by Rosie Howard
The coffee machine was what woke Maddy the following morning.
‘Sorry,’ said Ben, seeing she was awake. Expertly, he flicked buttons and held a jug of milk under the steamer. ‘It’ll be worth it, though; give me a minute.’
By the time she had dragged herself to sitting and wiped the sleep from her eyes, he was crouching beside her holding a delicious-smelling mug.
‘Latte,’ he said, handing it over carefully so she could grab the handle. ‘Double shot, no sugar.’
‘Perfect,’ she said, taking a grateful sip. ‘Is it late?’
‘Nearly ten,’ he said, pulling aside the floor-length curtains that hung over the glazed door to the terrace.
‘Yikes. We’ve got our meeting in Brighton. I’ve got to iron something. And wash my hair,’ she said, raking it back off her face with her fingers.
‘You’re fine. Serena’s going to sort out some clothes for you.’
‘You’re wet,’ she said, looking at his hair.
‘Yep. Amazing shower upstairs. Rainforest head. You’re going to love it when you can get up there.’
She looked at the stairs leading to the mezzanine. They were more of a ladder. ‘Can’t you give me a shove?’ she asked. ‘A leg up?’
‘Erm …’ He pretended to think, finger to temple, ‘that would be a “no”.’
‘Oh go on. I’m really grubby.’
‘I can’t smell anything. Anyhow, there’s a better plan. Serena’s running a bath for you in the house. Bubbles and everything. I’ve been detailed to get some breakfast into you and then send you over.’
As he spoke he was clattering around with plates and cutlery in the little kitchen area under the mezzanine. He came out with a pile of warm, flaky croissants. There was butter and two kinds of home-made jam on the tray too.
‘Wow. Where did you spirit this up from?’
‘You’d be amazed what us soldiers keep in our rucksacks. But that’s a story for another day. Actually, Serena gave them to me.’
‘You’re not having breakfast?’ she asked, disappointed to notice there was only one plate.
‘It’s alright for you part-time self-employed people. I’ve got lectures to deliver,’ he said, grabbing his car keys from the coffee table.
Maddy held up her face in the hope of a kiss but Ben just dropped a peck on her forehead, simultaneously giving her an awkward pat on the shoulder. And then he was gone.
‘Aha!’ said Serena, waggling her eyebrows, ‘I see lover boy spent the night. How nice. Do tell Auntie Serena …’
‘“Nice” nothing. I am entirely unravished. Not for want of trying on my part, I hasten to add. Truth is, he turned me down.’
‘Ouch. Silly boy. I shall have to have words …’
‘By all means; I’ve done my best. Now, any chance I could borrow an iron?’
‘Every chance,’ said Serena, ‘if I can remember where it is. But you’re bound not to have much from your business wardrobe down here. I was wondering if you’d like a rummage in my drawers?’
‘And that’s not an offer you hear very often,’ interjected Giles, on his way past with a cup of coffee. ‘I can’t remember the last time I got to rummage in my wife’s drawers.’
‘Ignore him. I do,’ said Serena. ‘Now, walk this way …’ she added, doing a funny walk and leading Maddy up the stairs.
‘I’ve got my own funny walk, thanks,’ said Maddy, using the banister to pull herself up. ‘Nothing’s going to make me look that sharp with this flipping thing hanging off my leg.’
‘Nonsense, I’m sure we can make you look smart – from the waist up, at least.’
Rifling through a packed wardrobe, Serena chatted over her shoulder. ‘I’m a couple of sizes bigger than you now, but – believe it or not – I was an eight to ten when I was working,’ she said, pulling out an unexceptional-looking grey jacket with matching skirt. ‘This one might work. Try it.’
Maddy shrugged on the jacket over her T-shirt.
‘I was going to dig out a shirt but, actually, it really works with that top.’
Maddy looked in the mirror. Her simple scoop-necked T-shirt looked cool and unfussy beneath the jacket. She buttoned it up and looked again.
‘Wow,’ said Serena. ‘Perfect.’
