The Little Village Christmas
Page 24
Alexia laughed, feeling pretty bouncy herself. ‘You deserve it. I’m surprised you’re not seeing chairs and tables in your sleep, you’ve tarted up so many. I’d be a month further back without you.’
They eventually reached the front of the queue and had their passes zapped with a bar code reader. Then they were free to surge into the bright lights and exciting hum of the main hall where colourful stands and light boxes vied for their attention. Alexia wasn’t required to report to Media Stage 2 until 1.45 p.m. so, after she’d texted Quinn to confirm her arrival, they had the morning in which to please themselves.
Carola was like a child given the run of Toys R Us, trying out software on which to design her dream kitchen, getting into earnest conversation with a woman about the benefits of a water softener, drooling over fine white towels that purported to dry you in no time and never discolour, and tossing back her blonde bob to consult a physical trainer about what she’d require from a home gym, should she ever feel the need.
Alexia was inclined to observe rather than interact. She watched a couple of demonstrations involving new paints and browsed room sets to check out upcoming styles and colours. Innovations in smart home technology absorbed her for an hour because she’d had a lot of home-loving clients who were gadget lovers, too.
Deliberately not telling Carola where she was going because she was beginning to get a very fluttery attack of butterflies, she toured the Atrium with its two media stages, sponsors’ hubs and ‘theatres’ where those interested could sit and watch a rolling programme of talks and demonstrations. The media stages were very plain, comprising a dais with a white background and black seating.
But Alexia gulped when she saw enough plastic chairs to seat an audience of twenty. She’d assumed a facility that would enjoy the seclusion of Quinn’s radio studio but with a camera as well as microphones. Although the audience numbered only three for Media Stage 2’s current community radio event she left the area with her butterflies in a frenzy.
By lunchtime both she and Carola were glad to take the weight off their feet. Carola dug into roast vegetables and corn-fed chicken while Alexia picked at a sandwich and drank three cups of tea. Ben, Gabe and Jodie all sent her good luck texts and she got so caught up with understated replies about feeling slightly nervous that she got a horrible shock when she caught sight of the time.
‘I’m due at Media Stage 2 in five minutes!’ All her butterflies simultaneously looped-the-loop and went into tailspins. ‘I haven’t left enough time to get to the loo and I’ve drunk about a bucket of tea.’
Carola glanced at her watch and her eyebrows shot up. ‘Gosh. I’ll find you a loo. Come on!’
She almost had to drag Alexia and her trembling legs along, locating a Ladies behind a wall of stands and shoving her through the door. A queue of patient women waited in front of an inadequate number of stalls.
‘Oh, no!’ Alexia ground to a hopeless halt. She’d never attend to business in time to arrive for the filming on time if she waited her turn but if she didn’t attend to business she’d very likely be bug-eyed and cross-legged by the time the filming was complete.
Undeterred, Carola simply carried on to the head of the queue, smiling charmingly. ‘Could you possibly put up with my friend cutting in? She’s due at a filming in three minutes and is desperately desperate. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.’ A cubicle door opened, a lady came out and Carola shoved Alexia through it so hard she almost greeted the toilet on her hands and knees.
‘Thank you!’ Alexia shouted over the stall to the waiting queue. ‘I’m really sorry.’
She could hear Carola’s voice continuing, soothing, apologising and thanking in such a long and grateful stream that nobody really got a chance to protest. Mission accomplished, Alexia shot out of the cubicle, washed her hands, ran her fingers through her hair in the hopes that it would make it a bit less as if a child had scribbled it around her head, applied a lightning coat of lipstick then shot out into the Exhibition Hall.
Carola caught her up, linking arms firmly to swing her around. ‘You’re fine. Absolutely bang on time. Don’t run all the way there and arrive out of breath and sweaty. Let’s look at you.’ Carola checked her out. ‘A tiny touch of powder? You’re shiny.’ She produced a pale green compact from her bag and dabbed at Alexia’s nose. ‘Straighten your collar. Good. All set for a relaxed stroll.’
