Page 88 of The Matchmaker
He eases back to sit beside me, his thigh pressed against mine as he laces our fingers together. “Anywhere you want to go. If you want me to, I’ll follow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I throw myself into work the next week. I spend my days working on the festival, and my nights at the pub. We start a waitlist for tickets, and then a waitlist for the waitlist, and everyone from climate change activists to local politicians all get in touch asking if they can help. It becomes Gemma’s entire job just responding to them.
It’s not all smooth sailing though. The website keeps crashing the first few days, and Adam eventually ropes a friend into setting us up somewhere that can handle the traffic. I meet John Joe’s cousin about the fireworks, only to find out he’s eighteen and that it’s “really more of a hobby” for him than anything else. But John Joe looks so proud of him, and I am a pushover so agree to take him on. Then of course, there’s figuring out the logistics of how to host five hundred plus people in a pub with capacity for just over half that amount.
But even with all the chaos, we never forget the real reason we’re doing it. Glenmill go quiet, and all the positive articles about their work that used to pop up vanish. Nush puts aSave Ennisbawnpetition online that quickly gains thousands of signatures, and the news stories keep coming. But no one gets in touch. No sharp suited lawyer comes striding through the door, no grand gesture is made. Even as public opinion turns our way, they don’t respond. And, though I don’t tell anyone, I get more and more nervous every day that they never will.
So it’s with some relief when the Saturday before the festival, I cycle over to Gemma’s house with two cakes (one extra-large) packed carefully away in my basket, with no other plans than to spend the afternoon celebrating Noah’s twelfth birthday.
Or at least that’s my intention when I ring her doorbell a little before one p.m. and greet the man of the hour.
“Happy birthday!”
Noah looks up at me, his smile fading into abject horror. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes,” I answer, confused, as I glance down at the simple sweater and dungarees combo I put on this morning. Wait. “It’s not a dress-up party, is it?”
“No,” he says hotly. “I’m notsix.”
“Then what’s wrong with—”
“Why are you wearingthat?” he interrupts, pointing to the top of my head.
Ah. I reach up to adjust the bright blue cone fitted tightly over my hair.
“It’s a birthday hat. Are birthday hats uncool?”
He gives me a look as if to sayyesand I wince.
“You have to take it off before my friends get here,” he warns.
“Understood.” I lift up my boxes in apology. “One extra-large cake. One normally large cake.”
This time he smiles, a little embarrassed as he lets me inside. “Thanks, Katie.”
Gemma steps into the hallway just as Noah makes a beeline for the living room, the niceties done.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“Technically it’s payment,” I say, as she takes the top box. “Anyway, I don’t mind spoiling him. He’s twelve now. That’s a big age. One more year before he’s a teenager.”
I swear her face pales. “Can we just get through today please?” she asks. “I’m not ready to be a mother of a teenager. No matter how big my eye bags are.”
“You don’t have eye bags,” I lie, and she huffs, leading me into the kitchen.
“It looks like Willy Wonka threw up in here,” I say, taking in the mess of snacks and sugary drinks scattered everywhere.
Gemma shrugs, stacking a bunch of plates together and dumping them in the sink.
“You really didn’t have to come,” she says. “Not that he doesn’t want you here. But I know you’re busy.”
“Of course I had to come. I’ve never missed his birthday.”
“But the festival—”
“I think I can take a few hours off.”
