Surprise Me
Page 73
‘Sylvie! Hi! Your hair.’ Her eyes widen in revulsion, and I mentally allot her two out of ten in the Tactful Response category. (Ten out of ten goes to the girls’ headmistress, Miss Blake, who caught sight of me and was clearly shocked, but almost instantly said, ‘Mrs Winter, what dramatic hair you have today, most inspiring.’)
‘Yes. My hair. Whatever.’
‘Did we have an appointment?’ Susie’s brow furrows as she consults her phone. ‘I don’t think we did. Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet—’
‘Don’t worry about the email.’ I cut her off. ‘And no, we didn’t have an appointment. I just want to borrow you quickly and ask how much of a grant you’re planning to give Willoughby House today.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Susie looks perplexed.
‘It was so great to see you at Claridge’s for our meeting, and I do hope you enjoyed your cake,’ I say meaningfully, and a pink tinge comes over her face.
‘Oh. Yes.’ She addresses the floor. ‘Thank you.’
‘I do believe in quid pro quo, don’t you?’ I add sweetly. ‘Cashing in favours. Payback.’
‘Look, Sylvie, this isn’t a good time,’ begins Susie, but I press on.
‘And what I’ve realized is, we’ve been waiting quite a long time for our payback.’ I reach into my bag and pull out the Books. I marked them up with sticky notes before I came here, and I now flick to an old entry written in faded fountain pen. ‘We first had a meeting with one of your predecessors eleven years ago. Eleven years ago. She was called Marian and she said that Willoughby House was exactly the sort of cause you should be supporting, but unfortunately the time wasn’t quite right. She said that for three years.’ I flick to another of the Books. ‘Then Fiona took over from Marian. Look, on the twelfth of May 2011, Mrs Kendrick treated her to lunch at the Savoy.’ I run a finger down the relevant handwritten entry. ‘They had three courses and wine and Fiona promised that the Foundation would support us. But of course, it never happened. And then you took over from Fiona and I’ve had, what, eight meetings with you? You’ve been treated to coffee, cakes, parties and receptions. We apply every year for a grant. And not a penny.’
‘Right,’ says Susie, her manner becoming more formal. ‘Well. As you know, we have many demands upon us, and we treat each application with great care …’
‘Don’t give me the bloody spiel!’ I say impatiently. ‘Why have you donated constantly to the V & A, the Wallace Collection, Handel House, the Museum Van Loon in Amsterdam … and never Willoughby House?’
I’ve done my homework, and I can see I’ve hit home. But instantly Susie rallies.
‘Sylvie,’ she says, a little pompously. ‘If you think there’s some kind of vendetta against Willoughby House—’
‘No. I don’t think that,’ I cut her off. ‘But I think we’ve been too polite and unassuming. We’re as deserving as any other museum and we’re about to go bust.’
I can feel my inner Mrs Kendrick wincing at that word: ‘bust’. But the time has come to be blunt. Blunt hair, blunt talk.
‘Bust?’ Susie stares at me, looking genuinely shocked. ‘How can you be going bust? I thought you were rolling in it! Didn’t you have some huge private donation?’
‘Long gone. We’re about to be sold off to be condos.’
‘Oh my God.’ She seems aghast. ‘Condos? I didn’t – I thought – We all thought—’
‘Well. So did we.’ I shrug.
There’s a long silence. Susie seems truly chastened. She looks at the folder in her hand, then up at me, her face troubled.
‘There’s nothing I can do today. All the budgets are worked out. The recommendations have been made. Everything’s been planned out to the last penny.’
‘But it hasn’t been agreed.’ I gesture at her white folder. ‘These are just recommendations. You could un-plan. Un-recommend.’
‘No I couldn’t!’
‘You could make an amendment. An extra proposal.’
‘It’s too late.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘It’s too late.’
‘The meeting hasn’t begun yet!’ I suddenly flip out. ‘How can it be too late? All you need to do is walk in there and say, “Hey, trustees, guess what, I’ve just heard some terrible news about Willoughby House going bust and I think we’ve somewhat overlooked them, so let’s make a donation, hands up who agrees?”’
I can see this idea lodging in Susie’s brain, although she still looks resistant.
‘That would be the right thing to do,’ I say, for emphasis. ‘And you know it. Here’s a document with some useful information.’ I hand her a sheet with a few bullet points about Willoughby House written neatly on it. ‘I’m going to leave this with you, Susie, and wait to hear from you, because I trust you. Have a good meeting.’
