True to her word, Ivy attended the meeting the next night. She walked in just as Mr Hargreaves had proudly declared a compromise; Mr Patterson would trim his vision of a full-blown pagan ritual into a modest interpretive dance with scarves and lanterns. In exchange, he had reassured the committee that there would be plenty of sea shanties and Cornish history to satisfy the traditionalists. Everyone was happy.
Sort of, at least. Ivy had a feeling it would only be a matter of time before another argument erupted. The rehearsal seemed … haphazard.
Ivy sat near the back, sketching rough scenery ideas in a notebook balanced on her knee, but also watching the chaos unfold. At the front of the hall, a gaggle of kids were arguing over who should be King Arthur. One was crying. One was attempting to abseil up the stage using the curtains. Two were picking their noses. Mr Patterson seemed oblivious, directing a group of ten-year-olds through a silent storm dance sequence, which involved a lot of uncoordinated spinning in capes.
‘Hi!’ came a piercing voice.
Ivy turned to see Erin’s sister, Lucy.
‘They said you’re doing props,’ she said cheerfully. She thrust a piece of paper at her. ‘So here’s the list!’
Ivy took it. ‘The list?’
Lucy beamed. ‘Of everything Mr Patterson said we need by next week.’
Ivy took the sheet. Itwasas long as her arm and written in frantic black biro with doodles and scribbled notes. Ivy made out the words ‘stone circle’, ‘Stargazy Pie’, ‘giant mackerel’, ‘trident?’ and ‘shoal of fish’.
‘Shoal of fish?’ Ivy asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Hargreaves, rushing past. ‘Mr Patterson needs those for the set piece with Tom Bawcock. He’s envisioning hundreds, cascading down on to the stage in different colours.’
Ivy looked at the stage, where a child had just tripped over a lobster trap. ‘This is a lot of work,’ she said, ‘for one person and some papier-mâché.’
Lucy nodded solemnly. ‘That’s what Mr Hargreaves said. But he also says you’re a genius.’
As the meeting dissolved into disarray, Ivy began to curse her mum for signing her up to this nightmare.
From what she could overhear, the show was a classic Mr Hargreaves shambles in the making, with a confusing script, hordes of unfocused children and competing ideas. It was only a matter of time before another argument kicked off.
The next afternoon, Josie decided that the shop still didn’t look nearly sparkly enough. She staggered in with a huge bag full of holly and silvery winter branches and insisted they strew it around the shop, before covering every available surface in fairy lights. She also found an old record and set it to play in the corner, cranking out crackling, warbling tunes.
By the time they had smothered the shop in foliage to Josie’s satisfaction, it was time for another Story-time Adventure. The Sunday session was always packed and Trip was out hiking with Brooke so she couldn’t even delegate to him. Ivy read stories until her throat was hoarse. The theme was fairies and sparkle, and she couldn’t have felt less sparkly as she worked her way through a big book of fairy tales. When she was done, Ivy staggered into the kitchen for a break and to call Raye.
‘Why didn’t I get a job back in Truro?’ she croaked to Raye down the phone as she splashed tepid coffee into another stupid pun cup. This one showed a cat wearing a flapper headdress and smoking a cigarette, withThe Great Catsbyspelled out in theatre lights. ‘I blame you.’
‘Me?’ said Raye, sounding remarkably unbothered. She was clearly walking outside, somewhere windy. ‘How is thismyfault?’
‘You told me the shop would be a breeze – well it’s not. There are hundreds of Kathleen Lee fans here on a daily basis, taking selfies of themselves with glass bottles. And this Fox Bay show! It’s sucking the lifeblood from me.’ She sighed, looking around the little kitchen, at the inspirational quotes stuck to the walls,Josie’s signed photo of some random 70s Russian poet. ‘Do you ever question, like, all your life choices?’
‘Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine these days?’ Raye said. Ivy could hear voices in the background and snatches of laughter. ‘Cheer up. The tourists and Kathleen fans will get bored of Wildest Dreams soon and the shop will calm down. What are Josie’s guests like?’
‘Weird,’ said Ivy, lowering her voice. ‘Like, very weird.’
‘How? They can’t be weirder than that tantric couple.’
‘It’s this guy and his sister. She’s some sort of driven exec type with a shadowy job who barely says two words and he’s …’ Ivy trailed off, trying to think how best to describe Trip. ‘He’s like, insanely cheerful.’
‘Okay.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s exhausting,’ whispered Ivy. ‘He’srelentlesslypositive. He does yoga every morning. His entire wardrobe is expensive knitwear, like he’s starring in a Cornish drama. He’s constantly bringing people coffee and – and being nice,’ she finished. ‘And his name is Trip. Trip! Really?’
‘Sounds terrible,’ drawled Raye. ‘Listen, I’ve got something to tell you that will cheer even you up.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mum and Dad are determined I’m coming home for this show – it’s all they can talk about, you know how intense everyone gets about Mr Hargreaves’s productions – so I’ll see you in a few weeks. Then you can meet Cleo.’
‘She’s coming here?’ said Ivy, faltering. Raye, partner-in-crimeRaye, fellow loner Raye, had a girlfriend serious enough to bring home for the holidays?
