But he’s leaving soon.
I love the hotel’s dining room, even if its glory days were back before women had the right to vote. The pillared ceiling soars twenty feet above us and the pale-blue, white and dark-brown paint peels from its recessed ceiling panels and ornate cornicing. Beaded crystal art-deco chandeliers cast a mellow light over the room, turning the whitish walls a warm yellow.
The deep-red and gold patterned carpet is completely knackered, though. Even when the builders change it over to wood, I really don’t see how pink and green tablecloths are going to fit in here at all. Maybe Curtis will change his mind if we show him on Skype how tacky it will look. Though he doesn’t see anything wrong with the uniforms, so his tacky-ometer might be off.
‘Healthy appetite,’ Peter says, noting my full plate as I take the empty chair between Miracle and Rory. Lill is sitting directly opposite the Colonel, who looks like he’s enjoying himself despite the deep freeze from across the table. It must be nice for him to see the hotel full, like it would have been when his parents ran it back in the fifties and sixties. Or maybe it makes him sad now that he no longer owns it. The Colonel is about as easy to read as any of James Joyce’s books. Translated into Russian.
‘It all looks too good to pass up,’ I tell Peter. ‘As always.’ The trestle tables along the back wall are laden with food – pies and salads, rice and pasta dishes, loaves of bread, pigs in blankets, sausage rolls and cheeses. And that’s not even counting the pudding table.
‘How’s it feel to be twenty-nine?’ Peter asks Miracle. Her cobalt-blue African print dress looks like it’s new. I wonder if it’s a gift from one of her children, but I don’t dare ask, in case they haven’t sent her anything.
‘Oh, much de same as it has de last thirty-three years since I’ve turned twenty-nine, thank you very much,’ she says. Her laugh booms deep and rich. ‘Age doesn’t matter anyway. Another birthday is just better than de alternative. As long as de good Lord gets me out of bed in de morning and lays my head down at night, I’m grateful. Whatever I do in between is a blessing.’ She turns to Rory. ‘How old are you now, darlin’?’
‘Thirty-two,’ he says when he’s finished chewing.
‘Hmm,’ she answers. ‘A few years older than Rosie. That’s good. My husband, God rest his soul, was three years my senior. That’s about right, maturity-wise.’
But Rory is shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid we need at least a decade head start,’ he says. ‘Women are miles more mature than we are.’
‘Maybe that’s why old men date young women,’ I say.
‘Nah,’ Rory answers. ‘That’s too noble an excuse. It’s usually because they don’t want to be on a par with women their own age. My dad remarried after my parents divorced. My stepmum was the year ahead of me in school.’
‘Talk about awkward Christmas dinners,’ I say. ‘I’m guessing you don’t call her Mum. Did you ever fancy her?’
He shudders. ‘Thankfully not. She’s actually pretty cool now, but when Dad met her she was only in her early twenties. She loved to party and was a bit annoying, to be honest. Like I said, she’s okay now.’ He looks around the table. ‘I forgot where I was going with that. Which probably proves women are smarter too.’ He goes back to eating his stew. ‘Oh, yes, we were talking about age because it’s Miracle’s birthday. Happy birthday, Miracle!’ He raises his water glass. ‘Sorry about going on about my stepmum.’
Miracle’s eyes are shiny as she clinks everyone’s glass. ‘Thank you, darlins. De truth is, I don’t know what I’d do without you all. You’re like a second family to me.’
‘That’s how we all feel,’ Lill says. ‘Don’t we? What would we do without each other?’
I wonder if she’s including the Colonel in her question, but it’s probably best not to ask at this delicate juncture. At least she’s sitting at the same table with him.
Later, after we’ve all had pudding, Lill excuses herself to get ready to sing. ‘Will you and Barry do something after Lill?’ I ask Peter. ‘Only if you’re up for it.’ Sometimes Peter likes to try out new material and, as long as all the food’s cleared, Chef is willing to lift his basset ban and let Barry back downstairs.
‘No, not tonight, ta. Barry and I have been working pretty hard on our routine for the show’s auditions. He wants some alone time upstairs. He’s getting tired of having me around all the time. I wish he could go on holiday on his own. It would help.’
