charity’s problems, but it could show fundraising works; that people are willing to give.

  Now all we need is Jeremy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Thursday and Friday fly by in a blur of fundraising research, typing up the final plan, and meeting with Karen to review the figures (and the content . . . just in case). Together, we print up colourful flyers to hand out at the market, hoping they’ll drive more donations. Pat is planning to be there all weekend and Karen’s going to drop by, too. Everything’s ticking along perfectly and even the weather cooperates, dawning sunny and bright on Saturday morning.

  The only kink? Jeremy still isn’t back and he hasn’t been in touch, despite our continued texts and emails. Althou
gh Karen and I haven’t voiced it aloud, we both know without his presence at this meeting, all our efforts are likely in vain. He didn’t say exactly when he’d return, but surely this is taking ‘time away’ a little too far? Worry pangs through me as I wonder what he’s thinking.

  Focus on things you can control, I tell myself. Wispy white clouds trail across the sky as I push my way through the quiet streets and over to the market. Even though the air still has an early-spring bite, the sun warms my back as I turn onto East Street.

  “Serenity!” Lizzie waves as I approach, her chunky gold bracelets jangling. Today, she’s wearing a neon-pink satin baseball jacket and super-skinny jeans.

  “Hey!” I say, breaking into a grin. You can’t help smiling when she’s around, no matter what worries plague you.

  “Hang on a sec.” She ducks behind the stall, returning with a large rectangular board covered in a colourful patchwork of fabric. Funky letters in different shapes spell out ‘20% of all proceeds to charity’. It’s a work of art, certain to catch the eye of any passer-by.

  “Mum helped me make it. She’ll be by later to tell you all about how much she helped, I’m sure.” Lizzie rolls her eyes.

  “Thank you,” I say over a lump in my throat. “Not just for the sign, but for everything.”

  She gives me a gentle nudge. “Don’t be silly. Where’s Jeremy, anyway? I thought he’d be coming with you.”

  “It’s a very long story,” I respond, sighing. “By the time I finished telling you, the weekend would be over.” But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s not that long. Quite simply, we didn’t trust each other – or our relationship – enough to share our troubles and doubts.

  Lizzie glances at a silver watch strapped to her arm amidst the bracelets. “Right, we’d better finish setting up. The more we sell, the more money we raise. Hope you’ve got your game-face ready.”