Chapter 36
Bridie regretted agreeing to meet Jack the moment he pushed open the warped stage door and strode inside as if the place already belonged to him.
Dust motes swirled in the weak light spilling through the cracked windows high up in the walls.
The theatre smelled of damp wood and old plaster, a deeper, heavier scent than the day before, now that the excitement of the group visit had faded.
It was quieter, too – no chatter, no clatter of buckets and brooms. Just the echo of footsteps in Bridie’s mind.
She hadn’t noticed the smell and the quietness when they’d met the previous Saturday morning; she’d just been inexplicably overjoyed to see Jack – until Oliver had turned up and it had all gone wrong.
When he’d arrived this time, the next Saturday, after he’d returned her call, he’d joked that it felt like déjà vu, meeting up again on a Saturday morning.
His demeanour had changed when he’d looked towards the door.
Bridie knew what he was thinking – would Oliver turn up again and ruin their plans?
She knew he wouldn’t – not after their row there a week earlier.
Oliver had texted to apologise and to tell her he’d be at his usual table in the café on Saturday morning if she wanted to stop by and have a coffee.
Unfortunately, she’d forgotten all about it until Jack unwittingly reminded her.
Bridie was looking at her phone, wondering what excuse she would come up with to say she couldn’t make it, hoping Oliver didn’t stop by Cobblers Yard to see if she was there.
If he did, Hannah would tell him where she was – and with whom.
They’d all asked in Cobblers Yard when they could return to the theatre to help out.
She saw no reason why they couldn’t all visit that morning before work if they fancied it, while she and Jack were drawing up plans.
There were bound to be things they could get on with for a while before they left to open their shops.
Surprisingly, Jack had vetoed the idea. She’d have thought he would welcome the help, but he’d told her that now he was involved, he would be calling in professionals – tradesmen he worked with in his business.
Bridie had not enjoyed telling her friends that they were no longer needed. She could tell they were all disappointed.
Jack whistled softly, taking it all in once more. ‘Well,’ he said, hands on hips, casting his gaze around the theatre once more. ‘She’s still got something. We’ll get her launched in no time.’
Bridie folded her arms, annoyed already. ‘She’s a theatre, not a cruise ship!’ She frowned, realising she’d referred to the theatre as a ‘she’ as well.
He glanced at her, lips twitching. ‘Still touchy, then.’
‘Still patronising,’ she shot back, before she could stop herself.
The familiar spark flickered between them – annoying, warming, dangerous. It unsettled her how easily it came back, how little time it had taken for them to slip into the old rhythm. As if the years apart were nothing more than an intermission.
She knew why she was touchy. It was the paperwork Jack had given her that morning, which she hadn’t expected. He’d told her to read it through and get advice if she felt the need.
It didn’t take long for her to realise what it was. She didn’t know why she’d assumed Jack investing in the theatre would be an informal arrangement between old friends.
Get advice? The trouble was that if she told Oliver, or anyone else in Cobblers Yard, they might advise her against it or at least tell her to give herself a chance to consider the implications.
The solicitor in Ipswich who had handled the gift said she could contact him any time. But it was Saturday, and both she and Jack wanted to get on with things.
As she’d stood there, in front of the stage, signing the document, she realised it was the reason Jack had waited a whole week to meet her again.
At first, she’d put it down to how busy he probably was with his business.
But now she knew it was this; he wanted the contract drawn up first, ready for when they met.
Why hadn’t he told her that was what he was intending to do? Bridie had asked him that question when he’d handed it to her on arrival. He’d been a bit patronising when he’d said he’d assumed she’d be aware this was a business transaction.
Bridie had replied that of course she knew.
It was not true, and she was feeling very foolish.
There wasn’t time to make an appointment with her solicitor to go over the contract if she wanted to crack on now and start the ball rolling that day.
Jack had assured her, when he’d seen her hesitate before signing the document, that it was just a formality, something he had to do for his business books.
‘I run a business,’ he’d said casually, ‘and as I’m going to be employing my tradespeople to come in and do the work, I’m afraid it all has to be done by the book.’
