Chapter Thirteen
Seren
Friday night in The Hub is loud and happy. I’m glad I booked a table for dinner, judging by the queue at the door. The place has been well and truly decorated for Christmas, too, with red and gold streamers stretching from wall to wall and nets of twinkling white lights suspended from the rafters. I take my seat in the curved bay nearest the window and gaze out at the trails of multicoloured lights dancing on the indigo-black waves of the harbour outside. Christmas in St Ives is real spectacle. It’s the unique mix of the sea, the festive atmosphere, the celebration of another year travelled. And lights everywhere – as though the people of the town are hanging out their hopes and dreams for the coming year for everyone to see. It’s the lights I love best.
Rainbow-hued lantern-shaped bulbs have been wrapped around the base of Smeaton’s Tower, the iconic lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour, sending spots of colour bobbing on the undulating dark water. White and blue festoon lights loop between the lamp posts around the harbour road and the moon is huge and bright in a cloudless frosty sky. Dad will be out in the Shedservatory this evening, no doubt, with Molly curled up in her old box filled with threadbare travel rug blankets, snoring as Dad watches the sky. If he’s still out there when I get home, I might make a flask of tea and join him, snuggling to his side to gaze up at our ancient celestial friends.
Alastair hurries in and flops down into the booth seat. ‘Hey, sorry I’m late,’ he puffs, unwinding a long scarf from his neck and shrugging his wool jacket from his shoulders. He’s shaved since I saw him at the lantern making: the red-gold ghost of what will soon be a Cavalier beard just visible on his chin. He smells good, too. I’d forgotten that about him. Al was the best-smelling bloke in the studio, a fact universally acknowledged by the entire Grafyx team. It’s strange how details you take for granted every day fade so quickly when you don’t see someone. ‘Man, I’m hungry.’
‘Busy day?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘When is it ever not? But I’m done for the weekend now, so let’s talk no more about it.’ He sits back and observes me in the contemplative way he used to. I’d forgotten the Alastair Currie stare, too. ‘You’re looking so good, Seren. I meant to say it on Wednesday evening.’
‘Thanks. Although how bad did I look before if this is an improvement?’
‘Stop it, MacArthur, that’s not what I meant. You seem – settled. Happy.’
I don’t know why my heart sinks when he says this, but it does. ‘Well, thank you.’
‘Okay, what was that look for?’
‘Which look?’
‘The look you used to give clients on the phone when they asked for an impossible deadline.’
I have to smile at that. My colleagues used to call me Captain Glass because I could never stop my face revealing my true feelings. ‘I don’t know, it’s great to be back here with my friends and my family but . . .’
‘But you miss how it was before?’
I nod. ‘It isn’t easy losing a job, is it? I wonder if I’ll ever really get over that. I’m happy to be here, but I miss the excitement, the challenge, a life of my own . . .’
‘The money?’
‘That too. But mostly being part of something exciting . . .’ Suddenly aware of what I’m saying I look down at the menu. I can’t blame MacArthur’s or being at home again for a lack of excitement in my life. It’s just different . . . ‘Anyway, you move on, don’t you? So – what are you fancying from this lovely lot?’
Alastair doesn’t mention the conversation again until we are halfway through the meal. Returning from the bar with two fresh drinks, he clinks his bottle of cider against mine. ‘To making the best of the old and new.’
‘Sounds good to me. Cheers.’
Alastair’s dark eyes fix on me as he drinks. Then he rubs his hand across his chin – a self-conscious habit I learned to recognise over our years working together. ‘I have a confession to make, MacArthur. It wasn’t a coincidence I volunteered for the lantern makers. I’ve been looking for an excuse. I’m afraid I had an ulterior motive for coming to see you this week.’
I’ve been subconsciously waiting for this. There had to be a reason for Alastair to travel all the way over to St Ives to find me, after months of no communication. ‘I might have known. Go on, then.’
‘I’ve started my own company – it’s small and very much in its infancy at the moment. But I’ve already lured some of Grafyx’s old customers back. And this is just the beginning.’
‘Al, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!’
He gives a nonchalant shrug, but his eyes burn with pride. I used to see it when he talked about projects he was passionate to do, like a fire had been lit behind his stare. ‘Early days yet. But the potential is huge. Nobody else around here is doing the kind of multimedia campaigns I think I can offer. Not just websites and online media, but apps, music, film and even VR. It’s hugely ambitious, I know. It could all end in tears. But you’ve got to shoot for the stars, haven’t you?’
I always knew Alastair would do something like this. He was far too good to stay as an in-house junior designer for ever. It’s why I loved working with him: he never accepted the mundane in any job. He was the most out-of-the-box thinker I’ve ever met and I did my best work with him. Dad says passionate people are infectious: that was Alastair in a nutshell. Because he was passionate it made me believe in better, too. ‘I’m thrilled for you. And you’ll make this a success, I know you will.’
‘You could be part of it.’ He’s leaning across the table now, his hand suddenly finding mine. ‘Just imagine, MacArthur, the dream team back together again! Only this time we wouldn’t be caged in by Martin and Laura’s blinkered vision. Literally anything is possible.’
For a moment my words vanish into the warm air of the restaurant. I’d suspected some motive behind his sudden reappearance, but being offered a job wasn’t on the list. He’s watching me across the waxed wood table, his hand warm on mine. And I don’t know what to say.
‘Okay, don’t answer yet. There’s something else. I’ve moved into my brother’s old house – long story – but there’s a good spare room. Just, you know, if you needed somewhere. It’s more like a studio flat, actually. It has its own entrance and everything. You wouldn’t even need to pay rent until the business gets going. It might help you get settled back in Falmouth – and we could work from the house to build up our client list.’
At Grafyx we used to say that while the rest of us were brainstorming ideas from an initial brief, Alastair would have already completed the groundwork, solved every problem and would be picking out champagne for the product launch in his mind. He clearly hasn’t lost that ability.
‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’
He smiles. ‘It’s why it’s taken me a while to get back in touch. I wanted everything to be in place before I asked you.’
‘You’re amazing. And it’s a lovely offer.’
‘But . . . ?’
Is there a but? I’m still taking it all in and so far I can’t see any negatives. But am I just flattered after months of feeling like nobody notices me? ‘No but just yet. Can I think about this, Al?’
I see him relax a little. ‘Please do. I know it’s a big decision. Tell you what, give me your answer on the night of the lantern parade, okay?’
‘You’re coming, then?’
‘Are you kidding? I’m not letting up the opportunity to see my handiwork being admired by the whole of St Ives. Thought I might hand out some business cards, too, when Lou isn’t looking. Besides, it seems as good a time as any. I always liked the bells and whistles when we made decisions at work. Drumrolls, fireworks, Hallelujah choruses, the works.’
This decision could change my life. It could put me back on an even keel and open possibilities I haven’t even imagined. It could help me rediscover my identity, too – not just being ‘Mark’s daughter’, or ‘Aggie’s friend’. I’m proud of both, of course. But I think I need more.
It’s a huge opportunity, but it has to be the right one for what it would mean surrendering. Leaving MacArthur’s and Dad when I suspect he needs me there the most could have huge implications. So I agree to give Alastair my answer at the Christmas lantern parade. But will seven days be enough to make up my mind?