Page 16 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museu
Talking of Mickey brings our encounter yesterday back into sharp focus when I’d been trying to forget all about it, and I force myself to face it head on. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. That was unprofessional of me. I’m not used to—’ I stop myself and rethink. ‘No, actually, there’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have been having a private discussion in a public place, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to overhear that.’
He nods slowly, bending forwards on the front desk, almost leaning around me so he can see my face from where he’s sitting and I’m still standing. ‘Thank you for that. I appreciate the directness. I guess we can agree that I could have made a better first impression than barging in unannounced like that. I felt the need to appear in control of the situation, and I deserved your assessment of me.’
I’m surprised by how much I appreciatehisdirectness too, and his open admission that maybe he isn’t as unflappable as he seemed at first.
‘And look…’ He splays his hands out and places them both on the desk. ‘No Tablet of Gloom. And no surgery necessary to remove it. Just thought you might like to see proof.’
I don’t know why, but it makes me laugh, and I appreciate that he can make a joke out of what he heard yesterday rather than making me feel bad about it. It really wasn’t my most professional moment.
Another customer comes in and pays the single person’s entrance fee, and I can feel Warren’s eyes on me as I put her money in the till and give her quick directions around the building.
‘I’m not your enemy,’ Warren says gently when we’re alone again. ‘You want to keep your museum – I’m here because I believe there could be merit in keeping your museum, but for any business to stayinbusiness, they need to earn more than they pay out. Looking at your accounting, I understand that’s a foreign concept to you, but…’ He trails off when I frown at him. ‘Look, I’m not completely heartless. I can see what this place means to you and that you weren’t expecting this takeover to happen, but I firmly believe that we can find a middle-ground solution that works for both of us. You get to stay here, and I get to prove to my mother that my ideas aren’t always terrible ones, and she can retire safe in the knowledge that I won’t run our family company straight into the ground.’
I knew there was something more personal behind his initial explanation for his interest here, and I appreciate his honesty and the hint at something much deeper going on behind the scenes, and the fact that nothing I’ve said so far has deterred him. I haven’t exactly been the most welcoming host or receptive in any way to his plans, but there is still the unspoken truth that makes it difficult to trust him – what plans does he have for this place for it to feasibly compete with a multi-million cinema and entertainment complex? He doesn’t understand a love of fairytales and the magic of seeing an item in real life that you thought only existed in a storybook. He thinks installing a human mermaid to swim around in the lobby is the way forwards, and doesn’t realise that the strength of this place is in small things that people can pick up and hold and touch, even if there’s a trade-off that things might get damaged. It’s not about spectacles, it’s about making things that don’t exist in real life seem like they do.
‘There’s a gap between ticking over and thriving. I want to bridge that gap.’
‘Why?’
He picks up a pen from the desk and twiddles it between his fingers as he thinks about it. ‘Because this place is different to anywhere I’ve ever seen. When I first heard of this, I read the reports, and I could see somewhere that had so much potential but was missing the mark, and—’ He must see me bristling because he changes tack, and his voice switches from accusatory to persuasive. ‘You must be able to see that – even though there’s nothingwrongper se and what you do here is charming and good-intentioned, things could definitely be better? I’m not wrong in saying that, am I?’
Annoyingly, he isn’t, but it irks me to admit it. Iknowhe has a point, but the last thing I want is for him to think I need his input. If my museum needs to be saved, it should be up to me. All right, maybe it could do with an upgrade or two, and I should have done something about it earlier, but when thingsareticking over, it’s easier to bury your head in the sand and convince yourself that everything’s fine and always will be.
When I don’t answer, he chuckles like he can hear the unspoken war between my head and my heart, but he doesn’t push me on it. ‘All right, what do you think the problem is? You know this place better than anyone. It’s blindingly clear that no one could love it more than you. Why doyouthink it’s not doing better?’
‘I think we’re invisible.’ I answer his question instinctively, and only stop to think about what I’ve said after the words have come out, but now I’ve said it, I realise itistrue. ‘We have a wonderful vantage point on Ever After Street – right at the end of the road and at the top of a hill. Grey stone steps leading symmetrically to the doors of this three-storey grey-brick, partially ivy-covered building. Shoppers literally can’t miss us, and yet, I feel that we stand here like a ghost, in plain sight but somehow unseen. I don’t have the budget for adding new exhibits very often, and most of the existing ones have been here for a long time, so there’s nothing new to advertise, nothing to encourage people to come back, so we sort of blend into the background and disappear from public perception.’
He fiddles with the pen he’s still faffing with, turning it over and over, pressing each end against the wooden desk. ‘So what we need to do is turn the museum into the architectural equivalent of you then, because you could stop traffic.’ He leans over and uses the pen to lift a pink section of my curly hair and then quickly drops it when I frown at him because it doesn’t sound like a good thing.
He sounds like he means it in a ‘could cause a multi-car pile-up resulting in multiple deaths and horrific injuries’ sort of way, either that or he’s comparing my colourful hair to a set of traffic lights.
And he’s got it so wrong. I couldn’t stop traffic. I couldn’t stop anything. I can’t stop some uppity development company swooping in and taking this building. I can’t drag enough visitors in. I fight causes for other people who need help on Ever After Street, but I find it impossible to admit it when I need help myself. I learned early on in life that people you rely on can be taken away in an instant, so it’s better not to rely on anyone. I’m used to people assuming I’m coping fine, and it’s hard to admit that sometimes, I’m not, and now I spend my days skulking around here like an apparition in my unseen museum, waiting for someone to look for me. ‘I feel like I’m invisible too.’
I don’t realise I’ve said the words out loud until the pen drops onto the desk and he slides the stool back far enough to look at me.
Why did I say that? I’ve never even said that to Mickey, never mind a man I only met this week. My cheeks blaze so hot that surely lava is about to explode out of them like a bubbling volcano, but something about him equating the colourful streaks of my sister’s hairdressing practice to some sort of strong, confident personality has rubbed me up the wrong way. I know how people see me around here, like a warrior, always on hand to fight for a good cause, and no one realises that I’m frantically treading water and trying to stay afloat in a sea of falling visitors and declining profit. Colours of the Wind does need help – for me orbecauseof me?
‘Intriguing…’ he murmurs, and gladly we’re saved from any further awkwardness when the mum and little boy cross the lobby and ask if there’s anything upstairs, and telling them it’s staff-only gives me a chance to hope Warren develops sudden-onset amnesia and instantly forgets everything I just said.
‘You need a map,’ he says when they disappear into the Fairytale Homes hall.
‘Maps cost money.’
‘Not all extra expenses are unnecessary. Nice quality postcard-sized maps with some marketing info on the back, a link to the website, social media accounts and hashtags to post about their visit. Something people would keep as a memento… You do have a website, right?’
‘Of course.’ I cringe internally. News and announcements of new exhibits are posted on the Ever After Street website, but the museum’s own website is… shamefully neglected.
He gets his phone out of his suit pocket and I have ahorriblefeeling that he’s about to look up my website.
I see him wince as the drab background and bright, blocky text assaults his eyeballs. ‘Oh. Wow.’
It isnotthe good kind of wow.
‘I’d say it looks like a five-year-old put this together, but a five-year-old would do a vastly better job. This is not a website, this is a school project from before the internet was widely used. It wouldn’t have been up to date in 1998.’
‘Look, you didn’t ask me if I had agoodwebsite. The Ever After Street social media is?—’
‘Nothing whatsoever to do with your own online presence. This… needs help.’
