“Taxi?” Clement suggests.
“Agreed.”
I find a number for a local cab firm. Seconds later a familiar battered saloon pulls up by the doors.
“I think he was still parked outside,” I surmise.
Two minutes and five pounds later, we arrive at the Sandown Bay Hotel. Our third dash through the wind and rain leaves my corduroy trousers feeling decidedly damp and my usually neat hair in something of a state.
I catch a glance of the hotel’s facade on the way in and it doesn’t inspire confidence in my choice of accommodation. The picture on the website was of a bright white building set against a cloudless blue sky, with hanging baskets full of colourful flowers either side of the door. Today, it looks like a Victorian sanatorium.
By the time we reach the gloomy reception area, I have already decided to call the cab firm again. Alas, we’re spotted by the receptionist before that call can be made.
“Good afternoon, gents,” she chimes. “I just heard about the ferries. Are you after a room?”
I turn to face a woman with auburn hair and piercing green eyes. She has the same look on her face as the waitress in the cafe — like Benson the Labrador; grateful for whatever scraps are offered, no matter how meagre.
Clement answers before I have the opportunity to discuss my reservations. “Yeah.”
Her face lights up and my hopes of going elsewhere suddenly feel like a guilty secret. Resigned, I approach the reception desk.
“A twin room, please. One night.”
She jots down my details and confirms her name as Emma. It turns out she’s the co-owner of the Sandown Bay Hotel, together with her elderly mother who used to run the place with her late father. I don’t make a habit of chatting to hotel receptionists but Emma is a friendly soul and I suspect, glad of the conversation.
“If you need anything just call down to reception.”
“Right. Thank you.
“I’ll show you up to your room.”
She leads us along a corridor and up a flight of stairs. As I suspected, the place is in a fairly poor state of repair but I don’t voice my opinion. As we navigate the final corridor, I take the opportunity to check my phone, just in case Gabby has texted me to accept the offer. Nothing.
“Here we are. This is our best twin room.”
She opens the door and invites us to enter; the same hopeful look on her face.
I take four steps beyond the door and as many decades into the past; such are the aged furnishings and decor. I remind myself we’re only here for the night and confirm to Emma the room is lovely. It is not. She hands me the key and hurries away, presumably before we change our minds.
“What a dump,” I grumble to myself while inspecting a shabby chest of drawers.
“You said it was lovely,” Clement remarks.
“I was being polite. It’s as grim as the weather.”
He flops down on one of the single beds. The springs groan and twang at the sudden load.
“I like it.”
Considering his attire is rooted in the seventies, I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Well, we’re here now so it’ll have to do, I suppose.”
“What’s the time?”
“Two thirty.”
“What do you wanna do then?”
“Do?”
“Yeah. I ain’t sitting here till tomorrow morning.”
To say we have limited options would be an understatement. What does anyone do in a near-deserted seaside town in October, in the midst of a storm?
“Pub?”
He sits up. “Good call.”
I’m not sure it is.
19.
We return to the reception and find Emma staring into space. She snaps to attention upon spotting us.
“Off out are we gents?”
“We are,” I reply. “Assuming the crazy golf isn’t open, can you recommend any decent pubs in the area.”
She chuckles at my quip and steps beyond the reception desk.
“I know a nice place a few minutes away. I’ll run you down there.”
“Honestly, there’s really no need.”
“It’s no trouble. I could do with getting out for ten minutes.”
“If you’re sure.”
Her smile confirms she is and we follow her out to the small car park fronting the hotel. As soon as we clap eyes on the tiny hatchback, it’s clear I’ll be sitting in the rear seats. I clamber in and Clement shoehorns himself into the passenger seat. Once we’re all secured, Emma revs the weedy engine and pulls onto the main road. If not for our combined weight, I’m almost certain the car would be blown from the road like a paper bag.
“So, what do you chaps do when you’re not stranded in Sandown?” Emma asks.
Clement remains mute so I feel compelled to answer.
“I work at Westminster.”
“Oh, how fascinating. Doing what?”
When people ask what you do for a living, generally it’s just small talk and they have no real interest in what you actually do. Not Emma, apparently.
“I’m a member of parliament.”
She turns to face me; a concern, considering we’re travelling at thirty miles per hour.
“I should be honoured you’re staying with us then,” she chuckles.
I offer an embarrassed smile and mercifully, Emma returns her attention to the road.
“I’d love to see Westminster Palace one day,” she says wistfully. “Such incredible architecture.”
I’m slightly taken aback by her statement. Usually when I tell people my profession, they almost always ask if I know the Prime Minister and what she’s really like.
“You should. It’s the most remarkable building.”
“I’ll get there at some point. What with running the hotel and looking after Mum, there aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“Surely it’s quiet enough in the winter months for you to take a day trip to London?”
“Deathly quiet, but the bills still need to be paid. From November through to March I work as a seamstress making curtains for a company on the mainland, just to make ends meet.”