Somehow I force myself to turn and leave, even though there are hundreds more arguments I could make. Less is more, and if I stay, I’ll only launch into some rant which will piss Susie off.
Besides, I’m on a mission today. That was only part one. Now on to parts two, three and four.
By five o’clock I’m exhausted. But I’m on a roll, too. In all the time I’ve worked for Willoughby House, I’ve never put myself out like I have today. I’ve never pitched so much, or cajoled so much or talked so passionately to so many people. And now I’m wondering: what have I been doing, all this time?
I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Doing everything according to Mrs Kendrick’s Way. Even in these last few weeks, even knowing we were under threat, I didn’t strike out boldly enough. I didn’t challenge anything; I didn’t change anything.
Well, today I have. Today it’s been Sylvie’s Way. And Sylvie’s Way is quite different, it turns out.
I’ve never called the shots here before. But today, I’ve summoned Mrs Kendrick and Robert for a meeting and I’ve stipulated the time and place and I’ve drawn up the agenda and basically I’m in charge. I’m on it. I’ve been steely and focused all day.
OK, not ‘all day’. It would be more truthful to say I’ve been steely and focused ‘in patches’. Sometimes I’ve been concentrating on Willoughby House. And sometimes I’ve been checking my phone five hundred times to see if Dan has texted, and trying his number another five hundred times, and imagining what he must think of me, and imagining worst-case scenarios while my eyes fill with tears.
But I can’t afford tears now. So I’ve somehow put Dan from my mind. As I walk into the library, my chin is firm and my gaze is stern, and I can tell from the expressions of Mrs Kendrick and Robert that they’re both shocked at my appearance.
‘Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick gasps in horror. ‘Your—’
‘I know.’ I pre-empt her. ‘My hair.’
‘Looks good,’ says Robert, and I shoot him a suspicious glance, but his face is impassive. Without any further niceties, I get out my scribbled notes and take up a position by the fireplace.
‘I’ve brought you both here,’ I say, ‘to discuss the future. Willoughby House is a valuable, uniquely educational museum, full of potential. Full of assets. Full of capability.’ I put my notes down and look each of them in the eye. ‘We need to realize that capability, tap into that potential and monetize those assets.’ ‘Monetize’ is so not a Mrs Kendrick word that I repeat it, for emphasis: ‘We need to monetize our assets if we’re to survive.’
‘Yes. My hair. Whatever.’
‘Did we have an appointment?’ Susie’s brow furrows as she consults her phone. ‘I don’t think we did. Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your email yet—’
‘Don’t worry about the email.’ I cut her off. ‘And no, we didn’t have an appointment. I just want to borrow you quickly and ask how much of a grant you’re planning to give Willoughby House today.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Susie looks perplexed.
‘It was so great to see you at Claridge’s for our meeting, and I do hope you enjoyed your cake,’ I say meaningfully, and a pink tinge comes over her face.
‘Oh. Yes.’ She addresses the floor. ‘Thank you.’
‘I do believe in quid pro quo, don’t you?’ I add sweetly. ‘Cashing in favours. Payback.’
‘Look, Sylvie, this isn’t a good time,’ begins Susie, but I press on.
‘And what I’ve realized is, we’ve been waiting quite a long time for our payback.’ I reach into my bag and pull out the Books. I marked them up with sticky notes before I came here, and I now flick to an old entry written in faded fountain pen. ‘We first had a meeting with one of your predecessors eleven years ago. Eleven years ago. She was called Marian and she said that Willoughby House was exactly the sort of cause you should be supporting, but unfortunately the time wasn’t quite right. She said that for three years.’ I flick to another of the Books. ‘Then Fiona took over from Marian. Look, on the twelfth of May 2011, Mrs Kendrick treated her to lunch at the Savoy.’ I run a finger down the relevant handwritten entry. ‘They had three courses and wine and Fiona promised that the Foundation would support us. But of course, it never happened. And then you took over from Fiona and I’ve had, what, eight meetings with you? You’ve been treated to coffee, cakes, parties and receptions. We apply every year for a grant. And not a penny.’
‘Right,’ says Susie, her manner becoming more formal. ‘Well. As you know, we have many demands upon us, and we treat each application with great care …’
‘Don’t give me the bloody spiel!’ I say impatiently. ‘Why have you donated constantly to the V & A, the Wallace Collection, Handel House, the Museum Van Loon in Amsterdam … and never Willoughby House?’
