Читать книгу The Big Dreams Beach Hotel - Michele Gorman - Страница 9

It’s not my job to make Rory’s life easier, but it feels like kicking a puppy when I snub him. I mean, look at him, with those thick specs and messed-up hair that’s not adjusting well to the sea air, and his fancy suit that stands out a mile here. Besides, his landlady at the B&B chucks him out every day after breakfast, so he’s always at the hotel asking a million questions.

Usually it’s just me working in front, so it’s nice to have someone else in the office for a change. The hotel doesn’t run a skeleton staff so much as a mummified one.

Rory is going through the employee files. They’re all neatly handwritten by successive generations of the Colonel’s family.

He glances at my folder. ‘There’s no CV in here. No application?’

‘The Colonel didn’t need my CV,’ I say. ‘He knows me.’ Then I realise that might not fit our new owner’s official hiring protocol.

Rory lets it go, though. ‘I feel like I’m in the National Archives,’ he says, thumbing through the file folders. ‘You should really have a section for current staff.’

‘You mean me and Chef and the evening receptionist.’ Who I never spend more than two minutes with as we change over our shift. ‘We don’t really need a section for that, do we?’

‘What’s Chef’s surname?’

‘Erm.’ I might have known it once, but for the life of me I can’t think what it is.

‘How can you not know the man’s name?’ he asks.

‘He’s just Chef,’ I say. ‘Always has been.’

‘It’s Downton Abbey around here.’

‘It’s always worked for us,’ I say, a little huffily.

‘Obviously it hasn’t, or you wouldn’t have been sold.’ He sees my face. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. The company is going to want everything streamlined here, so it’s more in line with their other hotels. Everything has to go online, the ordering and so forth. Not that these notebooks aren’t … quaint.’

He’s talking about the ruled notebooks going back to when the hotel first opened. They should come in handy if we ever need to know what a loaf of bread cost in 1929.

‘What’s “d” mean?’ he asks, drawing his finger down one of the faded pages. ‘“S” is shilling.’

‘No idea. That was before my time.’

‘Was it? How old are you?’ he asks, the smile playing across his face.

‘Way to win friends and influence people. Twenty-eight, you cheeky sod! Not nearly old enough to remember shillings. Why, how old are you?’

‘Thirty-two. Also not old enough, although my parents can speak in old money. They like to talk about when they used to buy their brushes one at a time for five bob.’ He sees my frown. ‘They’re artists. Formerly starving, if you believe them.’

‘Then you can’t trace your transition management pedigree back to a great-great-great-great-uncle Isambard or anything?’

‘Nothing so noble, no.’ He tells me that he’s a lot more like his normal old grandparents than his hippy parents, who met at art school and squatted a broken-down house in Notting Hill. That sounds glamorous to me, but then my dad worked his whole career for Plaxton, the coach-maker, and Mum taught French at Scarborough College. I’ve already told you about our perfectly conventional pebble-dashed house.

Rory’s grandparents found their children embarrassing instead of glamorous, though. They glossed over the squatting and told their friends they’d made a smart property decision back in the seventies, and now most of their neighbours are bankers or Russians who are never at home.

‘Then you’re minted for being in the right place at the right time.’ Just what I’d expect of a jammy southerner.

‘My parents would be,’ he says. ‘On paper anyway, but there was never a lot of money. I had scholarships at school. And uni.’

‘Where’d you go?’

‘Surrey. My grandparents still live outside Guildford, where my mum grew up. What about your family? I’m guessing, from your accent, that you’re local, but what about your mum and dad?’

He probably thinks I’ve never left Scarborough, which is fine with me. To tell him the truth might mean having to go into why I left New York. He can read my full CV when I reapply for my job. In the meantime, I just answer his question, explaining how Mum and Dad traded the sea for the mountains and have me living in the old house as a sort of caretaker. Which I am. Sort of.

I could have gone anywhere when I left New York, but I was in no frame of mind to start over. I only wanted what was familiar.

