The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

  And pointy horns, probably. I’ve never met a transition manager before, but the whole point of them is to change things, right? That’s the last thing we want around here. Ta very much again.

  Tempted as I am to run to the window to see the bloke, we can’t have him thinking that we care that he’s here.

  ‘I think you’ll like him, Rosie. He’s a good-looking lad.’

  ‘He’s changing our hotel, Peter, not asking us out.’

  ‘Right. Still.’

  I can see his smile through the wavy old glass of the door even before he reaches it. They must teach that at change management college. Introduction to Sincere-Looking Smiles.

  I hate to admit it but, flippin’ heck, Peter’s right. This bloke is a looker, if you take away the thick specs he’s wearing. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looks natural in his fitted grey suit, like one of those arrogant Wall Street types. Only his hair isn’t slicked back. It’s stuck up with gel and there’s a lot of it.

  I let him push open the door instead of opening it for him. No reason to roll out the red carpet for someone who’s about to do us over. ‘Are you Rosie? I’m Rory Thomas.’

  His accent throws me. I expected brash American, not posh English. Quickly I readjust my prejudices from one to the other. There, job done. Now I can resent him for being a poncy southerner. ‘Rosie MacDonald.’ I bite down the Nice to meet you and offer him my hand instead.

  ‘Will you be staying long?’ I ask. He hasn’t got any cases with him, just a khaki courier bag slung across his front, which clashes with his sharp suit.

  ‘Are you trying to get rid of me already?’ he teases. When his smile ratchets up a notch, his mouth looks almost as big as mine, but less muppet-like. Kind of nice, if I’m honest. ‘I’m at Mrs Carmody’s B&B on Marine Road. Do you know it?’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of B&Bs around here. The town’s not that small, you know.’ I don’t know why I’m defending Scarborough when I couldn’t get out of here fast enough myself. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’, I guess.

  ‘It’s a reasonable size,’ he agrees. ‘I imagine that means reasonable competition, so it surprised me when Mrs Carmody made me leave for the day. I’m not allowed back till after four. I thought those days were over.’

  I stifle a laugh. ‘Welcome to Scarborough, where time stands still. I’d have thought you’d just stay here. Is our hotel not good enough for you?’ I don’t know where this narky attitude is coming from. Especially since, technically, he’s probably my boss now.

  ‘It’s perfectly good enough for me, but I’d have to move out when we redo the rooms. It’ll be less disruptive to just hole myself up at the B&B while works are going on.’ His forehead wrinkles. ‘They did tell you about the renovation?’

  ‘No. We’ve heard nothing at all. Only that you were coming.’

  ‘God, I’m so sorry! That’s a terrible way to hear news about your hotel.’ He shakes his head. ‘Really, I can only apologise. I haven’t found the communications great with the company either, if that makes you feel any better.’

  It doesn’t.

  ‘So you don’t know what they’re planning?’ His grey eyes are magnified by his thick lenses. ‘Have you got an office or somewhere for us to sit and go through everything?’

  It can’t be good if he wants me to sit down. My tummy is flipping as we go into the oak-panelled office behind the reception desk.

  ‘This is nice.’ He’s running his hands over the panels. ‘The whole hotel is really something. I love these old places.’

  ‘Do you revamp them a lot?’ I make ditto marks just in case he misses the snark.

  ‘Me? No, never. It’s my first hotel assignment.’

  ‘But I thought you worked for the company.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m a freelancer. They’ve brought me in to do this job. It’s the same process, though, no matter the industry.’

  So our hotel is going to be ‘change-managed’ – ditto fingers – by someone with absolutely no hotel experience. ‘Where have you worked before?’

  ‘That sounds like an interview question. A slightly aggressive one. No, I don’t mind,’ he says, when he sees me start to object. ‘It’s natural to have concerns. After all, this is your livelihood. I’ve managed transitions for a biscuit factory and a couple of banks that needed integration.’ He’s counting off on his fingers. ‘An insurance company, and a long stint with Transport for London. Ah yes, and a handmade bicycle business in Leeds.’

  Biscuits and bicycles. That’s great experience for running a hotel. If we never need advice on elevenses, Rory’s our man.

