Spirit (18 page)

“Thanks, but no. I came by train.”

We leave the restaurant and stand looking at each other on the pavement outside. It’s awkward, neither of us wants to part, but there’s nothing to hold us together any more.

“Will I see you again?” Matt’s smile is sad as he waits for my inevitable reply.

“Perhaps. Who knows? It would be nice…”

“It would.”

“You have my mobile number. It was on my email.”

“Ah, yes. Take care, Beth.” He leans in to drop a light kiss on my forehead. I put my arms around his shoulders and give him a quick hug, then I turn and rush off along the street in the direction of Leeds City Station. If passers-by are looking at me oddly, I ignore them. Surely I’m not the only woman to run through the city centre with tears streaming down her face.

All the way back to Keighley I berate myself for leaving it like that. There was so much more I could have, should have told him. Things I should have asked him. Like, is he still into BDSM? Has he a regular submissive? What happened between him and Megan?

He could have asked me some of those same things, but he didn’t. I suppose that indicates he’s not interested in me in that way anymore. In fairness, despite him saying I was stunning, he never really was. He’s right, I did initiate everything that happened between us. He didn’t exactly fight me off with a stick, but I made all the running. He obviously cared about me back then, and he still does I suppose, or he wouldn’t have asked me to come and see him today.

But old times’ sake is not enough to motivate him to take a risk on my project. Nowhere close. So it’s back to square one.

* * *

The wind whips through my hair as I stand on the bleak, open moorland, and cast one last wistful glance around me at the spot I so wanted to make my own. It’s been two days since my meeting with Matt, and I’ve had time to take stock and reassess my options. He made his views clear enough so I know that this project is dead in the water. But there must be other suitable locations, I just have to find one. Maybe not as fabulous as this place, but still…

First though, I need to pay a visit to the Boothroyds and explain why my plan won’t be going ahead after all. Annie seemed especially interested and I suspect she’ll be disappointed, but I owe her the courtesy of this last call. I turn and trudge back down the slope towards Alice parked on the lane perhaps a mile below me.

Annie opens the door of the Upper Shay farmhouse before I even get out of my van. She waves and leaves the door ajar as she wanders back down her hallway. I hop out and follow her inside. My cup of tea is already on the table when I enter her kitchen.

“Now then, lass. I was wonderin’ when we’d be seein’ thee agin. What’s tha been up to?”

“I went to see the owner of High Whitley Scar.”

“Aye?”

“I couldn’t manage to convince him. I’m sorry.”

“Nay lass, tha’s no cause to be apologisin’ to me. Was ‘e not keen then?”

“You could say that. I’ll be moving on soon, but first I wanted to come back and explain why we’re not going ahead with the mosaic And to say thank you for your kindness and your hospitality when I was here before.”

“Well, tha’s right welcome, lass. But I’ll confess I’m a bit flummoxed. Movin’ on, did yer say?”

I nod. “Yes. Today.”

“Because the mosaic’s not ‘appenin’?”

“That’s right. Sorry.”

“What makes ye think the mosaic’s not ‘appenin’ then?”

“The owner, Matt Logan at MLR. He won’t give his consent to use the land.”

“Well, he sounded keen enough when he was ‘ere. ‘E was full of it then.”

I stare at her. The Yorkshire accent can be a little obscure at times. But even so, I don’t think I misheard. “Here? Matt Logan was here?”

Annie nods as she pours me a second cup of tea. “‘E was, lass. Yesterday it were. Nice young chap, too. Very polite.”

“Here?” I’m struggling with the core concept.

“Aye, lass. ‘Ere.” Annie’s gaze is level as she surveys me across her table top. “There was stuff ‘e wanted to talk to Ned about.”

“Does he come here often?”

Annie grins, the cliche not lost on her. She shakes her head. “Never ‘as before. Never ‘ad any need I suppose.”

“But, why would he…?”

“Things to discuss. Details. ‘E wants to use our farm as a base.”

“A base?”

“Fer t’ workmen, I expect.”

“Workmen? What the hell’s going on? I never said anything about workmen—I do my own work.”

She shrugs. “As far as I can recall that’s what ‘e was sayin’. Oh and ‘e wants to lay some cablin’.”

“Cabling? As in—wires?”

“Yes, them’s the ones. It all sounds very technical.”

