The next morning, Mitchell saunters in as Laura and I are deep in the accounts. I’m getting worse than Susan now, as far as dogs with bones go. Only my goal is to save him.
‘Another request for payment has arrived from Master Clean Company,’ I inform him without looking up. I need to keep it together. I can’t be bawling every time I see Danny beaming at him. Nor can I be shaking every time he comes near me. When did this start? I always knew he was handsome, but when did he start having such an effect on me?
‘Oh, not again?’ Mitchell groans. ‘We sent them payment at least ten days ago.’
Laura shakes her head. ‘This refers to the months of October and November. It’s from the same period as the other invoices.’
He leans in and reads it, then looks up at me with a strange expression on his face. ‘Keep looking,’ he says. ‘I’ll check the back office.’
The three of us spend most of the morning rifling through all the drawers. Mitchell even gets on his hands and knees and pulls out the bottom ones. In the end, he kneels back and runs a hand through his dark curls, his mouth twisted in concentration.
‘Nothing?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’
I bite my lip. The last thing I want is to arouse undue suspicion, but my instinct is never wrong. How to mention it again without angering him?
‘Why don’t I call Diane?’ Laura suggests, reading my mind. ‘She might have an idea.’
Mitchell raises an eyebrow at her. ‘And let her know I’m having trouble now that she’s gone? Never.’ And with that, he stands up and strides out of the office.
Laura looks at me and shakes her head. ‘Men and their pride.’
That may well be, but we have a situation here. I have a feeling that Head Office is not going to relent, and that maybe I should find out more about Mitchell’s future Plan B. And maybe get him to bring it forward, if even just a smidgen.
So I grab two steaming mugs of coffee from the dining room and find him sitting, slumped, in his personal office. He is facing the wall, chin on his knuckles, one foot on top of the opposite ankle and in deep thought. I knock on the doorjamb.
‘Mitchell…?’ I call softly.
He swivels around in his chair, sitting up straight when he sees me. ‘Come in, Rosie,’ he says, his voice rough. He is truly upset and my own throat tightens at the sight of his distress.
I clear my throat. ‘I brought you a coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, nodding to the chair opposite. ‘Have a seat.’
I slide his mug over the surface of his desk and his eyes swing to mine.
‘It’ll get better,’ I assure him.
He suppresses a snort.
‘Can I ask you something?’
He looks at me, tired, but the anger seems gone, which is what worries me more. ‘This, uhm, dream you have, of working for yourself?’ It’s like the roles are reversed now, but I can’t help but remember him saying that. It’s his only saving grace from where I’m sitting. Head Office are bent on sacking him, even if the reviews are unfair. Better prepare him for the worst.
When some bosses have the upper hand, there’s no peace for us underdogs. But Mitchell is so not an underdog. He’s just going through a rough patch, is all. He needs time to heal, and to get on with his own life. A failed relationship is a guarantee for a false start in life. Don’t we all deserve another chance?
He takes a swig of his coffee. ‘What about it?’
‘How… far along is it?’
He lets out a hearty laugh, but I can tell it’s a forced one. There is pain and disappointment behind those dark eyes. Pain he is trying to hide. His wife left him just before Christmas, and with all probability has done him over five hundred pounds every month for a year. That’s already six thousand, without counting all the unpaid bills for which he’ll have to fork out more money.
Being kindred spirits, I recognise the look on his face, recognise the attitude. He’d rather die than give her the satisfaction of letting her know he’s in difficulty. Nor does he want anyone else to know. He sits up and suddenly smiles. The smile of someone trying very hard.
‘Ah, you lookin’ out for me, are ya? You’re such a sweetheart.’
I can actually feel my face going red. Oh, I so am not a sweetheart. And when he finds out, he will positively hate me. But for now, he doesn’t know, and I’ll do my best to help him.
‘I’m just wondering how long it’ll be before it comes to fruition,’ I say. ‘In case you get sick of your job and want to quit sooner rather than later.’ There. That should give me some info and a timeframe to work with.
But he just reaches across the desk and pats my hand. ‘I’ll be all right until then, I think, Rosie.’
No, you won’t, I want to scream. Head Office does not like its hotels losing stars and getting bad reviews. And even if you aren’t to blame, you’re the only scapegoat they’ve got. And I have no idea how to defend you.
