Chapter 16
THE TOWN HALL on North Street was a square building constructed of orange bricks with accents of cream stone that gave it an elegant charm.
A bell tower surrounded by an ornate balcony looked like a wedding pagoda perched on the roof.
When Greta had first encountered the building on the Maple Gold set, the front facade had been a flat prop supported by batons.
Now it felt strange to push open the huge oak front doors and step into an actual building rather than a studio.
Greta’s and Millie’s heels tapped across the polished mosaic floor.
A stained-glass window cast a patchwork of colours over their dresses.
The wooden banister curving around the grand staircase gleamed with the sheen of fresh varnish.
The marble steps also appeared unworn, untouched by the scuff marks of footsteps over time.
Several doors lined the corridor upstairs. One at the end was marked with a brass plaque that said Ballroom. Millie opened the door, motioning for Greta to follow her inside.
The room was clearly the crowning jewel of the town hall.
Its high ceiling was painted with figures wearing flowing robes, holding out jars of Maple Gold coffee to each other in a style reminiscent of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam.
Greta’s gaze moved downwards to the polished floorboards, which shone as if rarely danced on.
Around a long rectangular table sat a dozen women. They all looked remarkably similar, impeccably dressed, with their hair neatly styled. All their conversation sounded upbeat and cheerful—about a pet show, a vegetable-growing competition, and making jam.
Feeling like the new girl in town, Greta had an urge to be part of their harmonious world.
Millie took her place at the head of the table, radiating a seasoned air of authority.
She clapped her hands together. ‘Ladies, if I may have your kind attention,’ she said.
‘It brings me such joy to see you all, and I’m particularly delighted that our new neighbour, Greta, could join us.
Let’s all extend a warm Mapleville welcome to her. ’
A chorus of greetings followed. ‘Hello,’ ‘hi,’ and ‘how are you?’ filled the air.
An older lady with cut-glass cheekbones sipped coffee from a dainty cup, her discerning violet eyes sweeping over Greta. Dressed in a navy fitted dress with gold buttons, she had the posture of someone who’d had piano lessons since she could walk.
‘Come and sit beside me, my dear,’ she said, her chunky gemstone rings rattling as she patted the chair next to her. ‘I’m Desdemona Waters. Very pleased to meet you.’
Greta sat down with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you. I’m still finding my feet, but it’s lovely to be here. Everything feels so exciting and full of possibility.’
Desdemona’s smile tightened ever so slightly. ‘Well, if it’s excitement you’re seeking, I’m not sure Mapleville is the right place for you. We like things to be calm, steady, and familiar. Though I’m sure you’ll settle in just fine.’
Greta nodded, unsure if Desdemona’s tone carried an edge or not. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said.
Millie sat down beside them to join in the conversation. ‘What’s it like where you come from, Greta?’ she asked. ‘Do tell us about your hometown.’
Greta mused for a while, struggling to find many positives.
‘Longmill is nothing like Mapleville. It’s noisy, and there’s often litter in the streets.
You can never rely on the weather, because you can leave your home wearing sunglasses and end up needing an umbrella.
My flat there is very small, with an avocado- coloured bathroom suite and a kitchen with hardly enough room to swing a cat.
People rarely smile at you in the street .
. .’ Desdemona’s lips curled in horror. ‘Well, thank goodness you’ve escaped from that dreadful place. No wonder you wanted to come here.’
Millie gave Greta a thoughtful look. ‘I must say, it sounds very . . . authentic.’
Desdemona tossed her head and turned to the lady seated on her other side, launching into a conversation about the best cake to accompany Maple Gold.
The rest of the women chatted among themselves until Millie stood up and tapped her teaspoon against her coffee cup. ‘Ladies, I have something exciting to share,’ she announced. ‘Greta will be running a drama session with us today . . .’
Greta had completely forgotten about her offer, and she swallowed hard.
A concerned murmur swept around the table. A lady wearing a lemon linen dress called out, ‘What do you mean? Drama?’
Greta rose to her feet, realising the talk she’d given at Brewtique, about her past life as a Maple Gold actor, wasn’t going to work here.
No one in Mapleville seemed to know that the town had been created for a commercial.
She had to find another way to engage the women rather than harking back to her past.
Clasping her hands together, she stepped away from the table. ‘Well, I thought we could try something a bit different today. Shake things up with some improvisation. No scripts, just imagining, reacting, and letting go. Trying out new roles. Like storytelling, but with a twist.’
Desdemona gave a pronounced cough. ‘Improvise—what? What exactly do you mean, dear?’
‘It’s just a fun exercise,’ Greta explained.
‘You can pretend to be anyone, or go anywhere you want to. Maybe you’re drinking an exotic coffee in the desert, or trekking through a tropical rain forest. You might be a lion tamer in a circus, or even an astronaut lost in space.
It’s a chance to let your imagination run free. ’
‘I’ve never been much of an actress,’ muttered a woman in a pink headscarf.
Desdemona’s eyes narrowed. ‘Improvisation? We don’t need any of that pretending nonsense. Why go looking for drama? Mapleville is perfect as it is.’
‘I understand your concern,’ Greta replied.
‘But your ideas don’t have to be over the top, just different.
For example, what if your coffee had a hint of hazelnut flavour, or was served in a bustling Parisian café?