“The bastard. He never had any intention of doing anything here until I pointed out what a good site it was. He’s stolen my idea.”

Annie shakes her head, looking doubtful. “Oh no, lass, I think you’ve got it wrong, Tha’d best ‘ave a word wi’ ‘im, I reckon.”

“I would. I bloody well would if I had his number.” Two words, in fact, neither of them polite.

“I know…”

“Sneaking about up here, talking about cables and workmen. I bet all the time he was listening to me going on about my ideas he was bloody planning this. The git!”

“Well, I think…”

“He’s not getting away with this. I’ll bloody well wait here until he shows up again…” Annie makes as though to interrupt me. I can’t say I blame her. She’s made me welcome, but now I’m imposing too much on her hospitality. “No, no I won’t. I’m going back to that office of his in Leeds. I want to know what the hell he’s thinking of…”

“Well, that might work. Or tha could just ring ‘im up.”

“Like I said, I don’t have his number.”

“‘Ere it is.” She shoves a neat business card across the table at me. “‘E left that, said to pass it on ter thee if I saw thi.”

I stare at the small oblong of white card, the words neatly printed across the face.
Matthew Logan, Chief Executive, MLR
and beneath, a mobile phone number and his direct email.

“He left that? For me?”

“Aye lass. ‘E’s right keen ter talk ter thi. In fact…”

I pick up the card and dig in my jacket pocket for my phone. “I’ll call him now.”

“I don’t think…”

I punch in the numbers and ram the receiver against my ear. It’s answered almost immediately.

“Beth? Hello, nice to hear from you.” Despite my righteous indignation the rich, warm tone of his voice still does something a little bit peculiar in the pit of my stomach. I’m determined to stifle that sensation, strangle it at birth.

“I’ll bet. I want to talk to you.”

“Great. Where are you?”

“I’m at Upper Shay Farm, with Annie.”

“See you in a moment then.”

“What? Matt, you just…”

“See you in a sec. Bye.” The phone goes dead and I’m left glaring at it. Did he just hang up on me?

I start to stab his number back into the phone, determined to have my say. A clatter outside followed by the sound of the front door opening and shutting interrupts me. Annie gets to her feet.

“That’ll be ‘im now, I expect. An’ our Ned. They’ll be ‘ungry. Will you be stayin’ fer tea as well, pet?”

“Tea? What?” I peer at my cup, emptied for a second time. I doubt I could manage a third. Unless it’s to fling the contents at bloody Matt Logan, of course.

The individual in question saunters through the door, Ned at his heels.

“Hi there. Annie.” Matt greets the pair of us, nodding first at me, then at the lady of the house. His clothing is as casual as his attitude. Gone is the sharp business suit, in favour of black jeans, light brown Doc Marten’s, and a thick woollen sweater. He has a waxed jacket dangling from his hand, and he arranges this across the back of a chair before sitting down. The ancient sheepdog stirs himself sufficiently to stagger from his corner by the stove to greet the new arrivals. Matt tugs on the animal’s ears as it sways happily against his legs.

He looks very much at home. Too much. Momentarily distracted, my temper soon simmers to the surface again.

“What are you doing here? I thought you said my idea was a non-starter.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes you bloody did. But you thought you’d do something up there anyway. You wouldn’t have even known about High Whitley Scar if it hadn’t been for me.”

“True. It’s an excellent location. You have a good eye.”

“And you have a fu—a bloody cheek.”

“I beg your pardon?” Matt looks faintly amused as he accepts the pot of tea offered by Annie. I itch to wipe that smug smile off his face.

“You rubbished my idea, then just moved in with some scheme of your own. I should have known better than to trust you.”

His expression is reproachful. “For what it’s worth at this late stage, I’d say you should have known better than
not
to trust me, but that’s a matter to deal with at another time. When we’re alone. For today, let me explain my modifications to your scheme.”

“Your, your…?”

“Modifications.” He takes a sip of his tea and turns to level a brilliant smile at Annie. “Perfect. Thank you. Do you mind if I take this outside? I’d like a chat with Beth.”