‘When did you become a media styling expert?’ Alexia felt her knees turn to soup as they passed into the Atrium and she could actually see Media Stage 2 and several people in black polo shirts surrounding two cameras topped with spongy microphones.
Carola laughed. ‘It’s not much different to getting everyone settled before the village fete, is it? Last-minute nerves. People needing a bit of a tidy up before their photos are taken.’
‘Alexia!’ Quinn waved from the stage, rocking a navy blazer over what looked a lot like a bodycon dress under stress. ‘You’re nice and punctual. The other guests haven’t arrived yet. Come on the stage and Avril will mic you up.’
Carola gave her an encouraging pat and promised to look after her bag. ‘I’ll sit back a bit. Have fun!’
The relaxed attitudes of Quinn and Carola had their desired effects. Alexia’s knees hardly wobbled as she ascended two steps to the carpet-covered stage and met Avril, a tiny girl with big boots who seated her in the middle one of the three guest seats and clipped a tiny microphone to her jacket lapel and shoved a battery pack at her back. Quinn chatted to Alexia as if they were the only ones there while Alexia tried not to think about the gathering audience. The other guests arrived, both men. One was grey-haired and smelled slightly of beer, the other looking as if he did this sort of thing every day. ‘You’re a rose between two thorns,’ he said cheerily to Alexia. ‘I’m Eddie and I advise on solar heating.’
The other man reached over Alexia to shake hands with Eddie and said, ‘Brian. Floor covering.’ Almost as an afterthought he shook hands with Alexia, too.
Quinn chatted with each guest in turn while the camera crews talked about levels and readings, then one of the crew, a woman who Quinn had identified as the floor manager, said, ‘Ready when you are,’ to Quinn.
Alexia felt her nerves again for a few seconds as she realised that not only were two cameras gazing at her like one-eyed robots but that all twenty of the audience seats were filled and a similar number of people were standing behind. Local presenter Quinn obviously commanded a lot of interest. She took a steadying sip of the water provided on the low table in front of the panel.
‘OK.’ Quinn took a last glance through her notes. ‘We’re going to carry on chatting, just as we have been.’ She glanced at the floor manager and nodded then looked into Camera 1 and smiled. ‘I’m Quinn Daly, a self-confessed home improvement junkie. It’s a delight for me to have the chance to chat to some industry experts today and pick their brains. Welcome along, everyone.’ She included them all in a wide, welcoming smile. ‘Eddie,’ she began, homing in on the self-possessed man, ‘your area of expertise is solar panels. What’s so good about them? Should I be marring my beautifully tiled roof with an array? I’ve seen them around residential neighbourhoods but I’m not sure how I feel.’
Eddie, obviously used to this type of enquiry, gave a practised spiel about the pros and cons of solar panels.
Quinn turned to Alexia. ‘But what do you think, Alexia? Do you have solar panels on your house?’
With a jolt, Alexia remembered that they weren’t just supposed to be answering questions on their own subjects. She moistened her lips. ‘I don’t have an array. I like solar power’s green credentials but I don’t have the money to invest.’
Eddie came back with financial information about the Feed-in Tariff, i.e. the government paying you for surplus power generated.
Alexia nodded and said, ‘That’s interesting,’ although she knew about FiT already and added, ‘To be honest, I’m not keen on how the panels would look on my stone cottage.’
‘Would she need planning permission?’ Quinn’s head tilted as if to show how hard she was listening. Eddie explained the rules then Quinn turned to Brian to begin a debate about hard floors versus carpets.
By the time it came to Alexia’s segment she felt fairly at home on the little stage. The audience had even laughed at a couple of her comments. Quinn began by asking in general terms about beautifying the home.
Then she slipped in a question Alexia hadn’t anticipated. ‘Alexia, I’d particularly like to talk to you about your recent experience with cowboy builders. We’re all scared of them. How did you, an experienced professional, get so thoroughly ripped off? And how can people avoid the trap you fell into?’
