She only realised how much her voice had risen when the café went quiet. Cutlery stilled. Conversations stopped. When she looked around, people were staring. Great.
‘Surely it’s not that bad?’ Megan said into the silence. ‘From the consultation stuff it sounded very different.’
‘Of course it did,’ Lucy said more quietly, suddenly exhausted. ‘Oliver isn’t interested in us. He’s interested in…’ She searched for the right word and found three. ‘Winning. Money. Himself.’
‘Oh.’ Megan frowned. ‘But it might not be as bad as you think.’ She rubbed her belly, automatically protective. ‘There was mention of a new Plunket room for mothers and children. It’s got to be better than that damp place from the seventies.’
Lucy tried to smile and suspected she failed, because Megan’s face didn’t relax.
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I hope I’m wrong.’
‘But you don’t think you are.’
Lucy shook her head and looked away, throat tight. ‘Marcus,’ she called, untying her apron, ‘hold the fort. I’ve got a meeting. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.’
She stepped outside into the sunshine, Megan falling into step beside her. They both looked towards the Old Colonial Hotel.
‘It’s not fit for purpose, Luce,’ Megan said quietly. ‘It was built over a hundred years ago and it shows. If Oliver hadn’t come along, we’d literally be watching it fall to pieces. At least he’ll sort it and replace it with something useful.’
‘But it’s like a death of sorts, you know?’ Megan was silent and Lucy looked at her quickly, suddenly remembering the heartache Megan had been through only nine months earlier when her brother died. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
Megan touched Lucy’s shoulder. ‘It’s OK. But you’re wrong. It’s not a death. It’s only a building and they don’t last forever.’
Lucy crumpled the leaflet in her fist as she watched Megan cross the road to her car. If Megan thought Oliver’s plans were good for the village, others would follow. He was already persuading members of the community.
She straightened her shoulders. She had a fight on her hands. And losing was not an option.
At least there was some visible progress to the hotel, Oliver thought as he looked around.
Behind the scenes he’d started to clear out years of junk and had claimed a former residents’ library as his temporary office. Once the plastic crates, mismatched chairs and boxes of old linen had been hauled out, the bones of the room had emerged: high ceilings, tall windows, shelves of books, cobwebs thick in the corners and two worn club-leather chesterfield sofas freed from their dust sheets.
He planned to have the furniture sent to a warehouse for future projects that needed “heritage charm” — but for now, it served.
A knock sounded. Before he could answer, the door swung open and the ever-sullen Brenda appeared. She didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and let Lucy through before walking away.
‘Lucy,’ said Oliver, coming forward.
She looked as arresting as she had in white, even now in jeans and a shirt. Her hair was tucked under a tweed cap, heavy Doc Martens on her feet, extra studs glinting in her ears.
Statement received, he thought. I’m here, but don’t push your luck.
‘Oliver,’ she said, walking up to him and extending her hand.
Surprised, he took it. Her grip was firm, cool.
‘Thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you would,’ he said, letting a note of uncertainty creep in. A little doubt usually worked in his favour.
She nodded but didn’t smile. Fair enough, he thought. He’d earned that.
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t have far to come.’ She nodded towards the café. ‘And we do have unfinished business.’ She paused, licking her lips. ‘And I hate unfinished business.’
‘Me, too.’
‘I guess,’ she went on, ‘I may have been a little hasty, walking out like that.’
He gave a short, reluctant laugh. ‘It was… a novel experience. Doesn’t happen often.’
Her eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. Right. Maybe don’t boast about that.