When I rang Dad to tell him I was catching the next plane home, he didn’t ask many questions. And that must have been hard for a nosey parker like him. Mum probably had a restraining hand on his arm the whole time we were on the phone.

I didn’t let myself think too much about being in my mid-twenties and going to live back home for the first time since I was a teen. When I got to my parents’, I threw myself into bed. Back in my room, which had hardly changed, I slept. I’d once wanted so badly to turn my back on it. Now it became my safe haven.

By the time Mum threatened to throw me into the bath herself if I didn’t get up, I was starting to feel better. Enough cups of tea and parental sympathy are bound to perk a person up. When I came downstairs, still hot from my bath, I noticed the flat-pack boxes leaning against the wall in the kitchen. ‘What are all these for?’

‘Sit down, petal,’ Dad said. ‘Mum and I have news. We’re moving to France. We thought you–’ Mum stops him from finishing his sentence. ‘Anyway …’

‘What? When?’

‘Not till next month,’ Mum said. ‘It’s only a rental for now, in case we don’t get on with living abroad. Nothing is set in stone, mind, but we’ll be out of your hair for six months at least. You can stay in the house as long as you’d like. It’ll be helpful knowing someone’s here looking after it.’

‘And you won’t have us hanging around cramping your style,’ Dad added, though what style he thought they might cramp was a mystery to me.

‘Rosie, we’re sorry,’ Mum said. ‘We wish things had turned out differently in New York.’

‘Believe me, Mum, so do I.’

‘I should set up for the bingo,’ I tell Rory later. The usual crowd will be here at five on the dot.

‘Do you mind if I pop out to the shop for a sandwich?’

‘You can’t still be hungry after that lunch?’ Chef made shepherd’s pie today. Rory must have a very high metabolism if he can pack away two helpings plus a sandwich and still stay so slim.

‘It’s for when I get hungry later.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘I don’t like going to restaurants on my own.’

‘You’re not saying you’ll be eating a packaged sandwich in your sad little room for dinner?’

‘I’m afraid so. I did notice a curry house not far away, though, so I might try a takeaway from there one night. Mix it up. Oh, please don’t worry about me,’ he says, noticing the expression on my face. ‘I’ve lived out of a suitcase for years. I’m always on assignment. It’s part of the job.’

I check my phone. ‘The bingo only goes on till seven. If you can wait till then, I’ll go get a bite to eat with you. If you want. I was going to go to the Tesco anyway after work. You’ll save me having to cook.’

‘A pity dinner? Am I that sad?’ he asks.

‘Yes, you are. I’m only doing this out of some misplaced sense of duty.’

He laughs. ‘And I’m sad enough to take you up on that. Is there anything I can do to help with the bingo?’

‘Actually, there is, since you asked.’

An hour later, shouts are going up all over the dining room. ‘Got one!’ To the amusement of several dozen pensioners, we’re all watching Rory race between the tables.

‘Only another hour and ten minutes, Rory!’ I tell him when he’s finished his round.

The Colonel can’t remember when the hotel’s bingo tradition started, but his sister came up with its unique rewards system. She hated to see anybody lose, so instead of waiting for bingo, the players get a little foil-wrapped chocolate ball each time they get a number. That way everybody wins. Except, maybe, for Rory, who’s got to run through the restaurant awarding balls.

That sounds like a fair trade for a dinner companion, right?

Though if Peter doesn’t slow down his calling, Rory will be too tired to eat. ‘Two little ducks!’ he cries. ‘That’s twenty-two. Twenty-two.’

‘That’s me!’ Miracle shouts. ‘Come give me something sweet, sugar!’

Rory trots to Miracle’s table to give her a chocolate.

‘I’ll take some sugar too,’ Janey says, laughing as she puckers up her perfectly lined lips. ‘Isn’t he delicious?’ The rest of the women at the table agree, as do some of the others who aren’t too near-sighted or deaf. Janey makes a grab for Rory but misses.

