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

by Colleen Coleman

  And, if I’m honest with myself, trusting myself, trusting a guy again, is a major bucket list item for me. Because, deep down, I never really believed it would happen.

  Until now.

  Buckley’s Bucket List

  No. 3 – The Shankley Hotel

  Given the spooky nature of an October night in a 300-year-old hotel – and not just any night, but Friday 13th – even a comfortable canopy bed and crackling fire in the hearth may not be enough to help guests get a restful night’s sleep – especially since the spirits within are often restless. There are plenty of spine-chilling stories from those who have resided in The Shankley Hotel, where invited (and apparently uninvited) guests roam the rooms and hallways. When I first wrote this story’s tagline, it read ‘Sleeping at The Shankley Hotel’, but I corrected myself, as there was not much of the former.

  A new poll tells us that fifty-five per cent of Britons believe in the supernatural and one in ten think they have a supernatural gift. The findings make sense. Why wouldn’t people want to believe in ghosts? Doesn’t the thought that the ‘bump in the night’ is more than just the central heating playing up give us all a little thrill? It means that the great adventure of life doesn’t end with death. You’ve got many more years ahead of you of floating about invisible and unhindered. No more long queues at airport check-in for this weightless soul…

  Although a sceptic myself, I’m a curious and respectful one, forever on the lookout for things that can’t be explained by science. I always retained a healthy belief that all things are possible. And that was the attitude that I took to our ghost hunt challenge. So, it was with a determinedly open mind that I agreed to stay overnight with my colleague Christopher at The Shankley Hotel.

  There were some ‘incidences’. A fire alarm that went off for no reason. Lots of screaming (some of it, admittedly, from me). A howling storm outside which made the whole house creak and sway. Flickering candles in sealed rooms, along with unexplained shivers at the back of our necks, frozen feet and vivid nightmares all featured during our stay. The next morning at breakfast, one of a group of American ghost watchers who also spent the night, said things got weird as soon as she turned off her lights. ‘There was this feeling of sickness that came over us. Doors opened on their own and the toilet kept flushing of its own accord.’ Other members of the group reported flying objects and bone-chilling sensations including nausea and the feeling that their hair was being touched. ‘You always got the sense something was standing behind you.’

  Were these the antics of ghouls and ghosts or were they figments of our imagination, realised in the context of our expectation? It’s anyone’s guess. One thing is for sure, though, if you have a nervy, jumpy predisposition, expect to jump. A lot.

  So, do I believe in ghosts? I don’t know. I believe in atmospheres engendered by people who are long gone; in auras retained in places where folk have been deeply affected; that profound emotions hang around, caught in corners of buildings, trapped in rooms and objects and even people. I can enter one house and immediately feel welcome before meeting its occupants; in another home, the back of my neck tingles with unexplained unease.

  But there is something I did sense back there. Something that’s left a lasting impression on me.

  I stayed in the Master Bedroom, where a raging Dorothy Shankley axed her cheating groom-to-be, after much hurt and heartbreak had occurred. And I did feel something. In fact, I was bowled over by the overwhelming energy of painful feelings, of a restless, unresolved past. Desperation. Loneliness. Anguish. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. This may be what’s so palpable at The Shankley and what scares people so much, a resonance with the trapped Dorothy in her torturous limbo, her inability to let go, her inability to move on. And until she does so, I guess she’ll be imprisoned in this hotel, in her own suffering, in this ethereal no-man’s land, forever.

  But rather than be scared of her, it makes me feel sorry for her. Because I experienced something a little similar to Dorothy in my own life at one point. So in a way, I understand the kind of despair and fury that drove her do what she did. Thankfully, I didn’t have an axe to hand. And maybe that made all the difference. Because we can’t control how others treat us, sometimes we don’t get what we deserve, but it’s how we respond that really defines us. And after spending some time in Dorothy’s room, I’ve decided that the best way for me to respond to my own situation is to let go of what’s past and embrace the future.

