The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘I didn’t used to think it was for me either,’ I tell Rory. ‘Before this stint I generally did rotations – six months here, a year there. Knowing the job was temporary was one of the things I liked best.’

  ‘Then why have you been here three years?’ he asks. ‘Aren’t you overdue for another assignment?’

  It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Just one that I’m not ready to answer. ‘Oh, you know, time just slips away. I’ll move on soon.’

  Will I, though? When I first came back to Scarborough, I saw it as a necessary evil, just to give me some breathing room to regroup. So I was surprised by how good it had felt to come home. The same old roads and shops that I’d hated in my teens welcomed me like old friends. They hadn’t changed and they didn’t judge. It’s just temporary, I’d told everyone. I’ve got big plans.

  Yet here I am still, and my biggest plans involve ordering a takeaway on Friday night. ‘I’m thinking of going to Paris,’ I tell Rory. He doesn’t need to know that was three years ago. I want him to think well of me.

  His eyes widen behind his thick specs. ‘Oh, really? I mean, that’s great. Paris is a fantastic city. I worked there a few years ago myself. You won’t be going soon, will you?’

  ‘There’s nothing definite yet. I’ll still need to apply somewhere.’

  ‘Does that mean you won’t be applying for your job here?’

  Instead of answering him, I say, ‘When were you in Paris?’

  ‘I started in hotel management, like you,’ he says.

  ‘But you said you’d never worked in a hotel.’

  ‘No, I said I’d never had a change management assignment in a hotel. I was in Paris for nine months in 2014.’

  I laugh. ‘I had an assignment there then. If I’d taken it, we might have met each other. We could have been friends already.’

  ‘We could have been more than friends,’ Rory says, pulling at his thatch of hair to make it stand up. It’s a signature move when he’s being cheeky.

  ‘You can’t date colleagues, Rory.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. And we wouldn’t have been colleagues anyway. We were only in the same city. You’d have met me waiting for the Metro or sipping a café au lait in St Germain des Prés and been swept off your feet in the City of Love by my charm and good looks.’

  ‘Unlikely. And like I said, dating a colleague is never a good idea.’

  His hand goes to his hair again. ‘Like I said, I wouldn’t have been a colleague. I’m not really even a colleague now, since we don’t technically work together. Besides, I’ll be leaving in six months.’

  All the more reason not to do it, I think. ‘I’d better go break the uniform news to Chef.’

  I know Rory is only teasing me, but I don’t like where my mind is going. Dating him would be a mistake. Even if he is adorable.

  There’s no sign of the Colonel when Lill sweeps into reception later. She’s in her white minidress that’s overlaid with lace, like an auntie’s doily come to life. ‘How was the audition?’ I ask her.

  ‘It was brilliant!’ she gushes. ‘You should have seen some of the talentless dimbots I was up against. Honestly, a girl gets a boob job and hair extensions and thinks she’s going to be a star. They were all teenagers, as usual.’

  ‘When will you find out if you got it?’

  ‘Soon,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one, doll. The others weren’t quite right for me, but this …’

  I’m always impressed by the way Lill bounces back after each audition, picking herself back up and going for the next one. She does get work sometimes, but it’s patchy and I know she really wants a regular gig in a club. Somewhere where she’s the star of the show instead of the background music at someone’s birthday party.

  She was a star, once. Lill might talk a lot about Cilla and Dusty and the others, but that’s because she was one of them back in her heyday. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d probably just see a name-dropping seventy-something singer who’s stuck in the sixties, reaching for the kind of fame that only teenagers with boob jobs and hair extensions seem to get nowadays.

  But she’s not a woman to be pitied, and she’d hate that anyway. She’s a wonderful singer and a remarkable person – strong and kind and determined. I hope I’ll be like that at her age. Not to mention that I’d kill for her legs.

  ‘Do you think Peter’s been okay lately?’ she asks. ‘He’s seemed more down than usual. Nothing’s happened, I hope?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ I know he’s been working more regularly lately. That usually makes him happy, not sad.