I should probably remind Miracle and Janey not to sexually harass our transition manager. Honestly, with the way they’ve been going on, you’d think they’d never seen a man before. Peter has been here for years and nobody ever makes a fuss over him.

Well, it’s not really a fair comparison, since Peter’s never going to turn a woman’s head on looks alone. ‘Knock at my door!’ he calls out. ‘That’s twenty–’

Peter’s head falls forward. Luckily he gets his arms underneath in time to cushion his chin.

Everyone waits patiently for him to finish calling the number.

But I’ve forgotten that Rory is new around here. He rushes to Peter’s side. ‘Help him!’

‘It’s all right, petal,’ Miracle says. ‘He won’t be a minute.’

Sure enough, a few seconds later, Peter’s head pops back up. He swipes his hair back into place and looks at his electronic board. ‘Knock at my door, twenty-four!’

‘Peter, are you all right?’ Rory asks.

‘Right as rain, ta very much. You’ve got a few to do.’ He points to the hands raised for chocolate balls, as if he hasn’t just face-planted into the table top.

I’ll have to explain about Peter over dinner.

I might have been the one who suggested it, but I’m nervous as Rory and I walk together to the Italian later. Not because it’s a date. But it is the first time in three years that I’ve eaten out in a restaurant with anyone who wasn’t one of my parents. What if we sit there with nothing to say to each other, chomping on breadsticks and hoping the linguini doesn’t take too long to cook? I might have completely lost the ability to carry on a conversation like normal human beings do. What seemed like a nice gesture might be excruciating for us both. Welcome to Scarborough, Rory, where you’d rather eat Boots sandwiches in your room.

‘This is nice,’ Rory says of the restaurant. It’s over-the-top Italo-cheesy, but I love its cosiness. ‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘A bit.’ I don’t tell him that I don’t like sitting by myself in restaurants either. They do me a nice Alfredo takeaway, though, when I don’t feel like cooking.

The waiter hands me the paper menu. Busted. ‘Ah no, ta, could we have a table, please?’

He makes comedy shock eyebrows at me. ‘Si, Signorina, this way, please. Welcome, Signore, we have a very romantic table.’

‘Sorry about that. They’re not used to seeing me with a bloke. They make assumptions. Not that there’s anything to assume.’

Rory studies my face, but doesn’t say anything.

‘I’ll shut up now.’ You see? I’d be better off just eating all the breadsticks and keeping quiet.

‘Everyone seemed to love the bingo,’ he says. ‘Is it the same people every time?’

‘Pretty much, yeah, except when someone’s ill.’ Or dies, I don’t say out loud. It tends to be an older crowd. We haven’t lost one in months, and I don’t want to tempt fate. ‘We’re not flash like the other places you’ve probably worked, but we do know our clientele. We’re part of the community. I think that’s important. It’s too risky to depend on outsiders for your whole business, don’t you think? Unless you’re someone like the Four Seasons or Mandarin Oriental.’

‘They don’t run bingo nights for OAPs,’ Rory says. Then he shakes his head. ‘It’s probably not standard hotel behaviour, you know.’

‘You’re going to have a lot of work to do with us, I’m afraid. Bingo is just the tip of the iceberg.’

‘And Caribbean Night,’ he adds.

‘And Caribbean Night, and the Colonel’s casino, and Lill’s karaoke, the car-boot sale we do with the local church.’ I’m ticking off on my fingers. ‘The monthly book club. The pot-luck supper. Paula’s Pooches grooming.’

‘You are joking about the pooches, I hope.’

‘I’m totally serious. It’s one of our most popular events.’

It’s understandable that he wants to know how we earn money from all these, but he won’t like my answer. The hotel was probably profitable a hundred years ago when the Colonel’s family opened it, but I’m pretty sure it hasn’t turned a profit in my lifetime.

Scarborough’s only got a few big hotels like us. The town can’t support any more. Rory is probably going to tell us it can’t support the ones it has got.

