Chloe's Rescue Mission Read online

‘Chloe. I thought you did a good job, this morning.’ His voice was warm and rich, like Drambuie.

  I managed to close my mouth before the heat of the sun dried it out, and shook his warm hand. ‘Hello again,’ I croaked. ‘I had no idea I was coming to see you.’

  ‘No?’ he looked surprised. ‘I guess you don’t know much about Thorsen Leisure, then?’

  Shit! Companies hated that. If you wanted a job, you needed to mug up on their history, competitors, market share... ‘I had a look at your brochure, downstairs. I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to research you. I wasn’t expecting to go into a meeting like this, so soon.’

  ‘At least you’re honest. Please, sit down,’ he gestured to a couple of armchairs by a coffee table. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, tea, orange juice?’

  ‘Orange juice, please,’ I replied, sitting carefully and hoping he couldn’t see my legs were trembling.

  He looked over to Marlean, waiting in the doorway. ‘I’ll have one too, please.’ He leaned back on his desk, arms folded, and looked down at me. ‘So, I read your CV on the website. How did you like Costa Rica?’

  ‘Loved it.’

  ‘And what brought about the career change – from events management to working with kids in Central America?’

  I swallowed. ‘Oh, it was the travelling thing.’ I flapped my hands. ‘You know, everyone else did it after uni. I just did it a bit later.’ I smiled and nodded. That was my story and I was sticking to it.

  ‘I once went fishing off Punta Arenas, do you know it?’

  ‘Yes. Beautiful beaches. And pelicans…I’d only ever seen them on nature programmes. It was amazing watching them swoop into the surf and come up with beaks full of fish.’

  ‘We spent the night on an island. Stayed in an old shack,’ he said, smiling and clearly enjoying the memory. ‘Didn’t get a wink of sleep, though.’

  I shifted in my seat. ‘Too hot?’ I ventured.

  ‘Too noisy. We were serenaded, throughout the night, by a cacophony of bird calls, wild pigs and monkeys. And I’d gone there with visions of a tranquil paradise where I might catch a good night’s sleep.’

  The door clicked open and Marlean reappeared with two squat glasses of orange juice. As she left, Duncan came to sit on the chair next to mine and placed his glass on the table. He sat back and his gaze intensified. ‘Now, Chloe, tell me why you think your grandfather’s theatre is worth saving – apart from the family heritage, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Right, well…’ obviously, I hadn’t come here to swap travel stories. ‘There are so many people in Barnworth who have nowhere to go if they want to do something worthwhile. And we’ve already lost the town’s cinema to a multiplex out at the shopping park.’ I moved forward on my seat. ‘What the theatre really needs – aside from some serious building work – is an injection of enthusiasm and new projects, then we can get more of the community involved. The local youth drama group could easily fold as could the AmDramSoc. Plus, the work I did in Costa Rica made me see that there are people who need more than entertainment, some of them need help or training in personal skills. But we can’t do it in an unsafe building.’

  ‘So, you see it as a social project, then? Shouldn’t you be going after government funding?’

  I shook my head. ‘Have you any idea how long that takes? We’ve put in an application but we just don’t have time to wait. Plus they won’t help with capital expenditure. If we can save the theatre, they might help with some of the projects.’

  His face had a rather grim expression as he listened. But there was activity behind those blue eyes of his. He was holding his chin with his hand – strong hand with neat, square nails.

  I ploughed on. ‘If we don’t come up with the funding, we’ll be forced to sell off the theatre to pay our debts – and the only people interested in it are housing developers.’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot to be said for good new housing – it’s very high on the government’s agenda. Some of those youngsters you’re talking about might benefit from living in clean, modern homes.’

  Why was he being so obstructive? ‘Mr Thorsen…’

  ‘Duncan.’

  I sighed. ‘I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t see something in my proposal. So tell me, what do you see in the project?’ I tilted my head and smiled. Gotcha!

  One of his eyebrows twitched slightly. He moved his hand and held it out to make his point. ‘Okay. You’re talking about amateur dramatics. That’s not enough. You have to extend it to all the community – seek out professional clients.’

