ChapterTwenty-Three
Quinn found himself in the bright community centre that Ivy had booked, still high on last night’s activities. The building was full of familiar faces, all of whom were here to see what they could do to save Quinn and his shop. Blair Beckett, in all his television glory, seemed to strike the locals as royalty. He shook their hands, asked them questions, and seemed to care what they had to say.
It warmed Quinn’s heart to see these people here, for him and his shop. Friends of his dad, customers of his shop, and Deb and June. He suspected they might be here more so for the chance of seeing Noah Sage, but he had yet to arrive. Quinn suspected he would not appear.
‘I have invited him,’ Ivy said.
‘Who?’
Ivy gave Quinn a look. ‘Noah. I know you’re thinking of him. He’s invited.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Quinn dismissed, but he wondered if Ivy genuinely was psychic.
‘You two seemed to have a delightful time last night.’
Quinn tried to fight away the memory of dancing with Noah – so close, yet so far. If Ivy noticed, how many others had?
‘And what about you and Blair?’
‘That is not on the agenda this evening,’ Ivy said as she consulted her imaginary list.
Quinn headed to pour a mug of coffee, something that the local café owner had provided, and changed his thoughts to his mother. Would she come tonight? Hay was small, and she’d heard this was going ahead. She had texted him, even tried to call, after seeing the newspaper and BBC article. But she was more concerned about how Harold might be feeling, rather than how Quinn was feeling.
Quinn imagined what he would say if she arrived.‘I know you’re in a tricky situation, Mum, but for god’s sake, stop him from selling my shop!’
He added a splash, and then a dash, of milk to his black coffee, stirred with a flimsy stirrer, and then brought it to his lips, feeling calmer now that he had something in his hands and something to distract himself from the eyes of the people in the room. Somehow, Ivy had found them enough seats, and those who couldn’t sit on the fold out chairs provided gathered at the back of the room. The hall, with its tall roof and single glazed windows, decorated for Christmas. On the stage stood the set of the nativity play that the local school kids would put on for the community, something they did every year, and something Quinn avoided when the time came. A Christmas tree stood at the back of the room near a serving hatch where there was a kitchen. From the bathrooms to the storage cupboards, tinsel and Christmas lights were strung from the ceiling, hovering above the heads of the town’s locals.
‘Ahem, hem, hem,’ Ivy trilled from the stage over a PA system that whined and wailed.
Where the hell had she got that?
The warm, welcoming hush of voices, that lovely hum, faltered, fading away, and all eyes were on Ivy. She had tinsel in her hair, and she was wearing a Christmas jumper with a waving Santa.
‘Thank you all so much for being here with us tonight,’ Ivy said as yet more people arrived. ‘Yes, there is room at the inn. Come in, come in, get yourself settled. Now, we’re here to discuss Kings & Queens,Hay’s only LGBTQ+ bookshop. Over the years, Kings & Queenshas been a welcoming, safe space, and one that has helped bring Hay into the modern era. Now, it is being threatened with closure. You all already know this from the radio interviews, the magazines, newspapers, and online reports. We’ve gone viral!’
At that, the room erupted into cheers and applause, and Quinn couldn’t help but smile. But as he did so, his eyes kept darting to the back of the room, and then around it. Hoping – hell, praying – Noah might arrive.
‘We’re here to discuss what we can do to clarify that we will not stand for it, and that yes, Kings & Queenswill still be here ten, twenty, thirty years from now,’ Ivy said to the gaggle of Hay’s locals. Quinn even wondered if there were more than just locals in attendance. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘Show people how good the shop can be!’ a woman Quinn recognised from the town’s council said.
‘How can we do that?’ Quinn asked.
‘You’re the owner. You should know,’ Ivy jested, and the room laughed again.
‘Well, my friend here should consider a comedy career after this,’ Quinn said, and he walked to the stage and sat on the end. Sitting on the stage felt a lot less daunting than standing on it. Plus, he didn’t much fancy glimpsing the nativity’s baby Jesus that was at least fifteen years old and was missing an eye. ‘But the whole point is to ask you. What do you think shows how important we are?’
‘Author signings,’ a young woman said from somewhere in the room.
‘We actually have one author lined up. Keep an eye out for details on that,’ Ivy said.
‘Who?’
‘Me!’
Blair Beckett raised his hand, and a few people in the audience let out half-hearted cheers.
‘And any other author signings?’ someone asked. Blair dropped his hand.