Rory glances at Peter, then me, but doesn’t say anything. It’s hard to explain Barry to outsiders without it sounding weird. He’s not just a dog to Peter. He’s not even just a business partner or medical emergency responder. Peter thinks of Barry as a person. After all, he is his best friend, confidante and most constant companion. He’s always supportive and never passes judgement. Though he does pass wind when we feed him table scraps. The fact that Peter’s friend stands on four legs and has kibble breath isn’t really the most important thing, when you think about it. Barry is sometimes the only reason that Peter gets out of bed.
‘We did apply for Britain’s Got Talent,’ Peter says. ‘It’ll probably be ages before we know if we get an audition, but it’s a start, right?’
‘Oh, Peter, that’s wonderful!’ Miracle says. ‘I know you’re gonna get de audition. Have you seen de dreadful acts they have on there?’
‘Ta, I think,’ he says. ‘It feels good to have done it.’
‘It’s trying that counts,’ Rory says.
But the look Peter gives him leaves everyone in no doubt that it’s not the trying. It’s getting the audition that counts. I just hope whoever’s reviewing the applications will see their talent the way the rest of us do.
‘It’s time to count de votes,’ Miracle says. ‘Rory, darlin’, you haven’t decided.’
I pick up his chip. ‘You pick your favourite dish. Put this next to the plate. You shouldn’t choose your own, though.’
I ding my water glass for attention. ‘Get your votes in, everyone! We’ll count them in a minute.’
A few children rush for the buffet. Most people know the drill already.
Rory returns, blushing, to the table.
‘You’ve seen the pile by yours,’ I say. His tiramisu dish has practically been licked clean.
‘Well, I can’t win, can I, when we’re the ones running the dinner?’
‘Nonsense. The best dish gets rewarded. Chef guns for it every month. You shouldn’t do the counting, though. We don’t want any hint of fraud clouding the results.’
‘It would be the scandal of Scarborough,’ he says. ‘I’ll go sit over there and wait for the final count.’
‘Get your acceptance speech ready.’
‘Not seriously!’ He looks alarmed.
But Rory is the winner, hands down. Who wouldn’t love such a rich, creamy pudding? He’s typically gracious when he accepts his box of Thorntons chocs. ‘Am I supposed to say something?’ he asks me.
‘If you want to.’ I don’t tell him that nobody ever does.
‘Uh, okay,’ he says to the large room. ‘Thank you for your votes.’
Oh God, he’s really going to make a speech. I can feel the smile freeze on my face.
‘It’s never easy to come into a workplace and make changes,’ he says, ‘but everyone here has been so great that I just wanted to show my appreciation. I’m really glad you liked it. Thank you. Oh, and if anyone wants the recipe, I can write it down.’
‘Just make it again next month!’ someone shouts.
‘But you can’t win twice!’ calls someone else, and everyone laughs.
‘That was a nice speech,’ I say later as we’re getting ready to leave.
‘Well, you know, I’ve had it written for a while in case I ever win a BAFTA or something. You should see my dress for the awards ceremony. I’d rock the red carpet. Hey.’ He catches my arm. ‘Can I buy you a drink in the bar?’
‘The bar’s full of builder’s equipment,’ I tell him.
‘It’
s a figure of speech. If you won’t let me take you out, at least have a drink with me here.’
We’ve locked all the spirits in the office to keep the builders from getting drunk in the day. ‘What’s your poison?’ I say, scanning the bottles in the cabinet. ‘I’m having a whisky.’
‘Me too, thanks,’ he says. We take our drinks into the darkened conservatory. ‘Leave the lights off. It’s nice seeing outside to the sea.’
The streetlights below cast a wet light and the incoming tide is lapping at the sand. Since there’s a beach directly in front of us, just past the hotel’s wide lawn and over the road that runs along the coast, we don’t usually get high waves here. Not like at my parents’ house, where the sea throws itself against the rocky shore.
We pull up two of the horrible wicker chairs to sit beside each other directly in front of the windows. They’re not the most uncomfortable chairs to sit in, I have to admit, and the boxy armrest does make a nice place to balance a drink.
