Hang on to that post-Norway glow for as long as you can. Just get out there and kick some ass, girl!
I had to do what I went in there to do. Whether I was ready or not. As Angie would say: The time has come, honey, to woman-up!
“Have you finished?” I asked, my eyes still shut.
“Excuse me?” Marcus glanced over his shoulder.
I opened my eyes. “I asked if you had finished.” I stood up. “Because, I have. In fact, I’ve had more than enough of this.”
Marcus swung around a little more in his chair and frowned at me.
“But just before I go, I wanted you to see this.” I threw one of the documents I was holding down on the desk in front of him.
He glanced down at it. “What’s this?”
“That, Marcus, is the contract for the dance-festival sponsor that I just finalised over the phone an hour ago. They accepted in full the proposal I put forward. You see, I asked Emma on front of house to watch out for them on Saturday night. Of course, it was actually Shirley’s job to do so, but I was worried she’d mess it up – as indeed she did. Thankfully the sponsor barely noticed the mistake with the tickets thanks to Emma’s swift action and care. And what’s more they enjoyed their experience at the Millennium Centre on Saturday evening. How was it the CEO put it on the phone? Oh yes . . . they were so impressed by my proposal and by the Millennium Centre’s professionalism that they agreed to sponsor the dance festival for five years, and for the full amount I pitched for.” I pointed to the contract. “If you would like to flick to the back page there, you’ll see the total amount of the deal.”
Marcus looked down at the contract, then looked straight back up at me, his face a picture.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said, nodding. “Fifty thousand a year. So, let me see,” I pretended to count on my fingers, “I reckon that comes to a quarter of a million euro over the five years. Not bad for a morning’s work, would you say? Would that be classed as – how was it you put it again? Ah yes, ‘substantially upping my game’?”
Marcus was about to speak, but I held up my hand.
“If you don’t mind?” I held up another of the documents that I’d brought in. “Just when you think it couldn’t possibly get any better than signing the largest sponsorship deal in the Millennium Centre’s history . . .”
I handed him the latest box-office report, and he flicked through it.
“A-are these figures correct?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed they are. Danish Symphony Orchestra sold out. Messiah – sold out. New Year Gala – sold out with a waiting list for tickets. In fact, the whole Christmas season is almost completely sold out, and our membership packages are flying out the door too. In fact, I think you’ll notice an overall increase of fifteen per cent in revenue on the same period last year.”
Marcus looked confused. “These are impressive figures, very impressive in fact. I hadn’t realised we had seen such an upsurge recently. What’s caused it?”
He leant back in his chair then, and adopted his all-too-familiar smug look. “I suppose we do have a particularly good programme of events this Christmas.”
I scrunched up my face. “Myeh – much the same as last year really. No – I think you’ll find that the surge in ticket and membership sales coincides with the innovative new radio and press campaign we launched two weeks ago, not to mention the membership promotion and our public-relations activity over recent weeks.”
“All right, Melanie. The situation is better than I thought.”
“What’s that, Marcus? Are you saying that my department may not be so sloppy after all?”
Marcus just coughed. “Well, all right, let’s say no more. Good work. We’ll just agree to move on from this now, shall we? We have to focus on the Phase Two development programme anyway. The next board meeting is just a couple of days away – we need to finalise the new presentation.”
I smiled. “Ah, the board meeting! I’m so glad you mentioned it. I’ve actually finished the presentation.” I handed him another document from my pile.
He picked it up and scanned through the pages. Then he looked up at me.
“I don’t understand. This is the exact same presentation you gave at the last meeting.”
“I know.”
He stood up to look me in the eye. “Melanie, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I don’t have time for this.”
“Let’s sit down, shall we?” I said, and sat back into my chair. I had to wait a couple of seconds before Marcus did likewise.
“Look, it’s fine, Melanie,” he said. “Just get the new slides over to me in the next couple of days. The meeting’s not till Friday.”
I nodded to the document on his desk. “Those are the slides I’m presenting. I may add another one or two to the end, but other than that, this is my final position on the issue.” I leaned forward. “The Millennium Centre has become the most successful, highest-grossing arts venue in the country. We have the nation’s top sponsors and corporates supporting us. We have a thriving membership programme and a box office working at full capacity. We can, and we should, expand. But we are not going to be able to do so within existing resources. You’ve seen what can start to happen as we push our staff and our resources to their limit.” I pointed to the flawed concert programme on the desk. “I personally will not preside over a department with lapsed standards of excellence. We’re on top now, and I am committed to ensuring we stay there.” I sat back. “So here we are – fifteen million euro to raise.” I reached out and picked up the presentation slides. “And this is the plan of how we’re going to do it. We’re not going to do it by halves, we are going to start as we mean to continue – professionally and strategically.”
“But Fenella doesn’t want us to hire a consultant. She wants us to do it all in-house.”
“Marcus, with the greatest of respect, could you tell me exactly who is running this venue? I thought that we were the senior management team? The supposed experts?”
