Chloe's Rescue Mission

by Dean, Rosie

  ‘Ghastly, snivelling civil servants!’ Mum had spat, after reading it. ‘What’s the betting they’re in the pocket of the developers?’

  ‘They can’t be. It’s not ethical,’ I’d argued.

  ‘Darling, since when did ethics get in the way of greed? I remember The Old Rectory mysteriously went up in flames, only days before the campaigners were going to Downing Street with their petition to save it.’

  The clock in the foyer ticked over to two minutes past twelve. What if, one morning, we woke up to discover our lovely theatre had been burnt to the ground in the middle of the night? It wouldn’t be difficult to sneak round the back and set off a few small fires. I shuddered.

  A sleek, silver Mercedes pulled into the car-park. My stomach clenched. This was it – probably the most significant meeting of my life, to date. I must not blow it with inappropriate jokes, verbal diarrhoea or begging.

  I checked my appearance in one of the mirrors that ran the length of the stairwell; I’d chosen an Aztec print dress which I’d bought in San José. It was in my favourite colours of turquoise and orange. I had a pearl and turquoise pendant with matching earrings that Grandee Joshua had given me on my sixteenth birthday, and I’d tamed my hair at the back of my head with fine, navy rope. Not bad, I thought. Smart without being too formal. It was Sunday, after all.

  Moving out onto the theatre steps, I watched as Duncan blipped the car lock and sauntered over. He was wearing cream chinos and a blue polo shirt, which made him look more athletic than his office suit had. I swallowed, stood tall and walked down the steps, a bright smile on my face and my hand held out in greeting. ‘Good morning, Duncan. Welcome to the Joshua Steele Theatre.’ I hadn’t spent half my life on stage without learning a thing or two about how to deliver an opening speech.

  He took off his sunglasses and returned my smile with one less enthusiastic. He shook my hand. ‘Good morning, Chloe. Not a bad location.’

  No small talk today, then. But I wasn’t about to have my pitch undermined; location, services, nearby restaurants – all of them considerations for the success of the theatre – were covered in slide five of my presentation. ‘How was your journey?’ I asked brightly.

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘Come on in.’ I headed towards the steps.

  Duncan, however, held back. I turned to see him looking up at the front of the theatre. His eyes were narrowed, possibly against the sunlight or, more likely, scrutinising the fabric of the old building for reasons not to invest. Then he scanned the small car-park. Eventually, he said, ‘Okay, show me round.’

  I hoisted the frown from my face and opened one of the large, glass doors. I’d met his type before – control freak. I grabbed my folder from the box-office hatch, about to begin our tour but stopped when I saw him studying the gallery of photos lining the foyer walls.

  ‘This is you?’ he asked, pointing to a black and white shot of me in a gingham dress and plaited hair. I was seated between the Friendly Lion and the Tin Man. I was fifteen at the time.

  ‘Yes. And the Tin Man is Morgan Ash.’

  ‘Really?’ He peered more closely at it before looking along the line to an even earlier picture of me in Hansel and Gretel, taken when I was eleven – all gangly arms and legs.

  ‘Do you still perform?’ he asked.

  ‘Not so much, these days. “Been there, done that,” as they say.’ I nodded my head as if to convince him I really did feel that way. No point going into detail about my rampant stage fright.

  He didn’t comment but stepped back, looked at me and said, ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘Great. This way.’ I pulled the door open to the stalls. Owen had come over to help me set up the presentation, and was now lurking up in the control room to hear what was being said.

  Not much, as it happened. Duncan started by tapping walls and testing seats. As I watched him run his hand over the threadbare corner of a seat cushion, I gushed, ‘Ideally, we’d refurbish the seats, but I don’t see them as essential at this stage. When they get very tatty, we tend to swap the ones in the popular areas for those in the corners and at the back.’

  ‘So I noticed. What about the dressing rooms? You said they need rebuilding. Can you show me?’

