‘Don’t mind him, Ms Anderson,’ Laura whispers as I walk back to the desk. ‘He’s really a great guy. Only he’s been going through a rough patch.’
And here comes the gossip, finally. My ears prick up at the smell of a bit of dirt. I wonder if it has anything to do with the assistant manager leaving. It can’t be easy working in these conditions for sure. ‘Oh? How so?’
She leans in. ‘The assistant manager was his wife.’
‘His wife?’ Bingo.
‘Yeah, she upped and left him. He’s been fighting to save the inn, and hasn’t been the same since. It’s not his fault, though.’
If not for her professional discretion, you have to love Laura for her loyalty to her boss. And now I’m intrigued. If he hasn’t hired someone else, is it because he’s hoping she’ll come back? He certainly doesn’t look happy here. If he doesn’t like staying in this job, as is so obvious, why doesn’t he just quit? Says me, captive extraordinaire of my own finances.
‘Why did she leave him?’ I ask, although I know it’s none of my business. I’m no expert in matters of the heart. On the contrary. Besides, if his personality is anything to go by, I don’t wonder at it. But I do need to know for the sake of the business and my report. God, I’m starting to sound like Susan.
Laura shrugs. ‘The nicest people are always unappreciated, you know? He’d do all sorts of lovely things for her and she’d just let him and not even say thank you. You could tell he loved her way more than she loved him.’
Just like Mark and myself. I was always the attentive one, never missing a chance to show him my love, while he just sat there, reading his paper, letting me shower him with my attention. Which had made me realise that if your partner loves you less than you love him, it’s not really love at all.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, without wanting to, I still let my mind wander to thoughts of Mark. I wonder about the oddest, most random things: if he still drinks straight from the milk carton, or reads the paper standing by the sink while waiting for his toast to pop up. I wonder if the plants I’d strewn around his flat have managed to live at least a little longer than our relationship. And then I remember how he dumped me, and then I become strong all over again. A bit like in Adele’s songs.
Sure, once in a blue moon he will send a text to ask how Danny is, but they are so few and far between, it’s like his son is just an acquaintance he checks on occasionally. I provide for us financially and make all the decisions. I’m his only parent. Danny barely knows his father.
And now he’s actually written me a letter. To say what, exactly? There is nothing on the face of this earth that he can say or do to make me forgive him. So it’s staying exactly where it is – in the glove compartment, unopened.
How it must hurt Danny to think he’s not important to his own dad. I try to talk to him and to reassure him, but he can be like a clam when he wants, my little boy.
Laura sighs. ‘She didn’t deserve him at all, while all he did was make allowances for her.’
Of course, I don’t know about their relationship, but on a professional level, I feel sorry for him. Without his assistant manager, or even an experienced receptionist, to face the juggernaut of Christmas, he has about the same chances of surviving the season as a snowman in hell. He needs someone who actually has hotel skills.
And that is when an almighty plan flashes before my eyes. So I leave Danny with Laura for a second to rack up my courage and knock on the open door of Mitchell’s office.
‘I’m busy,’ he booms.
It’s hard to imagine him ever having been nice, so I’ll have to take Laura’s word for it. I poke my head in. ‘Mr, uhm, Fitzpatrick?’
He’s leaning forward with both hands on his desk, still examining the same pile of invoices, his dark, curly head hanging so low between his shoulders I can see the label on the inside of his shirt collar. He looks up and straightens his back, rubbing his face with both hands. ‘What, you again? What is it you want?’ he prompts.
I bristle, but this time make allowances for his rudeness. ‘Yes, me again. Just so you know, unsatisfied customers don’t return.’
He scratches his beard, frowning at me, his dark eyes flashing. ‘You did.’
It’s no wonder the reviews are crap, with this attitude. Oh, please, please, I silently beg him. Stop digging your own grave. And then I realise that if I want him to understand, I have to speak his own language, so I step over the threshold and walk all the way into his office, placing my hands on the desk opposite him, my eyes never leaving his. ‘Ah, but there’s a difference, Mr Fitzpatrick. I never left.’
‘Yeah, I can see that. And?’
Calm down, Rosie, I urge myself. Right now, you need each other like air, only you don’t want him to know that.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear that… you have a problem.’
