“No one could accuse this place of being overpriced,” I say glumly, as I move the bench seat slightly and my fingers emerge from the underside with white chewing gum attached to them.
“And my brother—he’s the one in the walking frame—they think the salt water helps him sleep. And, you know, it gives Mum something to do with him every week. He struggles with most everyday tasks.”
I think about my own mum and brother, and my heart squeezes in my chest a little. So far away. Mum’s sixtieth is in just over a month’s time. I have to go, I think. I have to turn up feeling good about myself and get through it as best I can.
I turn to Samira. She looks downcast and strokes the bright gel polish on her nails. “I know we haven’t all put our best foot forward at work, but this is a really important place in the community for so many people. All those ideas you kept mentioning. Do you think we could do any of them? Do you think it would help? I’d be absolutely gutted if it closed.”
“We need money. Sounds like we’ll need an ‘in’ at the council to get any grants for that,” I say glumly. “But in the meantime, I suppose, some fun events to draw younger people here, and try to get them to join? A better canteen with a coffee machine. Maybe coffee-cart guy wants to expand.”
“Ugh. It feels like a mountain to climb,” Samira says.
I nod. I care. I can feel the care in my stomach, and right now I can feel it radiating off Samira, whom I have made hardly any effortto get to know; I certainly did not know her mum and brother used and needed this pool.
“When I first got here Iwasfull of ideas,” I say, “but it feels like we’d really need a monster effort from everyone to put them into place. Including Gerry.”
She remains silent. And all I can do is sigh. I admit to myself now that I didn’t try very hard. Notreally. Gerry said no a few times, and then I gave up. Classic Mara: the mere hint that I might be somehow annoying, and I pull away.
Samira sighs too, and looks at me. “The community needs this place. And I like working here.”
The last part is a surprise.
“What do you think about trying to find some way to raise money? Shall we get Ryan and maybe even Lynn and come up with some ideas?”
“Um...”
“I’m very good on social media,” she says, liberating her iPhone from her pocket and showing me her TikTok feed again. She really is extraordinarily photogenic, and her makeup skills are exceptional.
“We’d have to raise an awful lot of money, or start shagging a councilor,” I say, scrunching up the wrapper of my sandwich, then fondling my brownie, wondering if I need to tone down the sugar intake as part of Project Mara.
“Sure, but imagine how great it would be to sort this place out,” she says. “And imagine what it would do for the community if we could fix it.”
“Fix it?” I say, turning my head to her again.
“Yeah. You know?” she says. “Wouldn’t you feel good if you’d been responsible for fixing this place, restoring it to its formerglory? And fixing up a huge part of the community.Yourcommunity.”
I feel the chill up my back, down my forearms, and the hairs standing on end, goose bumps appearing like a little celestially charged rash up my arms.Fix something.
“Okay, I’m in.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Mara,” she says.
“But in exchange can you take me clothes shopping?” I say quickly. “I need something to wear to my mum’s sixtieth and... basically... just... a new look?”
“That seems fair,” she replies. “You help me, I’ll help you.”
“It’s not really fair. One project is a fading thirties relic, in need of a total makeover, inside and out, and the other is—” I glance sideways at Samira. “Well, the lido.”
“You knob,” Samira says, laughing, shoving me sideways.
10
Project Mara ismoving along. Hair done. Shopping date with Samira on the calendar. And now I am going to expand my hobbies to include oil painting. Of all the little numbers I’d torn off the church notice board, this is the one that I most wanted to try out, and so it’s my first. And besides, it’s far more enticing than the other Saturday morning activity on offer—singles’ wild swimming with someone called Sergeant Major Hooligan.
I imagine myself curiously brilliant at art, despite no prior experience. A new discovery in the art world, perhaps. The art teacher gasping with disbelief as he stands over my canvas, his admiration blossoming into a romantic obsession. Art is something that makes me insecure, and so, in the spirit of self-improvement and facing one’s fears, here I am.
I knock on the wooden door of the little thatched cottage and adjust the beret I’ve worn to get into character. I am beaming like an overexcited child waiting to see Santa.
Lee opens the door in brightly splattered painter’s overalls and Wellington boots, his tight black curls starting to gray around his face, which is mostly covered by a long, unkempt dove-gray beard.Art Santa, I think, looking at the length of it.
