For Once In My Life: An absolutely perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  This is a dream come true. I want to do this right now, why have I never thought of this myself?

  Christopher squeezes his eyes shut. ‘It is going to smell. It is going to smell so, so bad.’ He picks up the file, pointing at the front page. ‘It looks like something out of a horror film. Devoid of any colour and fun and innocence, just full of violence and death. Why on earth would you want to have anything to do with this place?’

  I start to appreciate that despite anything I say, Christopher’s fears are real – to him. I wonder what’s behind this. Did he have some kind of experience himself? In this scientific age, it’s astonishing that people can still be convinced that the paranormal are a real and present danger? This is a completely new side of Christopher that I’ve never expected. I’m intrigued. Completely intrigued. Not now, but sometime, when the time’s right, I’m going to ask him all about this – the who, the what, the when and the why behind his fear of ghosts. I’ve got to. What kind of reporter would I be if I let this pass without digging deeper?

  He scans the small-font description under the photograph. ‘Hidden rooms, a creepy basement and what used to be a billiards room where paranormal investigators have captured countless unexplained incidents and activities. See here! There’ve been rumours of murders and scandals throughout the history of the hotel, giving it a rich background for creepy activity.’

  McArthur sits back in her seat; her glasses slide down her nose and she studies Christopher a moment. ‘Looks like you have some fears to face yourself,’ she tells him in a slow, low tone. ‘I’ve not seen this side to you before; negative, obstructive, defeatist. It’s not exactly leadership material.’

  ‘I just don’t like dead or creepy things. And I think some stuff – stuff that we can’t fully understand – just deserves to be left well alone,’ he tells her, running a hand through his hair.

  ‘Well, as you said, we don’t want Lily doing anything that you wouldn’t be prepared to do yourself. So, I think it’s best for everyone that you go along with her.’ She turns to Jennings. ‘Book another room. Christopher is going too.’

  Christopher’s mouth hangs open, but McArthur claps her hands together as if to say that the matter is closed.

  ‘A challenge, Christopher! Challenges and curveballs, that’s business. That’s the real world. Sometimes we don’t know or like what comes our way, but we’ve got to get over ourselves, find a way to suck it up and push on through. Lily’s already demonstrated she can operate outside her comfort zone, so I think it’s only fair we ask you to do the same. This is going to be a hot ticket article, kind of thing that gets people talking, just might stabilise our current position. Personally, I love it. And I’m interested myself in how you’re going to get on.’

  Jennings leans into McArthur and they begin to whisper and collude between themselves.

  Christopher pulls both hands down his face. I need to reassure him that it’s going be fine! That I’ve got this, that, finally, I can be the one that spurs him on and makes sure we get to the end. But I don’t want to say any of that in front of Jennings and McArthur – I don’t want them homing in on any perceived weaknesses. But I really don’t want Christopher to sit there, suffering in silence.

  Aha! I whip out my notepad and start writing.

  Hey you! I’ve got your back. We are going to sail through this one. I promise. You leave it all to me and, who knows, you may even change your mind! Trust me?

  I slide my hand out of my lap and under the table. I find his knee and squeeze it. He shoots a look straight at me and I scooch my note in front of him, as if we’re swapping notes in class right under the teacher’s nose. I then pop my hand in my pocket and take out a silver foiled chocolate noisette. The last one from the box he gave me. I slide that over too.

  He tilts his head at me, blows out his cheeks and mouths ‘thank you’. And I nearly forget that we’re not the only two in the room.

  Until I hear McArthur slap down her gold-ringed knuckles on the table, leaning forward and giving us a very hard stare. ‘Don’t get too cosy, you two. You may have nearly achieved your twenty-two per cent, but can you sustain it? We’ll know this time next week, if you haven’t been scared witless that is.’

  I look down at the reservation. Master Bedroom at The Shankley Hotel for Lily Buckley c/o The Newbridge Gazette. For tonight.

  Friday 13th.