I desperately want to tell him who I am, and that even if he kicks me out, there will be more like me, more qualified and more heartless. What I’m willing to forgo, others won’t. This drop in reputation is unexplained, and they want to know why. You just need to look into his eyes to know he’s a good, hard-working man. He has to be, because I could never fall for another jerk like Mark. Not that I am falling for Mitchell, of course. I just care, that’s all.
‘Hey…’ he says, sliding his hands across the desk again. I watch them, fascinated as he takes my fingers with his. I look up at him and he smiles. A genuine smile this time. Sad, but tender. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t you worry, Rosie.’
I bite my lip. What can I say? It’s a miracle that Susan hasn’t called me in two days. I wonder if she’s died or something.
His hand reaches up to caress my cheek and, for a split second, my heart stops beating. Literally. I’m waiting for my next beat, but it’s not coming. It should be jack-hammering its way up into my ears, but it’s stopped completely. And then I remember to breathe.
Call it his Irish charm, his stubbornness, his kindness towards Danny, or his deep voice, but Mitchell… with all his faults and quirks and problems and complicated life… melts my heart. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the mischief mixed with his utter dependability. He may be a complex man, Mitchell, but he’s a complete man, no doubt.
And his sex appeal is also largely due to the fact that he is completely clueless of the effect he has on women – me included. If he had an inkling, he wouldn’t be sitting so close to me. Because if I can no longer deny my attraction to Mitchell, it’s embarrassing to admit that I can’t hide it, either.
He leans closer, squeezing my fingers gently. Is he going to finally kiss me this time? I swallow.
‘You really are a sweet soul, aren’t ya?’ he whispers, his face oh-so-close to mine. So close, in fact, that I notice his eyes are not chocolate brown as I’d thought. They are a dark, golden hazel bordering on… dark honey. It’s a bit like his personality. From afar, he looks all rocky and granite-like. Impervious. Flinty. But get closer, and you begin to see the human underneath, complete with sinews and blood and muscle. And heart. Yes, he’s got a good heart. No one else would have given up his own home for a stranger and her child.
‘Ah, before I forget, Rosie, I’m planning a surprise for you.’
‘A surprise?’
‘Uh-huh…’ His eyes roam over my face at length until I realise he’s not going to kiss me after all. Damn.
‘What kind of surprise?’
He grins. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
‘When?’
He lets go of my hands all too quickly, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and as he turns to go, he winks. ‘You’ll see soon enough.’
Now you try concentrating on your mission, after that.
*
When I get back from my break, Laura is smugly tapping away.
‘What’s with the face?’ I ask as I slide into my chair at Reception.
‘Nothing, only you’ve received a present,’ she says.
‘Me? From whom?’
‘Why don’t you open it?’ she says, sliding me a brown paper parcel.
I sit and stare at it. There’s a card. To the sexiest woman in Cornwall. I wonder who he’d bribed to know my whereabouts. He doesn’t work for Johnson Hotels anymore.
‘Awh, that’s so hot!’ Laura swoons, reading over my shoulder. ‘I’ll bet it’s lingerie!’ she almost squeals and I have to remind her of where we are.
Hot? If she only knew how not hot he was. If she only knew what Mark had put me through.
With trembling hands, I rip the box open. It is full of Reese’s Pieces peanut butter cups in every form, shape and size – the mini-cups, the giant cups and even the bars. There must be over a hundred pieces in there. The pieces of my broken heart.
‘I’ll have to get a better job just to keep you in your chocolate,’ Mark had once joked as he put his arm around my shoulder. I had been happy, over the moon. We had just started dating and I had not been uncomfortable around him in the least. We had been at the beginning, when everything seemed possible. Even the dream of an eternal love.
‘First the flowers, and now the chocolates. Who is it that is courting you like there’s no tomorrow, Rosie?’ Laura wants to know.
‘No one of consequence,’ I say with a shrug.
*
After I’ve put Danny to bed that evening, I go down into the kitchen and make myself a cup of hot chocolate from Russell’s special stash. I’ve just plunked myself onto a stool when my mobile vibrates and for a split second, before the ringtone kicks in, I actually think it’s him. My palms sweat, but then comes the boom of the ominous notes of ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ and I am almost relieved.
‘Hi, Susan…’
‘Rosie, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing down there, but it’s certainly not inspecting the hotel.’