‘So I’ve been thinking,’ Rory says. ‘About us.’
‘You mean us, as in the hotel?’
‘No, Rosie. I mean us as in us. Since I’m clearly an irresistible catch, the only thing I can think that’s stopping you from going out with me is that my assignment is finite.’
‘Don’t be so humble.’
He ignores me. ‘What if I said I’m not a hundred per cent certain that I am going to leave? Would that make a difference?’
‘We’re talking in percentages?’
‘Well, I just mean that it’s not as certain as you might think. I wouldn’t have to go. I haven’t got another assignment lined up. I usually apply for something when I’ve got a termination date. If that makes a difference.’ He turns to face me. ‘Does it? Make any difference?’
I can’t really answer that. Literally, because the next thing I know, Rory’s face is inches from mine. I know him well enough to know he won’t kiss me unless I want him to. We sit there, frozen, for what seems like a long time. My mind is telling me to be careful. Even though I know he’s a nice man. Even though he’s given me no reason in the world not to trust him.
But my lips aren’t listening. All it takes is a tiny move towards him and the next thing I know, his lips are pressed to mine and I’m not thinking about caution. He’s such a good kisser! I only wish Chef hadn’t used garlic in that stew.
‘I love the sea on a rainy night,’ the Colonel says from right beside my chair.
How the flippin’ heck can an eighty-something-year-old man with a cane sneak up on a person?
‘I’m sorry, Colonel!’ I say, reeling back from Rory and nearly toppling my drink in the process.
‘Don’t be silly, Rose, my girl. At least someone has a happy love life.’ He swirls the whisky in his glass and stares out to sea.
Rory gets up first. ‘Can I walk you home, Rosie?’
‘No, ta. You go ahead, though. I’ve got some paperwork to get through. See you tomorrow.’
I turn towards the office, knowing he’s too much of a gentleman to follow me.
Chapter 11
Rory refuses to admit that snogging was a mistake. Now it’s going to be awkward and we’ve got months left to work together. Didn’t I learn my lesson before? I can tell myself as much as I like that I am an adult who uses her head to make good decisions, a career-orientated professional who knows what’s what, but all it takes are a few rogue hormones to unravel years of denial and self-restraint. Stupid libido.
Although … it is nice to have it back, inconvenient as it is. I did worry that it had been lost forever.
‘It wasn’t a mistake,’ Rory contradicts me for about the tenth time. ‘If it was a mistake, then I’d feel bad, and I feel nothing but great. And excited. Don’t you? You do, admit it, at least a little bit. Don’t you?’ His second question is less sure than his first. ‘Maybe I’ll understand if you help me see what the problem is. We’re both single. I like you and I think you like me.’ A look of horror crosses his face. ‘Oh God, you are single, aren’t you?’
‘Give me some credit, Rory. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t. That’s not really the point, though. I’m just not keen to get involved when you’ll be leaving. What’s so hard to understand about that?’
‘If that’s what you’re worried about, then think of it like this,’ he says. ‘I’m only asking for a date, not a lifetime commitment. There’s no contract to sign.’ He grins. ‘Come on, Rosie, where’s your sense of adventure? At least let me take you on a date. One date. You might hate it. We might spend hours staring at each other with nothing to say. Or you might learn something that you despise about me and then you’ll know it won’t work out and you won’t have to worry about where it’s going. At least give us a chance. Won’t you?’
We’re watching the technician installing the tiniest speakers you’ve ever seen in the corners of all the rooms. Soon the sound of lapping waves will make everyone in the hotel need the loo. Although there’s nothing saying that we’ve got to turn the music on, just because the speakers are there. The Philanskys won’t have any way to know, will they, since they’re never going to visit?
Lately, I’ve been finding myself thinking like that a lot. How much can we get away with behind our bosses’ backs? That’s not exactly good manager-think, so I probably won’t highlight it as a skill when I reapply for my job.
Though I’m enjoying flouting the rules. I glance sidelong at Rory. Maybe I should do it more often.