  ‘Rosie, if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t have to be clairvoyant to see that you’d rather not have me here. And I’m sorry about that, but I’m a necessary evil and this will all go a lot more smoothly if we can work together. I’m not here to do your job. And despite what you probably think, I’m not a ball-buster. The sale’s gone through. It’s going to happen now, whether anyone likes it or not.’

  I’m a little taken aback by his directness. Rory doesn’t look like a ball-buster, but clearly he’s no pushover either. I might not want him here but, as a Yorkshirewoman, I’ve at least got to admire his straightforwardness.

  ‘My job is to make the transition as easy as possible for both sides,’ he continues, ‘and that means being the go-between and trying to keep everyone happy. So I’d like it if you could see me as an ally instead of an adversary. Because I’m really not. An adversary, I mean. I don’t have any loyalty to Beach Vacations –’

  ‘Inc.,’ I add. Something about that really irks me. It sounds so impersonal. The hotel I worked for in New York City was also an Inc. And look at how that turned out.

  ‘Inc., right,’ he says. ‘They’re paying me to transition the hotel as smoothly as possible, and a transition can only be smooth when everyone is happy. So I’m really here to make you happy.’

  Dammit. I can’t help returning his smile.

  ‘We’re going to be colleagues, only I’ve got the boss’s ear,’ he says. ‘That should be useful to you, right?’

  It would be, if it’s true. ‘I do understand what you’re trying to do,’ I tell him honestly. ‘We’re just not big on change around here. Your landlady is the tip of the iceberg, believe me. The Colonel’s family hasn’t changed anything here in years, not even paint colour on the walls. The staff aren’t going to like it.’

  When I say ‘staff’, it’s Chef who pops into my head. When Cadbury ditched the Bournvilles from the Heroes chocolate tub, he was apoplectic. Not only is he originally from Birmingham, home of the Bournville, but substituting Toblerone (Swiss!) was unpatriotic. When Cadbury then dared to change its recipe for the Creme Eggs, it was the last straw for him. Now there’s a total ban on their products at the hotel. He won’t even touch a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, and they’re his favourite. We have to hear him grumble about it every Christmas.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there will be changes with the new owners,’ Rory says. ‘So will you at least let me try to help? The transition is happening. You may as well have me on your team.’

  ‘Is that what we are? A team?’

  ‘I hope so. Should we meet the rest of the team?’

  ‘Please stop saying team.’

  ‘I’m sorry. The company uses it a lot. As you’d imagine.’

  We share a very British smile at the Americans’ expense.

  But I’m not laughing after he’s told me everything. It’s bad enough that there’s a whole refit planned for the building. We’ll also be reapplying for our own jobs. Those are the jobs we’ve all been doing perfectly well for years! Like anyone else would want them anyway. Rory claims it’s just a formality because everyone will get new contracts, but I don’t like the idea of jumping through hoops for a job I’ve already got. It sounds like a lot of useless bureaucratic box-ticking to me.

  I shrug. ‘Anyway, if it’s definitely happening then there’s no use grizzling about it. So how long wi
ll the hotel be closed while it’s being refurbished?’

  ‘The company isn’t keen to lose any income it doesn’t have to,’ he says, clearly relieved not to discuss my potential job loss anymore. ‘I wish we could close it, but we’ll have to zone the building works so they can be done away from where the guests will stay. It should be okay if we do it in stages. Your occupancy isn’t above thirty per cent anyway at this time of year.’

  Of course. The company would have done its homework before the purchase. Rory probably knows more about this place than I do. ‘What about the residents?’ I ask. ‘Will they work around them?’

  ‘Like I said, we’ll just keep them away from the works. The company might authorise a discount on room rates. We’ll see.’

  ‘But won’t their rooms need redoing too? I guess we can put them up in guest rooms in the meantime.’

  Rory looks confused. ‘Which rooms do you mean?’

  ‘The residents’ rooms.’ Am I not speaking English? ‘The hotel residents: Peter, Lill. The Colonel, Miracle?’ Best not bring Barry into it just now.

