by Della Galton
‘You knew what I meant though, didn’t you,’ she would tell them, laughing and refusing to change her spin on whatever new word she had made up.
Her best one to date was when she’d told them all that she’d glimpsed the NASA International Play Station go over their house one starlit night.
No one was ever letting her forget that one, so these days she deliberately hammed it up and Clara was never sure when she was messing about or had genuinely got a name wrong.
It was only necessary to tune in occasionally, Clara thought, wondering whether to resist the last roast potato so she could fit in dessert, which was bound to be a crumble of some sort, hopefully blackberry and apple as it was a bumper year for both. But then, if she had dessert, she should probably forgo biscuits for a whole week of coffee breaks, because even walking Foxy every day couldn’t offset dessert too often.
It was blackberry and apple, with a choice of custard or cream – make that two weeks of no biscuits.
‘I’d really like another Lexus,’ Dad was saying, ‘but they only make hybrids now. I’m thinking of a SsangYong. What do you think, Ed?’
‘I don’t know much about them, to be honest. Are they Japanese?’
‘Is it OK to take Foxy in the garden, Auntie Clara?’ Tom asked.
‘Yes, love.’
Then she was clearing plates from the table and turning the custard off on the hob, which had been kept hot in case anyone wanted seconds, and they were all eating home-made biscuits with the coffee – her mother rarely bought anything in a packet, even biscuits. And then finally, sometime around four, when Tom and Sophie were outside with Foxy in the rambling garden, the spotlight was turned on to Clara.
‘You’re looking well, love,’ Dad remarked. ‘You’ve got a real glow to your skin. Looking after that dog’s obviously doing you good.’
‘It’s all the walking and fresh air,’ she told him happily. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so fit.’
‘How’s your love life?’ Mum asked. ‘Have you met anyone nice lately?’
‘No,’ Clara said, not missing the look Mum exchanged with Rosanna. What were they up to? Please don’t let it be a blind date – they had tried that once before. They had invited this random guy round after one of the Sunday lunches who was apparently thinking of changing career from office work to catering and needed some advice. He’d been one of the most boring and earnest-looking men that Clara had ever met and it had taken her nearly an hour to get away from him.
To distract them from her non-existent love life, she told everyone about what Mr B had started calling Lighthousegate and the atmosphere became more serious.
‘Do you really think Will would do something like that?’ Her mother tilted her head on one side like a sparrow and looked troubled. ‘I don’t see what he’d have to gain.’
‘I had upset him. He might have been cross with me.’
‘But why have a pop at the hotel?’ said Ed, who was ever rational. ‘And, as you say, he’d have needed the video.’
Rosanna agreed. ‘It sounds more premeditated than that, doesn’t it, honey.’ She looked at Clara. ‘And you were ninety-nine per cent sure it wasn’t him.’
‘I still am.’
‘Is there a chance of tracking down the photographer he sold it to?’ her father asked. He’s the key to all this, isn’t he?’
‘He wasn’t keen on talking to me about that. He gave me the vaguest of descriptions. But then he clammed up and refused to say any more about it. He was fairly drunk anyway, from what I can gather. Our chef thinks the Manor House, which is our nearest competitor, has an axe to grind. There have been harsh words exchanged, but the trouble with Mr B is that he’s a conspiracy theorist. He thinks everyone has an axe to grind.’
‘Is he the one who won’t tell anybody his name because he’s so paranoid about identity theft?’ Ed asked.
‘The very same.’
‘He may be on to something there,’ Dad said. ‘You can’t steal something if you don’t know it’s there.’
‘Do you know his name?’ Rosanna asked.
‘Yes, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.’ Everyone laughed and the mood lightened. ‘My boss thinks it was a prank and that whoever did it had second thoughts when it started getting a lot of views. She may well be right.’
‘The thing is,’ Ed said, ‘If someone does have a vendetta against the hotel, they’re not going to leave it there, are they? They’ll be up to other mischief, too. So you’ll soon know the score.’