  ‘Would you come with me to talk to him, doll?’ Lill asks. ‘He’s in the conservatory. Normally I’d ask the Colonel, but, as you know, he’s dead to me.’ She sucks dramatically on her vape, looking off into the distance. It’s a shame she’s so stuck on a singing career. She’d be great in panto.

  ‘Lill, you know the Colonel feels terrible that you’re not talking to him.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Lill. You can’t ignore him forever. You’ve been friends for years.’

  She fixes me with a thick-lashed stare. ‘Yes, friends for years, doll. Yet he goes ahead and makes a life-changing decision without telling me, like I’m nothing but a stranger. That stings. Why should I make it easy for him?’

  ‘You’ll find a way to get over this.’ But judging by the look on her face, I’m not so sure that’s true.

  Chapter 8

  Peter wasn’t in the conservatory when Lill and I went to check. There was only the faint doggy whiff of Barry and crumpled pillows on the sofa where Peter liked to sit while he read the paper. The Colonel was there, though, and his face had lit up like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night when he saw us.

  ‘Lillian! I hope your audition went well,’ he’d said, struggling to his feet. Not that he’s got any trouble standing up. In fact, I think that his cane is a prop – the tapping sound gives him authority. It’s just that his favourite chair is a deep one with high arms and cracked and faded old leather. It’s an eyesore, but he won’t let us get rid of it.

  I’d held my breath waiting for Lill’s response. She turned slowly to fix him with her blue-eyed gaze, but she didn’t say a word. She just stood there staring at him, blanking him.

  ‘Can you please ask where Peter has gone?’ she said to me.

  ‘He’s gone up for a bath,’ the Colonel told us. He smoothed his sparse white hair across the top of his head. Not that it was ever out of place.

  ‘Can you please ask where Peter has gone?’ she asked me again.

  Feeling my face redden, I repeated her question to the Colonel. His shoulders slumped as he repeated his answer.

  ‘What was the response?’ she asked me.

  ‘Lill, come on. Don’t be like this.’

  But when she moved her gaze to me, I answered her.

  Lill turned on her go-go boot heel and left the conservatory.

  ‘I’m sorry, Colonel,’ I said.

  ‘Not to worry, Rose Dear. It can’t be helped. I admire her grit, to be honest. Painful as it is.’ With a sigh, he lowered himself back into his chair.

  We do catch up with Peter in the restaurant at lunchtime. Despite Chef still being grumpy about the uniform, he’s made his shepherd’s pie. I suspect that if it had just been us he’d have made us eat jam sandwiches, but there are a few hotel guests dotted around the other tables.

  You might be surprised to hear that, since I’ve hardly mentioned them up till now. That’s not because they’re not here. They’re just not a very interesting part of the story. I could bore you with check-ins and check-outs, complaints about the poor water pressure in the showers or the noise from the building work, which is also continuing apace. But there aren’t very many guests to bother with – never more than half a dozen or so – and this isn’t really a story about them. At least, not yet.

  Miracle grabs Rory’s hand at the big round table where we’re all sitting.
‘We should say grace.’

  ‘She’s been with those Bible-bashers again,’ Peter mutters. ‘It happens every time.’

  Rory is too polite to snatch back his hand, so we all have to sit through an awkward scene in which Miracle intones all the things she’s grateful for and Rory tries to look at ease about holding her hand.

  None of us can be too hard on Miracle, though. She’s got a heart the size of the moon and she shares it with everyone. If she’s not volunteering at the old people’s home or reading to schoolchildren, she’s making cakes for the RNLI bake sale. She’s the only person that Chef will let cook in his kitchen, and if she’s soothed that savage beast, you know she’s pretty special.

  I wish she didn’t have to go to the church groups, though. Not that I’ve got anything against God, and it’s easy to see that she just wants to feel loved and included. It’s just that her own children should be the ones giving her that.

  After all, she did give birth to them. And raise them and, by the sound of it, give them every advantage their miserly little hearts could wish for. That’s why they’re all off being successful now. One son is a solicitor, another’s an accountant, and Miracle’s daughter does something important for the BBC. So you’d think they’d bother to spend some time with their mother, who made it all possible. But I’ve never laid eyes on any of them.

