I wondered how his mother’s funeral was going . . . And how it went for him meeting Ed . . . Then it struck me: “I’m surprised he didn’t mention anything about looking into the eye of the whale,” I said, looking back at the article.
That was when I noticed the footer: This is the first of two features from Richard Blake on board the Illuminar; the second will appear over the coming weeks as his journey progresses.
“Ah, good.”
“Mel, what’s going on between you and this guy?” asked Katy.
I looked up at her. “Sorry – now let me get the tea and you can tell me all about the proposal and the wedding plans.”
“No way!” said Katy. “There’s something going on with this journalist guy and I want to know everything. Now spill!”
“All right, I’ll tell you about it, Katy, but there really is nothing much to tell. We’re just friends – barely even that really.”
We were all seated and chatting by the time Fenella finally arrived into the boardroom to convene the meeting on Monday morning. She flew in the door, looking quite flustered.
She glared over at Marcus as she sat down. “Oh, here you all are. I expected to meet you down at reception as usual, Marcus. Especially now that poor Shirley is no longer here to greet me.”
“Ah, apologies, Madam Chairwoman, I came in ahead today,” said Marcus, unable to look straight at her.
“No problem,” she said with a frown. She seemed to collect herself then and flashed a fake toothy smile at everyone sitting around the table. “We’d better press on. Lots to get through today.”
The meeting went well on the whole – the board were all delighted with the huge jump in box-office figures and membership numbers, not to mention the new dance-festival sponsorship.
“You’ve made very impressive progress in such a short space of time, Melanie,” said Hugh McWilliams. “Congratulations to you and your team. I don’t suppose we could tempt you away from the Millennium Centre and over to my music school any day soon?”
I just smiled, especially as I noticed Marcus looking uncomfortable at the suggestion.
“All right then. Shall we move on to the next item on the agenda?” Fenella asked. “The new development campaign. Melanie dear, it’s back to you again. You were to present to us on some new ideas for operating the new campaign?” She sat back.
“Thank you, Fenella, dear.” I coughed. “Yes, indeed. If I could get the lights turned down a little?” I looked over at Marcus’s assistant Margaret, who made a face, sighed loudly, then got up and did it.
“Thank you, Margaret.”
I went through the first few new slides I’d added which gave a summary of my findings from the British and American arts venues I’d surveyed. Each subsequent slide built my case, and led to my final set of slides: the same proposed campaign-operation plan I’d presented at the last meeting.
“And so,” I concluded, “I hope you will agree that the most sensible option for us to pursue at this time is to adopt a professional, strategic approach from the outset of this campaign, in order to ensure that this new activity does not jeopardise existing successful operations. And we need to bring in the expertise required to ensure that we can successfully meet the private funding target to build Phase Two of the Millennium Centre within our very challenging three-year time period.”
“I agree!” shouted out a voice almost before I’d finished.
It was Father O’Mara.
“This is a most excellent piece of research, Melanie,” he said, “and a very sensibly thought-out plan. I say we agree it this time, and get moving on it straight away.”
There were several loud murmurs of approval.
“Just a minute.” Fenella half stood in her seat to regain control. She settled back down again as she got the floor. “Melanie, dear. You were meant to be presenting today on the other options available to us, as recorded in the minutes of our last meeting. This –” she pointed dismissively to the screen, “is simply the same rehashed plan from last month with just a few extra pointers thrown in in an attempt to sway us. And as you know, I’m not in favour of this approach at all. It’s completely unnecessary, given the Millennium Centre’s standing. Marcus, wouldn’t you agree?”
Marcus, who’d stayed very quiet until then, sat forward. He put his fingers through his few hairs, patted the top of his scalp, then took a deep breath.
“I’m afraid I would not, Madam Chairwoman,” he said.
I looked around the table. The other board members looked stunned. Fenella’s face had started to change colour, but she continued to smile so widely that every single one of her teeth was visible.
“I have looked at the research results Melanie has provided,” Marcus continued, “and I find them to be very sound. Furthermore, I spoke to several of my own counterparts in the UK, Europe and in the States this week, and they are all agreed that a campaign on this scale, were it not to be given the appropriate, professional resources to ensure the best chance of success, could have the potential to seriously damage the reputation and financial viability of the venue. I therefore stand behind my director in this regard, and I recommend the board fully endorse and action our plan.” He coughed, turned around slightly towards me and smiled. “Without delay. We have no time to lose.”
“Here, here!” said Father O’Mara, who was joined in his approval by Hugh McWilliams, and in turn by each of the other board members.
“That’s fine then,” said Fenella.
I’d swear I even heard her teeth gritting, but she kept on smiling.
“Whatever you want,” she said. “We’ve spent far too much time on this issue already. Let’s move on.”
I closed down my presentation and sat down. I’ve no idea what else was said in that meeting as I sat through the rest of it in a completely blissed-out state.
Chapter 26
MELANIE
I was already starting to get into the Christmas spirit and had taken a half day off on Friday afternoon to get my hair cut before Father O’Mara’s meeting. I caught sight of myself in a shop window as I strolled up Grafton Street. I was delighted with my new shorter, choppier look, and my long fringe – Ian had always liked me to wear my hair long and straight, and over the years I guess I’d just got used to it that way.