The audience stirred and turned expectantly towards Alexia.
It wasn’t remotely what Alexia had been led to expect and she felt as if Quinn, discovering the existence of a corn on her toe, had stamped upon it.
What the hell? How dare Quinn make her sound as if she were incompetent? And try to lead her into criticising the very tradespersons she needed in her professional networks? It was hardly the positive exposure she’d been encouraged to hope for.
For a moment, all she could do was gape. Quinn leant forward in her seat, looking like an investigative reporter scenting blood. Maybe it was Alexia’s blood because that suddenly roared into her face, making her feel hot and barely in control of the words that began to pour from her lips.
‘Well, Quinn,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s talk about the term “cowboy builders” for a start. I, for one, get sick of hearing it. Instead of being reserved for the person in a thousand who pretends to be qualified when they’re not, or tricks customers into expensive options they don’t need, it’s used far too often against competent and honest tradespersons. For any “offence” from asking perfectly legitimately for a deposit to be paid, bills to be settled on time, architects to share correct information, keys to be left where promised and kids and dogs to be kept off-site, these craftsmen find themselves referred to as “cowboys”.’
A man in the audience gave a quiet cheer, and the audience laughed.
‘You’re a prime example,’ Alexia ploughed on as Quinn opened her mouth to interrupt. ‘You told me you were “let down” by your last interior decorator. In fact, all that happened was he made a simple mistake with dates. Yet you had no hesitation in telling me he was “some cowboy” without making any allowance for a normal human error.’
‘Oh! I didn’t really—’ Quinn began, clearly taken aback.
But Alexia wasn’t ready to bat the conversational ball into Quinn’s court yet. ‘If you want me to provide tips for how to find the best tradesperson for you, and how to work with him or her to make the experience go as smoothly as possible, I’m well qualified. I’m the person who stands between the tradesperson and the client, explaining that if you want a wall knocked down it will make a bit of dust, or that building regulations are not some tiresome trick the builder has created to give you a hard time. Or that he’s not actually responsible for the existence of VAT. But,’ she went on loudly, as Quinn’s mouth opened again, ‘to answer your original question, what happened to me was not about cowboy builders but about conmen. Criminals. Conmen operate in all areas and these two just happened to be builders.’
Quinn sat back, her smile, for once, absent as she ceded control. ‘Why don’t you tell us what happened.’
So Alexia launched into the torrid tale of The Angel, from the inception of a sympathetic restoration to the horror of realising the money had gone along with ‘all the beautiful original features – ripping those out was a crime in itself’, and then how they’d all pulled together to ‘create a different Angel, but one we hope will save my friend from losing all the money he has left. The conmen only think they took everything from us because …’ She paused as if hearing an imaginary drum roll. ‘The Angel Community Café in Middledip opens on the 23rd of December.’
The audience burst into applause. With a last hard look at Quinn, Alexia stopped speaking and sipped from her water glass instead.
After a dazed instant, Quinn switched the conversation back to Brian and Eddie and soon they were wrapping up the session. Alexia couldn’t believe an hour had flitted by.
‘My goodness.’ Eddie grinned at Alexia as he unclipped his mic. ‘You were impressive.’
‘She talked more than the rest of us put together,’ Brian said sourly, dropping his microphone carelessly on the table as he got to his feet before jumping down from the dais.
Quinn looked at Alexia uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry if my question caught you off guard. It’s just that I was asked to keep things lively.’
Now her adrenalin was subsiding Alexia felt as if she’d been blasted into space in a rocket and returned to earth without a parachute. She rose slowly. ‘I’m sorry if my replies caught you off guard.’ She couldn’t quite keep the edge from her voice even though Quinn and Ruby were clients. ‘You told me I was coming here to answer questions about decorating. I know I talked freely about The Angel on the radio but I never used the term “cowboy builders”. It would have been unprofessional and it would have alienated all the great craftsmen I work with. If you’d come clean about your line of questioning then we could have agreed what was off limits.’