Clara nodded. The same thought had crossed her mind, but she was trying not to think about it.
‘To coin one of Gran’s expressions,’ she said, ‘I think it might be a case of least said, soonest mended. Where is Gran anyway? I thought you said she’d be here today.’
‘Your grandmother had a date,’ their mother said and her face closed down a little. ‘They were going on some coach trip to a retail outlet apparently. She missed my roast dinner for that, would you believe?’
‘Go Gran,’ Rosanna did a double thumbs up. ‘It’s about time she stopped mooching about over Grandad’s defection and got on with her life.’ She turned towards Clara with a slightly defiant look on her face. ‘Don’t you think so, honey?’
Clara nodded, but she’d noticed the look that passed between her parents. Mum’s voice may have been light, but there had been a flicker of pain in her eyes. Clara knew Mum did not approve of her ageing mother going on dates – however much Rosanna, who was of the opinion that what was good for the gander was good for the goose, was encouraging it.
Clara wasn’t sure if Gran was quite as enamoured with the dates idea as Rosanna was either, but their grandmother wasn’t the type of lady to be pressured into doing something she didn’t want to do. So perhaps she was up for a diversion.
She resolved to pay Gran a visit. Since she had moved into Kate’s bungalow she hadn’t seen as much of her. It would be good to see her on her own. Find out how she was really – beneath the bravado.
After the mention of Gran, there had been an awkward silence. But now their mother leapt in to fill it.
‘If you ask me, the pair of them need their heads banging together,’ she said. ‘All this nonsense at their ages.’
The back door burst open.
‘Would anyone like a toffee cop up?’ Mum asked, glancing at Tom, who had just come in from the garden and was stamping his feet on the mat.
‘It’s a coffee top-up,’ he shouted in delight.
‘Is it? What did I say?’ She winked at him.
There was laughter as she got up to see to it.
When she came back to the table, she glanced at Clara. ‘I’ve got something for you, darling.’ She looked cheerful again now they’d moved off the subject of Gran. ‘It’s in the pantry. Your sister recommended it, but I can’t get on with it. It’s called George Formby.’
Clara blinked. She was pretty sure her mother didn’t have a dead comedian with a ukulele hanging out in the pantry. Hopefully she was talking about a George Foreman grill.
It turned out she was. By the time Clara finally set off for home with the grill in a carrier bag, it was almost six. She forced herself to drive past Will’s only to discover that his car wasn’t outside and there were no signs of activity inside. He must have gone out for the evening. She breathed a sigh of relief. Interrogating Will would have to wait until another day.
9
The next week passed without any more dramas. The dog display team were model guests. Clara had never seen such well-behaved dogs. She got used to seeing one or another of the huge black and tan German shepherds padding silently about the hotel – the four canine visitors were allowed everywhere except the restaurant and the kitchen. Foxy, who was a lot smaller than they were, had been wary at first and had shot into her basket under Clara’s desk the first time she’d met one, but she’d soon settled down when she’d realised they were no threat.
There were no more repercussions from Lighthouse
gate. There had been no cancellations because of it. In fact, they were actually up on enquiries from people who wanted to book the lighthouse, but aside from that cheeky reporter, no one else had mentioned wanting to climb up or down it.
She was doing some paperwork in the back office on Friday afternoon, relieved that another week was nearly over because this was her weekend off, when Zoe popped her head round the door.
‘You have a visitor. He said he doesn’t have an appointment. He just called on spec. Adam Greenwood?’ She made a face that was half grimace, half enquiry. ‘What do you suppose he wants?’
‘I don’t know. Did he say?’ Clara felt her hackles rise. She might have known the peace was too good to last.
Zoe shook her head. ‘Do you want me to send him in or will you come out?’
‘I’ll come out.’ She hesitated. Maybe that was a bad idea. She didn’t want another fiery exchange with Adam in front of Zoe. ‘No, second thoughts, send him in here.’
‘Would you like me to bring you in some coffee?’ Zoe looked hopeful. ‘He’s quite hot, isn’t he? Not to mention charming. I thought he was the nasty one of the Brothers Grim.’