That would explain why the hotel is in such a poor state of repair. My derogatory comments may, in hindsight, have been a little harsh.
“Well, if you ever do get the chance, I’d be more than happy to show you around.”
Emma glances at me in the rear-view mirror. Despite the smile, her expression suggests she doesn’t expect to visit anytime soon.
A silent minute passes until we pull up outside a double-fronted pub.
“Here we are gents. The Bay View Inn.”
“Can I give you something towards petrol?” I ask.
“Don’t be silly. And if you need a lift back later, just call the hotel.”
I withdraw a ten pound note from my wallet. “If you don’t take this, Emma, I will be mortally offended.”
She pauses for a second but relents and takes the note. “Thank you.”
Once we’ve contorted our way onto the pavement, we wave her off and the tiny car disappears back down the road. Hopefully it won’t be blown into the sea.
“She’s very pleasant,” I casually remark.
“Word of advice,” Clement shouts above the howling wind. “Check you’re not related before you make a move.”
Before I can offer a defence, he turns and makes a beeline for the front door of the pub. I shake my head and follow.
The Bay View Inn turns out to be a very pleasant establishment. We opt for the saloon bar where a log fire crackles away in an inglenook fireplace. Unlike many modern pubs, there is nothing fake about the interior; the oak beams and exposed brick form the very fabric of the building. Even the handful of customers appear part of the furniture, and accordingly eye us with suspicion as the obvious non-locals we are.
As there is every chance we could be holed up in here for some time, I order just half a pint for myself. Clement requests a pint of lager.
Furnished with drinks, we take a seat at a table near the fireplace. I check my phone but still nothing from Gabby.
“Nice boozer,” Clement remarks.
“Yes, it’s very pleasant. I can certainly think of worse places to spend an afternoon.”
He nods in reply.
We take occasional sips of our drinks in silence, but there is only so long you can gaze around a room and avoid conversation.
“So, tell me a bit about yourself, Clement. I’m intrigued about your previous career.”
“Not much to tell.”
“You must have a few interesting tales, surely?”
“A few.”
“Care to share any?”
He takes a gulp of lager before answering. “Do you read much, Bill?”
“A little. Why?”
“Ever heard of the author, Beth Baxter?”
“I think I’ve seen posters on the tube, promoting one of her books.”
“My last job was helping her out of a hole.”
It seems an odd combination; a successful author and a man like Clement. Then again, it’s probably no odder than the predicament which has thrown us together.
“Okay, now I’m more than intrigued. Tell me more.”
“Read her book, The Angel of Camden.”
“Are you not going to tell me anything.”
“Just read the book, Bill. Everything will make sense.”
That line of conversation is now closed, apparently.
After another round of drinks, we venture into the public bar to find a pool table and a juke box. I’ve only ever played pool a handful of times but I’m grateful of having something to do other than sit and force conversation.
As it transpires, even if I was any good at pool I’m certain I’d have still lost eight consecutive games, such is Clement’s skill with a cue.
Five thirty rolls around and I’m about to rack up the ninth game when the barman interrupts. “Sorry gents. We’ve got to move the pool table so can you make that your last game.”
“Move it where?” Clement replies.
“Out back. We’ve got to clear this bar for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
The barman looks at him, puzzled. “Err, yes. Tonight.”
Clement returns an equally puzzled look so the barman points at a poster, fixed to the wall behind the bar.
The big man’s face lights up. “A seventies night?”
“Yes, with a prize for the best fancy dress. Sorry mate, I assumed you knew, what with your…outfit.”
I have a horrible feeling I know precisely what Clement is about to say next.
“Cool. Give us two tickets, mate.”
The barman confirms we’re in luck as there are only a handful left, and Clement pays him. He then strides over to me, apparently keen to share our new plans for the evening.
“Sounds like it’ll be a cracking night, Bill.”
I am far from convinced. I was hoping for a quiet meal and an early night.
“I’m not sure it’s really my cup of tea.”
“Shut up. You could do with letting your hair down after all the shit you’ve been through.”
It is illegal to drive having consumed more than two pints, and for good reason — it severely impairs one’s judgement. I have had the equivalent of three pints, and therefore I really shouldn’t rely upon my own judgement, let alone Clement’s.
Inevitably, alcohol wins the argument. “Oh, what the heck. Okay.”
“Good man. We’ll have a right laugh — few beers, bit of dancing, checking out the local talent.”
He playfully digs his elbow into my ribs. I try to hide a wince behind a thin smile.
“Well, I’m not so sure about two of those suggestions, but a few beers, certainly.”
Decision made and my fate sealed, we return to the other bar. Despite our sizable lunch, additional food is required to further line my stomach. I order a few rounds of sandwiches which we consume as the bar begins to fill.
By seven o’clock, Clement’s attire is no longer the oddest in the room as dozens of people mill around in excited anticipation of the night’s entertainment. Just my luck I happen to be in the only place on the island where my conservative attire looks out of place. Still, at least I’m not wearing a fire hazard, unlike the army of polyester-clad revellers.
