***
The village green looked like a disaster zone. Gazebos half-erected at drunken angles. A tombola table with three volunteers arguing loudly about whether a giant teddy bear or a voucher for free entry to the local miniature museum should be the main prize. The sound system screeched intermittently like a dying giraffe.
Callie took it all in. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she murmured.
Mae, who had come along out of solidarity and boredom, glanced at her. ‘The vicar will hear you blaspheming.’
‘What’s he gonna do, condemn to hell? I’m already here.’
The vicar appeared at her elbow, sweating. ‘So glad you’re here. We’ve had a bit of a—’
‘Where’s your running order?’ Callie asked.
‘Our… what?’
She sighed and put her hands on her hips, making the decision to take command of the mess. She was a woman who’d seen a lot of chaos in the reality TV arena and exactly how it was wrangled. It didn’t look that hard. You just had to take charge.
‘Right,’ she said briskly. ‘Who’s in charge of stalls?’
Three people raised their hands. None of them looked confident.
‘Okay. Too many. You—’ she pointed at a woman holding a clipboard upside down, ‘—you’re in charge now. Everyone else, listen to her.’
The woman blinked. ‘Me?’
‘Congratulations. Power looks good on you.’
Callie turned to the vicar. ‘You’ve got no signage, events clashing… there’s a sack race over there.’ She pointed at two men in sacks, chatting next to a long-forgotten start line. ‘And a cake judging over there,’ she added, nodding toward a man scowling at a plate of fairy cakes. ‘Which means everyone’s at the cake judging for obvious reasons.’
‘I thought—’
‘Don’t,’ Callie said kindly. ‘We don’t have time.’
Within ten minutes, she was moving tables, rerouting foot traffic, and commandeering teenagers to act as runners. She found extension leads. She fixed the sound system with one sharp tap. She rearranged the timetable so things actually flowed.
Mae watched from the sidelines, arms folded, equal parts impressed and baffled.
‘You’re… enjoying this,’ she said when Callie jogged past to relocate the raffle.
Callie slowed, breathless, hair coming loose. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
Mae smiled. Until the vicar caught her eye. ‘Ah, as you’re here too… fancy judging the cakes? Gerald is meant to do it, but he won’t admit his taste buds packed up after Covid. Everyone knows anyway, because he accidentally ate a cleaning sponge someone left out today and didn’t notice. They’re not taking his verdict seriously.’
Mae moaned and headed over.
By mid-afternoon, the fête was no longer a shit show. People were laughing. Money was being raised.
When it was over, the vicar shook Callie’s hand with both of his. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done without you. We actually hit our target.’
After that, it happened quietly, almost by accident. Someone from the next village asked if she’d mind ‘having a look’ at their fundraiser. Then a school rang. Then a local wedding where the planner had ghosted the happy couple three weeks from the big day, and everyone was panicking.
Callie stopped saying she was helping out and started saying she was booked.
She learned invoices, hired a part-time assistant, and bought herself a clipboard. She was made for it: reading rooms,untangling egos, making chaos look intentional. No cameras. No edits. Just people going home happy and things starting on time. The work was frantic and satisfying and occasionally ridiculous, and she loved it.
When someone once asked if she used to be on television, she said honestly, ‘A bit,’ and went back to moving chairs.
By the time spring arrived properly, Callie was booked through to August.