  I place my thumb over the date before Christopher can see it.

  Because by the way he is not breathing, I think he’s already frightened the living crap out of himself.

  Fifteen

  I take the narrow, twisting dirt road towards The Shankley Hotel. I regret taking this old short cut now as brambles and branches scrape at the windscreen and along the doors from both sides. With every mile, the sky seems to close in and darken with storm, the odd clear patch of clear light swallowed up with heavy clouds so that now it’s even harder for me to see where I’m going, and it’s not even twilight yet. I hear another low sigh from Christopher in the passenger seat beside me. I steal a glance at him. He’s not himself at all today and it is no secret as to why.

  ‘You look tired.’ I tell him gently. ‘Why don't you close your eyes a while and I can wake you when we get there?’

  ‘I don’t know how I let myself be talked into this,’ says Christopher, pinching his lips. ‘I might never get over it… I had nightmares well into my teens after watching The Shining, yet somehow I let McArthur – who loves making people suffer – railroad me into spending the night in a haunted hellhole. So much for strong leadership, it appears I’m a pushover.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I tell him. ‘You’re not a pushover at all. You’re doing it for the greater good! And trust me, as a local I know there’s a lot of other people in this town who would refuse to even venture to The Shankley Hotel. My mother included. I didn’t even tell her I was coming.’

  ‘Really? You’re just saying that to make me feel better,’ he says, a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘I’m telling the truth! Cross my heart and hope to die. Now push back your seat and get some rest. A little nap will do you the world of good.’

  Thankfully, he does exactly as I suggest because the way he’s going, I don’t think Christopher is going get a wink of sleep tonight.

  * * *

  The Shankley Hotel made headlines in 1936, when a pair of photographers working for a Country Life supplement took a picture of what appeared to be the ghost of a woman on the staircase. Legend claims that the ‘White Lady’ (named for the colour of her bridal dress) is Lady Dorothy Shankley, a bride who, in a fit of passion, killed her groom-to-be hours before their wedding as she discovered his infidelity with her handmaid. Well, Dorothy, pull up a chair! Although I chose to let Adam live, there’s a part of me that empathises with poor Dorothy. Crimes of passion are real. I believe it is entirely possible to see red and lose your mind and all control in a fit of blind rage. We know she did it, but I wonder if she was really in full possession of all her faculties. I guess a night at The Shankley will help us find out.

  I can’t remember the last time I was this excited. I’ve packed a bag of essential supplies: my Moleskine notebook, new fountain pens, a torch, a range of chocolatey snacks, candles and matches just for ambiance and a few of my favourite spine-chilling classics. I can’t think of a more perfect place to wrap up and read them than in this great crumbling, creaking historic house, with the wind rattling the windows and mysterious shadows casting shapes on the walls. I know it looks impressive in the fading light of day, but it is going to be so atmospheric and eerie once it goes dark.

  But Christopher is awake and sighing again and his clear unease is making me question if this is a good idea after all. His instincts have been spot on so far. Maybe its McArthur that’s got it wrong this time? Maybe this is a step too far and we’re on our way to losing the readership we’ve fought so hard to win over. What if they think that this is silly or stupid or superstitious? Or just plain boring? There’
s a lot at stake. This article doesn’t have to be as good as the others, it needs to be better. A decline this week and we won’t have the time or momentum to turn things around before our target deadline. Maybe that’s why Christopher is really freaking out. Because he feels that this feature is the beginning of the end for us.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Great,’ he answers, staring out the rain-dashed car window.

  We lapse into silence again. I’m not going to push him. We’re on our way as directed by the big bosses so we’ll just have to make it work. Normally, I would put on the radio, make small talk about the weather, the paper, the news around town, favourite lunches of all time, but today I’m not so sure. I steal glances of Christopher in the car mirror about ten times, trying to send reassuring subliminal support or even just trying to catch his eye. This is a new dynamic for us, me supporting him. And I have to say, by the increasing sense of anxiety in this car, I’m not doing very well.