  ‘The Colonel has a lifetime tenancy, so his room won’t be affected. It’s written into the contract. The company isn’t refurbing it, though. I don’t know who the other people are?’

  Oh really? Well, this is interesting. ‘You don’t know about the council agreement? Or Miracle’s arrangement?’ He definitely isn’t going to welcome this news. ‘They’ve all got tenancy agreements with us. With the hotel.’

  Rory’s eyes widen. ‘You don’t mean they’re sitting tenants?’

  Sitting tenants. Now there’s a phrase to strike fear into the heart of any new owner. I’m glad.

  ‘I wonder if the company knows,’ he says, looking worried. ‘They’ve only ever mentioned Colonel Bambury’s agreement.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t know what sitting tenants are, being American. They might not have them there.’ If not, the new owners are in for a shock. I happen to know that the ink is hardly dry on Miracle’s new tenancy agreement. Three years. And the council isn’t going to be keen on having to rehouse anyone with the way the government is squeezing their budgets.

  ‘Between you and me,’ says Rory, ‘it doesn’t sound like they did much due diligence before the purchase. Did anyone even come for a site visit?’

  ‘No, not that I know of,’ I tell him. ‘But who in their right mind would buy an entire hotel without seeing it first?’

  Rory leans closer. ‘I probably shouldn’t mention this, but I’m not so sure they are in their right minds. It’s two brothers who own the company, and they don’t speak to each other. I’ve only had Skype calls with them, separately, of course, but from what I gather they’re pretty eccentric.’

  ‘When you say eccentric …’

  ‘They’re mad as a box of frogs. You’ll see.’

  ‘And these are our new owners? Perfect.’

  ‘At least if they didn’t bother coming over to see what they were buying, they probably won’t bother us much now after the fact. They seem to like to dictate from afar. Over Skype.’ He pulls a grimace. ‘You will let me help you navigate through all this, won’t you?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like I’ve got much choice, given what might be ahead.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ He raises his hand for a high-five.

  I’m sure I slap it harder than he’s expecting.

  It’s late afternoon by the time we finish and I, for one, am exhausted. I never realised how much work I do till I had to explain it all to Rory. Hopefully that’ll count for something when I reapply for my own job.

  ‘What is that smell?’ Rory asks.

  ‘Oh, that’s the goat. It starts out a little pongy but ends up really nice.’

  ‘Do you serve a lot of goat at the hotel?’ A smirk is playing at the corners of his mouth. He seems to find a lot of things funny.

  ‘Only on Caribbean night.’ I push my chair back and stretch my back. We both hear the cracks of my spine. ‘Come on, you can meet Chef and Miracle. It’s her goat.’

  ‘Her…?’

  ‘Recipe. It’s her goat recipe. Not her goat.’

  As if we’d let Miracle keep a goat in the hotel. We’re going to have enough trouble when Rory sees Barry.

  Chef and Miracle aren’t alone in the dining room when we get there. Lill is sitting with them. She’s got her vape in one hand and a martini in the other.

  ‘She’s not smoking indoors, is she?’ Rory murmurs.

  ‘No, Mister Health and Safety.’ But I know why he’d think so. Lill’s vape looks like a twenties-style cigarette holder. It’s rarely out of her hand. ‘Just in time for drinkies!’ she cries when she sees us. ‘Oh, hello there.’

  Rory’s greeting is friendly and polite, but I catch the look of confusion on his face.

  I guess I’m so used to seeing Lill that her drag queeny false eyelashes, feather boas and white go-go boots aren’t such a shock. It’s not the boots, actually, that throws people. It’s the sight of her scrawny arms and legs in a vest and miniskirt. She looks like sixties Twiggy has spent way too long in the bath.

  ‘You’re the henchman,’ Chef says. Like Lill, he’s most comfortable in a vest. Unlike her, Chef’s vest is always white and sometimes stained, and he’s got tattoos all up his beefy arms. He’s left the Army, which may account for the slip in uniform standards, but his haircut is still regulation. And his manner is as exacting as his haircut.

  ‘Well, I’m only here to ensure a smooth transition,’ Rory explains.

