‘You see, what I’m wondering …’ says Robert in the same studiedly calm tone, ‘is where the information pages are, the gallery of photos, the FAQ, the subscription form and, in fact, the whole bloody website?’ He suddenly erupts. ‘Where’s the website? This …’ He jabs at the page. ‘This looks like a classified ad from The Times, 1923! “Apply in writing”? “Apply in writing”?’
I can’t help wincing. He’s right. I mean, he’s right. It’s a ridiculous website.
‘Mrs Kendrick liked “Apply in writing”,’ volunteers Clarissa, who has perched on the corner of the computer desk. ‘Sylvie tried to get her to have an email form, but …’ She glances at me.
‘We tried,’ I affirm.
‘You didn’t try hard enough,’ Robert shoots back, unrelenting. ‘What about Twitter? You have a handle, I’ve seen that, but where are the tweets? Where are the followers?’
‘I’m in charge of Twitter,’ says Clarissa, almost in a whisper. ‘I did tweet once, but I didn’t know what to say, so I just said “hello”.’
Robert looks like he doesn’t even know how to respond to this.
‘I don’t think our clientele are on Twitter,’ I say, coming to Clarissa’s defence. ‘They prefer letters.’
‘Your clientele are dying out,’ says Robert, looking unimpressed. ‘Willoughby House is dying out. This entire concern is dying out and you can’t even see it. You all live in a bubble, my aunt included.’
‘That’s not fair!’ I say hotly. ‘We don’t live in a bubble. We interact with a lot of external organizations, benefactors … And we’re not dying out! We’re a thriving, vibrant, exciting …’
‘You are not thriving!’ Robert suddenly erupts. ‘You are not thriving.’ His voice is huge in the low-ceilinged office and we both gape at him. He rubs the back of his neck, wincing, not looking either of us in the eye. ‘My aunt’s been desperate to keep the truth from you,’ he continues in a calmer voice. ‘But you need to know. This place is in big financial trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ echoes Clarissa, with a little gasp.
‘For the last few years my aunt’s been subsidizing it out of her own money. It can’t go on. And that’s why I’ve stepped in.’
I stare at him, so flabbergasted that I can’t speak. My throat has actually closed up in shock. Mrs Kendrick’s been subsidizing us?
‘But we raise funds!’ says Clarissa, looking pink and distressed, her voice practically a squeak. ‘We’ve done really well this year!’
‘Exactly.’ I find my voice. ‘We raise funds all the time!’
‘Not enough,’ says Robert flatly. ‘This place costs a fortune to run. Heating, lighting, insurance, biscuits, salaries …’ He gives me a pointed look.
‘But Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’ says Clarissa. ‘She donated half a million!’
‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’
‘Long gone,’ says Robert, folding his arms.
Long gone?
I feel shaken to my core. I had no idea. No idea.
I suppose Mrs Kendrick has been rather cagey about the financial situation of the charity. But then she’s cagey about so many things. (Like, for example, she won’t let us have the address of Lady Chapman, one of our supporters, for the database. She says Lady Chapman ‘wouldn’t like it’. So we have to write By hand on the envelope every time we want to send Lady Chapman anything, and Mrs Kendrick delivers it personally to her house.)
As I stare at Robert, I realize I’ve never once doubted the financial strength of Willoughby House. Mrs Kendrick has always told us that we’re doing well. We’ve seen the headline figure for the year and it’s always been great. It never occurred to me that Mrs Kendrick might have contributed to it.
And now suddenly everything makes sense. Robert’s suspicious frown. Mrs Kendrick’s anxious, defensive manner. Everything.
‘So you are going to shut us down and build condos.’ I blurt the thought out before I can stop myself and Robert gives me a long look.
‘Is that what you’ve been expecting?’ he says at last.
‘Well, are you?’ I challenge him and there’s a long silence. My stomach is becoming heavy with foreboding. This is feeling like a real threat. I don’t know what to worry about first: Mrs Kendrick, the art collection, the volunteers, the patrons, or my job. OK, I’ll admit it, it’s my job. I may not have as big as income as Dan does – but we need it.
‘Maybe,’ says Robert at last. ‘I won’t pretend it’s not an option. But it’s not the only option. I would love this place to work. The whole family would. But …’
He gestures around the office, and I can suddenly see the situation from his point of view. An old-fashioned, idiosyncratic yet successful charity is one thing. An old-fashioned, idiosyncratic failing money-pit is something else.