  ‘Oh, I would.’ Damn. That had been my intention, I just hadn’t got around to mentioning it yet.

  ‘As I see it, theatres only come alive at night – to get a good return you need to try and sell the space during the day, too. You need to bring in something about its history and your grandfather – make it a feature for tourists; open the bar as a cafeteria. You’ve worked in events, can you sell the space to corporates for conferences?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Although we might need to make a few structural alterations.’

  ‘Something to think about.’ He saluted my idea with his glass and took a mouthful of juice. I noticed a signet ring on his wedding finger.

  ‘Absolutely. Now, can I ask, why you’re interested? I don’t see the connection between an international hotel chain and our theatre, yet, but there must be one.’

  ‘We’re not really a chain – more a collection of unique, luxurious hotels in beautiful locations.’

  ‘Of course, you’re not really up there with Best Western, are you?’

  I swear he winced.

  ‘I don’t mean…erm…not that you’re not “up there” as in stature or quality, I mean you’re not in the same league.’ This was getting worse. ‘You’re in a whole different category. An exclusive category.’ Yes! That was the word I’d been looking for.

  After seconds of study, he said, ‘Much of our business comes from corporate entertainment, sales conferences and professional training. It seems you have a background in this field. You might be able to help guide us in setting up some of our professional programmes.’

  ‘Great! Perfect fit,’ I said, finally feeling more on an even footing and less on my knees. ‘You’ve read my CV. I’ve got three years’ experience in project management for an events company. I’m very good at organising things.’

  ‘You mentioned TV coverage.’

  ‘Yes. My friend, Owen, has offered to film the project’s progress but…’

  ‘Let me guess, he’s a one-man band.’

  ‘Kind of. He makes websites, too. But his passion is video.’

  He nodded. ‘I might be able to help you, there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We’ll see. Now, what exactly were you doing in Central America?’

  ‘It was a community project, taking a creative approach to helping families deal with domestic violence. There’s a lot of it in Latin America, and they don’t have the social funding to deal with it like we do over here. I went out to help a friend who was running it. I’m hoping I can run similar courses at the theatre – although that won’t be for profit,’ I added quietly.

  Duncan seemed to assimilate this information for a moment before saying, ‘It’s a satisfying feeling, isn’t it, helping people?’

  ‘It is.’ I sensed a fragment of stilled silence, like we were tuning in to some cosmic vibration of mutual understanding. Just as I was mentally marking this down as a positive, and patting myself on the back, he stood up and walked around the desk to study his computer. I sat up straight – was he going to give me a contract? Money?

  My eyes strayed to a photograph in a rosewood frame. It was of a beautiful young woman, her auburn hair lifted slightly by the wind. I speculated on the likelihood of her also having had insomnia on the Costa Rican island.

  As I looked back at him, his eyes were lined up on mine again. I could feel a blush creep up my cheeks as I’d been caught stu
dying the photo. He spoke briskly. ‘Look, I really need to see this theatre of yours before I take it any further. Can you do Sunday, twelve o’clock?’

  I clenched my teeth to prevent me from gaping. I swallowed. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  He keyed something into his computer and clicked the mouse. When he looked up again, he smiled. ‘So, how did you find the ordeal of being on TV this morning? Not so bad, hey?’

  I beamed. ‘No. You were right. The presenters were lovely.’

  He nodded and looked at me for a moment. ‘Well, thanks for coming to see me at such short notice, and we’ll meet again on Sunday.’

  I stood up. ‘You’re welcome. I mean, no, thank you for seeing me.’

  He held his hand out across the desk. I smiled, and saw the creases fold up at the corners of his eyes. As his fingers closed around mine, I almost curtseyed with gratitude. ‘Sunday, twelve o’clock, at the theatre?’

  He nodded, just once, in agreement.

  We were done. I headed for the door.

  *

  Duncan watched Chloe leave. Those really were bizarre trousers. Before closing the door, she looked back at him and smiled. When she was gone, she seemed to have left the resonance of her personality in the room. He glanced across at her unfinished glass of juice, where there was a faint crescent of lipstick on its rim. She’d certainly brightened his day.

