I can’t stop myself imagining what a café might look like.
I’d never call it the orangery; that’s too poncy. But what about the Orange Tree Café? Especially if I got large planters with mini orange trees, set against the walls, in the alcoves.
Stop it!
I park in front of The Glyn but stay in the car lecturing myself.
Don’t be a fool. You’re a semi-working actor, terminally short of cash. You know bugger all about starting a business.
Even if I let myself apply for a business loan, what bank would trust me with their money? They’d look at my CV and call security to escort me out.
As for my biological father?
Ha, ha!
He might have donated a thousand pounds towards the repairs of the west wing, but that was to protect his own enterprise. It doesn’t mean he can pull out thirty thousand pounds to help me restore and equip a café. Anyway, what right do I have to expect it; he’s already discharged all his duty towards me. He’s paid for my education until I was twenty-two. It’s more than enough for a mistake he made when he was nineteen.
Stop thinking, Leonie. Get out of the car and walk in, they’re expecting you.
I walk into the games lounge, and all thoughts of a café fly out of my mind.
They’re all there. Bill, DeNiro, Vanessa, Philomena, Shirley, Gethin, and the looks on their faces tell me right away something is wrong.
It turns out the Squad’s complaints have resulted in an internal investigation. A team of consultants have been going through everything and have made serious recommendations to upper management.
“Well, that’s good news isn’t it?” I look around the circle of high armchairs. There are cups of tea cooling on the table in the middle, and no one apart from Philomena has even touched the biscuits I brought.
“It’s what we wanted. For them to know about the abuses, the profiteering.”
DeNiro shakes his head. “They don’t care about that. The consultation was only about the lack of effective management. They think Cynthia has lost control so she’s being moved to a different job within the organisation.
“So, who is taking over as manager here?” I ask.
“No one.” Vanessa looks pale and old. Then I realise she’s not wearing any make-up, not a scrap. She who’s always groomed and polished. Even her normally sleek silver hair is not in its usual twist but hangs in limp grey ropes down to her shoulders.
“They’re closing The Glyn and moving us to a different home.” Bill says.
“No not to a different home,” DeNiro shakes his head. “To several homes.”
It takes me a minute to appreciate the full meaning of this. “The Squad is being split up?”
“We’re being scattered around the country.” Bill explains.
“They don’t like it that we’re working together.” Gethin looks small in his wheelchair.
“Is that…it’s not illegal for you to…I mean—” I can’t even find the words. “Because they are not allowed to—"
“Of course, that’s not the ‘official reason’ they gave us.” Shirley mimes inverted commas. “They’re saying it is because there is no room for all of us in any one location.”
Cold spreads through me. “They can’t do that.”
“Of course they can.” Bill says, his eyes very sad. “This building is closing.. We’re forced to move. We can hardly pitch a tent in the car park.” The skin on his hands seems drier than usual, papery thin, wrinkling over blue veins.
“When?” I ask in a whisper.
“A few weeks. Some of us will be moved sooner rather than later but it’ll start in January.” Shirley wipes her eyes. For thefirst time, she looks old. Her hair, usually a vibrant red, now looks dull and wispy as if it was left to dry naturally without the usual volumising cream and hot air diffuser to make it curl nicely.
It’s as if they’ve all aged ten years and have wilted. As if the spirit has gone out of them.