Can you imagine the hum of conversation, the clink of cups, and the scent of fresh croissants in the air? ’
Desdemona thinned her lips, unimpressed.
Greta turned to Millie with an encouraging smile. ‘What about you? If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?’
Millie took out her silver compact, flipping it open to reapply her lipstick.
Her nose crinkled as she thought. ‘Why, I do believe your suggestion of a French café is just the thing. I’d sit at a table on the pavement, under the gaze of the Eiffel tower,’ she said, pausing for effect.
‘I’d sip champagne and share scandalous gossip with a handsome waiter.
Naturally, there’d be an accordion player serenading me rather than a cappella singers.
And I’ve always thought raven-black hair would be more striking on me than auburn.
’ She struck a pose, sipping from a pretend glass and pressing a hand to her mouth, as if surprised by a juicy titbit.
A few of the ladies giggled, easing the tension.
‘Great! That’s the spirit,’ Greta said. Buoyed by the response, she returned to Desdemona. ‘And you? Is there anywhere you’d like to go?’
Desdemona offered a tight smile that didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I think I’ll stay here, thank you very much. Where I know exactly what’s what.’
Millie raised a finger. ‘Could we have another example, please, Greta, for inspiration?’
Greta thought, turning the request over in her mind.
The only thing missing for her in Mapleville at present was a glittering career, and the sense of purpose and accomplishment that came with it.
Opening up and sharing her dreams with strangers made her feel vulnerable, even exposed, but she wanted to set an example.
‘Okay,’ she said with a small swallow. ‘Here’s a dream of mine . . .’
Greta closed her eyes, letting her vision take shape. ‘I’m a famous star,’ she said, her confidence growing as a picture in her head became clearer. ‘I’ve just given the performance of a lifetime on stage, and the audience is rising to their feet for a standing ovation.’
Greta stepped forward, circling her arms as if receiving an enormous bouquet of flowers.
She imagined the heat of the spotlights warming her face, the rustle of red velvet curtains as they swept open for her final bow, and the thunderous applause rippling through the theatre.
A wave of exhilaration rushed through her.
She bowed her head and mimed handing her flowers to an imaginary assistant, curtsying as she acted out receiving a gleaming gold statuette. ‘Thank so you much,’ she gushed. ‘This means the world to me . . .’
For a moment, she stood there, eyes closed, soaking in the fantasy adoration. The warmth and admiration felt almost real.
There was silence in the ballroom for a few beats. Then a hesitant clap or two started up, gathering momentum. Someone even called out, ‘Bravo.’
Greta opened her eyes. For a second or two, it truly felt like she’d been back in the spotlight.
Her smile gradually faded as she took in the mostly empty room, where the cluster of women shared strained glances.
Millie clapped enthusiastically. ‘Fabulous. Such fun. You’re a true star, Greta. Who’s next to try, ladies?’
The women shifted in their seats, fixing their glances on the table, or finding their coffee cups suddenly fascinating.
Millie’s smile grew tighter. ‘Come along, now.’ She gazed around. ‘Anyone at all?’
Greta stretched her neck. Perhaps her exercise had been too abstract for the women, too far removed from the comfortable routine of Mapleville life.
Eventually, Desdemona stood up, clinking her teaspoon against her coffee cup to draw attention.
‘Thank you for the, ah, entertainment, Greta. But there’s no need to fantasize about things that don’t matter.
’ She turned to address the group. ‘Now that’s over, perhaps you’d like to hear my recipe for tiramisu, made with a strong shot of coffee? ’
‘Yes, please,’ the lady in lemon said.
A relieved murmur echoed through the group.
Desdemona smiled smugly.
‘Thanks for giving the exercise a try, everyone,’ Greta said as she took her seat again. ‘Maybe we’ll try something different next time. In the meantime, just let your minds wander and see where your imagination takes you.’
A few women nodded politely before turning their attention to Desdemona and her recipe. Soon, the chatter slipped to school fairs, pet competitions, and baking.
Millie reached over and gave Greta’s wrist a gentle squeeze. ‘You did really well.’
Greta wasn’t so sure. Even her tiny audience at Brewtique had been more receptive. ‘Thanks,’ she said anyway.
Millie gave her a look that was hard to read. ‘Do you have a moment?’ she asked, gesturing toward the door.
They both slipped out of the room, into the quiet of the corridor.
‘Your exercise was most enjoyable. Rather . . . unconventional,’ Millie said.
Greta appreciated the encouragement. ‘I’m not sure everyone felt that way.’
‘Oh, don’t mind Desdemona. She’s a creature of habit, and your session wasn’t quite what the ladies are accustomed to.
’ Millie pursed her lips, as if searching for the right words.
‘It’s just that, during your exercise, I had the strangest feeling.
As though I’d actually been to Paris. I could picture it so clearly .
. .’ She shook her head, still processing her thoughts.
‘But I can’t ever recall leaving Mapleville. ’
Greta smiled. ‘It’s easy to get caught up in your imagination. Sometimes things can feel real, even if they’re just pretend.’
Millie fiddled with a button on her sleeve. ‘Yes, that must be it,’ she said, nodding as if to convince herself. With a shake of her hair, she added, ‘Well, thank you again, Greta. For delivering something so . . . freeing.’