I’ve done my homework, and I can see I’ve hit home. But instantly Susie rallies.
‘Sylvie,’ she says, a little pompously. ‘If you think there’s some kind of vendetta against Willoughby House—’
‘No. I don’t think that,’ I cut her off. ‘But I think we’ve been too polite and unassuming. We’re as deserving as any other museum and we’re about to go bust.’
I can feel my inner Mrs Kendrick wincing at that word: ‘bust’. But the time has come to be blunt. Blunt hair, blunt talk.
‘Bust?’ Susie stares at me, looking genuinely shocked. ‘How can you be going bust? I thought you were rolling in it! Didn’t you have some huge private donation?’
‘Long gone. We’re about to be sold off to be condos.’
‘Oh my God.’ She seems aghast. ‘Condos? I didn’t – I thought – We all thought—’
‘Well. So did we.’ I shrug.
There’s a long silence. Susie seems truly chastened. She looks at the folder in her hand, then up at me, her face troubled.
‘There’s nothing I can do today. All the budgets are worked out. The recommendations have been made. Everything’s been planned out to the last penny.’
‘But it hasn’t been agreed.’ I gesture at her white folder. ‘These are just recommendations. You could un-plan. Un-recommend.’
‘No I couldn’t!’
‘You could make an amendment. An extra proposal.’
‘It’s too late.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘It’s too late.’
‘The meeting hasn’t begun yet!’ I suddenly flip out. ‘How can it be too late? All you need to do is walk in there and say, “Hey, trustees, guess what, I’ve just heard some terrible news about Willoughby House going bust and I think we’ve somewhat overlooked them, so let’s make a donation, hands up who agrees?”’
I can see this idea lodging in Susie’s brain, although she still looks resistant.
‘That would be the right thing to do,’ I say, for emphasis. ‘And you know it. Here’s a document with some useful information.’ I hand her a sheet with a few bullet points about Willoughby House written neatly on it. ‘I’m going to leave this with you, Susie, and wait to hear from you, because I trust you. Have a good meeting.’
Somehow I force myself to turn and leave, even though there are hundreds more arguments I could make. Less is more, and if I stay, I’ll only launch into some rant which will piss Susie off.
Besides, I’m on a mission today. That was only part one. Now on to parts two, three and four.
By five o’clock I’m exhausted. But I’m on a roll, too. In all the time I’ve worked for Willoughby House, I’ve never put myself out like I have today. I’ve never pitched so much, or cajoled so much or talked so passionately to so many people. And now I’m wondering: what have I been doing, all this time?
I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Doing everything according to Mrs Kendrick’s Way. Even in these last few weeks, even knowing we were under threat, I didn’t strike out boldly enough. I didn’t challenge anything; I didn’t change anything.
Well, today I have. Today it’s been Sylvie’s Way. And Sylvie’s Way is quite different, it turns out.
I’ve never called the shots here before. But today, I’ve summoned Mrs Kendrick and Robert for a meeting and I’ve stipulated the time and place and I’ve drawn up the agenda and basically I’m in charge. I’m on it. I’ve been steely and focused all day.
OK, not ‘all day’. It would be more truthful to say I’ve been steely and focused ‘in patches’. Sometimes I’ve been concentrating on Willoughby House. And sometimes I’ve been checking my phone five hundred times to see if Dan has texted, and trying his number another five hundred times, and imagining what he must think of me, and imagining worst-case scenarios while my eyes fill with tears.
But I can’t afford tears now. So I’ve somehow put Dan from my mind. As I walk into the library, my chin is firm and my gaze is stern, and I can tell from the expressions of Mrs Kendrick and Robert that they’re both shocked at my appearance.
‘Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick gasps in horror. ‘Your—’
‘I know.’ I pre-empt her. ‘My hair.’
‘Looks good,’ says Robert, and I shoot him a suspicious glance, but his face is impassive. Without any further niceties, I get out my scribbled notes and take up a position by the fireplace.
‘I’ve brought you both here,’ I say, ‘to discuss the future. Willoughby House is a valuable, uniquely educational museum, full of potential. Full of assets. Full of capability.’ I put my notes down and look each of them in the eye. ‘We need to realize that capability, tap into that potential and monetize those assets.’ ‘Monetize’ is so not a Mrs Kendrick word that I repeat it, for emphasis: ‘We need to monetize our assets if we’re to survive.’
