Page 39 of The Matchmaker
“Kelly’s won’t be large enough.”
“It won’t?” She frowns. “Just how many people do you think are going to come?”
“A lot,” I insist. “And they need somewhere they can party. Somewhere impressive.”
“And you chose here?”
“I think it could work,” Nush declares and strides through the door. Or rather, the gap in the wall that serves as a door.
“Please just give it a chance,” I say to Gemma, as we follow. “And before you say anything, we’re going to work on the smell.”
“What sm— oh.” Her nose wrinkles as she glances around, and I try and view the space through confident, optimistic eyes, and not hers.
So it needs a little TLC. Who doesn’t these days? All we need to do is get rid of all the broken farm equipment, sweep out the cobwebs, and it will look good as new. There’s no electricity, but Frank already said we could use his generator, and yes, there are a bunch of gaping holes in the wall letting in the cold air, but that won’t matter in the summer.
I spent hours combing through everything I could find about the festival. I’d seen photographs of it in its heyday before but had never really paid attention to it. And honestly it didn’t look that special. It didn’t even look that romantic. Just a bunch of people sitting around, talking. We were going to be different. We were going to be festival 2.0. We’d welcome people to Kelly’s, they’d make their wish, sign our petition and then they’d travel a few minutes along a beautiful lantern lit path (I still need to figure out that part) and party the night away. It was a simple plan. A good plan. I just need everyone else to get on board with it.
“Do you know what we need?” Nush asks, her neck craned to the ceiling as she rotates on the spot.
“A montage?” Gemma asks. “One that preferably takes us through the next few weeks?”
She shakes her head. “Men.”
“What?”
“Big strong men to do all of this for us.”
I frown. “It’s not going to take that long to—”
“I vote for the men,” Gemma interrupts, raising her hand.
“Come on, you guys!” I throw my arms wide, gesturing to all the glorious potential. “Use your imagination.”
“I feel like I’m getting ill by standing here,” Gemma says. “What does asbestos look like?”
I follow her to the back of the barn, leaving Nush by the entrance, where she pokes at the wall as if expecting it to collapse.
“Okay,” I say. “I know being moody is your thing and that life is hard and awful—”
“Excuse me?”
“But you promised me you’d help,” I finish. “You promised. So, if you could put a lid on all that negative energy, I’d appreciate it. I guarantee you whatever criticism or concern you have is one I’ve had a million times myself.”
She tsks, clicking her tongue off the roof of her mouth, but she has the grace to look a little guilty. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just don’t want to see you sinking all your time into this. It’s a lot of work.”
“Which is why I need your help,” I say. “And hard work doesn’t scare me. It just seems like a lot because we haven’t properly started yet.”
“Is the floor supposed to sink like this?” Nush calls, and Gemma squeezes my arm, her one show of support.
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll shut up. I promise.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to sink like this,” Nush continues.
“Then stop standing on it.” I perch on an overturned crate, dropping my backpack to the floor. “I asked Adam if we could host a raffle and he said yes.”
“A raffle?” Nush makes a face.
“We need money,” I remind her.
