Page 84 of One Last Try

Lando jams his tongue in his cheek and smiles at Daisy who is sternly shaking her head from side to side. His moment of vulnerability is over. “Anyways . . . here are some of my other gains,” he says before pressing the clicker and taking us through multiple highly inappropriate photographs of his bare chest, his flexing biceps, his ass in gym shorts.

I’m a little relieved that he’s choosing not to make me cry, though his earlier words bounce around in my head.

“Thank you, Orlando, for that insight,” Mathias says, snatching the controller and looking pointedly at his watch. “That’s twelve and a half minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”

Viv goes next. She talks about all the fundraisers I’ve held in the pub for other good causes—bingo for the MacMillan nurses, the inflatable obstacle course we had in the beer garden one year for Hepton’s school camp, the Scouts’ Christmas tree sale, Bryn’s top surgery. “If you can raise money for other people, why not allow them to do the same for you?”

I bite the inside of my lip. Don’t respond verbally.

Tom tells me how nice it is to find such a welcoming community here. “Especially one so LGBTQIA inclusive.”

Bryn explains how my pub is a home away from home. “I don’t know any English man who can cook rarebit as well as you do.”

Isobel and Rafael have slides that show the playground set in the beer garden and the recent Easter egg hunt.

Tyler describes how much he loves working for me and what a laid-back boss I am.

The other pub patrons have a little go on their slides. The sevens lads and girls.

Even Kirsty and Mark explain via video message how grateful they are for everything I’ve done in the past. For always being so understanding. For doing such a fantastic job raising the girls.

Mathias cycles through Will Shakespeare’s slides. They’re just pictures of the dog in the pub, or in the fields behind the pub, or in town, with captions like“Who will give me belly rubs if the pub is closed?”and“If not community, why community shaped?”

It reeks of Daisy’s interference, but neither she nor Mathias have done their own slides, and I feel a little stung. But mostly I’m relieved. Not sure how I can hold back the tears any longer.

And then Mathias presses a button on his controller and Molly’s face appears on the screen. It’s another video, and I’m crying before he evenhits play.

“Hi Dad,” she says, waving to the camera. “Daisy asked me to record you a message explaining why you should accept everyone’s help, though I’m sure every point I want to make has already been said. Unless I’m up first, in which case . . . awkward. Anyway, please don’t take this the wrong way, but for the love of everything holy, stop being so fucking stubborn. We all need this place. And we need you. And we’d all be lost without both those things. Okay, I love you. We all love you. Bye. Bye.” Molly freezes as she waves once more.

I shield my face with my hand and look down at the table.

Daisy crouches next to me and peers up through the gap. “What do you say?”

I try to find a reasonable excuse to turn down their help yet again. I rack my brains, but nothing brings itself to light.

And maybe I’m done making excuses. I’ve done it for so long and I’m tired. Maybe I should just fucking believe that there are people out there who love me and want to see me thrive. Lots of people.

Maybe I should be selfish for once.

“Fine. Whatever. You all win. I’ll accept your help.”

Cheers explode around me.

“But it’s not charity, okay?” I’m specifically looking at Lando when I say this, since he’s the only person—well, his father is—with the means to pay off the damn roof bill in one hit.

He holds his hands up in a surrender gesture. “My dad would definitely notice if thirty K went missing from his account again.”

I choose not to mention the “again” addendum. Beside me, people side-eye each other, coming to the same conclusion I had. It’s not worth the hassle.

“So, what’s this solution you’ve all come up with?” I ask, thumbing the tears from my eyes.

Mathias grins, looks around the room, then clicks to the next slide.

The background is an aerial photograph—taken from Mathias’s drone?—of the RFC’s hut and field. Superimposed over the top are massive letters spelling out:

OWEN BOSLEY

VS

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