I smiled to myself as I bounced up the granite steps leading to the entrance of the Gentleman’s Club. It was the Friday before Christmas and I just had the meeting to get through before enjoying an evening’s late-night shopping and a bite to eat afterwards with my mum and sisters.
Father O’Mara was just inside the foyer, standing next to a large Christmas tree which thankfully was obscuring my view of the poor ol’ stags’ heads.
“Ah, Melanie, wonderful to see you. You’re looking very well,” he said. “Come on up – you’re the first to arrive.”
I followed him up the old, marble staircase into a reception room on the first floor. An open fire was burning in the grate and the room inside was lovely and cosy.
“Come, let’s sit here by the fire. We’ve a few minutes before the others start to arrive.” Father O’Mara settled into an armchair. “Tell me now, how has life been treating you since last we spoke, Melanie?”
“Very well, thank you, Father. Marcus allocated my department a couple of extra administration staff which has really helped to take some of the pressure off. The Christmas season is in full swing and we’re getting close to signing up a new sponsorship manager that we headhunted from a major international film festival. And . . . Marcus signed off the tender document for the new fundraising consultancy this afternoon too. I may have to watch my back when a certain chairwoman is around, but other than that, work is going great.”
Father O’Mara laughed. “That’s very good to hear. Thank you for coming today anyway, Melanie dear.”
“Gosh, not at all. I really wanted to come. I want to do whatever I can to help you get this initiative off the ground.”
“Wonderful, wonderful,”
said Father O’Mara.
A couple of men arrived then for the meeting. They greeted Father O’Mara warmly. He introduced us and left me with them while he went to greet the next arrivals. The two men I spoke to had gone to school together and much of the conversation was about schools rugby. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about really, so I winged it and think I just about got away with it.
“I think we’ll get started.” Father O’Mara announced to the room after another few minutes. “We have a few more to arrive, but I’m conscious of the week that’s in it – no doubt you all have exciting Christmas parties and events to dash off to.”
I glanced around at the people taking their seats around the long table, and for the first time realised that I was the only woman there. I thought it strange, but reasoned that there might be another few women yet to come. At that point there were about eleven men and me. A couple of the men looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.
Father O’Mara began the meeting by leading us in a short prayer. The men all seemed to know the words, but I could only just about mumble along, pretending to know it.
“So,” Father O’Mara said, after blessing himself, “before I outline the details of the project perhaps we might go around the table and introduce ourselves. Most of us know each other already but there are a couple of new –” he looked at me, “and most welcome faces. Right so. I’ll start. My name is Brendan O’Mara. As most of you know, I’m a retired teacher, and former rector, of Ashvale College in Wicklow.”
He sat down after his introduction and, as I was sitting to his right, I went next.
“My name is Melanie McQuaid. I’m director of marketing and development for the Dublin Millennium Centre for the Arts.” I looked around the roomful of men. “I must admit, I’m feeling a little outnumbered here today.”
There was a murmur of laughter.
“Ah yes, sorry about that, Melanie,” said Father O’Mara. “I should have said it would be just us men, but I had to make sure you’d come. Melanie has a great way of getting things done, gentlemen. I’m hoping she’ll help me put manners on you lot. God knows, I failed abysmally when you were my pupils.”
“You taught us everything we know, Father,” said one man, elbowing his neighbour for a reaction.
“Did I indeed?” said Father O’Mara, peering over his glasses, pretending to look stern. He had the look down very well. I’d forgotten that Father O’Mara used to be a teacher – it was a side of him I’d never really seen. The two men stopped smiling for an instant and sat up straighter. It was an amusing dynamic to watch.
Father O’Mara nodded then to the man sitting to my right.
“My name is Ed Blake,” he said.
I swung around. I knew his face had looked familiar. It was Richie’s brother.
“I’m training to be a teacher,” he was saying. “And working down at Ashvale now as a night housemaster.”
Father O’Mara looked down the table at Ed and smiled. “On a serious note, gentlemen – and lady,” he nodded to me, “I would like to extend my special thanks to Edward and to his brother –” He looked around the room. “Where is Richard?”
Oh my God, so Richie was coming too?
Just at that moment the door flew open. “Sorry, Jangler – I mean, Father. Sorry, lads. Damn carparks are all full. I’m parked halfway to bloody Ranelagh – the world and its dog seem to be in town this afternoon.”
That can’t be him? I thought. I watched him move around the table to a seat opposite me. He looked so much more together than he had done on TV. Hair cut short, clean-shaven, full of life. He looked . . . well, he looked really good it had to be said.
“Good to see you, Richard,” said Father O’Mara. “I was just thanking you and Edward for coming along today, so soon after your mother’s passing. I know I speak for us all when I offer our most sincere sympathies.”
“Here here!” said one of the men, and the rest murmured along.
“Thank you, Father. Thanks, lads,” Richie said. “And apologies again for being late.”