‘That’s not how I remember him. No, don’t bring any coffee. He won’t be here very long.’ She hoped!
The office wasn’t that small, but Adam Greenwood filled it. He had to duck his head slightly to come through the doorway. She hadn’t remembered him being that tall either. Maybe it was just seeing someone out of context.
She stood up as he came in, glad she had her heels on, and he smiled. Despite her decision to dislike him, she felt warmed. She wouldn’t have gone as far as to say charming, but he certainly seemed more human. Those black eyes were softer, more Cadbury’s Dark Milk than Bournville, and the sculpted cheekbones less haughty.
‘This is a surprise. Please take a seat.’ She gestured to the swivel chair at the other desk. He’d be easier to deal with sitting down. Never had she felt more disadvantaged by her lack of height.
‘Thanks.’ He sat down.
She let the silence hang. Clara knew the power of silence.
He was the first to break it. He cleared his throat. She awarded herself a bonus point. Then another one when he actually spoke and said, ‘I think I owe you an apology.’
That was the last thing she’d been expecting.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ He leaned forward slightly in his chair. ‘When you called at the hotel last week, I was rude. I was pretty stressed. Nick, my brother, had been taken ill and we’d got a new chef covering and there was too much going on.’ He gave her that disarming smile again. ‘I’m not very good at multitasking.’
She relented. ‘I hope your brother is feeling better now?’
‘He is a little better. Thank you. He has an ongoing chronic condition. It isn’t life-threatening, but it can be debilitating.’
There was another small silence.
Adam broke it again. ‘I seem to remember I was very rude about your chef.’
She inclined her head. She resisted the urge to say that actually a lot of the things he’d said about Mr B were spot on. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.
‘That was why you came round?’ he added. ‘To talk about the allegations your chef had made?’
‘Partly,’ Clara said, deciding that as he was being so gracious then she could afford to be too. ‘I also wanted to introduce myself properly. To tell you what the Bluebell Cliff does. To reassure you that there doesn’t need to be any bad feeling between us. There will be times when we can’t take a booking and you can – we could pass on business. It would be so much better if we could work together rather than against each other. There’s an awful lot that we do here that you probably wouldn’t want to do.’
‘We don’t have the same facilities that you do,’ he agreed. ‘We don’t, for example, have a lighthouse that people may want to abseil down – or indeed climb up.’
So he did know about that. His face was deadpan. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Was he having a dig or was he being sympathetic?
‘How did you know about that?’
‘News travels fast.’
‘But it was nothing to do with you?’ The words slipped out before she could censor them, but she immediately wished she had.
His eyes had widened a little. Or had the pupils just got blacker? Was that anger? He sure as hell wasn’t smiling any more. Now he was shaking his head and standing up.
‘I came round here in good faith. I did NOT come round here to have more petty accusations slung in my direction.’ The veneer of charm had gone. For a moment, there had been pure venom in his voice. Mind you, she couldn’t really blame him. She had, to all intents and purposes, just accused him of libel – was it libel when it involved a video? – and after he’d come round cap in hand and apologised for being abrupt with her.
Shit. She stood up too. ‘Mr Greenwood, I’m sorry. That came out wrong.’
It was too late. By the time she had got round to the other side of the desk, he was out of the door and walking swiftly past Zoe, who was talking to Mr B in reception.
She cursed again. Other than run after him, there was absolutely nothing she could do.
Zoe and Mr B both looked at her for an explanation.
‘Was that Adam Greenwood?’ Mr B asked. ‘I’m glad he came to see you. Did he tell you that I’d called round and smoothed things over? I knew I’d done the wrong thing, going off on one and accusing them of having a vendetta against us. I know I can get carried away at times. I hold my hands up to that.’ He held them up now. ‘Mind you, he didn’t look very happy. Just then – Mr Grim.’
He and Zoe both smirked.
Then their faces sobered as if they’d only just realised she wasn’t joining in with their frivolity.
