NETTA
When she’d reached the canteen just after 4p.m., Netta had put a white apron on over her yellow dress, well aware that she now looked like a cooking presenter from 1955 who was about to whisk up a cheese soufflé. In saying that, young Ginny had made her feel lovely when she’d complimented her on the way in.
Next, she’d put her bag under the counter, after flicking both her phones to silent. She should really have switched the Family Listening Line one off because her shift on the helpline had finished now, but she never did. She always liked to be reachable just in case any of her regulars needed her.
The canteen was one of the few areas in the old church that had natural light, as it was against one of the outside walls. However, the huge stained-glass windows caused rainbow beams to shoot across the room, leaving a kaleidoscope of colour on every surface. It wasn’t a large room. It only had ten long tables, all of them made from recycled wood sleepers, which could hold a dozen people each. And they’d repurposed the pews from the main church, cut into sections that sat two on each, to use as benches. With three white walls, and then a main wall that featured a mural painted by the more artistically gifted of the students, it was a quirky, gorgeous room that looked like it had been around forever, not newly created as part of the project to transform the church into a stage school.
Netta would usually fire up the soup pots, get the ovens on for the baked potatoes, and start making sandwiches of six different varieties, but there was no food service today, because the Academy wasn’t technically open as normal. Instead, they were setting up a bar in here for the guests that were coming along tonight, so she needed to check that the cases of Prosecco were chilling in the huge fridge in the pantry and that she had bottles of sparkling and still water ready to sell too. Prior to the screening, the canteen would be open for everyone, but afterwards there would be a small reception for press and VIPs. They’d considered having free canapés or some other kind of nibbles, but the reality was that because this place was self-funded, anything they spent came straight out of their budget. On top of that, the screening was only a two-hour affair, so there probably wouldn’t be a demand for food. The compromise was that prior to the show, there would be crisps for sale to complement the beverages that were being offered at pretty much cost price, because most of the guests coming along tonight were either students or their families. A squad of the teenagers had been enlisted to help her set up and serve – although only the over-eighteens could handle the alcohol. The last thing they needed were a couple of sixteen-year-olds going rogue with a bottle of Prosecco.
Netta checked the clock on the wall. Four thirty. Plenty of time to get everything set up and then have a cup of tea before the students who were helping her came in at 5.30p.m. There was nothing worse than rushing at the last minute at these things.
‘Hey, Mum, twice in one day,’ Blair said, as he strolled through the door, his tool belt around his waist as always. ‘Just checking in – are you okay? That couldn’t have been easy going to see Dad this morning.’
Netta smiled softly, appreciating his concern. The stereotypes alleged that daughters tended to stay closer to their mothers than sons, but, somehow, Netta’s family seemed to prove otherwise. It was even more surprising that Blair was the more thoughtful, more caring one, given that Fergus had been his role model. Or perhaps that was why he’d turned out like this. Maybe he’d seen how Fergus withheld his emotions and he’d decided to show up for his family in the opposite way.
Netta brought a tray of glasses out from under the counter and began setting them up on the steel workbench that would serve as a makeshift bar later. ‘I’m fine, son. Glad that this morning is over with. How are you doing?’
‘I’m good, but I’ll be happier when we get through this evening without any more areas of the building tripping out. I got the sound studio up and running again, so that’s a relief. And I’ve just finished setting up the lights for an interview Ollie is doing in the old crypt. So far, so good. He should be done in an hour or so, so I’m just waiting to make sure there are no more issues. The joys of working in a two-hundred-year-old building.’
Netta brought another tray of glasses up onto the counter. ‘Didn’t the whole place get rewired before Ollie bought it?’
Blair popped a pound coin in the vending machine behind him and the next thing he was unwrapping a Twix.
‘It did, but not very well. And then, when the church was converted to become the Academy, we upgraded the electrics in all the areas that were being altered, but the architects advised that we didn’t need to touch the rooms that weren’t being structurally changed. I guess that was a mistake because now that we’ve got the aircon cranked up because it’s bloody tropical outside, those rooms are the ones that are tripping out today. Or maybe there’s just a dark spirit up there somewhere that’s objecting to the takeover of its former accommodation.’
As he said that, there was an amused glint in his eye that made Netta laugh. He never had been one to take life too seriously. That’s why it had been tough to see him heartbroken when his wife had an affair with her boss. She and little Lyle were now living with the guy in his swanky twelve-bedroom mansion in Milngavie, complete with swimming pool and home theatre. That was a building she wouldn’t mind dark spirits going off to haunt, but only when Lyle was spending the weekends with Blair.
Blair tossed his Twix wrapper in the bin in the corner of the room and got up from his chair. ‘Right, Mum, I’m off back out,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek as he passed. ‘I’ll be in the building for the rest of the night, so I’ll see you later.’
That sparked a thought.
‘Blair, have you spoke to Mandy lately?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope – with the hours we’ve both been putting in at work, there hasn’t been a chance to catch up for a couple of months. Why? Is something wrong?’ His eyebrows lowered on his handsome face as he frowned.
‘No, no. I was just thinking that maybe we could arrange a dinner or something over the next couple of weeks. Feels like we haven’t all been together for a while.’
‘Sounds great, but good luck with persuading her to have a night off.’
Before she could reply, Ollie’s hairdresser, Georgie, came in with an older woman who resembled her so much, it could only be her mum.
‘Just the man I’m looking for,’ Georgie exclaimed, making Blair groan as he replied, ‘That’s never a good thing, Georgie. I have no qualifications in any kind of childbirth situation.’
‘Nope – it’s much more urgent than that. The electricity has gone in the dressing room we’d set up for hair and make-up. Moira wants to treat the staff to a blow-dry before the documentary cameras film the screening tonight, and it’s all gone wrong. Netta, would you be okay with us working in here until your boy wonder gets it fixed?’
That made Netta smile. ‘Of course you can.’
‘Thank you. And Netta, this is my mum, Jessie. Mum, this is Netta. Possibly the nicest lady in the world other than you.’
Netta felt herself blushing as the other woman, who was already unpacking her tools at the table in the corner, gave her a cheery wave.
‘Lovely to meet you, Netta. If you’d like to come on over and take a wee seat, you can be our first customer of the day.’
Netta blushed bright red. ‘Oh no, that’s fine. I only work here in the canteen. There’s no need…’
‘Moira said you might argue,’ Jessie told her with a warm, friendly smile. ‘But she also said that you’re the engine that keeps this place going and we weren’t to take no for an answer.’
Netta hadn’t had this many flushes of the face since the menopause.
