“And then we charge ten pounds a ticket. We can get a temporary alcohol license—I’ve already looked into it; it will take five days—and then we can make a lot more on the bar,” I say. “And I thought, whatever we raised, we could put toward new sun loungers. And I wondered—and, now, this really is a long shot—but I wondered about approaching the coffee-cart guy about moving his business out of our car park and into the canteen for the rest of the summer. Most of our regulars are his regulars anyway. He might sell even more coffee while people are here lounging about. We need more vibe here. Less cold community exercise space and more hip summer hangout. Well, a balance of both.”
At that moment, Samira comes in holding a laptop, beaming and bouncy. She briefly looks out at the view of the pool and beams some more.
“Did you speak to Ryan about printing tickets?” I ask her, eyeing her from top to toe with suspicion. “And what are you so happy about?”
“Yes. And can’t a girl be happy about a community project?” she replies.
“Yes, of course,” I say, tugging at my shirt dress.
“I’ve noticed the shirt,” Samira says, “and it’s a five out of ten. We need to go out again. You should clear out your wardrobe too. If that’s the best non-black outfit you’ve got on offer, we need to do more. Have you checked your email? I sent you a very easy system for clearing it out.”
I want to sulk, but Samira makes her bossy instructions so devoid of emotion it’s hard to feel offended. It’s like she’s ordering eggs. “Okay,” I say.
“Lynn, I’ll submit this later today”—I wave the election application at her—“and you need to get down to Snappy Snaps and get more photos taken.”
“More photos?”
“Something Ryan is organizing with his disreputable gang of lifeguards,” Samira says, chuckling away to herself at mention of Ryan. “We need them for the social media as well. I can’t use the photo you provided; for God’s sake, you’re in a bikini.”
“Fatphobic,” says Lynn under her breath.
“No, it isn’t that. You just need to look kind of...” Samira sighs, unable to find a way to present it without offending.
“Lynn, I think the point is that you need to look like you mean business. Not pleasure,” I say, grinning. “Have you seen the current guy? The conservative candidate? He’ll eat you alive. He’s right up there on the church notice board, you know.Keeping Broadgate Open for Business.”
“Ooh, that’s good,” says Samira, nodding. “Sounds so sensible.”
“All right,” Lynn says, “I’ll do the publicity shots.”
After Lynn flounces out of the room, Samira turns to me and folds her arms. “I didn’t know you went to church.”
“I don’t go to church. I just went in there once to ask aboutparking and there was this notice board, which was... oh, it was just so sweet and sad.”
“A community board?”
“Yes. It had all these posters up, for things like pottery and life drawing and whatnot. That’s how I ended up seeing Gerry naked as a life-drawing model.”
“Oh God,” she replies.
“I’m almost too scared to go to this pottery class next week,” I say warily. “I have images ofGhost, and like, what if instead of Patrick Swayze, Gerry crouches at the wheel behind me.”
“My ears are burning, ladies... ,” says Gerry from behind, and I literally jump.Did he hear me?Samira shakes her head at me.
“Gerry! Yes, we were talking about you. We need you to approve something. We’re going to hold a cinema screening in the pool to try to encourage younger folk to join the lido,” I say, feeling my voice waver slightly as I do. I look across at Samira for support.
“Fine,” he says, digging in his pockets for his keys.
“Fine?” I say. I was expecting a small degree of pushback. Something. Anything.
“Fine. I’m heading up to London and I’ll be away for most of next week. Business planning,” he says, smiling his wide yellow smile. “I really want you guys to enjoy the rest of the summer here.”
I frown and Samira and I side-eye each other again.
“A last hurrah, as they say,” he says now, fishing his keys out and looking us both in the eyes, darting from Samira to me as if he’s searching for something. “Where is Lynn?”
“She’s, um... she’s gone for a smear,” says Samira.
“Right,” says Gerry, turning an acute shade of cherry red. “Right. Good. Well. Good. Cheerio, girls. I’ll see you next week.”