Maddy scooped up her wavy hair and gathered it into a loose, low knot making her neck look positively swan-like.
‘Yes,’ said Serena. ‘Just like that. I’ll find you some hairpins in a mo.’
‘Not sure about the skirt, though.’
‘Mm,’ agreed Serena. ‘I see your problem. We might be better off with trousers. As long as they’re wide enough to go over that.’ She dived back into the wardrobe, chucking random garments over her shoulder periodically.
‘Bullseye,’ she said, emerging triumphant with a pair of trousers over her arm. ‘I’d almost forgotten, I wore that jacket so much I actually went and got matching trousers made. Hardly ever wore them, though. Too keen to show off my legs, if I’m honest.’
‘Blimey,’ said Maddy, looking at the jacket with new respect. ‘Is it bespoke?’
‘It certainly is,’ admitted Serena. ‘I was earning a fair amount in those days. Had to look the part.’
The trousers were wide, going over the clumpy cast and draping beautifully, although they pooled on the floor a little too much.
‘I might break the other leg.’
‘What size feet?’ she asked. ‘Me too,’ she said, when Maddy told her.
She delved back into the wardrobe, before emerging, ruffled, with a high-heeled boot.
‘Bugger, wrong foot,’ she said, examining it more carefully. ‘Hang on.’
This time the scrabbling took a little longer, but eventually there was a muffled cry of triumph.
‘Here you are,’ she said, handing Maddy the matching boot to the one already discarded.
It was the softest grey calfskin with a towering chrome heel, which Maddy would be mortified to scratch. But there was another more ergonomically challenging problem too.
‘I’ll have to balance on one leg,’ said Maddy doubtfully. The built-in heel on her plastered leg was not nearly high enough.
‘You’ll be fine,’ insisted Serena. ‘We’ll just wheel you around and plonk you where he can admire the jacket. You look much more of a city slicker than I ever imagined,’ she said, picking out hairpins from amongst the expensive designer scent and make-up scattered on her dressing table.
‘There you go. The transformation is complete.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Maddy was amazing,’ said Serena, as they held the meeting post-mortem around the kitchen table later that day. ‘I never knew! There she was, cool as a cucumber, doing the PowerPoint thingie, with the pointer doodah and the profit-and-loss stuff …’ Serena did a little demonstration of Maddy’s ball-breaking businesswoman persona for Flora’s benefit.
Maddy shovelled in a bit of cake. ‘You’d better hope so,’ she said, swigging it down with a large gulp of tea. ‘God, I’m going to be the size of a house if all our meetings are like this … because we’ll be stuffed if they say “no”.’
‘I would never have thought to even apply,’ said Flora. ‘I can’t believe they might be prepared to give us all this money.’
‘“Might be”?’ said Serena. ‘It’s in the bag, I tell you … Definitely.’
Maddy saw the bright-yellow notice stuck on the front door of the pub just as soon as Giles dropped her off.
‘What the hell … ?’ she was saying as she arrived at the top of the stairs.
‘Hello, darling,’ Patrick called from the kitchen. ‘I gather you’ve seen …’
‘Mum?’ she said, coming into the room. There was another copy of the bright-yellow paper on the table.
Helen, sitting opposite Patrick, was mirroring his attitude of despair, one hand clasped over his on the table. The other was holding a damp tissue, which she used quickly to wipe her eyes before throwing Maddy a wobbly smile.
; ‘Hallo, darling,’ she said too brightly. ‘How did it go?’
‘Never mind,’ she said, waving it away. ‘What’s all this?’
‘Ah,’ said Patrick, with a thin smile. ‘This is what is known as one of those “so near but so far” situations.’ He waved his hand at the sheet of paper.
‘I just don’t get it. “Planning application HB238/49 Stana Developments, for the reclassification and development of the ‘Havenbury Arms’ into residential use” … shit.’
‘Language,’ said Patrick automatically.
‘Sorry, but … seriously,’ said Maddy, clutching her head. ‘What on earth?’