  ‘Yes. Hang on a sec. I’d really like you to hear the acoustics.’ I stepped forward and waved to Owen in the control room. As I did so, he dimmed the lights and turned up the sound system to play a short track by a local band. I watched Duncan’s face. In the gloom, I could make out a deep, unnerving frown. When the track ended, he merely nodded and waited for me to progress.

  In the first dressing room, where I’d personally replaced every dead light-bulb with a new one, Duncan asked to see the surveyor’s report. Fully prepared, I opened the folder at the right page and handed it over. He glanced through the paragraphs and turned to the builders’ estimates – of which there were two. The frown hadn’t budged. In fact, it seemed even more entrenched. Maybe it would lift when I showed him the presentation Owen and I had spent hours putting together. I was praying it would demonstrate our commitment and professionalism.

  He closed the folder and looked at me. ‘Can I have a copy of this?’

  ‘That is your copy. You can take it away and study it in more detail.’

  He carried on looking at me. His brows lifted slightly. What, I wondered, was he thinking? Was he judging me?

  Snapping back to the present, I announced, ‘Right, to the stage!’ As I strode ahead, I promised myself not to slap my thigh or give him jazz-hands.

  On stage, Owen had placed a desk and two chairs in the centre, and on it the laptop screen showed a looping series of images from past productions. I gestured to Duncan to sit down. ‘I’d like to run through a few facts about the theatre, if I may.’

  The creak of his chair echoed ominously in the empty building. I sat next to him, picked up the mouse and clicked onto the first slide. For several minutes, I talked through historical statistics, pertinent local facts and potential investors. But in the back of my mind, I was recalling the advice I’d given to so many people about making presentations: take your time, breathe properly and speak clearly. Yet I was hurtling through my pitch like there was a bomb ticking under my chair.

  Duncan held up his hand. ‘Chloe,’ he began.

  I froze.

  ‘I can see you’ve put a lot of work into this and it’s great.’

  I blinked back at him, waiting for the ‘but’.

  ‘But…’ He smiled. ‘Relax. I’m not here to test you. I just want to find out whether or not I should get involved.’ He leaned towards me. ‘Okay?’

  I grinned and clasped my hands. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just – this really means a lot to my family.’

  ‘I know. So, take a deep breath and tell me where you want to go with it.’

  Up this close, I was aware of the pale line of skin between his top lip and the dark shadow of stubble above it. What was the cologne he was wearing – was that a hint of cedar wood, maybe amber too? I could feel the warmth coming off him, or was it just the lights? I noticed him frown again before he glanced across at the mouse. I saw him swallow just before he said quietly, ‘So, when you’re ready…’

  Of course. I breathed deeply, nodded and began again. After several minutes, I reined in my enthusiasm and sat back. ‘I’ll shut up now.’

  One elbow on the desk, Duncan’s head tilted as he looked at me. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth again. ‘Why not tell me more over lunch?’

  ‘Lunch!’ I hadn’t meant it to come out like an accusation.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, it is lunch time.’

  ‘No. Yes. Sorry.’ Damn. It never occurred to me he would want to hang around for lunch. ‘It’s just…’ Oh bollocks. I was about to sound so provincial. ‘Mum’s cooking lunch for the family, and I’ve invited Owen back to thank him for helping me with the presentation. So um…’

  ‘Of course.’ Duncan took hold of the folder in both hands. ‘I
should have asked Marlean to ring ahead and check your schedule.’ My schedule? That made me sound important. ‘We can finish up now. If I need any more information, I’ll be in touch.’ He stood up.

  I stood so fast my head span. ‘Wait!’ I urged, touching his arm then retracting my hand immediately. ‘Why don’t you join us? Mum always cooks far too much. And it’ll save you stopping off at motorway services, or wherever...’

  What was I saying? Here was a guy, clearly used to eating in the finest restaurants – heck, he probably owned half of them – and I was suggesting a family roast might beat a burger on the motorway. But the invitation was out there now. It wasn’t something I could suck back in like bubble gum.

  As he looked at me, I could practically hear his brain scanning a database of appropriate excuses. He checked his watch again and tapped his thumbs on the folder.

