When I open my eyes the next morning, Danny is already up and dressed, munching on some cereal, sitting at the breakfast counter, his little legs dangling from the high stool. ‘Morning, Mum!’
‘Morning, darling,’ I manage and roll over for another five minutes of blissful oblivion, thinking how strange it is that I can see him eating breakfast from my bedroom. And then I remember where I am.
I shoot out of bed, raking my hands through my hair.
‘Oh, God, oh God,’ I moan, pulling my beauty case out of my trolley, digging for something to wear. ‘What time is it?’ I cry, trying to remember which door is the bathroom. ‘Have I got time for a shower?’
Danny turns on his stool and grins. ‘It’s the last door at the end of the corridor, Mum. And relax, it’s only eight thirty.’
I stop in horror. Is it that late? This isn’t going to look good, to be late on my first day!
‘Okay, uhm, sweetheart, you’re going to have to come downstairs with me. Bring your toys or something to do and—’ I stop, halfway to the loo, as realisation hits me.
This is not what I’d planned. We’d made a list of all sorts of activities he liked and that we’d never had a chance to do together: fishing, horse-riding, trail-walking, seal-watching. Granted, I’d never be able to cram it all into the space of a few weeks, but I at least wanted to give it a try. Perhaps after breakfast I can steal an hour or so to take Danny down to the stables to meet Jeremy and see a real, live horse. And then maybe I could take him down into the village for a Christmas treat of some kind? One thing is certain. I owe him big time.
I call to Danny as I make a dash for the loo. ‘Give Mummy a shout in five minutes?’
‘Okay, Mum.’
As it turns out, there’s no time to shower. I sniff under my arms; not too bad, all things considered. As I brush my teeth with one hand, I try to pull off my nightie with the other, getting my hair caught in one of the buttons, so it hangs from my head like a huge turban as I’m already dragging on a pair of jeans and panicking at the sudden realisation that I don’t have any work clothes with me. Still, a pair of jeans and a jumper is better than Laura’s tracksuit – just about.
I check my hair out. It looks too limp, let down like this, and would benefit from a wash. But I’d planned to do that this morning, after waking up at my leisure and after I’d had a lovely, lengthy breakfast at a table by a window overlooking the sea. But thanks to my soft spot, my bright ideas, and Mr Manners downstairs waiting for me, I don’t even have time for a bloody cup of coffee.
‘Five minutes are up, Mum!’ Danny calls, a little too enthusiastically, from behind the door.
‘Oh, already?’ I squeak at my frazzled face in the mirror. Shit, shit, shit.
I throw the bathroom door open, kick my feet into my ankle boots and reach for my favourite cornflower blue jumper, the one with the high neck.
‘Got everything, love?’
Danny nods.
‘Good boy,’ I pant and kiss the top of his head as I grab a Kit Kat from one of the cupboards, making a mental note to buy a replacement. Taking a man’s bed may be one thing, but his chocolate? Unforgivable.
Passing a mirror, I almost scare the crap out of myself. My face is haggard, smears of make-up are still clinging to my lower lashes so that I look like a junkie. I lick my index fingers and rub them under my eyes and, in practically the same breath, wind my hair into a haphazard bun and secure it with a pencil. I know – real class. But needs must.
Just before we reach the lobby, I pop the last stick of Kit Kat into my mouth. Only I shove it too far down my throat, and end up in Reception gagging, only to spit it out into a bin right in front of Laura and Mitchell, who are studying the computer screen.
Both look up in surprise as I wheeze, trying to come back from what I’d thought was certain Death by Kit Kat, and Mitchell’s eyebrow shoots up as usual whenever he sees me. ‘You all right?’ he says, giving me a very cursory once-over.
I slap my hand to my mouth and nod for fear of gagging there and then, but his eyes won’t leave my face, nor are his eyebrows going down.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ I assure him as my air passages are restored to normality. That had definitely been a close call. I always knew that one day chocolate would kill me.
He studies me until I begin to feel twitchy under his gaze. ‘All right. I’ve got to run some errands in town, but Laura here will show you our system and get you up to speed.’
‘O-kay…’ I turn to Danny with a stab of regret to my heart. ‘Darling, would you like to—’
‘He can come with me,’ Mitchell offers. ‘Would you like that, Danny?’
