Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Over the next couple of weeks, I go through the motions of working at the pub and occasionally heading to the Rose in Brighton to help my friends prepare for the rally.
I help them buy supplies, plan logistics, paint signs.
Logically, I know there’s no way a bunch of artists are going to raise two million pounds at a single pub night and auction to save the Rose.
I doubt we’d even come up with the deposit.
If we’re lucky, we’ll get local media coverage.
But I don’t say anything about this to anyone.
Over breakfast, on most mornings, Mum keeps giving me concerned looks over toast and tea.
Thankfully, twin-related antics keep her from getting into any deep dives.
Then I would vanish for a few hours before my shift at the pub and work late.
Even exhausted, I can’t sleep when I go to bed.
There are mornings when I get up and don’t feel like I’ve slept at all.
On a Saturday morning in a blur, I take the train to Brighton and meet Noah and Raheem at the Rose.
Ellie’s in fine form, her dark auburn hair up on her head, fringe in her eyes.
She brushes it back, gives me a welcoming smile, and points me decisively over to the waiting signboards propped against the wall of her studio.
She has pages of possible slogans written in a smallish sketchbook, with a tally beside each one if it’s already been used and how many times.
I muse through the offerings, trying my hardest not to think of Florian.
Or feeling like I’m faced with an impossible choice: betraying my heart or betraying my friends.
Turning the page, I select the classic and simple “Save the Rose / Fund the Arts!” which is a message I can get behind. Despite the alliteration of “Down with Developers” and the basic “Go back to London,” it makes me feel too heavy.
Taking a ruler, I measure out each line, sketch out the letters. I use Ellie’s purple acrylic paint and carefully paint the letters and add a rainbow for good measure. Staring at the finished sign, I feel close to tears.
Ellie claps me on the shoulder. “Good job. Want to do another? We need a hundred signs for next Saturday.”
Which is when—to my shock—I say no and make a beeline for outside, overwhelmed.
I rake my hands through my hair. I try to suck back air, look across the crowds making their way through the Laines on a gorgeous September day.
Noah’s supposed to be here soon. Yet all I want to do is call Florian.
My mind races in circles, my throat tight.
I pull my phone out to call him, flustered.
Which is when Raheem turns up. “Let’s go meet Noah at the pub.
He’s buying,” Raheem says cheerfully, linking my arm with his and sweeping me off.
My friends have booked a room at the back of the pub for all of us to meet, since Ellie’s studio isn’t big enough for us and the galleries are full of visitors.
Sun floods the back room, and everyone’s excitedly coming up with plans and chants and strategies.
I help someone write a press release. I feel like I’m watching it from outside of my body.
Noah asks me a couple of times if I’m alright, and I tell him I’m fine. Not to worry.
And next Saturday is the rally.
On the day of the rally, the Rose is buzzing.
All the artists are there. The studios and galleries are open by donation to entice supporters.
By the time 5:00 p.m. rolls around, we’re at full capacity inside.
There’s a spill of people out front, across the pavement, and into the street. The police come to help direct traffic.
There are hundreds of people here.
I haven’t eaten all day or slept the last two nights, too rattled by my nerves.
My dad sent me home early from the pub yesterday after one look at me and told me to get some rest. I felt like I was being fired all over again from Ivan’s.
I stopped short of calling him Alexander, but I didn’t take it well.
Several times, I’ve come close to calling Florian.
And tonight, I’m lightheaded. Have I eaten? I can’t remember.
“Hey,” says a familiar voice beside me. “This is incredible.”
I glance over in a daze, feeling shaky. “Michael?”
It doesn’t make any sense why he’s here. I must be staring at him like he’s some kind of mirage because he touches my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. What’re you even doing here?”
Michael shrugs. “I was home and heard about the rally to save the Rose. So I came. And you don’t look so good.”
“I just need fresh air. I’m supposed to be meeting people.
I think.” I glance around, but it’s impossible to see Noah with all these people.
There must be a hundred signs, as Ellie wanted.
There are media vans pulled up, and cameras are rolling, and people are starting to chant.
My face burns as someone streams the whole debacle live on social media.
Michael gives me a wry smile. “We’re outside. The air’s as fresh as it gets.”
“Oh.” I fall quiet. Yet I still can’t get a proper breath in.
Around us, crowds are gathering. The road’s been closed, and the crowd spills across to the pub across the street, where people are seated at picnic tables out front beneath overflowing hanging baskets with vibrant flowers.
They seem to have commandeered a table and put it in the middle of the street in the thick of the crowd.
Ellie climbs on top of the picnic table with her megaphone and starts whipping everyone up into a frenzy with the chants.
Which is about when I feel like I’m about to die, my chest tight. Panic’s choking me. I suck back air, but it’s too much. Too many people, too much commotion.
Someone’s saying something to me, but the words don’t make any sense.
I’m staring at Michael and Noah, and they both look at me with concern.
And I’m sobbing—to my great embarrassment—and everything’s too much.
Complete crap is coming out of my mouth.
When my legs give out, Michael grabs me with his fast dancer’s reflexes before I hit asphalt.
I’m hysterical on his shoulder, and everything’s too hot. Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision, and I hear Michael saying urgently to Noah he’s going to call his mum to call my parents—and everything goes black.