  Unfortunately it’s not so easy for Dorothy. I want to tell her to forgive them, forget them – the groom, the handmaid… not because they deserve forgiveness, but because she deserves peace. The hurt they caused her is nothing compared to the hurt she’s causing herself. And that’s no way to live… or die. Instead, Dorothy, think how much fun you could have!

  While I can’t say I left Newbridge’s most haunted hotel keen to ditch my journalism career for ghost hunting, I definitely have a more open mind. I suspected all the stories we’d been fed about visitors hearing footsteps and feeling hands on their shoulders had influenced our perception of our surroundings. Maybe the human mind seeks patterns to make sense of ambiguous information. But how can we ever really know?

  If you enjoy being shook up for kicks, or just want to experience a truly unique night away, steeped in the history of Newbridge, I’d advise you to check in to The Shankley. You can decide for yourself if that fear is of real or imaginary ghosts.

  As I prefer hanging out with humans, I’m unlikely to return. But what I did learn is that I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. In fact, I think I managed to lay one or two to rest.

  Till next week! Lily xx

  Do you believe Lady Dorothy haunts The Shankley Hotel? Vote on our readers’ poll below to enter our draw to receive… a weekend away at The Shankley Hotel, courtesy of Mr Dean and his team. BTW, they serve a cracking breakfast :)

  Seventeen

  ‘You look lovely.’

  I check over my shoulder just to be sure. Nobody else is in sight. So unless Christopher has got a notable ophthalmic misalignment (cross-eyed, as my granny would’ve said), he appears to be smiling directly at me.

  ‘Likewise. You scrub up well.’

  I’m understating. What I want to say is you are positively big-screen gorgeous.

  I can’t help but look over my shoulder once more, just to make sure I haven’t traipsed into someone else’s dream date. Into someone else’s life. I haven’t.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asks.

  I nod. I really want to keep this relationship under wraps. Firstly, this is breaking my rule about ‘getting involved’ with work colleagues. I know what we’re doing is perfectly legal, two adults who like each other out for a meal, perfectly civilised, but I still don’t feel comfortable about anyone knowing yet. I definitely like him. As in DEFINITELY. But, once bitten, twice shy. The Gazette was my refuge after my last heartbreak. I don’t know how I’d cope with another, in plain view of people I’ve got to see every day.

  I dart my eyes up and down the street behind us and figure the coast is clear, so I slip my arm in to Christopher’s elbow and we walk in to the Golden Wok restaurant he’s booked for our first date. I feel as high as I was on that skydive. Except that this time, I may be falling faster.

  Inside, Christopher leads us across the restaurant and pulls out my chair at the reserved, candle-lit round table for two in the corner.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks as he opens the wine list.

  Paper lanterns, fans, dragons and huge, bulging-eyed fish adorn the walls, decked out in enough lace and chintz to supply several brothels.

  ‘I’ve never been here before, but it looks great.’ I don’t want to tell him that I’ve never been here before because this restaurant has a reputation for being one of the worst restaurants in the area. I remember Hannah ordering a takeaway of spring rolls with sweet chilli sauce only to get a soggy pastry tube with a single sad beansprout inside and a side of strawberry jam. So nope, this is a first for me.<
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  I study the wine menu too. It lists two kinds. Red and white. That’s it.

  ‘Recommendation from Mark – he appears to know all about the best places to go,’ says Christopher.

  Maybe Mark was teasing? Or keeping his cards close to his chest regarding dating venues, so they don’t end up in the same place? I really can’t see Mark bringing girls in here to impress them.

  Christopher surveys the dining room and eyes the bar. ‘Clearly he likes very quiet restaurants with dark corners that serve draught beer and have an early-bird menu. He said that the sweet and sour pork and the satay chicken are the best in town.’

  I don’t know if that’s as impressive as Christopher may think it is, seeing as this is the only Chinese in town. Mark’s idea of a well-balanced meal is a protein shake followed by dehydrated cow hide. But then again, maybe I’ve got it all wrong and this restaurant is a hidden gem. We’re here to find out.

