‘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.’
‘Hear hear,’ says Robert firmly, and I shoot him a brief, grateful smile.
‘I have a number of ideas, which I would like to run past you,’ I continue. ‘First: the basement has been criminally overlooked. I suggest an Upstairs Downstairs exhibition, tapping into the fascination that people have with how the different classes used to live and work. Second: in the kitchen is an old housemaid’s diary, itemizing her day. I rang up two publishers today, and both expressed interest in publishing the diary. This could link in with the exhibition. Perhaps we find the diary of her employer of the time and publish the two together?’
‘That’s inspired!’ exclaims Robert, but I carry on without pausing.
‘Third, we need to get more schools in and develop the educational side. Fourth, we need to get this whole place online. Fifth, we rent it out as a party venue.’
Mrs Kendrick’s face drops. ‘A party venue?’
‘Sixth, we hire it out as a movie set.’
‘Yes.’ Robert nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Seventh, we put on the erotica exhibition and make a media splash. And eighth, we focus our fundraising more tightly, because at the moment it’s all over the place. That’s it.’ I look up from my list.
‘Well.’ Robert raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘I know the condo merchants are circling.’ I appeal to him directly. ‘But can’t we at least give this place a chance to become a modern, functioning museum?’
‘I like it,’ says Robert slowly. ‘I like all your ideas. Although again, money. Do not commit any money, Aunt Margaret,’ he adds quickly to Mrs Kendrick as she opens her mouth. ‘You have done enough.’
‘I agree,’ I reply. ‘She has. And we don’t need it.’ I can’t help smiling at them both. ‘Because today we were awarded a grant of thirty thousand pounds from the Wilson–Cross Foundation.’