‘It was interesting and powerful, though,’ said a man Alexia hadn’t noticed until now. His eyes gleamed from behind blue-framed glasses and his hair was clipped very close to his head.
As he wore a black shirt Alexia assumed he was one of the film crew. ‘Oh, good,’ she said, with a hint of sarcasm.
But the man produced a business card. ‘I’m Antonio Cabrio. I happened to be close by because I work for a production company that’s preparing for a slot on Media Stage 1. I’m also working on another project, a series called Lemonade from Lemons for a satellite channel. Have you seen those programmes like Top Gear and The F1 Show, where the audience stands around the discussion that’s going on between pundits and experts, and some of them get to ask a question? It’s a similar format but selected people in the audience tell their stories of something positive coming from something negative. We’ve just lost a guest we thought we had in place for our “Crooks and Conmen” programme and you’d be perfect. So articulate and impassioned and with an individual perspective.’
Carola, who’d come up to hand Alexia her bag, promptly backed him up. ‘You would be great, Alexia. And you never know, you might stop other people falling for conmen.’
‘Well …’ Alexia began, all uncertain again.
Quinn hovered closer. ‘That does sound interesting.’
‘At least let’s talk about it, Alexia.’ Antonio turned his shoulder to Quinn in an obvious intimation that she wasn’t the one being courted. ‘Let’s find a corner where I can tell you more about what’s involved and you can ask any questions you might have. Which would you prefer – a cuppa or a glass of wine?’
‘Both,’ Alexia replied frankly, suddenly glad that Carola had offered to drive.
She said a cool goodbye to Quinn and soon Antonio, Alexia and Carola had claimed a corner of a bar and Alexia was letting herself be talked into an actual real life TV appearance. One that included a car to deliver her to the studio and take her home. ‘And just think,’ Antonio enthused, ‘your account of what happened might even ring bells with viewers and lead to Shane and Tim being caught!’
‘Well, OK then, but I’m not the kind of person who usually goes on TV,’ Alexia said, taking a great gulp of Pinot grigio.
‘The team will look after you,’ promised Antonio, checking his phone quickly as it beeped an alert. He speeded up his delivery. ‘Filming for the “Crooks and Conmen” episode takes place one week from this evening, 22nd November, and it airs four weeks later, 20th December. Someone will be in touch about the car and what
you should expect. I don’t mind telling you that it’s a great relief to me to secure a replacement guest. Excuse me if I rush, won’t you? Needed on Media Stage 1.’ He jumped up grinning boyishly, dropped luvvie kisses on the cheeks of both women and strode off, already on his phone and looking important.
Carola pedalled her feet, as excited as if she were the one to be on telly. ‘You’re a media star!’
Alexia drained her wine. ‘And I’ve got another week of being on pins! If you’ve seen everything you want to, please can we get home to a bit of sanity? The queues to leave the showground will be immense later.’
Although she sighed, Carola acquiesced. Soon they were hurrying across the great open car park. Carola was driving her husband’s huge Land Rover Defender once again. The mud-spatter pattern emanating from each wheel arch made it look as if she’d been off-roading in it.
Alexia had to fight with the zip of her coat as she climbed in because her phone began to ring. ‘It’s Ben,’ she said before she answered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hadn’t had much practice speaking to him in front of others since their relationship-or-whatever-it-was had changed a week ago and was conscious he might say something she wouldn’t want Carola to overhear.
She began in an unnaturally bright babble. ‘Hiya! I’m in Carola’s car and we’re just about to leave the showground.’
Ben sounded amused, obviously getting why she’d want him to know that she wasn’t alone. ‘How did the filming go?’
She filled him in while Carola reversed the behemoth vehicle from its parking space as if she didn’t care whether she hit things or not, raising her voice to chime in when Alexia got to the part about Lemonade from Lemons. ‘She’s going to be marvellous. Tell her.’