  I want to pull over, drive in to a lay-by and get him to spill the beans. Turn to him and ask: What are you thinking? Tell me what’s wrong. Let me in!

  I glance over once more and I see that he has closed his eyes.

  ‘Christopher? Is everything all right?’ I chance again.

  But he just nods, pulls his hoodie up and turns towards the window. ‘I’m fine. Just tired. Wake me up when we get there.’

  Maybe he is just tired. We have been working non-stop. Perhaps he needs some time alone to think, some space. Why am I prodding and poking him with questions and answers? He’s perfectly entitled to feel the way he does without a full-on Spanish Inquisition from me. Yes, I decide to shut up and ask no more questions. Leave him alone and let him sleep if he wants to. Even if it is only half three in the afternoon.

  On the drive up the hill, I keep reminding myself that ghosts don’t exist. They can’t exist. Like unicorns or Holy Grails or aliens. They just don’t. If they did, they’d all have their own Instagram accounts by now. My biggest concern is that nothing remarkable is going to happen and I might still be doing this sort of journalistic nonsense in ten years’ time. When I started, I guess I thought I’d be writing contemporary, bold and agenda-setting features by now. I couldn’t be further from the glamour of that right now, with my car stuck in the wrong gear, my wheels and windscreen caked in mud and my colleague huddled up in the front seat, gently murmuring protestations to himself in half-sleep. But since writing these features, I feel like I’m much closer to that career goal. I’m writing from the heart. I’m experiencing new things; I’m learning and growing. And to be absolutely honest, if I can make it so that I can feel that way here at home, right here in Newbridge, then I’m on my way to having everything I need. And that’s more than I dared to dream for a very long time.

  * * *

  It dawns on me as we walk into The Shankley, just after 4 p.m. on a windy, rainy Friday afternoon, that it doesn’t matter if it is actually haunted or not. The fact is, this house is an old murder site where someone’s life ended violently. And I’ve committed to spending an entire night in it. Book-geek and professional fantasies aside, I wonder whether it is right for a twenty-nine-year-old woman to spend her Friday nights hunting for spooks with a gift-shop torch? Is it any wonder that I’m single?

  Mr Dean, the manager, meets us at the door and takes our bags, beginning our education in the hotel of horror. Christopher looks like all the blood has drained from his body. A telephone rings on the front desk and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask him in a low but firm whisper while Mr Dean takes the call. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘I really wish I pushed for swimming with dolphins now.’ And he disappears into the men’s room.

  Twenty minutes later, he’s still in there.

  ‘Christopher, are you all right?’ I gently knock on the toilet door.

  ‘Yep,’ a small, forced voice assures me.

  I’m not convinced.

  ‘The twilight tour is about to begin and I don’t want to leave you in there all by yourself,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m fine, really, just go,’ he mumbles through the door.

  ‘I’m hardly going to leave you like this. I’m skipping the tour, so just come out and we’ll take a walk outside in the fresh air or get a cup of tea and a bite to eat maybe? How does that sound?’ I very much doubt that Christopher is hungry, but I just need to coax him out, so I can make sure he’s okay.

  ‘You can’t skip the tour,’ he tells me.

  ‘Of course I can.’

  I hear the bolt shift back, the doorknob twists and the heavy wooden door creaks open. Christopher is grey and looks like he’s not slept in weeks despite the fact he dozed all the way here.

  ‘I think it’s best I drive you back home, Christopher. This isn’t for you.’

  I know what it’s like to be facing your fears, how physically and emotionally exhausting it can be.

  It takes all his energy to raise his hand and shake his head. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You won’t. I can do this one by myself, honestly. Remember: “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts”.’ I say this in a terrible cartoony American accent, just trying to make things light, make him feel that it’s really no big deal if he withdraws from this one.

  ‘McArthur,’ he whispers.

