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Ellie concentrated on adding a dollop of cream. She took a sip and placed the mug on the table, dispelling thoughts of Art and her inappropriate scent fantasies. She handed the stack of printouts to Annie to pass round.
Art glanced at his copy, before stuffing it into his back pocket.
Her heart did a somersault.
He’s dyslexic. It’s a fairly common learning disability. Get over it.
She cleared her throat. ‘Hi, everyone, thanks so much for coming tonight to the meeting me and my mum, and Tess and Annie have called.’ She launched into the introduction the four of them had prepared. ‘Hopefully this won’t take too long, but Tess, Annie, Dee and I have been working on something.’ She paused. ‘An idea, a fairly radical idea, but we think an exciting one, that we wanted to present to you guys.’
‘You can keep us as long as you like, if Dee’s walnut dream cake is involved,’ Rob Jackson, Annie’s husband, announced while cutting himself a slice of cake almost as large as the head of his toddler son Freddie who was squirming on his lap. Freddie reached out to sink his fingers into the frosting.
Ellie coughed out a laugh. But it sounded trite and forced.
What was she actually doing here? Her CSUB certificate said she had five years’ event-planning experience and knew how to get good flow round the food and beverages area during a non-profit fund-raiser. It did not mean that she could save this business, especially as her own business had already collapsed into a quagmire – not unlike the chemical potties she’d hired for the Orchard Harbor Jazz-ateers’ centenary festival last year.
She gripped the sheet of paper, feeling as if she had a spotlight shining on all her misplaced hubris and imperfections.
She took a steadying breath and talked herself out of the pit in her head. That jazz festival had been an event for three hundred people, and she’d managed to find replacement toilets at the last minute so none of the Jazz-ateers had been forced to crap al fresco in the driving rain.
The failure of her business hadn’t been her fault. And she had every intention of trying to resurrect it, in some form or another, when she returned to the US and the scandal of her impending divorce and Chelsea Hamilton’s baby bump died down. She could do this. She could present a well-intentioned business initiative to the families living on this fledgling housing co-op. Whether they chose to follow through on it would then be out of her hands.
‘Do you want to tell everyone Pammy’s idea?’ Her mother’s suggestion cut through the fog of insecurities. Ellie looked up from the sheet grasped in her hands to find eight pairs of eyes focused on her. Everyone except Freddie Jackson, who was bouncing up and down on his dad’s lap as if he’d just swallowed a pound of crack cocaine instead of a fistful of coffee frosting.
Only one pair of eyes held her gaze though, searing right through her composure to the washed-up event planner beneath.
‘Yes, of course.’ She glanced at the first bullet point on her notes.
Ignore Art, he can’t intimidate you any more.
‘Basically, we called this meeting because after having looked closely at the project’s accounts, I think the co-op needs to think about investigating new avenues for profit growth to create a sustainable future.’
‘The project’s purpose is to create a sustainable living for everyone here. We’re not trying to make ourselves rich.’ Art’s terse tone sliced right through Ellie’s composure.
Her bouncing stomach went into a tailspin.
She’d expected debate and discussion, and possibly some probing questions about what qualified her to make suggestions about the project’s future when she wasn’t a resident. What she hadn’t expected – or been prepared for – was to have the plan dismissed before she’d even presented it.
Suddenly all she could hear was the fake concern in Caroline Myerson’s voice as her final client sacked her, because having an event planner in the midst of an acrimonious divorce hadn’t been the sort of vibe Caroline had wanted for her thirtieth wedding anniversary celebration.
‘I’m not talking about getting rich,’ Ellie managed, clinging to her composure before her confidence crumbled completely. ‘I’m talking about establishing more of a financial cushion. At the moment you’re skirting the edge of financial ruin every time you need to buy a new piece of farm equipment or…’
‘That sounds serious,’ Jacob said, bouncing the other Jackson twin on his knee. ‘Are we about to go bankrupt?’
Art jerked away from the sink, the indolent pose history. ‘That’s bullshit. We’ve been in profit for the last two years.’
By a few hundred pounds.
Ellie swallowed down the retort with a gulp of coffee. Her purpose had never been to scare anyone.
Relax, rewind, re-engage.
She repeated the mantra that had seen her through the early days in Orchard Harbor, when she’d been touting for business and getting knocked back at every turn. If she could schmooze the ladies who lunched, she could schmooze the good people of Willow Tree Farm.
‘I didn’t say you’re about to go bankrupt,’ Ellie qualified, Art’s glare making her agonisingly self-conscious. Why was he being so combative? Even with his literacy issues, he must know the project was one broken boiler or Inland Revenue audit away from serious problems. ‘Your finances aren’t on a solid enough footing. You need more revenue to increase your available operating capital, not just to insulate yourselves against emergencies but also to make up for the shortfall in your income during the winter months.’
‘And Ellie’s discovered that Pam had a brilliant idea five years ago, which never got actioned…’ Tess sent Dee a consoling smile ‘…because of her illness, but which might be able to save all our bacons.’
