Page 3 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museu
Howcan they swan in and take over everything? How can there not be something I can do, some form of retaliation, some right of being a tenant here for so many years? I mean, maybe thereis, and this guy clearly isn’t going to reveal it to me, but if I can get an appointment with the Citizens Advice Bureau, or throw myself at the mercy of the local council and beg them for help… I can’t be kicked out of Colours of the Wind. It’s been my whole life for over ten years. My world is centred here. The idea of losing it leaves me feeling like this is a nightmare that I need to wake up from.
I’ve never been very good at hiding emotions, and something flickers in Warren Berrington’s blue eyes. ‘I sense you’re conflicted.’
‘Conflicted?’ It comes out much louder than I intended and several of the workmen turn to look at me. ‘Conflicted?’ I hiss again, quieter this time as the workmen go back to whatever measurements they were taking and things they were surveying. ‘No, actually, I’m not conflicted at all. There is no conflict here. I’ve poured years of love and work and hopes and dreams and imagination into this museum. You cannot simply waltz in and claim it. There are laws that protect commercial tenants, and I… I…’ I intend to find out what they are, but I don’t want him to know that I don’t alreadyknowwhat they are, so I square my shoulders and jut my chin out. ‘I intend to use them against you.’
He laughs. I don’t think he means to, but he bursts out laughing. And I think about what this must look like. He’s obviously used to being in charge, with his frightfully posh suit, shiny shoes, and fancy tablet, whereas my curly hair is wild, mostly blonde with dark roots coming through, and a rainbow of colours in it from my sister experimenting with foils and coloured highlights a few weeks ago. I’m wearing dungarees that have come undone at one shoulder, and a long-sleeve top with a hole in one arm and a paint stain on the other. I’m still clutching my phone like I’m hoping to batter him with it, and I haven’t ungritted my teeth since I walked in. He probably feels like he’s just been threatened by a poodle.
‘Well, don’t I feel like I’ve just been read my rights upon arrest?’ He composes himself and stands up straighter. ‘Do you know how much trouble a company like ours would be in if we cut corners? Every line of your tenancy agreement has been gone through by multiple experts. Our contract is watertight. I spend my life looking for loopholes andclosingthem. Look, Lissa… May I call you Lissa?’
‘I don’t know, may I call you a demonic gerbil with no soul?’
He laughs again, not taking me seriously, even though he almost definitely is demonic and quite… gerbilic.
‘Petty name-calling aside, you would get a lot more out of this if you work with us, not against us.’
‘Work with you to do what?’ His words pique my curiosity. So far he’s made it sound like I have no options, but this makes it sound like there might be a lifeline after all.
‘You and I both want the same thing. You want to save your museum, and I’m here to help save your museum. I know I’ve made that sound unlikely so far.’
I get the impression of a used-car salesman. A bit of patter, clever marketing phrases, and a charm and affability, with an air of someone who’s done this before. Many times before, but I go along with it, because being in this position, even thinking about losing the museum andhavingto save it makes it impossible not to listen. Five minutes ago, everything was normal. How can this happen and how canthisbe the first I’m hearing about it?
‘But fear not, all is not lost. Believe it or not, I am actually here to help. I’m quite taken by your concept. I’ve not heard of anything like it before, and I believe there might be merit in keeping it open.’
I narrow my eyes because I can read betweenthoselines. ‘Profit, you mean?’
‘Yes, profit. A thing that all businesses need to stay afloat. I haven’t had a chance to go over your accounting in depth yet, but it’s blatantly obvious that this place is struggling.’
‘It’s not struggling. At least, it wasn’t until you showed up,’ I snap at him, but if I’m honest, itisstruggling a bit, and I’m certainly not going to admitthatout loud. ‘It’s hard to get people interested and I could do with more advertising, but the budget is limited, and what little there is has to go towards new exhibits and making Colours of the Wind a world of imagination. Things like marketing fall further down the list, but it limps onwards, like a zombie shuffling along with the occasional limb falling off. Okay, every so often, it has to stop and sew an arm back on, but it gets there in the end.’
‘Where’s it going?’ He pushes at his lower lip with his pen, looking bemused by my comparison.
‘I don’t know. Wherever zombies go. To come back to life.’ I’ve lost track of my own analogy, and he’s watching my lips as I speak, clearly trying to keep track of it himself and barely suppressing another laugh. He was probably expecting a suited-up office-dwelling museum curator, and he’s got a multi-coloured poodle yammering about zombies. No wonder he looks confused.
‘While this certainly feels like walking into a horror film, my goalisto help you bring it back to life.’
I scoff in disbelief, because there’s no way a guy like this does something to help anyone other than himself. He didn’t manage to afford suits like that by helpingothers, did he? This is a head-office man accustomed to sitting behind a desk and giving orders, who’s completely out of touch with the real world and what it’s like to run a business on a small budget.
He looks at me for a moment, blue eyes blinking slowly as he considers his next move. ‘May I show you something?’
Without waiting for an answer, he swivels his tablet around so it’s facing me, skims his stylus pen across the screen until an architectural drawing of… a load of geometric shapes on a hill appears in grainy pixels under my nose.
I tilt my head to the side. ‘What is that?’
He quirks a dark eyebrow but doesn’t answer the question, leaving me tilting my head to the other side, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be. It looks like someone’s dropped a Rubik’s Cube and the layers have broken apart, and I’m pretty sure that whatever it was he wanted to show me, he’s pressed the wrong buttons and brought up the wrong image.
‘Nope, you’ve lost me. It looks like you’re trying to invent a building block puzzle to confuse a small child.’
His blue eyes flick between my face and the screen. ‘This is what happens in six months’ time, if this place doesn’t demonstrate that it can do alotbetter than it’s currently doing.’
‘What?’ I grab the tablet with both hands and snatch it from him, and he yelps because his fingers are through a holding strap on the back and he has to yank them free to avoid them being broken. I instantly realise what he means.Whathe’s trying to show me. The hill. This isn’t a child’s puzzle. It’s here. It’s this place. It’s what this place is going to become if I don’t do something to stop it. They’re going to demolish this gorgeous, eccentric old building and rebuild this hideously modern architectural nightmare in its place. It’s all squares and sharp angles and looks like something from a futuristic sci-fi film where there are robots flying around all over the place and people whizz past on hoverboards. There has never been anything that would lookmoreout of place on Ever After Street.
Thelastthing I intended to do was cry, but it’s a gut reaction and tears have welled up in my eyes before I know it. ‘You…can’t… You’re going to knock it down and build this… this…monstrosityin its place?’
He’s shaking his hand like he’s still trying to ease the pain in his fingers. ‘We propose to turn it into a cinema and entertainment complex. Multiple screens for maximum film showings, and indoor bowling, indoor mini golf, wall climbing, an American-style diner, a pizzeria, a doughnut chain, an arcade, and a whole host of other entertainment options that haven’t been settled on yet.’
‘You can’t do that,’ I repeat, wondering how many times I’m going to plead those words today. What am I expecting him to say? ‘Oh, yes, you’re quite right, I won’t then.’ As if. ‘Places like that will put the food shops here out of business. Cleo who runs The Wonderland Teapot, and Ali who owns the 1001 Nights restaurant. They won’t be able to compete with diners and pizza places and doughnuts.’
‘That wouldn’t be Berrington Developments’ problem.’