‘Did you really go round to see him?’ Clara asked.
‘I did, boss. Yeah. Yesterday. I decided you were right. Things would be a lot nicer if we could all work in harmony. He agreed. He was good about it actually. I even signed another contract with One Stop Watercress, which was just as well. The other supplier was crap. What?’ He broke off suddenly. ‘Did I do the wrong thing? Have I pissed him off?’
‘No, you didn’t. You haven’t. Not at all.’ Clara rested her elbows on the reception desk and put her chin in her hands. ‘You did exactly the right thing. But I think I may have just messed it all up again.’
She told them what had just happened.
‘I should probably go after him. No, I shouldn’t, should I? It would be best to let the dust settle.’
They were both nodding. Zoe wide-eyed and Mr B with more understanding. ‘Might be best to let him calm down, boss.’
‘He’s a fiery one,’ Zoe agreed and it was hard to tell whether she approved or not.
Clara didn’t say anything else. It was one of the very few moments of her career when she felt not just wrong-footed, but helpless. She would have given a lot to be able to rewind the last five minutes.
An hour later, Clara and Foxy were sitting opposite her grandmother in her Church Knowle bungalow, after a brief phone conversation in the car park during which she had said, ‘I think I’m the worst manager in the world,’ and Gran had said, ‘Stop talking nonsense, angel, and get yourself round here, pronto.’
Now they were sipping tea from bone-china cups in her grandmother’s lounge, which was all dark wood and rich reds and silver framed photos and was a lot snugger than the one at her parents – they’d downsized when they retired – but which smelled equally as much both of love and of home.
Sometimes Clara thought the family genes had skipped a generation. She had far more in common with her grandmother than she did with her mum. Certainly in appearance – they were both vertically challenged – Gran had shrunk lately as well and she was now only five foot two. She made up for this in feistiness. Nora Batty had nothing on Thelma Price.
Both Clara and her gran had tiny delicate hands and dark eyes and
hair, although Gran’s was white these days, and a sharp tongue if they were riled.
‘I think you’re being too hard on yourself, angel,’ was the old lady’s verdict when she had put in her hearing aid – she left it out unless she wanted to talk to people – and Clara had poured out the whole sorry story, starting with the video and ending with Adam storming out of her office. ‘The man’s obviously touchy. If not completely temperamental. Did you say he was a chef?’
‘No, that’s his brother, but yes he is temperamental.’ Clara told her about the other two times they had met. ‘The annoying thing is he wasn’t being like that at all today. He was being pleasant. I messed it all up. Why didn’t I think before I opened my big mouth and put my size four in it?’
Gran’s eyes flashed. ‘Because you’re not perfect, my angel. You must get that from me. I’ve done a lot of things that aren’t perfect lately.’
‘Have you? Like what? Mum said you’d gone on a date on Sunday. Was that one of them?’
‘Yes.’ Gran gave a dry, humourless laugh. ‘That was certainly one of them. I went with a chap called Sid. He could talk of nothing but his home-grown tomatoes and salad onions.’
‘I thought you were interested in allotments.’
‘I am. But tomatoes and salad onions for four hours solid.’ She waved a hand. ‘No thanks.’
‘Come back, Grandad, all is forgiven?’ Clara asked hopefully.
‘Not quite, no, but I’ve certainly had my fill of Sids lately, I can tell you.’
‘You mean you’ve met more than one?’ Clara looked at her in amazement. ‘How come?’
‘Because in a weak moment I was foolish enough to sign up with a matchmaking agency, that’s how come. So far, I’ve met, Sid the actor, he was a narcissist; Sid the Scrabble player, he could go for hours without saying a single word, although he was a formidable Scrabble opponent, I’ll give him that.’ She paused. ‘And then, last Sunday, Sid the allotment owner. It must be a generational thing – you don’t hear the name Sid very often these days, do you. But there are a hell of a lot of seventy-something Sids living in a forty-mile radius of Church Knowle, I can tell you that for nothing.’