The waiter is sauntering to the table with one of those Chianti bottles encrusted in wax. ‘That’s okay,’ I tell him. ‘He’s my transition manager. There’s no need for that.’

But he’s lighting the candle and smiling. ‘Love doesn’t need,’ the waiter says, flicking his lighter. ‘Love wants.’

Rory shrugs at me. Now he looks gorgeous, all glowy in the light. ‘Transition manager sounds like politically correct speak for a one-night stand you’d use to get over a bad breakup.’ Then he sees my face. ‘I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I’m not suggesting a one-night stand.’

‘That’s okay.’ He’s got no way of knowing how close to the bone his remark was. ‘I mean, not okay, obviously, given that we’re working together, but I know what you meant.’

‘Right. We’re colleagues.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘If you don’t mind me asking …’

I brace myself.

‘What happened with Peter?’

Relieved to be back on safe ground, talking about something other than one-night stands with my hot colleague, I tell him what I know about our resident.

I have to start with the most obvious thing, given what’s prompted Rory’s question. Peter is narcoleptic. He’s not got it as bad as some poor souls who drop off left, right and centre. Still, he has to sleep a lot, and sometimes he gets sleep attacks. When that happens, his body switches off like a light.

Naturally, that makes it hard for him to hold down a regular job. It makes it hard to do most things. Aside from needing so much sleep, having a sleep attack while crossing the road or doing the washing up or going down stairs could be dangerous. Even if he doesn’t knock his head or crack a rib falling, it’s not ideal if he nods off while he’s in town. He could be mugged or worse.

Which makes Barry his bodyguard as much as the second man in his act, I tell Rory. You should see the dog spring into action whenever Peter gets a sleep attack. Well, as much as a basset hound can spring into anything. Normally a jovial hound, he won’t let any strangers near Peter while he’s asleep. He seems to know friend from foe, though, so if we need to put a coat or something under Peter’s head, Barry is fine with that.

Rory stops my story. ‘Barry is a dog?’

‘Yes, a basset hound. What did you think he was?’

‘Well, Peter and Barry. I assumed they were a couple.’ His eyes seek mine in the candlelight. ‘Rosie, this is a problem. The owners are already going to be cross about the sitting tenants, and now you’re telling me we’ve got dogs living there too?’

‘Only one. I don’t see what the big deal is. Anyway, Peter was quite famous for his act and he was making a nice living by the time he started getting symptoms. At first he assumed he was sleepy all the time because he was working too hard or needed iron or something. But even when he had quiet periods he was napping a lot. It took years before the doctors diagnosed him, because apparently the condition isn’t understood very well.’

‘I’ve never heard of anyone with it,’ Rory says. ‘It sounds awful.’

‘It is awful. I’ve known Peter for three years now, though, and I’ve never seen it stop him. He works as much as he can, but his income’s not steady. The council had to step in to help with housing or he’d have ended up homeless. That’s how he came to the hotel. Sometimes he gets pretty down about it all.’

Rory asks a few questions but mostly he just listens to me ramble on, till our pasta plates have been cleared and we shrug into our coats against the brisk sea air that always seems to blow through Scarborough.

‘Thanks for taking pity on me,’ Rory says as he holds the restaurant door open. ‘I really enjoyed myself.’

‘Me too. Sorry if I talked your ear off. I don’t get out much.’

He laughs. ‘It’s okay. I liked it. See you tomorrow, Rosie.’

I can’t help smiling as I make my way home. It’s nice to know that I’m not so out of practice with real life that I can’t carry on a regular conversation away from the hotel. I’ve been grateful to be cocooned back in my home town, but maybe I should be having more of a life here. My school friends have moved away – we were all desperate to leave – and despite our age difference, Miracle, Peter and Lill have become good friends, but after tonight I get the feeling that that might not be enough. I really enjoyed talking to Chuck.

I mean Rory. Not Chuck. I enjoyed talking to Rory tonight.