  ‘Said the SS guard at the camp gate. Call it what you like. How long are you staying?’

  ‘Don’t be harsh on the bloke, Chef,’ I say. ‘He’s just doing his job.’

  Rory smiles his thanks, though I’m not sure why I’m sticking up for him when he’s just told me I’ll have to apply for my own job. Maybe it’s because he seems like an alright person. Maybe because he’s the only buffer between us and our new owners.

  ‘Rosie tells me you’re making goat. It smells … good.’

  Miracle’s laugh rings out across the dining room, and that’s saying something because the room is vast. In its heyday our hotel would regularly seat a hundred and fifty people for buffet lunches or fancy dinners. There are old black-and-white photos hung all around the hotel that I love to look at. ‘My, isn’t he a charming liar? No, it don’t smell good, petal, but it will. It will.’ Miracle’s chins nod for a few seconds after she stops. ‘My babies always brag about their mama’s goat curry,’ she says, wiping her hands on the bright-yellow apron that’s covering her batik-print dress. ‘They can’t get enough of it. All three begged for de recipe before they moved from home but they say I still make it better.’ She laughs again. ‘I say I do.’

  ‘You can’t beat a family recipe,’ Rory says. ‘And I know how your children feel. My dad was the cook in our house, and I’ve never been able to make his recipes as well either. There’s something about the way a parent makes it.’

  ‘It’s de love they put in,’ Miracle says. ‘Come along, boy, I’ll show you.’

  ‘I don’t want strangers in my kitchen,’ Chef barks.

  ‘Calm yourself, Chef,’ she says. ‘It’s not your kitchen today. As long as it’s my curry in there, it’s my kitchen.’ Ignoring Chef’s thunderous look, she hoists herself from the table. Then she leads Rory to the industrial kitchen, leaving Lill and I to smooth over Chef’s ruffled feathers.

  Chapter 4

  It’s not my job to make Rory’s life easier, but it feels like kicking a puppy when I snub him. I mean, look at him, with those thick specs and messed-up hair that’s not adjusting well to the sea air, and his fancy suit that stands out a mile here. Besides, his landlady at the B&B chucks him out every day after breakfast, so he’s always at the hotel asking a million questions.

  Usually it’s just me working in front, so it’s nice to have someone else in the office for a change. The hotel doesn’t run a skeleton staff so much as a mummified one.

&nb
sp; Rory is going through the employee files. They’re all neatly handwritten by successive generations of the Colonel’s family.

  He glances at my folder. ‘There’s no CV in here. No application?’

  ‘The Colonel didn’t need my CV,’ I say. ‘He knows me.’ Then I realise that might not fit our new owner’s official hiring protocol.

  Rory lets it go, though. ‘I feel like I’m in the National Archives,’ he says, thumbing through the file folders. ‘You should really have a section for current staff.’

  ‘You mean me and Chef and the evening receptionist.’ Who I never spend more than two minutes with as we change over our shift. ‘We don’t really need a section for that, do we?’

  ‘What’s Chef’s surname?’

  ‘Erm.’ I might have known it once, but for the life of me I can’t think what it is.

  ‘How can you not know the man’s name?’ he asks.

  ‘He’s just Chef,’ I say. ‘Always has been.’

  ‘It’s Downton Abbey around here.’

  ‘It’s always worked for us,’ I say, a little huffily.

  ‘Obviously it hasn’t, or you wouldn’t have been sold.’ He sees my face. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. The company is going to want everything streamlined here, so it’s more in line with their other hotels. Everything has to go online, the ordering and so forth. Not that these notebooks aren’t … quaint.’

  He’s talking about the ruled notebooks going back to when the hotel first opened. They should come in handy if we ever need to know what a loaf of bread cost in 1929.

  ‘What’s “d” mean?’ he asks, drawing his finger down one of the faded pages. ‘“S” is shilling.’

  ‘No idea. That was before my time.’

  ‘Was it? How old are you?’ he asks, the smile playing across his face.

  ‘Way to win friends and influence people. Twenty-eight, you cheeky sod! Not nearly old enough to remember shillings. Why, how old are you?’