Clement, though, doesn’t appear to appreciate the fancy dress efforts.
“That lot are taking the piss,” he complains, nodding at one particular group decked in bushy wigs and flared trousers.
“In what way?”
“Nobody dressed like that in the seventies. They look right clowns.”
“I don’t think they’re trying for an authentic representation, Clement. Anyway, what makes you an authority on seventies fashion?”
“Experience.”
“Right,” I reply with some hesitation. “Is that why you dress like…that?”
“That?”
“Your style is very much rooted in the past, wouldn’t you say?”
“This is designer garb, Bill. Got it from one of the best outfitters on Carnaby Street.”
“I’m sure it is designer, or was…four decades ago,” I chuckle.
Having spent some time in his company, and bolstered by alcohol, I hope I’ve got the measure of his humour correct.
“Cheeky git,” he replies with a grin. I breathe a sigh of relief.
By seven o’clock, the room is rammed and we can barely hear ourselves over the chatter. Clement seems to be revelling in the atmosphere though, and twice he disappears outside for a cigarette, returning on each occasion with a different woman in tow. I watch him as he stands at the bar, engaged in conversation with the second woman; a blonde with an inappropriately short dress, giggling, and overly tactile. Men like Clement appear able to turn on the charm whenever the need arises, and I hate to admit it, but it’s a skill of which I’m deeply envious.
He eventually extracts himself from the blonde woman’s clutches and returns to our table.
“You alright, Bill? Not mingling?”
“I’m not really the mingling type.”
“No better time to try. There’s some cracking birds in here.”
“Birds?”
“Yeah, you know. Chicks.”
“I understand the reference, Clement, I just don’t think it’s an appropriate label in this day and age.”
He shrugs his shoulder. “You need to lighten up, mate.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ever wonder why you’re still single?”
“Frequently.”
“It’s all well and good being a gent, mate, but women like a bloke with a bit of an edge. You know, unpredictable, fun.”
“I can be fun,” I reply with little conviction.
“Not with that rod stuck up your arse, you can’t. I’ll get another round in; see if that helps to shift it.”
He heads back to the bar, leaving me to consider his advice.
I should be offended but if anything, I appreciate his candour. Life, alas, does not come with an instruction manual, and few people have the self-awareness to realise where they’re going wrong. However, knowing I need to remove that theoretical rod from my posterior doesn’t make the task any easier.
Clement returns and hands me a pint, rather than the half I wanted. I decide to pick up the conversation from where we left it.
“How do you do it then, Clement?”
“Do what?”
“Interact with females.”
He shakes his head. “For starters, stop using terms like, ‘interact with females’. You make it sound like a scientific experiment.”
“Okay. How do you chat up women?”
“You don’t.”
“Sorry. I don’t understand.”
I wait for him to expand on his answer.
“Well? What’s the secret?” I ask again, losing patience.
“There’s no secret, Bill, and chat up lines are bul
lshit. You just gotta do what it said on that silver box.”
At first I don’t quite comprehend what he’s referring to. Then, memories of Wednesday evening return, and the pewter box Gabby delivered to my table in Fitzgerald’s.
“Qui Estis — be who you are,” I mumble to myself.
“You reckon that box belonged to your old man?” Clement asks.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. Probably.”
He leans across the table and fixes his blue eyes on mine. “Maybe he was trying to tell you something?”
“I doubt it,” I scoff. “It’s just a worthless bit of mass produced tat. I don’t know how it came into his possession but I think you might be reading too much into it.”
“You said it yourself, though, Bill. You fell out, and you’ve spent the last ten years trying to be the bloke he wanted you to be.”
I stare back at him, incredulous. “And you seriously think my father’s dying wishes were to let me know I should just be myself? Come off it, Clement.”
“Who knows? But I’d bet my last fiver you don’t even know who you are. Work that out, mate, and you might find it easier chatting to women.”
“Well, thank you for the counselling,” I reply dismissively. “But I know precisely who I am.”
“Tell me then — who are you? Politician? Bachelor? Loner? Strikes me you’re all those things but don’t wanna be any of them.”
Without waiting for my answer, he gets up and pulls a cigarette packet from his pocket. “Think on, Bill. I’m going for a smoke.”
I watch him make his way through the crowd towards the beer garden, from where he’ll no doubt return with another woman in toe. Seconds later, the door to the other bar is opened and the revellers are invited in. Quickly, the room empties, leaving myself and a handful of other patrons in relative peace.
Perhaps it’s just the alcohol, but Clement’s words sit heavy. Notwithstanding the fact his assessment is worryingly accurate, what troubles me to a greater degree is that I’m so obviously transparent. Either that, or Clement has an almost uncanny gift for reading people. I only armed him with minimal information about my life, yet he’s pasted together a perfectly reasonable theorem; a theorem which is as reassuring as it is unsettling.
Something tells me there is more to my denim-clad friend than meets the eye.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 15