  Eventually, he said, ‘Are you sure she wouldn’t mind?’

  Mind? Boody-hell! He actually wanted to come.

  ‘Of course not. The more the merrier.’ Those jazz-hands were twitching.

  ‘Right, well, I just need to make a phone call. I’ll do it from the car.’

  ‘Okay. Owen and I’ll lock up and meet you outside.’

  As I watched him make his way out of the auditorium, I dived into my bag for my phone. Please God, let mum have done her usual and cooked for an army.

  *

  Duncan hated having to call the restaurant to cancel the table – he knew how infuriating it was to lose a booking at such short notice – but he promised he would re-book in the near future.

  He flipped the phone closed and stared at the cracked tarmac. Was this wise? Taking a potential business associate out for lunch was one thing, going back to her family home for Sunday lunch was entirely different. Still, what else was he going to do – eat lunch alone and immerse himself in the report on opportunities around the Italian Lakes? Although, the prospect of meeting Chloe’s mother, Jennifer Dawson, probably swung it. He’d grown up watching her in the TV series, Mad Dogs and Englishmen. It had been one of the few programmes he and his sister had watched with their mother. No matter that he’d met countless celebrities in recent years, it would be a thrill to meet someone who had been so significant in his childhood.

  He looked back up at the theatre. One could hardly call it the best in sixties’ design but a new colour scheme would make a big difference to its appearance – and to the budget. This could easily turn into a money pit. All the same, he liked the idea of being involved in a more altruistic project.

  The sunlight glinting on the theatre door shifted. A young man wearing a loose t-shirt in pea-green over black jeans, emerged. His heavy mop of hair marked him out as a geek.

  Chloe locked the door then turned towards Duncan and called, ‘If you want to follow us, this one’s mine.’ She pointed to a red and white Mini.

  He nodded and waved, before slipping into the hot, leather seat of his car and gunning the engine.

  *

  There was just enough room on our gravelled drive for me to squeeze my car alongside Beth’s battered estate car, leaving space for Duncan to pull in behind.

  Juniper Cottage is on the edge of a small Cotswold village, just outside Barnworth. The buttery stonework almost dazzles on sunny days like this. The two cherry trees flanking the entrance to the drive were in blossom, brightening the heavy green of the holly bushes along the lane.

  I walked over to meet him, just as there was a loud and fearsome volley of barking from the side garden. Mum’s honey-coloured German Shepherd, Kandy, appeared and planted her paws on the gate, demanding attention.

  I pulled a face. ‘That’s Kandy. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but she’s the softest dog, really.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I love dogs. She’s just doing her job.’

  I turned to Owen. ‘Duncan, this is Owen Shaw. We used to be in the youth theatre together. He’s the tech-head who looks after our website.’

  They shook hands, and I led the way to the front door. I prayed Duncan wouldn’t mind the recently delivered pile of horse manure, humming by the side gate, or the stack of old dining chairs my mother had salvaged from a car-boot sale and was planning to renovate.

  The savoury smell of roast dinner met us as we stepped into the large, square hall. There was a ticking of claws on the kitchen tiles as Kandy made her way through from the garden. Duncan stood still as she approached. After a few more greeting barks, she was on her back, paws relaxed, waiting for a tummy-rub.

  Duncan hunkered down and obliged.

  ‘She’s shameless.’ I said.

  ‘Runs in the family,’ Owen added so I threw him a warning look.

  ‘Beautiful dog,’ said Duncan. ‘I’d love one but when you travel like I do, it’s just not possible.’ He continued ruffling the woolly shawl of fur around Kandy’s neck. ‘We always had a dog at home. My mother used to get the ugliest mongrel from the rescue centre – she thought they were more loving than the good-looking ones.’

  Owen sidled past us and headed for the kitchen. ‘Morning, Mrs S.’