  Miracle keeps up a good front, but it must hurt to have such ungrateful so-and-sos for children. Not that she’d ever say a word against them.

  So we all pretend along with her. ‘Do you have birthday plans?’ I ask her. ‘It’s next week, isn’t it?’

  Miracle nods with the entire top half of her body. Her paisley-clad bosom quavers merrily. ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure my children will plan something nice.’

  Yeah, right, maybe for themselves. I’ll be sure to pick up a cake for her.

  Things are a bit frosty as we tuck into our lunch, what with the Colonel looking so forlorn seated next to Lill. It seems she’s got no problem torturing him at close range like this. She may as well be seated beside a pot plant for all the attention she’s paying him.

  ‘Peter,’ she says, laying down her fork and knife. ‘Is everything all right? You haven’t seemed yourself lately. If there’s anything you want to talk about, you know we’re here, right? Is it work? Or Barry?’

  His narcolepsy must be hard to live with. Just having to wear his helmet around town marks him out as different. On top of that, he never knows when he might collapse in a heap.

  Peter blows out his cheeks. ‘Ta, Lill, but Barry’s fine. And I’m pretty booked up in the run-up to Christmas, actually. I guess I’m just wondering what’s going to happen in the future.’ He looks around the table. ‘Just a little existential crisis. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Of course we worry about you,’ I say. ‘We worry whenever one of us isn’t happy.’ I keep my gaze away from Lill in case she thinks I’m judging her. ‘Can you tell us what it is?’

  ‘You’ll think it’s silly,’ he says. Then he looks at Lill. ‘Actually, you might understand, being in show business too. Not that I’d ever compare your talent with my dog act, mind you. I guess I just want to feel as though I have one more big show to do.’ He sighs. ‘Not that Barry and I don’t love doing birthday parties. The children are always an appreciative audience. But I’ve got to be honest with myself. I’m a fifty-five-year-old man who lives in a hotel with his dog. Barry is literally my best friend and I work as a part-time children’s entertainer. It’s not how I imagined my life would turn out. Ah, but I can see from your faces that you’re all feeling sorry for me. Well, don’t, because I know what I’m going to do.’

  Peter’s eyes slowly close and his head slumps forward till his chin meets his chest.

  ‘He always knows how to spoil a punchline,’ Lill says, picking up her knife and fork again.

  Everyone continues to eat, waiting for Peter to come round. Even Rory manages not to panic, though his eyes keep sliding across the table to our sleeping friend.

  ‘You were about to tell us what you’ve decided to do,’ Miracle reminds Peter, when he wakes a few minutes later. ‘You’re not going to get a pilot’s license or anything like that, are you? Because you’d make about as good a pilot as I would an underwear model.’

  ‘Don’t make him laugh or he’ll go out again!’ I say. That seems to be one of the triggers for his sleep attacks. One second Peter will be laughing like a drain and the next he’s snoring.

  It takes Peter a few seconds to focus. ‘Right, yes. Barry and I want to try out for Britain’s Got Talent. If Pudsey could do it, why couldn’t Barry?’

  I remember the year Pudsey won. I was working in Brighton and we were all obsessed with the programme. ‘But Pudsey was a dancing dog,’ I point out. ‘You’re not going to make Barry dance! He’s a basset hound.’ I can’t even imagine.

  ‘Of course not,’ Peter says. ‘Barry’s got too much dignity for that.’

  ‘And probably too much fat,’ Miracle points out. ‘Do you mean to do your act?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Peter says. ‘He’s really very talented, and I’m sure he won’t mind being on stage.’

  ‘But what about you?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s no chance of stage fright for me,’ says Peter.

  Maybe not. But there is every chance of a sleep attack.

  None of us wants to dissuade Peter, though, so lunch carries on as normal. Until Chef comes storming in from the kitchen.

  ‘I was only joking!’ Janey calls after him. ‘God, someone’s sensitive today.’

  Chef pulls himself up at our table. Even in his stripy green suit he’s intimidating. It’s the tattoos poking out from the rolled-up sleeves of his uniform. And his number- two haircut. And possibly his once-broken nose.