‘I know!’ said Patrick. ‘And I just signed and returned the lease this morning.’
‘So that’s it, then,’ said Maddy. ‘You’ve signed. It’s a done deal – and they can’t …’ She waved her hand at the paper.
‘I said I’d signed it. Obviously Top Taverns have to sign it too.’
‘That little shit,’ said Maddy, and this time Patrick didn’t bother to reprove her.
‘Does that mean they’ve actually sold it out from under us? They must have done …’
‘Actually, no,’ said Helen, sniffing and sitting up straighter. ‘It doesn’t at all. As a matter of fact, anyone can apply for planning permission for whatever they like. They don’t have to own the property at all.’
‘Yes, but they’d hardly spend money on something like this if they weren’t at least planning – and being encouraged – to think they can buy it. Hang on a minute …’ Maddy slid her rucksack off her shoulders and got out her laptop.
‘What’s the planning reference again?’
In less than a minute, the three of them were poring over the plans. Maddy was right. Money had clearly been spent. The proposal was to knock down the pub and replace it with a terrace of no fewer than four three-storey townhouses. There were detailed layout plans and some fancy watercolours showing the exteriors with mock-Georgian sash windows and fancy pediment porches over the front doors.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Patrick. ‘Why on earth would they knock the place down? It’s outrageous. And it beggars belief that they can even fit four houses on, even terraced ones.’
‘It’s not a bad-sized plot,’ admitted Helen. ‘And modern houses are always as small as they can get away with making them.’
‘Well,’ said Patrick crossly, ‘they’re not getting away with these ones. I’m calling that prat Dennis, right now.’
‘Tell him I don’t give a monkey’s backside if he’s having his lunch,’ Patrick was saying to someone in Dennis’s office. ‘It’s the publicans like me who pay his goddamned salary and I want to speak to him now.’
Helen and Maddy could only hear Patrick’s side of the telephone conversation but it wasn’t hard to get the gist of Dennis’s contribution.
‘The new lease is signed,’ Patrick was insisting. ‘I know the existing one is still current … yes, I know Top Taverns have still to agree, but it was their goddamned lease, for heaven’s sake. Why offer it if they’re not prepared to commit to it? … I don’t give a damn if poxy Stana developments have “made a generous offer”, this pub is not for sale.’ At that, Patrick slammed down the phone and placed both palms flat on the table, breathing deeply through his nose.
After a few moments he took a deep breath. ‘So,’ he said, ‘obviously it goes without saying that Top Taverns are a bunch of double-dealing, weasel-worded, unprincipled toerags.’
Helen and Maddy nodded their agreement.
‘But it does appear that all is not necessarily lost. Yet. The pub is still owned by Top Taverns. Can’t say I ever imagined myself saying that’s a good thing … but my guess is they intend to put it up for sale. By auction most likely. Naturally this Stana lot will be in the front row. And there isn’t a lot we can do to stop it.’
‘Okay,’ said Helen briskly. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here. But first, who wants another cup of tea?’
Once all three of them were sitting at the table, each with a full mug, Maddy with her laptop and Helen with a large pad of lined paper and a newly sharpened pencil, they set to work.
‘The first thing I want to check is whether Top Taverns – having provided the replacement lease – are actually entitled to refuse to sign it,’ he began.
‘Good point,’ said Helen, making a note on her pad of paper. ‘I’ll ask my friend at home. She’s a property lawyer; she knows about leases and things, although I think mainly she does conveyancing.’
‘Sounds like she could answer a few questions, not just that one,’ said Maddy. ‘Patrick, isn’t there something in your existing lease, saying that you are entitled to renew?’
‘Yes, there might be,’ said Patrick. ‘Good point, but – if there is – I’ve got a feeling it’s connected with a requirement for me to bring the property repairs up to date, and Dennis reckons there’s fifty-grand’s-worth of those,’ he said, looking gloomy again.
‘Okay,’ said Helen. ‘That’s the next thing to look at, then. And I think we should show the repairs and dilapidation list to three local builders to get quotes. I bet it doesn’t have to cost fifty thousand.’
