Chapter 50
‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot…’
London on a Thursday night had the hum of a living thing. Engines rumbling, black cabs sliding past, wind pushing the rain sideways so the pavements shone like wet slate.
I was almost late.
I hadn’t planned on being here. I’d planned on being at the pub with my budget spreadsheet, a glass of wine, and Rocky asleep under the table.
Instead, I’d spent half an hour helping the building crew anchor down the billowing tarpaulin on the roof.
Even the scaffolding was creaking in the wind, and for a moment I’d stood there wondering if I should cancel altogether and stay.
But Amanda had rung earlier in the week with her particular brand of unstoppable enthusiasm.
‘You’re coming,’ she’d said. ‘No excuses. It’s a gallery opening in Mayfair. I’ve got us all onto the guest list. The book club is going in force.’
So here I was, standing under a canopy on Cork Street, rain dripping off my umbrella, watching Amanda pose for the photographer at the door like she’d just stepped off the pages of Tatler. Alice was beside me, shaking out her umbrella and adjusting her lipstick.
‘You look terrified,’ she said, giving me a sideways grin.
‘I’m out of practice,’ I muttered, smoothing the sleeves of my Ralph Lauren jacket from Fuller days.
Inside, the gallery was warm and bright, all white walls and minimalist arrangements of champagne glasses on trays. The paintings were huge and deliberately challenging – mostly abstract bursts of colour and texture.
‘Florence!’ Amanda called across the room. ‘Look who’s here!’
I turned and my stomach tightened.
Lachlan.
He was standing by one of the larger canvases, hands in the pockets of his tailored grey jacket.
The lighting caught the angles of his face, all sharp planes and quiet observation.
He looked as at ease here as he did on the scaffolding at The Black Horse, which irritated me for reasons I didn’t want to unpack.
‘Lachlan,’ Amanda said with a little grin. ‘You know Flo.’
‘Of course,’ he said, his voice calm, polite. He didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes softened. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Neither did I,’ I admitted.
Amanda drifted off to refill her glass, leaving us by a large canvas.
I gestured at it – a wash of deep greens and copper, layered and scraped so the underpaint peeked through. ‘What do you make of it?’
He tilted his head, studying it the way he studied the pub.
‘It’s all about tension,’ he said. ‘See here? The artist has built the surface with a palette knife, but instead of smoothing it, they’ve left these ridges – imperfections that catch the light.
It forces you to move with it, to see how the tones shift when you step sideways. ’
I glanced at him. ‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘I did a year of fine art before architecture. Thought I wanted to paint.’
That surprised me. ‘What changed your mind?’
‘Buildings,’ he said simply. ‘I wanted scale, and to know what it was like to work with more physicality, using real materials to create spaces in which we can dwell.’
We stood there in silence for a moment, both of us looking at the same swath of copper in the painting. There was something oddly intimate about sharing a still moment in a crowded room.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, stepping aside.
It was Igor. ‘Florence,’ he said, his accent sharper when he was stressed. ‘Storm. Big storm. The back wall, it is leaking. Water coming in through the roof gap. Ceiling panels are falling.’
I felt my stomach drop. ‘How bad?’
‘Bad. We have covered with extra tarp, but is not enough.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I said, already moving for the door. ‘Keep everyone safe.’
I shoved my phone away.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Lachlan.
‘Storm damage at the pub. I have to go.’
‘Do you need help?’
‘No,’ I said automatically. ‘Stay. Enjoy the art.’
‘This isn’t about art. If the structure…’
‘I’ll handle it.’
Our eyes met. His gaze was steady, searching, but I couldn’t afford to stand there any longer.
By the time the taxi dropped me at the pub, the storm had passed, leaving behind a churned-up mess of mud, shredded tarps, and debris. The Black Horse looked like it had gone ten rounds with the elements. The scaffolding on the west side was leaning at a worrying angle.
Igor met me at the door, his waterproof jacket dripping. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing to the ceiling where one of the panels had collapsed, soaking everything beneath it. ‘We stopped more falling, but water came too fast.’
Huge puddles had spread over the floors.
‘God,’ I whispered, surveying the damage. ‘The electrics?’
‘We cut the mains. Safe for now. But repairs will cost.’
I pulled out my phone and called Dom. He answered on the second ring. ‘Talk to me,’ he said.
‘West side’s taken damage. Roof needs repair. It’s bad, Dom.’
There was a long pause. ‘How bad?’
‘Think… another twenty grand bad.’
A low whistle. ‘We don’t have twenty grand. Not unless you’ve been printing money in the cellar.’
‘So what do we do?’ My voice cracked more than I wanted it to.
‘Damn. We’re maxed out on raising money for this. Investors aren’t lining up to throw cash at a village pub in a cost-of-living crisis. We already stretched the budget thin.’
I felt my chest tighten. The weight of months of effort, of every scraped knuckle and sleepless night, pressed down like a slab of concrete. ‘So that’s it?’
‘I’m not saying that,’ he said. ‘But we need a miracle. Or a backup plan we haven’t thought of yet.’
I leaned against the bar, the wood damp under my hands. Rocky padded over and nudged my leg as if sensing my mood.
‘I’ll figure something out,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Two hours later, after the builders had gone, I stood in the main bar alone. It was nearly midnight. Rainwater still dripped in slow, mocking beats from the broken ceiling. The herringbone floor we’d worked so hard to save was slick with water.
I closed my eyes and thought of that painting in the gallery, the one Lachlan had described, all tension and light and layers that told a story if you looked closely enough. Maybe this was just another layer. Another imperfection that would catch the light differently once we survived it.
Alice rang as I was locking up. ‘You left like Cinderella. Is everything okay?’
‘Define okay,’ I said, my voice hoarse. ‘The pub’s soaked and the budget’s shot. Dom says we’re out of luck.’
She sighed. ‘Do you need me to come over?’
‘No. Just sleep. I’ll handle it.’
‘You don’t have to handle everything, Flo.’
‘I know,’ I lied.
After I hung up, I stood for a long time on the gravel, staring up at the battered roofline. The pub looked like a soldier after a losing battle.