He remembers Danny’s name?
My little boy’s face lights up. ‘Can I, Mum? Please?’
Can he go with a total stranger, who is under unofficial investigation, to boot? Not that he is a murderer or a child kidnapper suspect, but still, apart from my family, I’m not used to sending him off like a parcel. Besides, if Mitchell is really the culprit Head Office thinks, is he really the kind of person I want my only son hanging out with?
My eyes swing to Mitchell’s. They’re waiting for an answer and I’ve still got a tiny, gob of Kit Kat stuck to the roof of my mouth. I swallow it down. How to get out of this? ‘I… Will he not get in your way?’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Mitchell says. ‘Won’t we, Danny?’
‘Absolutely! I’ll be good, Mum! Promise! Thank you, Mitchell!’
‘What is it now?’ Mitchell asks at the look on my face. ‘What’s wrong?’
Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, per se. It’s just that… in eight years, no bloke has ever offered to take care of Danny for a whole morning. But, unlike any other male who had transited through my life (not that I’d had a boyfriend since Mark), Mitchell is actually coming back. Granted that’s because he lives here, if not for anything else. But still, it’s a certainty I’ve never had before. And he’ll drive carefully, because, well, I can tell, he looks like he can take care of a kid, no sweat. And do many of the other things in life that require responsibility. He doesn’t look like a ‘leaver’ like Mark. After all, he’s been left by someone else. He’s suffered abandonment, and he knows all about heartache. That much we have in common.
For years I have been too guarded, seeing bad things were there was nothing, and I am trying to ease up a little because I don’t want to transfer any of my anxieties to Danny. I want him to grow up a normal, confident boy. But my own anxieties about his safety are difficult to dispel. I need to make an effort. For him.
And as far as Mitchell Fitzpatrick being an embezzler, I may be wrong, but he doesn’t strike me as one. I get instincts now, post-Mark. And they tell me that Mitchell may have a few rough edges, but he doesn’t strike me as dodgy. Otherwise I wouldn’t even be thinking about doing this.
I flash a look at Mitchell, who is eyeing me expectantly, and then settle my gaze on the carpet. ‘Nothing’s wrong. He can go. Uhm…’ I cough. ‘Thank you.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Danny hollers, stabbing the air with his toy helicopter.
Mitchell grins at him, taking him by the shoulder, turning to go, but then stops again. ‘I promise I’ll hold his hand when we cross the road and all that. Right, mate?’
If he isn’t too thrilled about that, Danny doesn’t show it. He nods, chomping at the bit, dying to go and explore the world with a male adult, for a change. My heart goes out to my little man. I open my mouth to tell them to be careful, but clamp it shut again.
‘And when we get back, I’ll take you both to meet Jeremy, our stable boy. He can spend as much time as he wants with him and the horses. Jeremy loves company.’
‘Oh, wow!’ Danny cries. ‘Do I get to ride a horse? A real one?’
If I could slide ’n’ hide under the floorboards, this would be the moment I’d choose to do so.
Mitchell looks at me with a ‘You’ve never let your son ride a horse?’ expression, but I stuff my hands in my pockets and stare at the carpet again.
‘Right. Thanks. See you later, then,’ I say, watching as Mr Irish Charm takes my entire world with him out the main entrance. I can only hope that he will be entertained and not feel abandoned. I promise to work as quickly as possible to spend all my free time with him.
‘I’m so happy you’re here to help,’ Laura exclaims, taking my arm as if we’d been friends our entire lives, and studying her friendly face and open gestures, I can see that she is imbued with kindness – not something that I’m used to in a big city.
‘I only hope I’ll be useful to you,’ I confess. As opposed to detrimental, which is going to be more likely, and I can’t help feeling like a heel. I like Laura.
‘Oh, you will, Rosie!’ she assures me. ‘And you’ll love it here in Little Kettering. We’re actually interwoven with two other villages as we’re so close. You can actually walk down the coast to Penworth Ford and Wyllow Cove. We’re like the Bermuda triangle, only instead of disappearing, people pop up from nowhere, especially celebrities!’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Well, we’ve got the famous novelist and scriptwriter Nina Conte in Penworth Ford. She now co-produces with that Hollywood actor Luke O’Hara – oh, isn’t he a dish?! And then we’ve got Natalia Amore who writes for Lady Magazine over in Wyllow Cove. Her column’s called That’s Amore! and it’s hilarious! And then there’s her sister, Yolanda Amore, the celebrity chef. The Amore sisters were born here, but Nina Conte is a Londoner, just like you.’