‘Yes, fine. One date,’ I tell him, before I can change my mind.
And that’s how we end up travelling on the train to London on my day off. Weirdly, my nerves are calm. It feels just like being at the hotel, only hurtling towards the capital at eighty miles per hour.
All right, fine. If you must know, I’m excited about today. No matter how I look at it – and believe me, I’ve done almost nothing but look – I just can’t come up with a good enough excuse to turn Rory down. Even knowing that his next assignment could be on the other side of the country, or maybe in another country, isn’t dampening my enthusiasm about seeing where it could go now. It’s incredibly short-sighted, but maybe that’s what I need. Look where taking a long-term view with Chuck got me.
‘I brought breakfast,’ Rory says, pulling crinkly pastry bags from his courier bag.
‘Me too! What have you got?’
‘Chocolate croissant, plain and almond. And a fruit salad in case we want to pretend to be healthy after.’
I reach into my own bag for the croissants I bought us – chocolate, plain and almond. ‘I’ve got a banana and a pear too,’ I say.
‘We won’t go hungry,’ he says. ‘Though we might need an angioplasty by the time we get to King’s Cross. We’ll live happily ever after in heart failure.’
We’ve eaten together for the past two months. Of course we know what kind of pastries we like. It doesn’t mean we should get married or anything.
Rory still won’t tell me where we’re going. I only knew about London when he handed me the ticket at the station this morning. He did warn me to wear comfy shoes and clothes for a whole day out, though, so I didn’t turn up in a party dress or anything.
Of course I can’t help thinking about the last time I was spirited away on a surprise date. It’s got the same air of mystery. Once again I don’t know whether I’m dressed appropriately. And I’m almost as excited. The difference is that this time I’m also suspicious. Which is why I’m trying not to see too many parallels between Rory and Chuck, or I’ll be tempted to call off this date. Just because Rory is taking me hundreds of miles away from anyone we might know doesn’t mean it’s going to end the same way, right? Right?!
No, I’m just being paranoid. Rory is pathologically honest. So far he’s fessed up to every shortcoming imaginable. Where I’d have blamed the slow landlady for delaying breakfast and making me late for work, Rory admits when he’s overslept or can’t find a clean shirt or starts watching Loose Women on the tiny telly in his
room and forgets the time. When it’s his turn to pick up the Jamaican takeaway for our lunch, he always admits when he forgets the hot sauce, whereas I point out that they really should just put it in automatically. And he’s never afraid to tell me bad news after a call with our owners, even though he knows I’ll go off on one.
Look at him. He hasn’t got a lying bone in his body.
I’ve never seen him in jeans before, and I’m glad to see that they’re not geeky or, heaven forbid, skinny. Not that he strikes me as a skinny jeans kind of bloke, but there’s a lot of room for error for such a basic wardrobe item. Too light, too dark, too baggy, too tight, weird stitching … I could go on. He’s got on a black jumper too, which makes him look especially cute with his specs. He’d look at home in the British Library researching obscure poetry or the sex lives of gnats.
‘Have you ever thought about contacts?’ I ask.
His eyes widen behind his lenses. ‘No, why? Don’t you like my glasses?’
‘I do like them. They suit you. I just wondered what you look like without them.’
He blinks a few times after taking them off. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit blind without them.’
‘Still cute,’ I say. ‘You look nice both ways. I think I need glasses, but I’m too vain to get them.’
He hands his to me. ‘Try these. They’re probably too strong, though.’
His face slides out of focus as I put them on. ‘You weren’t kidding. You’re nearly blind. How do I look?’
‘Very blurry.’ He laughs as I hand back his specs.
The sun is warm on my back as we make our way out of King’s Cross Station. I’ve only been to London a handful of times, mostly with my parents when I was young, and Mum always drove. Which meant I spent half the time listening to bickering as we went round and round in circles. The other half of the time I was dragged through museums.
Not that I dislike museums. I just hope that’s not what Rory’s got planned.
He gently takes my arm. ‘You’ve got a decision to make,’ he says.
‘It’s a little early. We haven’t even had our date yet,’ I tease.
The Big Dreams Beach Hotel Page 11