‘Wouldn’t matter if it was half that,’ said Patrick. ‘I still don’t have it.’
‘Okay, well, we’ll look at it anyway,’ said Maddy. ‘What I want to know is whether this Stana – you do know that’s an anagram for “Satan”, don’t you? – Property Development company are likely to get their planning permission and if there’s anything we can do to stop them. They won’t want to buy unless they have it.’
She looked at the application again. ‘It’s still in the consultation stage. That means we can write letters of objection.’
‘We will, then, but it’s not much good if it’s just us doing it,’ said Helen. ‘We need to get lots of other people to write too.’
‘How long have we got?’ asked Patrick.
‘Deadline for comments is ten days away,’ said Maddy, gulping. ‘That’s not long.’
‘Those houses really are hideous,’ mused Patrick. ‘Can’t we object on aesthetic grounds? After all the high street is quite an architectural feature. I remember a big group coming in once for lunch. It turns out they were architecture students on a field trip. The high street has been here for centuries, and the way all the architectural styles have evolved and been joined together makes it really special, apparently …’
‘That’s another point to explore, then,’ said Maddy.
‘I bet that Jonno bloke from the nightclub on the quay’ll be thrilled, though,’ said Patrick gloomily.
‘Not going to happen,’ insisted Maddy, deciding not to mention Ben’s connection with him and his feedback over the beer ties. ‘We need to get something printed out. A flyer or a poster or something. We can have them on the bar. We could put them through people’s letter boxes, actually. This flaming cast …’ she said, looking down at her leg in frustration. She hoped, with this appointment Ben reminded her of, the X-rays would show it could come off but she had a feeling it would have to stay on longer. She hadn’t exactly been the perfect patient.
‘I can do leaflet drops,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m supposed to be getting fit.’
‘Yes, but not overdoing it,’ warned Helen. ‘I’ll do that bit.’
‘You will not,’ protested Patrick immediately. ‘What about that great long list you’ve got there already?’ he said, waving at the pad of paper.
‘No point arguing,’ said Maddy swiftly, seeing her mother take a deep breath to answer Patrick back. ‘We can all do it. Together. There. I’ll put something together now. It need only be A5. I can email it straight down to the print shop on the quay. They’ll only need a couple of days.’
‘Excellent,’ said Patrick. ‘There, I told you it’ll be fine.’
With a bit of brazen arguing and finger-crossing, Maddy had persuaded the orthopaedic team the leg was fine but, with the plaster finally prised off, she examined her leg with a sin
king heart. Like before, there was a livid scar stretching across her ankle and up her leg. The surgeon had kindly followed the same line as he had done previously but, this time, it was longer and uglier. It didn’t help that the stitches had had to stay in for weeks. The nurse tutted sympathetically as she quickly removed them with tweezers and a scalpel. ‘Those surgeons have no idea,’ she said. ‘As if a young girl like you wants a great, red scar up her leg.’ She deftly wrapped up the tray and popped it in the bin. ‘Now, isn’t that better?’ she added.
Looking at the livid red line, dissected with stitch marks, along with the flaky skin and horrible dark sprouting hairs all over her leg, Maddy wasn’t sure it was, much. Her calf, too, was noticeably thinner than the other. Exercise, a long bath with a razor and a good exfoliator would improve things a lot, though. She knew that from experience.
‘It’s fine,’ pronounced the kindly surgeon when he examined her. ‘You’re young and you heal well, but I’d be awfully grateful if you could possibly avoid doing it again. Twice is more than enough, for one leg. Maybe see if you can land on the other one next time, just for a bit of variety.’
Maddy smiled. ‘In the nicest possible way,’ she said, ‘I hope we’ve seen the last of each other.’
‘In the nicest possible way,’ he replied, ‘I agree. It’ll be feeling incredibly stiff,’ he went on, ‘but you know all about that. Get it moving, make sure to go to all your physio appointments and do what you’re told. I fully expect you to make a good recovery. Again.’