  He looked at the calendar on his PC. But for God’s sake, what on earth was he doing arranging to go down to Gloucestershire on Sunday to see her crumbling old theatre? His parents might have been big fans of Joshua Steele, and Chloe’s flashing green eyes and soft feminine chuckle were certainly disarming but, he muttered to himself, ‘Duncan m’friend, this is not enough to break up your weekend for. Oh no.’

  This was a job for Hugo, his estates guy. Maybe he could get out of it. Yes. He’d send Hugo – he trusted his judgement.

  He buzzed through to Marlean. ‘Where’s Hugo Hart today?’

  ‘He’s on annual leave till Monday.’

  Duncan’s mouth flattened. ‘What about Rusty Gayle?’

  ‘On her way to Lisbon.’

  ‘Of course. Thanks Marlean.’

  ‘Do you want me to put out a call for her?’

  ‘No, don’t worry.’ He was just about to close the connection, when he asked, ‘Can you check out restaurants in Barnworth, and book me a table for two on Sunday, at one-thirty, please?’ It would give him an opportunity to have a weekend retreat at his apartment in Bath.

  Chapter 3

  As I entered my friend’s office, Owen Shaw swivelled round in his chair. His desk was somewhere under a heap of magazines and empty biscuit packets. ‘Hi Chlo. Thought you looked great on TV, this morning.’

  I looked him in the eye. ‘Yeah, yeah. Bet you didn’t even see it. I know you never get out of bed before nine.’

  ‘True. But I saw it on catch-up. How did your meeting go with Duncan J. Thorsen, then?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Course I do. He’s a real hot-shot. Rags to riches in ten years. And he made it really big in the last year – especially with his TV programme.’

  ‘Really? Doing what?’

  Owen wandered over to the scale-encrusted kettle that stood on an old chest of drawers, filled it from a bottle of water and flicked the switch. ‘One of those business make-over programmes; ‘Guinea-Pigs’ or something like that. Takes a company just starting out, offers the owners his pearls of wisdom, then stands back to watch ’em sink or swim.’ He grinned at me through his shaggy fringe and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. ‘Great concept.’

  ‘Oh.’ I had a sinking feeling.

  ‘So, did he offer you money?’

  ‘Not yet.’ I lifted a box of cables from a chair, and sat down. ‘I suddenly have a sneaking suspicion he might be lining me up for his TV show.’

  ‘Cool. Any publicity’s good publicity. Coffee?’

  I nodded. ‘Mind if I look him up?’ I asked, heading for his computer.

  ‘Whoa! Let me save that before you start mucking about in cyber-space.’ He clicked a few keys before typing Thorsen Leisure into the search engine. ‘I think you’ll find he’s worth a few quid.’

  I scrolled through the website: hotels in London, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Miami and Mauritius – an impressive portfolio. I stopped on the page about the company’s founder – Duncan J. Thorsen. It was a very good picture; he was leaning against a marble balustrade, which overlooked a vast, aquamarine, infinity pool, beyond which lay the sea. I looked carefully – had someone doctored the picture to make his eyes as blue as the pool?

  The blurb said he was thirty-six, born in Edinburgh of a Swedish father, and was a junior athletics champion. No mention of a wife and family. I returned to the search engine as Owen placed a chipped mug beside me. I found several news articles about Thorsen Leisure’s acquisitions and a summary of last year’s TV hit – Business Angel – which had hurled him into the media spotlight and been so successful, he’d actually bought the production company that had made the programme. I looked up at Owen. ‘How did you get from Business Angel to Guinea Pigs?’

  ‘Same difference. Whatever happens, they’ll edit it so he ends up looking like the dog’s doo-dahs.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I sipped my coffee and scanned a number of other entries on the search engine. ‘Especially since he owns the company.’

  When I selected images, I found several press photos of him accompanied by beautiful women, including a couple of celebrities I recognised. None appeared to be the red-head I’d seen in the photo on his desk. Interesting.

  ‘Ooh!’ I exclaimed, homing in on a gossip site and an article entitled: Dunc Juan and Bridie Nash in sudden split. I clicked to read it.