Oh God, she’s in one of her beauties tonight.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, but I know exactly what she means. She wants answers. Answers that I have failed to give.
‘Either you send me a detailed report justifying the bad reviews, or I’m going to have to send someone else down there to carry out the inspection. And while the inn will be investigated properly and fairly, you will be summarily dismissed, due to your overall insufficient performance.’
Dismissed? Is she kidding me? ‘But there is no evidence against him,’ I hiss as I spot a couple of the pink hen party girls squawking by in stilettos below the window, chased by two Neanderthal men of the stag party. ‘Or against me. I’m doing the best I can, considering this isn’t even in my job description.’
‘On the contrary. You have been evasive, making up excuses to postpone your reports, and you depict a scenario that doesn’t exist. I’m beginning to wonder why you’re covering for him, and I have a very good idea – you’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?’
I gasp. ‘What? Of course not…’ No, of course I’m not sleeping with him, as much as I’d love to. I can think of hardly anything else, besides saving his butt, but I can’t tell Susan that, can I?
‘Then you’re about to,’ she says. ‘Shoulda guessed.’
I roll my eyes as if she could see me, but I’m hoping this injects some degree of indignity into my voice. And I am indignant, of course. I’m a serious pro at my regular job, at the end of the day.
‘I most certainly am not sleeping with him. I’m simply looking for evidence before I accuse someone of being unprofessional. And up until now I’ve only seen a man who cares about his business and who works round the clock to make sure everything is okay.’
She snorts, and I want to pull her right through the telephone wire and strangle her with it. ‘That’s it, I’m putting in a formal complaint against you. You’re toast.’
‘What?’ I gasp. ‘You can’t fire me – this isn’t even in my job description! I— Hello?’ Before I can say Season’s Greetings, she’s slammed the phone down on me. The Sacker is gone, and soon, I suspect, I will be, too. Just in time for Christmas. And oh, what a sorry one it’s going to be.
All I know is that Head Office has well and truly cornered me by giving me an impossible task to perform. I’ve done it by the book, sending in regular reports, but have not made any moves against Mitchell, or anyone else for that matter. And I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one. I’m trapped, and images of me clearing my desk – something I’ve been wanting to do since she became my supervisor – now terrify me. What am I going to do with a bad reference? What hotel is ever going to have me if they’ll be checking with her? Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?
I certainly can’t accept Mitchell’s offer to stay on and work here for fear of him finding me out. Maybe I could really look into opening my own pottery shop somewhere else in Cornwall. Somewhere similar to Little Kettering, but far away enough to never bump into Mitchell. I certainly have enough stock, all in storage. Excluding my pregnant Black period, most of my wares are based on beach colours. Ever since I can remember I’ve been dreaming of Cornwall.
But there’s one huge obstacle. I don’t have any money anywhere. How am I going to set up a business, let alone a home, on the three hundred pounds in my bank account? And it doesn’t look like I’m getting a Christmas bonus, either. On the contrary. I’m getting the Christmas boot, and not the kind Santa wears.
When my Skype app signals a call, I glance at my laptop screen, hoping it’s Susan, calling to mitigate the situation somehow. But it’s my mum. I can’t talk to her right now. She always reads me like a book and she’ll know something’s up. But if I don’t answer she’ll only worry.
‘Rosie? How are you, darling? How’s Danny?’
Just the sound of her voice makes me want to give everything up and run back to the safety of my childhood home where no one will kick me out if I haven’t done my duty. Home. I miss it so badly. I miss all the years I was loved unconditionally. When a hug from Dad or a kiss from Mum would make everything better.
I swallow. What the heck is happening to me? I’m an independent girl and always have been. I smile as if I mean it so my voice will project happiness. That’s what they taught me in business school. Smile like you mean it.
‘Hi, Mum. We’re fine. Danny is having a great time.’
‘Oh, how lovely! Has he made any little friends there yet?’
‘Everybody here loves him, Mum.’
She chuckles. ‘I’m glad. But your father and I are so annoyed about not seeing you this Christmas. It’s absurd. Who makes a mother work during her holidays? Doesn’t your company have a heart?’
Good question.
‘We were thinking of coming down to you, darling.’
My heart lurches at the possibility. ‘I’d really love that, Mum. But the whole town is completely booked.’
‘Is it? It must be a very nice place, then.’
‘Oh, it is. It’s really beautiful.’