“Well, now, Melanie, Fenella is the chairwoman and a major donor, she –”
“She’s an actress, Marcus! She doesn’t have the first clue how to run an arts venue. You do. And I know how to promote and sell it. I’ve done the research. I’ve spoken at length to the experts, and to venues of similar size and structure as us in the UK, in the States, and Australia – and they all say this is the route to go down. You need to trust my judgement on this, Marcus.” I stood up. “Otherwise there is absolutely no point in my being here.”
I held my breath. Oh sweet Jesus, please, please don’t let him call my bluff.
Marcus leant his elbows on his desk, tented his fingers together and looked up at me for a very long minute.
“I think you might be right actually,” he said eventually. “Yes, I’ve been thinking all along that we need to hire in a professional consultancy firm. Do this thing properly. That’s how they raised all that money recently at The Met.”
I breathed out. All right then, I’ll play along.
“And you were so right, Marcus,” I said, nodding and sitting back down. But I couldn’t let him fully away with it. I leaned in over the desk. “We’re both right.”
“Mmm,” he said, looking at me for a few seconds. Then he sat back, and swung around in his chair. “I’m glad we had this conversation, Melanie. In fact, I’ve seen a whole new side to you today. Let’s meet again tomorrow to work out how we’re going to bring Fenella and the rest of the board along with my plan.”
I coughed.
He looked at me. “The plan?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh all right, all right – our plan.” He looked away.
It was a start at least.
“One more thing,” I said.
He groaned and looked back at me. “What now?”
I handed him the last document in my hand. “It’s Shirley’s contract. I want her gone – she’s next to useless in the role and a liability to the department. We can’t c
arry her any longer. The letter clipped to the top is your letter terminating her temporary contract. I’ll be contacting the head-hunters and recruitment agents today to get the ball rolling on hiring our full-time sponsorship manager. We’ll need to get an experienced professional to manage this new sponsorship deal.”
“And you want me to sign this letter?” Marcus asked. He sounded as if he was about to burst into tears. “I don’t know. It could have serious repercussions for me with Fenella – she’s particularly close to young Shirley.”
“You hired her, Marcus – you’re the only one that can fire her.” I stood up and handed him my pen.
He took it, and reluctantly squiggled his signature so it was barely legible.
“Many thanks.” I whipped it up off the desk before he could change his mind. Then I took my pen out of his other hand, turned on my heel and walked towards the door.
“Melanie?”
I turned back. “Yes, Marcus.”
He stood up. “Erm . . . congratulations on the dance-festival sponsor, and the box-office figures. They’re really quite something. I, eh, I’m afraid I may have underestimated you.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Marcus – all in a day’s work.”
I walked out of the office, turned the corner and almost broke the heel on my shoe when I landed after jumping up to punch the air.
Chapter 21
RICHARD
Takumi had already left the cabin by the time I awoke the next morning. After talking to Mel I slept through the night for the first time in weeks. In fact, I slept for almost ten hours in total – missing breakfast by a long shot. I didn’t care, though – I felt better than I had done in a very long time.
Ally’s voice came over the PA system just as I was getting dressed. “Land ahoy, landlubbers! Less than an hour to port. All hands on deck, please!”
I smiled to myself – I couldn’t believe they really said that.
I threw my bag over by the door just as Takumi came in. “Hey, Richie, we’ve got land in sight up there.” He threw me a cellophane-wrapped bread roll filled with egg salad and bacon. “I notice you sleep through breakfast. You were snoring your hair off.”
I smiled. “Really? Sorry about that, man, must have been very annoying for you.”
“Ah, it’s okay – I was awake anyway,” he said.
I devoured the sandwich in four hungry bites.
“Bring your bags up on deck when you finished,” said Takumi. “You finally get to go home today, my friend.”
I brushed the crumbs off my T-shirt, grabbed my bags, took one last look around the cabin and followed Takumi up on deck.
Ray was leaning over the railing with Sinéad. Jules was with them taking photographs. I put my bags down and went over to join them. I stood beside Ray and stared out at the welcome sight of approaching land.
“So will you have time for a few beers with us before you fly home?” he asked me.
“No, sorry, man. I’m heading straight to the airport. I should be okay for time, but I just want to get there to be sure.”
He nodded and put his arm around my shoulder. “Well, best of luck, Richie. I’m gonna miss your grumpy mug about the ship.”
I laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that, man – thanks for putting up with me for the last couple of weeks. I think I might actually have enjoyed it, y’know – despite myself.”
Ray smiled. “Good to hear. We enjoyed having you anyway, and I’m looking forward to seeing your articles in print.”
“You and me both, man. I still haven’t finished the second one yet, but the first one should be published in this weekend’s supplement. I’ll email you a copy.”
Just then Sinéad’s pocket started buzzing. She took out her mobile phone. “I’ve got a signal – we must be back in range already.” She called out to the crew who were either working to get the ship ready, or leaning on the railings like us watching land approach. “Hey, guys, we got mobile coverage!”