Mitchell Fitzpatrick starts going through his invoices again, without so much as glancing at me. ‘You eavesdrop as well, so?’ he asks in his Irish lilt.
I shake my head. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. I—’
His eyes swing to mine. They are a dark brown, with long, long lashes. Intense. Sexy, even as he smirks. But the smirking is almost like admitting his predicament.
‘You are in trouble,’ I say. ‘You have two hen parties running riot, and your poor friend at Reception is doing her best, but she’s inexperienced. It’s a recipe for disaster.’
He scowls at me, his nostrils literally flaring, and then looks away, sifting even more energetically through that bloody pile, like a dog trying to dig up a lost bone.
‘You, of all people, should say that?’ he added.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Shit. How can he possibly know who I am? It was a secret mission and I only just got here.
‘You’re part of one of them, are you not? The hen parties,’ he prompts when I simply blink at him.
‘What? Oh! No, of course not. I would never bring my son to a hen party,’ I answer, annoyed. This is so rich – I’m here to help him – against all orders – and taking nothing for granted and assuming nothing, and he immediately slates me as a bad mother. How quickly people are ready to judge.
His face falls. ‘Oh. I assumed you were.’
‘So that’s why you were cross with me out front?’
He runs his fingernails across his beard in what I can only assume and hope is embarrassment. ‘Uhm, yes. Sorry. It’s been a long day.’
Tell me about it. My own wasn’t too clever either with my worries being interspersed by ‘Ride of the Valkyries’.
‘Sorry, we’re in a bit of a mess here lately. We just double-booked you, so?’ he repeats and I make an effort not to roll my eyes. ‘I can’t see how I can help you, though. You heard Laura – there’s literally nothing available anywhere.’
I am definitely in trouble now, or rather, he is, but I can’t tell him who I am. However, I can still help, if he’ll only let me. No one needs to know. And yet, I can’t believe I’m about to do this. It goes against all my professional knowledge, but my instinct is telling me it’s the right thing to do. Well, maybe not the right thing, but the kind thing. It is Christmas, after all. So here I go.
‘Look, I’m an assistant mana—’ I bite my tongue. Be less threatening. ‘I mean a receptionist at… a hotel in London.’
The utter disbelief in his eyes is so offensive it’s almost comical. ‘You?’
I huff, trying to ignore the hostility pouring out of him. ‘I can get you out of this mess. In exchange for a room.’
I can see from the tiny wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes that he’s struggling not to laugh. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I have years of experience. I could train Laura for you and man the front office while you do your stuff in the back office.’ Yikes. Why did I just say that? Working here will rob me of the already very little time I’ll have with Danny. How am I going to manage now?
He gives me the once-over and I stand up straighter. I know what he’s thinking. That as I’m already neglectful, it’s not a problem for me to abandon my baby. Well, he’s wrong. I’m a damn good mother. Strong. Competent. I know I don’t look like much in my faded jeans, my oldest jumper and my five-hours-on-the-M3 hair, but if anyone can save this bloke’s ass, it’s me, and he’ll have to either take it or leave it. But I have to play my cards right. Because if I don’t, we’re all dead.
He puts down his papers, his face a combined mask of disbelief and annoyance as they roam over me. ‘How did you even get here?’ he groans.
‘In my Kia.’
‘No, I mean… how do I know you are a professional receptionist?’
I feel my body freezing. What an idiot I am. If he decides to check out my story and finds out we work for the same company, I’m screwed.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you don’t expect me to hire you on two feet, do you?’
I’m trapped. Either he believes me at face value, or two seconds on the Internet are going to blow my cover, the entire operation and my job. Susan would have a field day. Quick, quick, think of something!
‘I don’t want to be hired. I was just offering you my help, for free, while I was here, even though you have ruined my son’s Christmas – and birthday. Anyway, whatever,’ I say, and make to go, but turn back and, with my index finger, single out a sheet from under his pile. ‘Here’s the Master Clean Company invoice you were looking for.’
As his eyes scan it, his eyebrows shoot up. ‘How… did you do that?’
I shrug. ‘It’s not rocket science. We use the same company. They’ve recently changed their logo, and lots of people don’t know about it yet.’ And with that, I turn and head for the door. If that doesn’t do it, we’re both on the dole.