  ‘Nice outfit,’ Lill says to him. ‘Those stripes are very slimming.’

  ‘It’s hard to find the right accessories, though,’ I add, glancing down at my own pink stripy dress. I felt like a right prat coming to work, even with my coat mostly covering the dress. The summer commute is going to be humiliating.

  ‘This is no laughing matter,’ Chef says. ‘I shouldn’t have to dress like a clown to keep my job.’

  ‘But we’re all doing it!’ Janey says. Cheryl’s right beside her, nodding her blonde head for emphasis. ‘If you don’t have to, then neither do we.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we all have to wear them,’ I say. ‘Whether we like it or not. We have new owners.’ The Colonel flinches at the reminder. Lill’s throwing him looks that could give him freezer burn. ‘We will fight some of their edicts, but we have to choose our battles.’

  ‘I choose this battle,’ Chef says. ‘Rosie, you’re the manager. Grow a pair and stand up to them.’

  I’m a little taken aback.

  ‘She did grow a pair, if you must know,’ Rory says. ‘You don’t know half of what Rosie does for you all. She was on the phone with the owner as soon as she saw the uniforms, and he tore strips off her. So don’t accuse her of being a pushover, because I’ve seen her fight your corner.’

  It’s Chef’s turn to look taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I didn’t know. It’s just that these uniforms …’

  ‘I know, Chef, believe me, I know. But we’re all in this together and I am doing the best I can to minimise the impact of the new owners. Rory is too. He’s on our side.’

  When Janey and Cheryl throw their arms around me, I’m enveloped in a cloud of sweet perfume. Our clinch is a little awkward since I’m still sitting, but I appreciate it all the same.

  When I catch Chef’s eye, he nods. I think he understands. This time, at least.

  Our impromptu love-in is interrupted by a man looking for a signature. ‘For what?’ I ask.

  ‘Delivery. Sign here so we can start unloading the truck.’

  Glances ricochet around the table. Then everyone dashes for reception. Even Chef wipes his hands on his apron and follows us.

  My heart sinks when I see the large,
clear plastic bags. I know what’s in them. One doesn’t forget a pattern like that. ‘It’s even worse than I thought,’ I murmur to Rory.

  ‘I didn’t think that was possible,’ he whispers back. ‘Imagine what Curtis’s house must look like.’

  ‘What, in bloody blazes, are those?’ the Colonel says. ‘Pardon my language.’

  ‘They’re cushions,’ Peter says. ‘Rosie?’

  Everyone looks to me for an answer. ‘They must be for the new chairs,’ I say brightly. ‘Curtis said they were coming.’

  ‘But where are they going?’ Lill asks, peering at the cushions through the plastic. They’re possibly even more garish in real life than they were over Skype – corals and aqua blues; hues never seen in nature.

  ‘These remind me of Jamaica,’ Miracle says. ‘And that’s where they should stay. They’re too bloomin’ loud for Scarborough.’ She says this with no hint of irony, with her arms crossed over her brightly clad bosom and her lips pursed as usual when she hears news of disrespect.

  ‘They’re for the conservatory,’ I tell them as the men start bringing in huge cardboard-wrapped items.

  I’m scared to look inside. I wish everyone wasn’t here to watch me do it. One of the things I’ve realised in the past few weeks is that I’m the one who’s supposed to make the changes palatable. Rory might be the transition manager, but I’m the person Lill and Peter and Chef and the others know and trust. Like a mother bird who chews up her food before giving it to her young, these changes need a lot of mastication first.

  ‘Well, go on, don’t keep us in suspense,’ Peter says. ‘Open one.’

  Rory hands me a pair of scissors to cut through the hard plastic straps holding the cardboard together.

  Somehow between the Skype call with Curtis and now, I’d convinced myself that the flamingo cushions were nothing more than accent pillows. We could throw a few on the sofas and chairs and be done with it.

  But we’ve got new sofas and chairs.

  And they are wicker. Big, boxy light-brown woven-wicker furniture.

  ‘They’re not even elegantly shaped,’ Lill says. ‘They’re too modern.’