  ‘Bridie, former girlfriend of footballer, Garth Finch, and recent squeeze of hotel tycoon Duncan Thorsen, merely said, ‘No comment’ when approached on the subject of their recent split. Speculation is rife as to the real reason, with playboy Duncan remaining tight-lipped. Has he perhaps been up to old tricks – changing his dates as often as most guys change their boxers? Old habits die hard, eh, Dunc?’

  Intrigued, I searched for more on Bridie – a waif-like creature with massive, charcoaled eyes, who was accessorized within an inch of her life. She was carrying a different but conspicuous designer handbag in every picture.

  ‘D’you wanna see your website, then?’ Owen rolled his chair alongside mine.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I answered, guiltily closing the webpage.

  He took control of the keyboard. ‘It’s looking good. D’you wanna add your meeting with Thorsen Leisure to the News page?’

  I chewed my bottom lip. Well, it couldn’t hurt, could it? Even if Duncan didn’t take me on – at least it demonstrated we had some serious interest in the theatre. I tapped a tattoo on the coffee mug with my fingernails. ‘Okay. Let me write something – but I won’t mention any names. Don’t want to upset him before he’s even drawn up a contract.’

  Owen shrugged. ‘Up to you. By the way…’ he paused.

  ‘By the way, what?’

  ‘Seen anything of Warren, since you got back?’

  A small, invisible mule kicked me in the guts. ‘No. Why, what have you heard?’

  ‘Nothing. But I’m guessing it won’t be long before he hears you’re back. Just wondering if he’s…well…got used to the idea, yet.’

  ‘I hope so. Mum heard from him at Christmas, and that’s it.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  ‘What’s that old song? Fifty ways to leave your lover – and I tried every one of them.’

  ‘Costa Rica was a classic, though,’ Owen winked. ‘Got the message then, didn’t he?’

  I began chewing on the side of my thumb. ‘I dunno. I haven’t been in touch since I left. He’s so paranoid, I’m surprised he didn’t report Mum to the police for killing me off and turning me into meat pies.’

  Owen nodded and grinned. ‘Well, she is a great cook.’

 
I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, I’ll write this news item.’

  ‘Go for it!’ Owen wheeled his chair back and took a digestive biscuit from an open packet. ‘I like what you’re wearing, by the way. But then, you’ve always had style, Chlo.’

  Which, coming from Owen, who only ever wore jeans and baggy t-shirts, clinched it – the outfit was going to the charity shop.

  As soon as I got home, I checked the theatre’s Facebook page. The Wake-Up! programme had certainly generated interest – though not all of it useful. We had a slew of congratulatory messages and a couple of requests from opportunists asking to use the theatre – for free – for which they’d be willing to hand over a share of their profits. Hmmm. I switched over to the emails that came in from the website. There were three messages of support from aging Joshua Steele fans and a few offers to donate money. One, in particular, caught my eye. It was from King Lloyd Holdings – and read:

  Dear Chloe

  I watched your interview on Wake-Up! with interest. It is our company’s policy to invest, each year, in a worthwhile construction project. I wondered whether perhaps yours might fit the profile.

  I have a meeting in Gloucestershire, on Tuesday, and would be happy to meet up if you are available.

  Please email or call my mobile (number below) to make arrangements.

  Best regards,

  Ray Marsden

  Financial Controller

  I checked the company’s website. It was a holding company for a number of specialist engineering companies, with profits of thirty-two million in the previous year. Comfortably solvent, then.

  I replied immediately and, later in the day, heard back that he would be happy to meet at the theatre on Tuesday evening but added, ‘I trust there will be no television cameras present until and unless we agree to move forward.’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied.

  This was good. This was very good. It was only a few hours since my TV appearance and we already had two appointments with interested parties. Who knew what else might come in, over the following days?

  Days later, sun was streaming through the glass doors of the theatre’s foyer, as I paced from box office to staircase and back again. I was waiting for my Business Angel to arrive. If this didn’t go well, I still had King Lloyd Holdings up my sleeve. Although I doubted they had the Wow! Factor that Thorsen Leisure offered or, rather, Dunc Juan. We had recently been bombarded with calls from VPW Construction – the predatory housing company – and worse, we’d received a local authority letter warning there were moves afoot to close and condemn the theatre.