I couldn’t remember where I’d put my own phone. I hadn’t had coverage since we’d left Japan. I wandered over to my bag, opened the side pockets and finally found it tucked in under some dirty socks. I switched it on and, sure enough, within a couple of minutes it lit up to show it had a signal. Then it buzzed, and it went on buzzing. Five new messages, six, seven, eight. It went on until it displayed twenty-two new voice messages and eighteen new text messages.
I opened the first text: Rich, just heard about your mother. Very sorry. In Galway now but hope to get over for the funeral. See you then. It was from James, one of the lads I played rugby with in college.
And another: Richard, so sorry about your mother. I remember her well, she was a great lady. We’re so sorry for your loss. Love to Edward too. From Anne. Anne was a neighbour of Sheila’s, who we used to meet when we stayed there during school holidays.
And on and on – text after text from colleagues, friends and the Ashvale lads; obviously the message hadn’t filtered through that I was out of range. I sat down on the deck beside the bags to listen to the voice messages. One of the first, dating back to the day my mother died, was from Jonesy.
“Rich – Karen and I are very sorry to hear about your mother – sympathies, man. Where have you been though? I haven’t heard from you in months. Jangler’s saying you’re on some hippy boat in Japan or somewhere – that true or has the ol’ fella finally cracked? Give me a call, will you? And hey, sorry again about your old lady, man. I’ll see you at the funeral anyway. Look after yourself, right?”
I smiled to myself. It was bloody great to hear the familiar voice. Mel had been right about the lads – they had come through for me. It was a big relief.
“We should move on down to the lower deck to get ready to disembark now, Richie,” Ray said, picking up one of my bags. “Are you ready to go?”
I put my phone in my pocket, stood up and grabbed my other bag. “You know what, man? I am. I think I’m finally ready to get my feet back on solid ground again.”
It was harder to say goodbye to the crew than I expected it to be. They were good guys, and they had a tough few months ahead as they continued south to face down the whaling fleet. It was dangerous work, and even though I was very glad to be leaving, the Illuminar and its crew had got to me in a way I’d never expected. I knew I could follow the rest of the expedition on their blog but, before I left, I made Ray and Takumi vow to stay in touch, and Ray, Sinéad and I agreed to meet up back in Dublin when they were next home.
I arrived at the airport with over five hours to spare, glad to have the extra time to work on my feature article – I wanted to get it finished before I got back, before the funeral. It felt great to be back on dry land, and it wasn’t long before I was sitting back in a comfortable leather recliner in the airport’s executive lounge.
The lounge hostess came over as my laptop was powering up: “Would you like a drink, sir?”
I looked up at her.
Did I want a drink?
Yes, I did. A beer would have gone down very well.
But did I need it?
I looked back at my laptop screen. Probably not. In fact, if I was going to write the article I wanted to write, I knew I had to be sober to do it; and if I was to get it right with Ed when I arrived in London, I needed to keep my wits about me.
“Sir? A drink?” the hostess asked again.
“Just a coffee, thanks.”
I watched as she went back to the hostess’s station, poured me out a coffee, and put it on a tray. One small cup for man, one giant leap for Richie Blake!
I smiled to myself. Then settled back to drink coffee and focus on my article.
Chapter 22
MELANIE
Father O’Mara was waiting for me in the foyer of the Gentlemen’s Club on St Stephen’s Green, overlooked by five ominous stags’ heads hanging from the wall above him.
I felt a shiver as I walked in the door. I’m not sure if it was because of the poor ol’ dead stags or because of the memories
of the once-familiar foyer. When Grace told me where Father O’Mara had booked for lunch, I thought about asking her to contact him to change it. But realised then I was being stupid.
It had been years since I’d been there. It would all be fine.
“Ah, Melanie, thank you so much for coming.” Father O’Mara stretched out both hands and took hold of mine. “You’re looking well. Come on through, I’ve booked us a table.”
“Thank you, Father, lovely to see you.” I walked ahead of him, glad to leave the stags’ stares behind.
The maître d’ showed us to a window table in the main dining room that overlooked the bustling streets around St Stephen’s Green. I didn’t remember him from before, but he and Father O’Mara clearly knew each other well, and they exchanged pleasantries as we settled in.
“It’s very kind of you to meet me for lunch, Melanie,” Father O’Mara said, as the waiter poured out two glasses of spring water and we looked over the menus. “I could have come to see you at the Millennium Centre, but I thought it might be better to chat away from there so you could have a break. No doubt you’re very busy as always?”
“Yes, but it certainly is nice to get away for lunch – it’s been quite a week already.”
“Oh?” Father O’Mara said, arching one of his white, bushy eyebrows. But before I could go on one of the diners recognised him and stopped to say hello as she was leaving.
Her lunch companion went on ahead and Father O’Mara introduced the woman to me as Edith Maguire. He stood up, seeming to tower above the much shorter woman as they chatted a few steps away from the table. They were talking so quietly that I couldn’t hear what they were saying, so I just helped myself to some bread and looked over the menu.
“Sorry about that, Melanie. Edith and I go back years – a fine woman,” Father O’Mara said, sitting back down. “We just had a small private matter to discuss. Anyway, you were just about to tell me how you’ve been getting along at The Mill?”
Look into the Eye Page 19