  ‘Sweet and sour pork it is then,’ I say, closing my menu.

  Christopher bites down on his lip. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest. Please, Lily, order anything you want… there’s duck, noodles…’

  I shrug. ‘Best sweet and sour in town sounds great to me.’ I take his hand across the table and squeeze it gently ‘Confession time; I’m not just here for the food.’

  He winks at me and gently squeezes my hand.

  ‘And I’ll have the satay then.’ He smiles, shutting the menu. ‘You know, the more I learn about Newbridge and all it has to offer, the more I like it. More importantly, I want to kick myself at how much of an arrogant city-boy bastard I was, believing that there was little to no life outside of London.’

  I raise my eyebrow. I can’t picture Christopher as a stuck-up suit. Yes, he wears a suit, and yes, he’s really well spoken. But I’ve never believed him to be cocky.

  ‘But that happens right?’ he continues. ‘You get blinkered, you live in a city, so you believe that everything outside of it is somehow a scaled-down or diluted version of what you have on your doorstep every day. But that’s such a false logic, such a shallow view. In the short while I’ve been here, I’ve got to know the team far better than I knew any of my previous colleagues despite being there for years.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’ I ask.

  He blows out his cheeks. ‘Mixture of things. The office was so big and hectic we rarely had a chance to stop and get to know each other. But a lot of the fault is mine, I spent… correction, I allowed Victoria to take over. I got lazy and just let her run my life basically. By the end, I didn’t even bother to ask what I was doing on a Friday night, knowing she’d already have made all the plans.’

  ‘It was a major break-up then.’ I can’t help but feel uncomfortable every time Victoria’s name comes up. I know he said it’s over but he also said that she wants him back. Who could blame her? And I have a strong feeling that Victoria finds ways to get what she wants. I know better than anyone that it’s hard to move on, even when you really want to.

  ‘Major breakthrough. I lost myself back there somehow. And now that I can see that, now I’ve had some space to be on my own, new setting, new people… I feel a lot better, much happier. I just want to make sure I never go back.’

  That makes two of us. I’m here with this gorgeous man and I want everything to be perfect. No thoughts of the past. Only of the future.

  I can’t believe this. The paper is on the up, Christopher is a miracle, and everything is just falling perfectly in to place.

  I really need a drink.

  I try to catch the waiter’s eye, but actually, I can’t even catch a waiter. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around who works here. There are no other customers so they can’t be too busy to serve us. Did Mark really say that this was one of his favourite restaurants?

  I unfold my napkin and smooth it on my lap to distract myself. That waiter will be here any moment, surely…

  Christopher must be just as thirsty as me as he loosens his collar. We hear shouting in a different language and turn to see a very angry waiter bellowing in to the phone whilst slamming his fist against the counter.

  ‘No! You are the dick cheese! Fuck you!’ he calls out in English.

  Christopher raises an eyebrow and tips his head slightly towards the door. ‘You want to go?’

  ‘Go lick your mother’s balls,’ shouts the waiter.

  I shake my head and smile at him. ‘Newbridge’s finest.’

  Christopher laughs. ‘Remind me never to trust Mark’s judgement ever again.’

  Finally, the waiter arrives at our table, unsurprisingly, without a smile. I try to keep my eyes on the menu as he scratches under his armpit. We order, and he grunts his understanding and shouts the order (without writing it down) to a terrified-looking waitress behind the bar.

  She then walks over to the kitchen door and shouts it through.

  We hear the final echo from somewhere inside the clanging and steam.

  However crazy this ordering system is, a bottle of red and a basket of prawn crackers arrive on the table.

  Christopher pours and raises his glass to a toast. ‘To surviving Buckley’s Bucket list: the skydive, the Hell Raiser and, I’d never thought I’d say this, but my favourite, The Shankley.’

  I clink his glass. ‘And hopefully surviving the Golden Wok.’

  With that, the waiter returns, slamming down a sizzling tray of neon orange pork. It looks and smells radioactive. I’m not sure pork is supposed to look like this. I’m not even sure it’s pork.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious,’ I offer.