‘Shame. Will you be stopping by before you go back to London?’
Stopping by? Moving in rather, if this keeps up. ‘We’ll see, Mum. Danny really misses you both, and I…’ My voice cracks. Talking to her is becoming more and more difficult by the minute. And pretending to be happy is becoming impossible.
‘Rosie? Are you all right, love?’
‘I’m fine, Mum. Everything’s fine.’
‘You know, Rosie, your father and I are thinking of moving away from Birmingham.’
‘Moving? But… what about all your friends?’
‘You and Danny are more important than all our friends. We’re not getting any younger, and we just want to see more of you. Is that something you would like?’
Like? Having my family with me, after all these stubbornly independent but lonely years? I can hardly control my tears of joy. ‘Of course. But London, Mum? You always hated it.’
‘You and Danny are worth the sacrifice, love.’
I mumble something about missing them and hang up before the tears come.
Imagine, having them worrying about me, their grown daughter, and at Christmas time, to boot? Imagine them having to move down, business and all, to London, which they absolutely loathe, just to reassure themselves Danny and I are doing okay! They should be slowing down now, not thinking even remotely of making such a huge move. They should be kicking back and relaxing, not worrying about me.
I know my parents. Ever since Mark left, they have been hoping (God knows why) he’d come back. What my parents don’t understand is that, in order for me to get over him, I’d needed to exclude any possibility whatsoever of him coming back. Only then could I be okay. Even if still today the mere sight of his flowers sends me reeling back to the past.
But I need to be even stronger, especially now. I’m over Mark, and have been for years. But I can’t allow a man, not even one like Mitchell, to change my life around again. I came here for a reason, and I’m going to do it. End of. I’m not going to feel guilty about it anymore, because it’s killing me. Even if he is the loveliest, most intriguing man I’ve ever met. Because in less than two weeks, Danny and I will be sitting at home, on a night like this, and I’ll be wondering what he’s doing, after putting the whole thing behind me. That’s what I tell myself. But the idea of him finding out who I really am, along with never seeing him again… is too much to bear. I will miss Mitchell, no doubt. I will be wanting him all day and all night, while the man barely knows I exist. Why am I so unlucky in love?
As I turn to rest my forehead against the window pane, looking out into the silent, black night, the snow begins to fall, light flakes gently drifting down at first, like twinkling stars against the light of the wrought-iron storm lamp hanging from the wooden awning. And then, as if sensing my pain, it begins to come down harder and harder, non-stop, until the lamplight is only a faint glimmer in the white darkness.
My mum’s phone call, which should have made me feel better, only makes me more miserable, like I’m a constant source of worry for my parents. A burden. I know I’m lucky to have them in my life, but it seems to me that every time Danny and I suffer, they are suffering with me, and I just can’t accept that.
I ditch my hot chocolate and instead raid the fridge for a bottle of wine, which I never touch because I can’t hold my liquor. It literally makes me ill.
But tonight, who cares? It’s not like I’m driving, which is a great thing at that, because I wouldn’t even know where to go. If Head Office fire me with an accusation of covering up for, or worse, sleeping with a colleague, I’m dead. I’ll end up as a seasonal worker, following the harvests across the land. Apples in Somerset, hops in Kent, potatoes in Ireland, whatever. What a mess my life is.
One glass won’t hurt. It’s not like I drink every day. I hardly drink at all. I simply don’t have the time, or the inclination. Why would I leave Danny to go down the pub? Just to get shit-faced? For what? I don’t feel the need to. In fact, my last tipple harks back to the summer holidays. Danny and I were in my parents’ garden. The sun was warm, the wine was cool, my parents and family loved having us there, and we were happy. I felt protected, safe, surrounded by loving faces and familiar objects that had kept me company since I was a child. The opposite of now.
Now, everything is falling apart. My debt load is soaring, I can barely make ends meet, child support is non-existent as Mark has never legally acknowledged paternity of Danny. For all Mark cares, we could both be dead. I feel so, so sorry for Danny, who always makes the best of every situation, but I know I’m not enough for him. How can I be, with my lopsided parenting? Every boy needs a male figure. And I haven’t got one. Every child needs financial security, and I haven’t got that either.
