It was looking bleak. He’d sent ‘begging letters’ to every company he could think of, asking for donations. One company director had personally handed him a cheque for five thousand; however, aside from his generosity, the letters hadn’t yielded the kinds of results he’d hoped for. The centre now needed a hundred and thirty-five thousand to stay open. He sighed as he walked back inside.
Nick picked up a plate and rinsed it in the bubbly water before wiping the surface with a sponge. It had been a busy lunch, as usual. He knew that his clients would find somewhere else to eat locally – there were enough soup kitchens about – but he felt personally responsible for the centre’s imminent closure. He sighed again, thinking that even if he put in the last twenty thousand of his inheritance into