Perhaps it was for the best that the meeting with Jack that morning had clashed with Oliver’s invitation to meet at the café. After getting this legal contract stipulating the terms of Jack’s investment, she might have been tempted to accept Oliver’s offer instead.
She said after signing it, ‘I must admit when you phoned me back and I asked you to meet me here again, I thought for a moment you’d changed your mind about investing in the theatre.’ She’d picked up on the hesitation in his voice when she’d answered his call.
Jack stepped forward, already scanning the space with an expert eye. ‘Roof’s the first priority. If that leak isn’t sorted, everything else is pointless.’
Bridie eyed him. He was ignoring her remark, getting straight down to the business at hand.
Perhaps it was for the best. The contract was signed.
He was tied into fixing up her theatre. Now there was no backing out – on either side.
She suddenly, inexplicably, felt nervous.
She looked at Jack. Had she done the right thing?
Bridie dismissed her unease and cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘I know,’ Bridie said quickly. ‘I’ve already—’
‘And the electrics will need a full inspection. I’d be surprised if they’re even still working.’
‘They are,’ she said. ‘We checked.’ She thought again of her friends from Cobblers Yard.
Jack nodded, barely acknowledging her, moving on, pointing, planning. ‘Seating will need stripping out. The floor’s uneven. You could level it, or—’
‘Or keep it,’ Bridie interrupted. ‘It doesn’t need to be perfect.’
Jack stopped and turned to her. ‘It does if you want people to actually come. It will need to be levelled.’
‘All right, but I want to keep the seating. I know some are broken, and need repairing, and some have ripped fabric …’
Jack stepped forward. ‘Do you trust me on this?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Good. Let’s move on.’
There it was. The first crack.
She took a breath and didn’t follow.
He paused and turned around halfway down the centre aisle when he realised she wasn’t following. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t want a glossy, soulless box. I want it to still feel like a theatre, an old theatre vibe after the revamp. I want a restoration, not a renovation.’
She knew the words restoration and renovation were pretty much interchangeable, but she knew what she meant – and the look on Jack’s face said he knew what she meant too. She was referring to his business model of tearing down old places and putting newbuilds in their place.
The last thing she wanted was for Jack to plough ahead, gutting the theatre, ripping out all its lovely old features. She hadn’t thought to check Jack was on the same page before she signed the contract.
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. ‘I’m thinking about public safety, Bridie.’
‘Okay, I get that. I do. But why can’t the two go hand in hand? When was the last time you went to a London theatre? They are so beautiful.’
‘I don’t go to the theatre,’ he said coldly.
‘Not ever?’ she said, taken aback. What is with people, she thought, not wanting to go to the theatre, and have that wonderful experience of seeing a production live on stage?
‘I suggest you go.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, at least have a look at the old West End theatres online. Then you’ll see what I mean.’
Once again, Jack ignored her. He continued down the aisle, gesturing as he spoke, confidence radiating from him. ‘You open this place to the public, you’re responsible. Slips, trips, insurance claims. You can’t run a project like this on vibes and nostalgia.’
She knew what this was about; it would cost more to restore what was already there rather than just ripping it out and starting again.
She followed him, irritation prickling. ‘And you can’t reduce everything to profit margins and square footage.’
He stopped near the stage, turned back. ‘Who said anything about profit?’
Bridie eyed him. ‘So, what are you investing for, if you don’t think the theatre will turn a profit?
’ Bridie knew this was a leading question.
Although she’d been surprised that he’d produced a contract, she was still wondering if he was the one who had gifted her the theatre.
What other reason would he have for doing all this?
When was he going to tell her the truth?
She waited for his response.
Jack hesitated. ‘Do you think this theatre is going to be profitable?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’
‘Then why are you doing it, instead of just selling the theatre?’
Her lips curled into a smile. He still hadn’t asked her how she came to be in possession of the theatre. Why wouldn’t he ask, unless he already knew? ‘You know why.’
‘Do I?’
Bridie was still smiling at him. ‘I think so.’
‘I want to hear it from your lips.’
‘My lips?’ Was he flirting with her now? ‘All right,’ Bridie said coyly. ‘I want to put on one play here.’
‘Just one play?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why just one play?’
‘Because that’s what I need to do.’
‘I see,’ Jack said flatly.