  But then Christopher’s satay arrives… and I burst out laughing.

  Christopher smiles as he lowers his nose to the plate to inspect further. ‘Yep, smells just like it looks.’

  It looks like a steaming mound of peanut butter poo.

  ‘Do you think Mark did this on purpose?’ he asks.

  I look at my watch. ‘It’s nine o’clock. He’ll be next door in The Black Boar now. Pint in hand. We could get this in a doggy bag and drop it in to him, seeing as it’s his favourite?’

  Christopher drums his fingers excitedly against the table and calls for the bill, which comes with a grimace and a handful of fortune cookies.

  ‘You first,’ he prompts.

  I unwrap mine and hold it up to read it. ‘Your head is too small for your body.’ I burst out laughing and pretend to measure my head against my body. ‘Confucius must have been having a very bad day when he wrote that one.’

  ‘Take another one. That one’s rubbish,’ Christopher says.

  I open a second one. ‘First love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence. Second love is the triumph of hope over experience.’

  We both stop a moment to ponder this, as if it’s real-life philosophical advice, straight from the after-dinner snack gods.

  ‘I do like this one better than the shrunken head one,’ I tell him, folding over the strip of fortune paper and sliding it into my wallet. ‘Think I’ll need to re-read it sometime I’ve had less wine.’

  Christopher opens his. ‘Every exit is a gateway to something new,’ he reads. ‘In that case, let’s exit.’

  And sure enough, ten minutes later, we’re sitting at the counter of a packed-out Black Boar with two drinks in hand and two packets of crisps, while we wait for Mark to finish singing ‘Ring of Fire’ on karaoke (prophetic, much?) so we can deliver his favourite steaming brown takeaway. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to kiss Christopher, not to hold his hand or wrap myself around him. But this is a rule I am keeping – no one at the Gazette can know about this. This is really new for me, and we’re moving very fast.

  We work closely, we share the same friends, we haven’t known each other very long but yet I’m feeling a lot for him. I’m thinking about him all the time. I’ve got to tread carefully here before I lose control of myself altogether.

  By the time the last orders bell rings, we’ve had a very fun night out. Including our own little rend
ition of ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’, Christopher pulling off a rather surprising falsetto which made him Kiki Dee.

  ‘One for the road?’ he asks.

  ‘Or coffee at mine?’

  We get our coats.

  Eighteen

  The sun streams through the window of my bedroom. I nudge the sleeping warmth nestled into my back. ‘I’ll go in first. It won’t be so obvious that way,’ I tell him.

  Christopher rolls back and opens one eye. ‘I don’t care if it’s obvious.’ He smiles at me.

  I shake my head. ‘No, no, no! They can’t know; honestly. We’ve still got to work together! We can’t have any distractions, no suspicious mutterings or fuelling of the gossip mill. There’s too much at stake. Especially with McArthur coming in for the progress meeting next week. Everything is riding on that meeting, all the hard work we’ve put in. The Newbridge Gazette isn’t out of the woods yet. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize for now, okay?’

  He stretches and yawns theatrically. ‘Your call. If it makes you more comfortable to keep me as your guilty little secret.’

  ‘It does. And it’s not just me. It could have a negative impact on your leadership programme too. McArthur probably wouldn’t look favourably on you cavorting so closely with the staff.’ I think back to our very first meeting, her socking her fist in to her palm saying some behaviour ‘belonged in the bedroom, not the boardroom’. I wince a little as I realise she meant Christopher and Victoria. That he’s been in this position before, from bedroom to boardroom.

  I sit up and shake out my hair. ‘I know for a fact that she doesn’t approve of this kind of unprofessionalism.’

  He traces a finger on my shoulder. ‘The unprofessionalism is the best bit.’ His hand drifts up to my chin. ‘And I just want to stay here. Do we have to go in?’

  ‘Yes! And no funny looks. No looking at all, in fact. I caught you at the pub last night. You need to help me not make it even harder! We’ve got to keep everything normal.’