Ivy heard a loud gasp and turned to see Liv, looking as though someone had died. Her eyes filled instantly with tears.
‘Cancel?’ Liv whispered. ‘But we soldseventy-seven pounds and fifty penceworth of tickets today!’
Bethie also looked horrified. ‘What about the giant Cornish pasty Fin was going to make? He’s been practising for weeks. He said we might get into theGuinness Book of Records!’
Ivy looked at their stricken little faces and turned back to Mr Hargreaves. ‘Hang on, you’re going tocancel the show? Because one teacher has appendicitis? That seems a bit dramatic.’
‘No one else has the experience,’ Mr Hargreaves wailed. ‘Weneed someone who knows theatre and staging and lighting and—’
‘I’ve been to theatre camp!’ Trip piped up.
Everyone turned to look at him.
‘Oh no,’ Ivy breathed. ‘Trip, save yourself. Don’t do it.’
‘Theatre camp?’ said Mr Hargreaves, taking an eager step forward, trembling. ‘Tell me more, young man.’
‘Every summer.’ Trip began to tick off his credentials on his fingers. ‘Full musicals, blocking, props, ensemble management. I can work a fog machine. And I’ve been CRB and DBS checked because I toured with an international youth world music group two summers ago.’
Fragile hope dawned on Mr Hargreaves’s face. ‘You – you coulddirect? At such short notice?’
‘I’d love to,’ Trip said, without a flicker of hesitation. ‘Be my honour.’
Liv screamed, launched herself at Trip like a small hurricane in fairy wings, and hugged him. Bethie applauded. Mr Hargreaves mopped his brow. Brooke let out a small, weary sigh as though this was entirely to be expected.
Ivy gripped Trip’s arm and pulled him aside. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,’ she hissed. ‘The people of Fox Bay are fairly deranged at the best of times, but this play has sent them over the edge. You’ve seen how stressful it all is. No one can agree on anything. This show is like one walking red flag.’
He grinned down at her. ‘Hey, someone’s got to save theshow.’ He looked past her at where Bethie and Liv were jumping up and down, the coins in their tins rattling. ‘Look at them. They’re so happy.’
Ivy dragged a hand down her face. ‘You’re meant to be onholiday.’
‘Seriously, Ivy, this will be fun for me. I like a project. I get bored doing nothing.’
Ivy turned pleadingly to Brooke, who was watching them with wry amusement. ‘Tell him not to,’ she implored. ‘They’ll eat him alive. These people need a firm hand, not Mr Nice-and-Enthusiastic.’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Don’t underestimate Trip,’ she said. ‘He once stage-managedLes Misérablesin the Santa Cruz mountains with a cast of ten-year-olds, two cats and a budget of fifty dollars. The play is in good hands, Ivy.’
Ivy groaned. ‘Don’t do it, Trip,’ she repeated.
But Mr Hargreaves was already outlining the rehearsal schedule while messaging the WhatsApp chat the good news, Trip was rapidly taking notes on the back of a receipt and Liv and Bethie were loudly and tunelessly practising their big Arthurian number. It seemed like the show would go on after all, Ivy thought.
She only hoped that Trip wouldn’t be broken in the process.
On Monday morning, the sky was still ink-dark as Ivy pulled on her thickest jumper and grabbed her Thermos, which had seen her through countless school trips and residentials, shutting the door to the flat quietly. Brooke had texted her last night, her message as businesslike as she was in person.
Still on for showing me and Trip this famous lighthouse? 7 a.m. start? I meant it about paying you. I’ve checked the local tour guide rates and think this should cover it.
Brooke had then mentioned an hourly rate that was nearly double what Ivy was getting paid in the bookshop. That had decided it for her. If a couple of American tourists wanted to pay her to trek around Fox Bay, she wasn’t going to say no.
The drive to the harbour front was peaceful, the town silent. Ivy rolled down the windows, letting in the sound of the wind whistling over rooftops and the occasional squawk of a gull. She could smell the sea. The cold stung her cheeks, but it wasthe good kind of cold, clean and bracing, and she drove slowly, relishing it.
Trip and Brooke were waiting when she reached the shop a few minutes after seven, steam rising from the travel mugs in their hands. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Trip waved like they hadn’t seen each other in years. ‘Morning, Ivy!’ He patted his pockets. ‘I brought snacks. Fruit, nuts, chocolate, flapjacks …’
‘Great.’ Ivy hefted the Thermos. ‘I brought caffeine.’
Brooke was dressed in a matching navy hiking set, somehow looking both elegant and functional, hair smooth beneath a hairband. She looked far too pristine for Fox Bay, which was mostly all ancient fleece and lumpy cardigans. ‘You’re late,’ she said severely.