“Not at all, Richard. We’d only just started to do the introductions. This is Melanie McQuaid.”
I looked right at Richie, and promptly felt my cheeks start to glow.
“Melanie is joining us from the Dublin Millennium Centre for the Arts where she works as –”
“Director of marketing and development,” Richie looked at me, and a wide grin spread across his annoyingly handsome face. “Miss McQuaid, is it yourself?”
“It is indeed, Mister Blake.” I smiled, my cheeks growing warmer by the second.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, still grinning. “Good to see you again, Mel, very good indeed.”
“You too, Richie,” I put my head down to write the date on my notepad. Anything to deflect the attention from my rosy face.
“Ah, so you know each other then?” said Father O’Mara.
“You could say that,” said Richie, which made me blush again.
“Very good,” said Father O’Mara. “Okay then, let’s push on, lots to get through. Bill, would you like to continue?”
I tried to pay attention, but I was so conscious of Richie sitting across from me that I didn’t hear one word. As the introductions went on, I stole another glance over at him. Same playful grin, same smiling eyes. He caught me looking over and gave me a wink. I smiled, then quickly turned back to look at Father O’Mara.
Once the introductions were over, Father O’Mara outlined his concept for the new youth centre, then opened the meeting up to the floor for discussion.
“Is this the best use of resources to help young people?” he asked. “Have you any further thoughts on how the concept could be conceived? Is it the right thing to do?”
“Through the Chair?”
Father O’Mara nodded to the man sitting beside Richie. I hadn’t caught his name.
“I think that it is exactly the right thing to do,” the man said, looking quite serious. “We need to do something to help our kids. I’m having a lot of problems with one of my teenagers at the moment, in fact.” His voice started to crack a little. “I think a centre like you describe, Father, could be a big help to her, and to other kids like her.” He coughed to clear his throat. “It could be just what they need to help them to get through whatever the hell it is they’re going through. Because, I can tell you, we as parents haven’t got a bloody clue what more to do for them. The system of support for young people in this country is atrocious.”
Richie put his hand on the man’s shoulder, who nodded his thanks for the support.
“Through the Chair?” said Richie.
Father O’Mara nodded.
“To follow on from what Dec is saying,” Richie said, “I agree that young people need help finding their way in life. Maybe with this centre we can help them to realise that it’s okay to be who you are, that it’s okay to be different and to follow your own path.” He glanced over at me, but this time he didn’t grin or smile – in fact, he looked quite serious. “Who knows, if we’d had a place like this when we were kids, then maybe Ben MacDonagh would be here today, and there might be one less empty chair at our gatherings.”
It was a deeper, more serious side to Richie than I’d ever seen.
Who was this guy Ben? And what happened to him? He was obviously very important to Richie anyway, judging by the look on his face and the way his voice trembled when he mentioned his name.
“Yes, indeed, Richard. Very true, very true indeed. Thank you.” Father O’Mara pushed his glasses up on his nose as he looked around the table. “Melanie, what do you think?”
He’d caught me off guard. I looked at Richie, then at his friend Dec beside him – the poor guy looked broken.
“I think Richie is absolutely right,” I said, straightening up in my seat. “Young people should be given every encouragement to find their own path in life – the retreat centre is a great idea. We absolutely must make it happen. I just wonder also, F
ather, if it should be built somewhere that is naturally beautiful? Somewhere with lots of space for games and sports, and perhaps even a view of the sea. Actually no – definitely a view of the sea.” I glanced over at Richie. “It’s good for the soul.”
All of the heads nodded.
Richie smiled. His expression changed then and he raised his hand. “Through the Chair?”
Father O’Mara nodded.
“I agree that we need to give these kids somewhere to go,” he said. “But once they’re there, once they start to unwind and relax a bit, that’s when they’re going to need someone to talk to.” He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder again. “No offence, Dec, but it’s not always easy opening up and talking through your stuff with the people closest to you, even your parents.”
“Especially your parents,” said Ed beside me.
Dec nodded. “You’re right, lads – we can’t get anything out of our Tara these days. I honestly have no idea what’s going on inside her head.”
“I don’t have kids myself, but I do remember being one,” said Richie. “Young people are like the rest of us – they just need someone to talk to, someone to listen to them. It might be their parents or a caring teacher,” he looked at Father O’Mara. “But it could just as easily be someone else entirely – perhaps a stranger who just gets it. Someone who gets them.” He looked straight at me then and smiled.
I smiled back, and this time I didn’t blush.
“In fact, what might work well,” he went on, “would be if we could get someone experienced on board from the outset – a professional counsellor or therapist or whatever – someone to advise us, maybe even run the place when it opens.”
“A great idea, Richard. Splendid,” said Father O’Mara.
“I know someone who would be perfect,” I said. “A good friend of mine, Katy Butler – she’s a qualified psychologist, and actually specialises in children and young people. I can ask her if she could help?”
“That would be wonderful, Melanie. Thank you.” Father O’Mara rubbed his hands together and sat back in his chair, seeming very pleased with the way things were going. “Very good, very good indeed. Anyone else?”
Look into the Eye Page 23