Surprise Me(53)

‘Do you have any explanation?’ he asks, in tones that say, ‘I’m trying to be reasonable here.’

‘Mrs Kendrick didn’t really like the idea of a website,’ I say defensively. ‘She was the one who came up with the eventual … concept.’

‘Let’s have a look at it again, shall we?’ Robert says in ominous tones. He pulls a spare office chair towards him and sits down. Then he takes out a laptop from his briefcase, opens it, types in the web address – and after a few seconds our home page appears. It’s a beautiful, black-and-white line drawing of Willoughby House and on the front door is a very small notice, which reads: Enquiries: please apply in writing to Willoughby House, Willoughby Street, London W1.

‘You see, what I’m wondering …’ says Robert in the same studiedly calm tone, ‘is where the information pages are, the gallery of photos, the FAQ, the subscription form and, in fact, the whole bloody website?’ He suddenly erupts. ‘Where’s the website? This …’ He jabs at the page. ‘This looks like a classified ad from The Times, 1923! “Apply in writing”? “Apply in writing”?’

I can’t help wincing. He’s right. I mean, he’s right. It’s a ridiculous website.

‘Mrs Kendrick liked “Apply in writing”,’ volunteers Clarissa, who has perched on the corner of the computer desk. ‘Sylvie tried to get her to have an email form, but …’ She glances at me.

‘We tried,’ I affirm.

‘You didn’t try hard enough,’ Robert shoots back, unrelenting. ‘What about Twitter? You have a handle, I’ve seen that, but where are the tweets? Where are the followers?’

‘I’m in charge of Twitter,’ says Clarissa, almost in a whisper. ‘I did tweet once, but I didn’t know what to say, so I just said “hello”.’

Robert looks like he doesn’t even know how to respond to this.

‘I don’t think our clientele are on Twitter,’ I say, coming to Clarissa’s defence. ‘They prefer letters.’

‘Your clientele are dying out,’ says Robert, looking unimpressed. ‘Willoughby House is dying out. This entire concern is dying out and you can’t even see it. You all live in a bubble, my aunt included.’

‘That’s not fair!’ I say hotly. ‘We don’t live in a bubble. We interact with a lot of external organizations, benefactors … And we’re not dying out! We’re a thriving, vibrant, exciting …’

‘You are not thriving!’ Robert suddenly erupts. ‘You are not thriving.’ His voice is huge in the low-ceilinged office and we both gape at him. He rubs the back of his neck, wincing, not looking either of us in the eye. ‘My aunt’s been desperate to keep the truth from you,’ he continues in a calmer voice. ‘But you need to know. This place is in big financial trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ echoes Clarissa, with a little gasp.

‘For the last few years my aunt’s been subsidizing it out of her own money. It can’t go on. And that’s why I’ve stepped in.’

I stare at him, so flabbergasted that I can’t speak. My throat has actually closed up in shock. Mrs Kendrick’s been subsidizing us?

‘But we raise funds!’ says Clarissa, looking pink and distressed, her voice practically a squeak. ‘We’ve done really well this year!’

‘Exactly.’ I find my voice. ‘We raise funds all the time!’

‘Not enough,’ says Robert flatly. ‘This place costs a fortune to run. Heating, lighting, insurance, biscuits, salaries …’ He gives me a pointed look.

‘But Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’ says Clarissa. ‘She donated half a million!’

‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’

‘Long gone,’ says Robert, folding his arms.

Long gone?

I feel shaken to my core. I had no idea. No idea.

I suppose Mrs Kendrick has been rather cagey about the financial situation of the charity. But then she’s cagey about so many things. (Like, for example, she won’t let us have the address of Lady Chapman, one of our supporters, for the database. She says Lady Chapman ‘wouldn’t like it’. So we have to write By hand on the envelope every time we want to send Lady Chapman anything, and Mrs Kendrick delivers it personally to her house.)

As I stare at Robert, I realize I’ve never once doubted the financial strength of Willoughby House. Mrs Kendrick has always told us that we’re doing well. We’ve seen the headline figure for the year and it’s always been great. It never occurred to me that Mrs Kendrick might have contributed to it.

And now suddenly everything makes sense. Robert’s suspicious frown. Mrs Kendrick’s anxious, defensive manner. Everything.

‘So you are going to shut us down and build condos.’ I blurt the thought out before I can stop myself and Robert gives me a long look.

‘Is that what you’ve been expecting?’ he says at last.

‘Well, are you?’ I challenge him and there’s a long silence. My stomach is becoming heavy with foreboding. This is feeling like a real threat. I don’t know what to worry about first: Mrs Kendrick, the art collection, the volunteers, the patrons, or my job. OK, I’ll admit it, it’s my job. I may not have as big as income as Dan does – but we need it.