“There’s no need fer that. There’s a fire laid in’t parlour. Go on through, both of thee.” Annie ushers us from her cosy kitchen and into the distinctly chilly front room, immaculately kept for the express purpose of impressing visitors with its pristine tidiness. This is not a room normally used by the Boothroyds, as evidenced by the stilted, un-lived-in look of the perfectly aligned porcelain ornaments and the hard, over-stuffed cushions. This is a room to look at, not relax in. And relaxing is the one thing I will not be doing as I perch on the old-fashioned two seater settee facing Matt who has selected the fireside chair opposite.

“Should we light the fire?” He glances at me, perhaps hoping I might know how to deal with these homely little tasks.

I don’t. “We won’t be here that long, hardly seems worth it.”

He shrugs, but seems content to make do as we are. “Right, your mosaic then…”

“Exactly.
My
mosaic.”

His brow furrows as though he’s beginning to lose patience. Not that I care, the rat. “Yours, yes. But there was a problem with the concept though, I told you that.”

“And I said I could do it, you wouldn’t let me even try.”

He disregards my complaint. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I have an alternative proposal to put to you.”

“Alternative? What alternative?” I do not take kindly to anyone meddling with my art.

“The concept is great, inspired in fact. I love it. I’m sure I told you that.”

I gape at him, bemused. “No, you didn’t. I would have remembered.”

“Oh. Well, I should have. It is. But it would never work as it was, not made of glass. Too many practical difficulties. I must have made that much clear to you.”

I scowl at him, recalling something along those lines. He babbled on about transport and storage costs, and recycling plants and other such nonsense, completely failing to grasp the core essence of what I want to achieve.

Matt pauses to allow me to respond, but I prefer not to encourage him. I’ve heard all this already. He continues.

“So, after you left the other day I went over your designs again, homing in on what I most liked about the concept. That, Beth, is the location, which as you’ve pointed out is high profile and visible. Put that alongside the potential audience of millions, and the marketing opportunity is one not to be missed, as I think you may have mentioned. I would have missed it though, but for you. So, I got to thinking how we could construct your masterpiece, but using materials we could more readily source. I came up with solar panels.”

If he’d told me we were to construct my artwork from spun gold I could not have been more incredulous.

“Solar panels? What the hell are solar panels?”

“Oh Beth, you must have seen them. On roofs usually? Sustainable energy production and all that.”

“You mean, for making electricity? From the sun’s rays?”

“Yes, those are the things. I want to help you build your artwork on my hillside, but from solar panels. It’ll be one huge, fully functional solar farm, beautiful, and useful too. What do you think?”

“I think they’ll look awful. Those things are just grey, and dull. Drab, functional. My piece needs to be colourful, vibrant. I want people to love looking at it. People won’t want to look at a power station stuck on the side of a hill.

“Not a power station. A solar farm. I can source panels in all sorts of colours and sizes, to blend, or contrast with any environment. They catch the light—literally—and absorb it. They’ll look stunning. Here, let me show you.”

He pulls out his smart phone and taps the screen. He hands it to me. “This is my company website, and some graphics of sites of ours. See that one, the panels are in red to tone in with the surrounding brickwork. And here they’re blue and orange because those are the corporate colours of the company who bought them. We can produce all sorts of effects. Your sculpture will look anything but drab. Subtle perhaps, but that’s up to you. I’ll provide the palette, you do with it what you will.”

I shake my head, completely bemused. “Look, even if I could recreate my design using these materials I can’t build it from solar panels, at least, not if they’re supposed to work. Fully functioning you said. I know nothing about solar energy.”

“No, I get that. But I do. And so do the people who work for me. I propose a joint venture—your design, my site. I’ll provide the materials and technical know-how as well. In return, I get a bloody great advertisement for my company and my products, that’ll be plastered over television screens across the world. Now that’s an idea I do like. How about you?”

I can only stare at him as the idea sinks in. My design, but turned into something functional. Sustainable. Even if people viewing it from miles away don’t know what it actually is, it will still look wonderful. As long as…

“My design? Exactly the same as I sketched it out for you? My image, the same scale and dimensions? No meddling with that, right?”

He chuckles. “Right. Wouldn’t dream of it. There might be aspects we’d need to think through again to accommodate the difference in the material, but MLR can produce bespoke panels to your specifications, and locate them exactly where you want then to go, so I don’t think we’ll need to change much once you’ve provided us with the revised design. And it’d all be with your agreement. A joint venture, remember? Shared.”