‘It sounds like a fairy-tale place to live in.’
‘It is. But maybe you’ll move down here, too,’ Laura says.
I only wish. But I’m no Nina Conte, nor Natalia or Yolanda Amore. Those women have superpowers and are wickedly talented, while I’m just forced to be simply wicked on this horrible little mission I’ve been pushed into.
As Laura is showing me the ropes, I try to relax in the knowledge that all I really have to learn is where the various paper files and documents are stored. I can’t tell her she should be storing documents and folders as per Head Office directives (so that any Johnson Hotels employee can work seamlessly in other branches) because officially I shouldn’t know any of that.
The morning passes rather smoothly. Laura and I go over the list of our guests to see if anyone has any particular requests and/or needs, namely which of the hens might require a remedy for their hangover. The two hen parties have wiped out the twenty-two rooms, but I know for a fact that the first party is due to leave. Maybe I can get my hands on a room now. Apart from the occasional girly shriek down the corridor, all is going well and we seem to have everything under control.
And then, just as the red devil hen party is leaving, a coach containing a stag party pulls up, out of the blue, wanting rooms.
At first, they seem okay. Nothing too OTT. You know, the usual effing and blinding, the pulling off of T-shirts upon arriving at Reception and the spraying deodorant into their armpits. High-class manners and all that. But once we’ve checked them in and they are on their way to their rooms, the last one in sight turns and spits into one of the potted plants. I glance over at Laura, who bites her lip.
‘Is it always like this?’ I whisper.
‘Only when Mitchell isn’t around. Most blokes are scared of him.’
‘But does he go out every morning?’ I want to know, already beginning to see where the issues are. There needs to be someone authoritative but friendly on the premises, and Laura, who has been left in charge, wouldn’t scare an ant.
She holds up her hand, counting on her fingers. ‘He has to get supplies, take stuff to his accountant, keep an eye on stationery – it’s never-ending and the poor guy tries to be everywhere, but…’
‘What about the assistant manager?’ I ask, remembering Mitchell’s wife. ‘What did she do?’
Laura lowers her eyes, then looks up at me, a doleful expression on her young face. ‘Diane wasn’t exactly… hands on.’
I sigh inwardly. ‘Meaning?’
‘Well, she… normally received the bookings…’
Without vetting them, I conclude in silence. ‘And then what?’
‘She basically… hung around in the back office.’
‘Did she communicate with Mitchell?’
Laura frowns. ‘What do you mean? They were married.’
‘I mean, did front and back office communicate on a daily basis? You know, liaise and such?’
Laura slowly shakes her head, and it doesn’t take rocket science to understand all of the problems here. Firstly, there’s no one really manning the place. Mitchell had put his wife in charge, while refusing to delegate the million errands that he ran. Mitchell’s delegating issues mean that he has trust issues. And as a Johnson employee, his wife was required to give notice, not just up and go.
Other than that, where to start? The Old Bell Inn is stunning, but its present guests are the real problem. Laura should’ve seen beyond the red devil hen party’s booking form, reading F.U.K.C, i.e. Female United Kingdom Choir, which sounds so much more respectable than Wild Hen Junket. A trick as old as dirt, but the inexperienced always fall for it.
There’s nothing wrong with stag and hen parties, of course; they’re a healthy part of a hotel’s income. But this is the wrong time of the year, as the place should be full of families celebrating Christmas, not yobbos of both the male and female gender having How far can you flick your knickers contests. I’ll have to talk to Mitchell.
I have no idea what his reaction will be. The idea is that I’m here to help relieve the pressure, but when I start giving him all sorts of pointers, won’t he get a little suspicious? After all, I told him I was only a receptionist. I just hope he’ll be reasonable and not take it the wrong way, because I don’t know him, apart from the fact that he’s irascible, irritable, quick-tempered, quick to judge and hard as stone and steel combined.