‘We can save it,’ I say, trying to sound robust. ‘It has stacks of potential. We can turn it around.’
‘That’s a good attitude,’ says Robert. ‘But we need more than that. We need practical, solid ideas to start the cash flow. Your erotica exhibition might be a start,’ he adds to me. ‘That’s the first good idea I’ve heard in this place.’
‘Erotica exhibition?’ Clarissa gapes at me.
I try to backtrack. ‘It was only a thought.’
‘I found Sylvie conducting some pretty thorough research on erotic images,’ puts in Robert. He sounds so deadpan that I glance up at him in suspicion – and instantly know: he saw the ‘boudoir photos’ on my screen. All thirty of them.
Great.
‘Well.’ I clear my throat. ‘I like to do things thoroughly.’
‘Evidently.’ His eyebrows raise, and I hastily look away. I fumble in my pocket for my lip-balm case, and pretend to be engrossed in that. It was Dan who gave me my pink leather lip-balm case, because I am, truthfully, addicted to lip balm. (Which, if Toby is correct, is due to evil Big Pharma. I must google that, one day. Maybe there’ll be some class action suit and we’ll all win millions.)
‘P.S.’ Robert reads aloud the gold-embossed letters on my lip-balm case. ‘Why P.S.?’
‘It stands for “Princess Sylvie”,’ says Clarissa brightly. ‘That’s Sylvie’s nickname.’
I feel an instant surge of embarrassment. Why did she have to blab that little detail?
‘“Princess Sylvie”?’ echoes Robert in an amused tone that flicks me on the raw.
‘It’s just my husband’s nickname for me,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s silly. It’s … nothing.’
‘Princess Sylvie,’ repeats Robert, as though I haven’t spoken. He surveys me for a few moments. I can feel his eyes running over my sprigged silk top and my pearl necklace and waist-length blonde hair. Then he nods his head. ‘Yup.’
‘Yup’? What does he mean, yup? I want to know. But I also want not to know. So I say, ‘How long have we got? I mean, when will you make a decision about Willoughby House?’
Even as I’m speaking, my thoughts are circling uneasily. What would I do if I lost my job? Where would I apply? I haven’t even looked to see what’s out there at the moment. I haven’t wanted to. I’ve been safe in my haven.
‘I don’t know,’ says Robert. ‘Let’s see what you come up with. Maybe you’ll perform a miracle.’
But he sounds unconvinced. He’s probably mentally choosing kitchen fittings for his luxury condos already. I see him glancing at our hand-drawn home page again, his eyes expressionless, and feel a fresh wave of mortification.
‘You know, we have tried to modernize,’ I say. ‘But Mrs Kendrick just wouldn’t do it.’
‘I’m afraid my aunt has the commercial nous of a teapot,’ says Robert flatly. ‘That’s not your fault, but it hasn’t helped matters.’
‘Where is Mrs Kendrick?’ asks Clarissa timidly, and Robert’s face creases slightly. I can’t tell if he’s amused or exasperated.
‘She’s hired a full-time computer teacher.’
‘What?’ I exclaim before I can stop myself – and I can see Clarissa’s jaw has dropped. ‘What’s she learning, exactly?’ I add, and Robert’s face creases again. I think he wants to laugh.
‘I was there when he arrived,’ he says. ‘She said, “Young man, I wish to be modern.”’
I feel simultaneously amused and chastened. Mrs Kendrick has been more proactive than any of us. If I’d known things were this bad, I wouldn’t have sat here defending our non-existent website and our quirky charming ways. I would have …
What, exactly?
I bite my lip, trying to think. I’m not sure yet. I need to get on top of this, quickly. I need to have ideas. If Mrs Kendrick can modernize, we all can.
Toby, I think suddenly. I’ll ask Toby, he’ll know.
‘So that’s my aunt’s contribution to the situation.’ Robert surveys first Clarissa, then me. ‘What about you? Any specific ideas other than erotica?’
‘Well.’ I rack my brains feverishly. ‘Obviously the website is an issue.’
‘We all know that,’ says Robert heavily. ‘Anything else?’
‘We need a decent sign outside.’ I pluck an old, buried thought out of my brain. ‘People walk past the house and have no idea what it is. We did try to suggest it to Mrs Kendrick, but—’
‘I can imagine.’ Robert rolls his eyes.
‘And we could do something creative?’ I’m feeling my way now. ‘Like … a podcast set in Willoughby House? A ghost story?’
‘A ghost story.’ He looks quizzical. ‘Are you going to write a ghost story?’