  Duncan stood, suddenly appearing very tall in the low-ceilinged confines of the cottage. I followed Owen and beckoned Duncan to follow me. Mum was pink in the face as she turned towards us. Like me, she had thick, wavy hair but hers was cropped into a bob which, when untamed, resembled a dish mop. Today was no exception. Her fashion style is Bollywood does Gym – all Indian fabrics, bling and leggings with pumps. ‘Hello lovely people. Sorry about the mess. Hello Duncan – and welcome. I’m Jennifer.’ She moved towards him, arms outstretched like she was greeting family at the airport, so he had no option but to hug her.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jennifer, and sorry for crashing your family lunch.’

  ‘Nonsense. We’re delighted to have you. And I’m so thrilled you’re taking an interest in the theatre.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Where’s Beth,’ I asked.

  ‘Upstairs, bathing Tom. He showed a bit too much interest in that pile of excrement outside.’ I flinched. ‘Owen, darling, do me a favour and open that bottle of red, will you?’

  *

  Duncan surveyed the kitchen, with its shabby pine cupboards, cream coloured Aga and an old table laden with jars of home-made jam. Curled on a chair was a huge tabby cat, seemingly oblivious to the activities around it. Duncan had a flashback to childhood, when his own mother would be busily preparing a dozen cooked breakfasts for their guests, while he and his sister made round after round of toast, and ferried plates to and from the dining room. It hadn’t been long before the roles had changed, and he’d been the one sweating over pans full of bacon and eggs, and stirring a heavy-bottomed skillet full of porridge.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Duncan?’ Chloe was smiling at him. He could tell she was on her best I-hope-I-don’t-put-a-foot-wrong behaviour.

  ‘If you’ve any alcohol-free beer, I’ll have one of those, please.’

  Owen handed Chloe the opened wine bottle. ‘Don’t mind if I check the fridge for beers, do you, Mrs S?’ he asked, checking anyway.

  Duncan watched as Chloe poured two glasses of wine and placed one by the Aga for her mother. A thought occurred to him. ‘Jennifer, I must apologise for not bringing you a bottle of wine. Very remiss of me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. You can bring two next time.’

  He saw Chloe’s eyes pinch with embarrassment before recovering to say, ‘Let’s go into the sitting room. When Mum gets to the final stages of food prep, she prefers to panic in private.’

  ‘It’s not panic, darling. It’s organisation. If I’m chatting to guests, I leave things in the oven. Bugger what they say about women multi-tasking; a glass of wine and good conversation can really screw up your menu.’

  Duncan smiled. ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I started out in catering.’

  ‘Well, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Do you like to cook?’

  ‘I
do, yes, when I have time. It helps me unwind.’

  ‘So what’s your speciality?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I enjoy big meat dishes; putting lots of flavour into a casserole or preparing a really hearty roast joint. I can’t be doing with all this scientific stuff they do on Masterchef. I come from the bish-bash-bosh school of cookery.’

  ‘Quite right, too!’ Jennifer raised her glass to him. ‘Now, you three go and sit down, I’ll shout when it’s ready.’

  ‘This way,’ Chloe said, before leading him back through the hall to a cosy, and equally shabby sitting room.

  He sat in a threadbare armchair beside the fireplace. A large arrangement of dusty, dried hydrangeas lay in front of the empty grate. Heavy, William Morris print curtains flanked the French doors, which looked out onto a long lawn, with fruit trees at the far end. On an old writing bureau in the corner, he could see a group of family photos including one of the famous Joshua Steele.

  Owen joined them, holding a bottle out to Duncan and swigging his own as he did so.

  ‘So, Owen, I’m interested in your business. What is it you do?’

  Chapter 4

  I listened as Owen described his business, and watched as Duncan nodded encouragingly. I had to hand it to him, he had a knack for drawing people out. I was about to sing Owen’s praises for producing the theatre’s website, when Duncan probed more deeply into the nature of his business, and I began to wonder whether Owen might end up a candidate for the Business Angel programme, himself. I just hoped it wouldn’t be instead of the theatre. I shifted forward on the sofa. Was his TV show the real reason for Duncan’s interest in us?