Unless he, like I sometimes still do, puts on a brave face during the day and then cries himself to sleep every night? However, I very much doubt that, judging by that sardonic grin he seems to have permanently pasted on his face. Some men have no chinks in their armour.
‘Hey, love of my life,’ comes a drawl from over the counter.
I look up at a blondish young man in his late twenties who looks like a member of one of those boy bands, wheeling in a huge baker’s rack covered with a sheet of muslin.
‘Oh, you again, Alex,’ Laura says flatly and busies herself with her keyboard, but the blush seeping into her cheeks does not escape my notice.
‘Who’s the blonde dreamboat?’ he continues as Laura theatrically rolls her eyes.
‘Alex, meet Rosie. Rosie, meet Alex, the baker and village fool.’
To which he waggles his eyebrows and whispers confidentially, ‘Only for you, Laura.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Where’s Mitchell?’ he wants to know. ‘I need his signature.’
‘Out,’ she answers. ‘You’re going to have to wait or come back.’
Another time-consuming issue. This boat is springing more and more leaks by the second. ‘Can’t we sign for it?’ I ask.
Laura’s eyes widen. ‘I don’t know. It was always Diane who signed for everything.’
‘Well, we need to have at least one person per shift available to take similar responsibilities,’ I say in textbook Johnson Hotels lingo.
Laura nods. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Know what else makes sense?’ Alex asks her.
‘No, Alex, what’s that?’ Laura drawls, now blatantly concentrating on reading an old, dog-eared office furniture catalogue.
He smiles. ‘You and me, going for a coffee.’
‘As if.’ Laura rolls her eyes, but at the same time slides me a quick glance.
I wave her off. ‘Go, go. I’m pretty much set up here, and if the royal family arrives, I’ll just wing it.’
Laura puts on a show of being completely bored with him. ‘Five minutes,’ she sighs, following him to the dining room.
Finally. Now I can stick my nose everywhere without arousing suspicion and catch up on my little investigation.
Just as I’m getting stuck in, Susan calls. ‘Good morning, Susan,’ I say in my most pleasant voice.
‘You call this a preliminary report?’ she barks.
My heart lurches. ‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’
‘It wasn’t even passable. All you did was describe the hotel and staff.’
What does she want, a psychiatric evaluation? ‘It’s only a preliminary report,’ I defend. ‘I’m in the office investigating, but so far there doesn’t seem to be anything untoward.’
She smirks. ‘We’re not paying you to take your time, Rosie. Get on with it and send me a revision. And find me some facts.’
And she’s gone again.
Facts. It’s going to take time, because on the surface, the place is great: beautiful and clean. The food is delicious and the staff is, if inexperienced, friendly. The facilities may be a bit limited, but it is only a small inn meant for quiet getaways.
I need to understand why it has all these bad reviews, so I sit down at my laptop to reread the ones on TripAdvisor, which are pretty much all four or five star, minus the usual super-picky people, i.e. Professional Moaners. There are mentions of the picturesque setting, the breath-taking sea views, the olde-worlde feeling, the quality of the building and furnishings, the cleanliness, and even the superb food. It’s a genuine but classy place. So far, so good. The last review dates back to a year or so ago. After that, Nothingness reigns. A complete void, like the inn’s been sucked into a vacuum, a big black hotel hole.
I search the net for other references of any sort to the Old Bell Inn. Around fifty bloggers have given a thumbs up. But the problem I’ve got is that at least another sixty are chock-full with viciously derogatory articles about the staff, the manager, and everything under the sun. The only saving grace is that the place is gorgeous and that is how it manages to lure its victims. Why they leave and post such mean reviews is a mystery.
And then something catches my eye. Could it possibly be a coincidence? But I don’t believe in coincidences and never have, so I pull up all the negative articles mentioning the Old Bell Inn and jot down the date that each site mentioned the inn for the first time. They all date back to a year ago. It’s as if someone’s suddenly started spreading the rumour that the inn is a shite-hole and everyone has since then been avoiding it. As a matter of fact, the rumours start immediately after the good reviews ended.
This looks a bit suspicious to me, so I save these particular sites on my Favourites and read them all over again. Something is bothering me. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, and by the end of the day my vision is blurred and I’m in a foul mood for all the ugliness I’ve had to plough through. People really can be so horrible sometimes.