Maybe I should just quit and go back to my parents after all and work in their coach company. Why not? Mum would take care of Danny while I’m at work. He’d be able to see his grandparents more often, and I wouldn’t be so miserable. Because, as I pour what I think is now my third (or fourth?) glass, I realise I am just that. Miserable. A miserable, lonely loser. And I have only myself to blame.
Because if I’d been smarter, I would’ve known how to keep my man. I’d be a great mum, and would be able to spend more time and money on Danny. I wouldn’t be so afraid of losing my job and I could generally thumb my nose at the world and its adversities. But I find, right now, that I can’t.
Everyone, now and then, needs their own little, personal nervous breakdown, and I think that I’m just about to have mine. Just a quick one, though. I’ve got to be behind the reception desk in a few hours, looking all chirpy and optimistic. The exact opposite of what I feel right now. Because right about now, if I drive, say, a screwdriver through the middle of my forehead, I won’t feel it, so piercing is the pain inside my heart. And before I know it, I’m quietly sobbing my eyes out in the huge, dark kitchen, stifling the sounds with my forearms.
‘Rosie, what are you doing in the dark?’
I look up from the table, shielding my eyes against the bright light. Of all bloody people…
Mitchell bends down to me as I’m practically sprawled over the counter. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Jusht a couple glasses. Or maybe five. I losht count…’
‘But you said you can’t hold your liquor, that it makes you feel ill. Why would you…? Hey, hey, come here…’ he whispers as I begin to sob again. Jesus, could I be any more pathetic? But I don’t care if he sees me cry. It’s not like I have this amazing image to preserve anymore. Soon he’ll know why I’m really here and he’ll hate my guts anyway.
He pulls me into his arms, his chest solid and warm. It’s a great place for bawling. God, he must think I’m a real loser. Very probably, he’s thinking of taking his job offer back.
He turns on the kettle and then comes back to sit on the stool next to me, stroking my back.
‘Where’sh Danny?’ I ask.
‘I’m assuming right where you left him – safe and warm in his bed.’
‘I’m shuch a horrible mother,’ I groan.
‘No, you’re not, you silly sausage.’
‘And a terrible girlfriend, too.’
‘What?’
‘It’sh true! I have no fashion shenshe. I embarrasshed him in front of his colleaguesh.’
‘Who?’
‘Mark. That’sh why he left me.’
‘Ah. The bloke who sent you the flowers and the chocolates? Danny’s father?’
‘Yuh,’ I hiccupped. ‘He left me because I washn’t good enough for him.’
‘He’s a knob, that’s why he left you,’ Mitchell says hotly.
‘He shaid I’d be a terrible mother and he wassshhh right.’
‘He’s so not right, Rosie. You’re a fantastic mother and a gorgeous young woman. And now he wants you back.’
‘For yearsh I hid from relationshipsh, dedicating myshelf to Danny. I never really looked for love, although I hoped it might happen one day,’ I bleat on, unable to stop myself. ‘And now, here you are, real, true love, and I can’t have you.’
He stops and stares at me. And in the haze of my drunkenness, I realise I’ve spoken too much. I used the bloody L-word, can you imagine that? And I’ve scared him off yet again. I’ve screwed it up. God, am I good at absolutely nothing?
‘Bed…’ I say, suddenly exhausted. ‘I need… to sleep.’ Before I ruin everything else, too.
And before I know it, Mitchell sweeps me up into his arms. And we’re not in the kitchen anymore. I know that because I can see his wardrobe behind him. Unless it has followed us into the kitchen, we are in his (my) bedroom. Maybe I have fallen asleep again and he has taken me up the stairs. I try to open the other eye and ask him if I’m heavy, but he doesn’t answer me. Instead, he is pulling my shoes off. I am lying spread-eagle on my – his – bed, and I smile in drunken anticipation. The moment is finally upon us. I am going to have sex with him and I can’t wait.
Let the guilt come tomorrow, along with the stark reality of life. For now, I want a tiny slice of happiness, a happy memory to take back with me when I leave this place forever. I want to see the expression on his face, but I can barely distinguish his silhouette against the lamplight behind him.
He doesn’t join me, though, doesn’t come anywhere near me, except to kiss my forehead as he pulls the covers up to my chin. As he pulls away, the sense of loss is heartbreaking. It was now or never, because tomorrow I won’t have the courage to act upon my desires. There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say, to make him stay.
‘Goodnight, Rosie. Sweet dreams.’