  ‘What about her?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s testing me. This could make all the difference between graduating the leadership programme with real prospects or just scraping through. I’ve worked too hard to lose it on this, especially so close to the end. I’ve got to stay. I’m a grown man. I can handle this. And I’m certainly not letting you stay here by yourself. Absolutely not.’

  Mr Dean rings the bell to commence the tour.

  Right, if this is crucial for Christopher’s career, then I’ve got to help him, just as he has helped me.

  ‘I hear you. This is exactly how I felt during the skydive and the Hell Raiser, but we got through it together, and this will be no different. Believe me, if I can do it, then so can you. We’re just going to check in, stay over and go home, as we would in any hotel. And this is just a hotel, remember. Just four stone walls and a leaky roof. That’s it. Nothing more. I’ll go on the tour. You go wait in the car.’

  He surveys the walls and looks up to the ceiling, seeming a little brighter, a little more detached. ‘Okay. That sounds like a plan. You go on the tour. I’ll wait in the car. I brought wine. Even some mini-bottles of brandy just in case. So, if I just have a drink, listen to some music, get my head down for another hour or so, I might be all right. Just go on the tour and come and get me when you’re done? Deal?’

  I wink at him. ‘Deal… but one thing…’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asks uncertainly.

  ‘You better leave some wine for me.’

  * * *

  The tour of The Shankley Hotel is just as intriguing as I imagined it would be. Starting in the parlour, our tour guide launches into the history of the Shankley family – the wealth, the societal expectations, the betrayal, the murder – and me and the dozen or so other guests hang on to every macabre word.

  Mr Dean explains to us that he can communicate with the spirits, which are apparently releasing different energies in each room. Right this second. Some are angry, others are sad, he tells us, as his eyes roll backwards in his head, his eyelids fluttering like his face is being slowly electrocuted. How on earth am I going to write an article for the general public on this craziness? But I remind myself that I’m here with an open mind, so I force myself to shut up and keep listening.

  Mr Dean then points to a fiercely flickering candle surrounded by still ones and alerts us to the fact that it’s ‘just a spirit passing through’. There are no windows open, but still, I’m cynical. But judging by the gasps and wheezes of the others in our group, I’m the only one who is.

  We follow him up the stairs to the top floor: the former staff quarters. Bare iron beds, wooden floorboards, white-washed walls. We
wander around with torches, trying our best to ‘feel’ something in the dark, dank corners. The candle-lit rooms are packed with antique ornaments and freakish, broken-eyed dolls. I don’t have any of the physical reactions Mr Dean claims people experience, such as dizziness, nausea or difficulty breathing. But he is adamant that many visitors report having strange experiences, be it a ghostly slap or a sudden chill. Particularly if they stay in the master bedroom.

  My bedroom for the night.

  Forgetting momentarily that he’s not here, I turn to nudge Christopher, as even I’m starting to feel a little queasy at the idea, but I startle an elderly Japanese tourist instead.

  I really wish Christopher was here. Since we started the whole relaunch of the Gazette, he’s been by my side every step of the way. And now that he’s not, I miss him.

  I apologise to the wheezing Japanese gentleman and look at the clock. The tour should be finishing up soon, and I want to go check on Christopher. See if he’s all right. Just see him really.

  As Mr Dean describes the details of the groom’s murder, he also passes around a binder of laminated photos guests have taken while staying at the hotel. One picture was taken by a woman staying in the murder room a few years back. In the middle of the night, she spotted something on her partner’s side of the bed, so she jumped up and quickly snapped this photo. A faint ethereal figure in a wedding gown – just a trick of the light or a vengeful ghost-bride trapped in time?

  Majority opinion was the latter.

  And this was the exact bed I would be sleeping in later. Great. Christopher’s reservations are not so irrational now. I’m starting to get it. This doesn’t feel like a staged themed experience any more. Even I feel like I’d rather stay at the Travelodge down the road. Order pizza to the room and watch a movie in a soft, clean bed with a mound of cushions. Minibar, en suite, spectre-free.