“Keep an open mind as I go through these. I used to be the vice president of marketing and events coordination for a large corporation and know my way around an event or two. Here’s what I have so far. An amateur dog show, an old-fashioned fairground with a carousel, mini helter-skelter and other fun rides for children—already sourced. We would, of course, have a food court and the obligatory beer and wine tent, but maybe invite promising young bands or musicians to play. And in the evening, we’ll organise an adult social here in the village hall. I’ve already found a celebrity to open the event. But before that, we need a gimmick to grab people’s imagination leading up to the event, something more than the usual adverts or flyers, to build some excitement leading up to the day. Nathan, you play for the local football team, don’t you?”
“He’s the team captain,” said Polly.
“How would you feel about being photographed for a team calendar—”
“Oh, my. How innovative,” said Polly, pretending to stifle a yawn. “They have snapshots stuck up on the corkboard in the clubhouse that nobody looks at. You could use those.”
“Let me finish, Polly. I’m talking about a naked calendar. The kind of thing those rowers or the French rugby team produce each year. We could even follow up with a fun date auction for any single players and have them on stage before the social begins. All for charity, naturally.”
Stunned silence descended on the church hall as though someone had openly blasphemed. Arlene took a beat but appeared to interpret the lack of response as approval.
“Excellent. A friend of mine is a most brilliant professional photographer—”
“Wait, wait. Hang on,” said Nathan, catching his breath and holding up both palms. “Naked pictures of the football team? Are you serious? None of the players are going to agree to that.”
“Tastefully photographed, Nathan,” said Arlene. “Your private areas would not be on display. We’d have footballs held in front or have you stood behind goalposts. My friend will have plenty of artistic suggestions.”
“Ooh, I think it’s a lovely idea.” Wide awake now, Doris held her veined hands beneath her chin as though in prayer.
“Arlene, apart from me, have you actually met any of the Crumbington team?” asked Nathan, still in shock. "We are hardlyChippendalematerial."
“Oh, please, Nathan. Women—and I am not just speaking for myself here—prefer real men. Not those buff bodybuilders pumped up on protein shakes and steroids who can barely walk in a straight line. Am I right, Doris? And your team players are already considered local celebrities. Besides, my friend can touch up the images on her computer before they go to print. How many are there in the squad?”
“Around eighteen, if you include the part-timers who can’t make every match. Only around ten are in what you might call good shape. And I’ll tell you now. None are going to agree.”
“I like the idea,” joked Polly. “If it means we get to see the captain with his kit off.”
“Not helping,” Nathan muttered back.
“All in favour of the idea,” called Arlene. Everyone’s hand rose except for Nathan’s.
“Mikey’s on the team, and he would never agree,” he said.
“Even so, that would still be four votes to two,” said Arlene, tapping notes into her tablet. “Let’s at least give it our best shot. I’m making this your personal mission, Nathan. Twelve of the better-looking players, one for every month of the year. And we need the shoot done next month at the latest if we’re going to get this edited, printed and ready to sell by the end of April. I suggest you start thinking of ways to talk them round. If you need backup, give me a call.”
“We’ve got a game on Sunday. I suppose I could ask them. But I’m not promising anything.”
“Good. My photographer friend is coming over this weekend. I’ve reserved the private bar in The Crumbington Arms at Sunday lunchtime for the committee members and special guests. I’ll arrange finger food and soft drinks. Let’s hope you have good news by then. As I say, I’ve already reserved the fairground rides. Doris, please update the website and social media pages and announce the event date.”
“Consider it done. I’ve made some modifications from last year to make the website work better on mobiles and tablets. We have accounts on most of the newer microblogging services, and I’ve also got the online donation page ready to go.”
“Well done. One last thing. As I mentioned, I’ve already secured a very special guest to open the fête. One of our more famous ex-residents of Crumbington, the actor Clifton O’Keefe.”
The front legs of Nathan’s plastic chair clunked loudly back to earth.
“Clifton O’Keefe?” he echoed, his voice a whisper.
Had a cold wind just swept through the church hall? From the corner of his eye, he noticed Polly turn to stare horrified at him. Everyone else appeared oblivious.
“Who’s Christian O’Keefe?” asked Father Mulligan.
“Clifton, Father Mulligan,” said Arlene, clearly pleased with herself. “A rising star in the American television and film industry. He’s shooting episodes for a new British television series, which will keep him here until the end of the year. My husband is on the production team and called in a favour. If that doesn’t draw a crowd, nothing will. He’s confirmed, by the way, Doris. I’ll send over the authorised publicity information tonight once I’ve spoken with my husband.”
In high school, Nathan had fallen heavily for Clifford Hogmore, now reinvented as the actor Clifton O’Keefe. Both had played for the football team, and Nathan had tried his damnedest to hide his feelings, to be a friend and nothing more.
Until the day Cliff admitted to having feelings for Nathan. After that, well, all bets had been off, and nobody and nothing could keep them apart. But they’d kept everything in the proverbial locker room, inseparable until the night Cliff and his family disappeared off the face of the planet, only to resurface six years later in Los Angeles with Cliff as Hollywood’s latest heartthrob.
Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, a phrase going round in his head.
