“No, it’s your lighthouse, I think that’s clear now. But if you want me… well, maybe it’s our lighthouse.”
He shot me a smile. “I do want you, Bobbie. I want it to be our lighthouse.”
He was looking at me with that keen expression in his eyes, the one that was so often the prelude to a kiss, and I stiffened. But before things could go any further, there was a loud rap at the door.
“That’ll be the lawyer lady,” Charlie called from the kitchen. “Can you get it, lad?”
I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the invisible solicitor for getting me off the hook. Kiss awkwardness averted.
Ross jumped up, coming back in a few seconds later closely followed by an official-looking solicitor in a black pencil suit. And in what felt like no time at all, Charlie had an extra pound in his pocket – and Ross and I were the proud owners of a pair of cheesy grins and our very own lighthouse.
“Don’t be nervous.” The kind-faced receptionist who manned the front desk at Cragport Town Hall smiled encouragingly.
Ross was clutching a folder of notes against his chest, moving his lips silently, while I tried to distract myself with an old Elle I’d found. We’d been there half an hour, waiting to make a pitch to the town council for funding to get the lighthouse cleaned up.
“That obvious, is it?” I said to the receptionist.
She nodded at the magazine on my lap. “Well you’ve been staring at that feature on what to wear to hide a lopsided bosom for 15 minutes.” She lowered her voice. “Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. Those pompous old duffers are desperate to see something done about the lighthouse. You’ve got the winning hand here.”
Ross looked doubtful. “You really think? We’re asking for a hell of a lot.”
“Absolutely. Stand your ground, that’s all. The chairman can be a bit of a bully.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. “Let’s just hope we catch him in a good mood.”
“I don’t think he has good moods. Sorry.”
Ten minutes later, I was still staring at on-trend summer looks for the wonky-titted fashionista when some sort of pager on the receptionist’s desk buzzed. She looked up from her book to examine it.
“You’re up,” she said, jerking her head towards the ornate wooden doors leading to the council chambers. “They want you in the meeting.”
The councillors – ten of them, all in suits, all men and with an average age of at least 60 – were seated in a horseshoe around a large table. The only one I recognised was Alex Partington, the youngest councillor. He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him.
No chairs had been provided for me and Ross, who huddled together on the carpet as if we were being tried for murder. The bony, leather-skinned man with the watery eyes who was chairing the meeting – Councillor Langford, he’d introduced himself as – had us fixed in a stern gaze.
“So. Mr Mason and Miss Hannigan: welcome,” he said without smiling. His flat-toned voice echoed off the chamber’s oak panels, and I could tell that good moods were out. “Let’s make a start, shall we?”
Councillor Langford put on a pair of reading glasses and looked down at the document in front of him. “I see you’re asking for £60,000 to have the town lighthouse cleaned and repaired.” He glanced up at us from over the rim of his glasses, not lifting his head. “Now. That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, squirming under his unsympathetic gaze. “The place is in quite a state, as you can see from the photographs. But we’re not asking for money towards maintenance; the project we have in mind will be self-funding. And we’ve already been approved by the Coastal Heritage Fund for a £70,000 grant that’ll partially cover repairs.”
“It’s a lot of money,” the man repeated, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Public money. We see a lot of projects here, Miss Hannigan. Just this month we’ve considered bids from the Cragport Clean Beaches Association to have the beach huts weatherproofed and another from the Women’s Institute to repair the Edwardian bandstand in the park. What makes you think we should choose your lighthouse over competing bids?”
“Well…”
I faltered. This was harder than I’d expected. Despite the nerves that had hit me before coming in, I’d been quietly confident the council were so desperate to see the place done up that they’d cough up a grant with ne’r a grumble. And now this demon-headmastery old bastard seemed determined to give us a hard time before he rolled over.
“The lighthouse is over 100 years old.” Ross jumped to my rescue with something from the notes we were both supposed to have memorised. “It’s a historic icon of the town, one of the first things visitors notice. We want the emblem of Cragport to be something we’re proud of, don’t we, gents? Not a broken-down wreck.”
That hit a nerve. The chairman kept his face fixed, but I noticed a few nods around the table.
“So can you tell us why you decided to launch this project?” Langford asked, once again ignoring the point raised. He shot Ross a pointed look. “I believe the lighthouse has been in your family some years, Mr Mason, with no attempt made before to tackle the state of decay it had fallen into – in spite of our frequent requests.”
I could see Ross was trying to keep up a polite, detached expression, but his hand clenched at the reference to the council’s persecution of poor Charlie.
“I’ve just moved back to the area,” he said with forced calm. “The lighthouse was my uncle’s property, as you all know, and he’s too elderly now to keep up with repairs. The deeds were only signed over to us in April.”
“A month ago. Have you done any work since then?”
“No. We only got approval for our Coastal Heritage grant last week. Plus, of course, we wanted to wait until we’d seen all of you.”
“And this young lady is your… business partner, is it?” Langford said, examining me with lip curled.
“Yes, and an old friend.”
“So you have some expertise in this area, do you, dear?” Langford asked me with that patronising air we ladies just bask in.
“What, renovating lighthouses?” I gave a nervous laugh. “Not exactly. Well, who does? But I’ve got experience setting up projects like this one. My mum – Janine Hannigan, some of you know her – started the Cragport youth club a few years back.”
“And you were instrumental in that, were you?”
“Not exactly instrumental. I helped a bit.” I noticed Langford eyeing me with a barely concealed sneer. “A lot,” I corrected, meeting his gaze. “I was involved with all the planning, start to finish. I can show you the paperwork if you need me to prove it.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Langford shuffled his documents, taking his time; an obvious power-play that I had to admit was bloody effective. Out of the corner of my eye I could see beads of sweat standing out on Ross’s face, and felt sympathy prickles on my own forehead.
“I notice you haven’t answered my question,” Langford said at last. “Why did you decide to commence this, frankly, bizarre-sounding project – this music thing?”
God, he had to ask. We could hardly confess it had been a drunken plan fuelled by tequila slammers and snogging.
Ross recovered before I did. “It’s been a long-held dream