The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

I was more than sick. I was scared. I don’t think I realised till that moment quite how precarious my hold on my happy life was. Or how dependent on one person. But that’s always the way, isn’t it? One minute you’re serenely walking along on that nice sturdy suspension bridge. There’s a spring in your step but no hint of a wobble beneath your feet. Then you peer into the distance and see that the other end isn’t bolted to the earth by steel girders and strong cables. Some bloke is over there grasping a couple of ropes. And he’s starting to look as though he’d rather go to the pub than hold them.

  My phone started ringing as I walked towards Central Park to eat a sad picnic for one. It may have been the end of the world as I knew it, but I wasn’t about to waste thirty dollars’ worth of pâté.

  ‘What do you want?’ I snapped at Chuck. ‘The feedback form?’ He’d made me sound like some lackey picking up his dry-cleaning.

  ‘Woah, are you mad?’ he shot back.

  ‘You wouldn’t even see me!’

  ‘Sweetheart, I was working. In the middle of a conversation with my bosses, actually. I’m sorry I couldn’t drop everything to come downstairs and say hello. What did you want anyway?’

  ‘Not a feedback form, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t think of another excuse for you being here.’

  ‘Why did I need an excuse for seeing my boyfriend?’

  ‘I was protecting you!’ he said. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t want anyone to know about us. Come on, you’re being unfair. How would it look if my bosses saw you and me together in my lobby?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So what did you want?’ I can hear the teasing smile in his voice. Despite myself, I smile back.

  ‘I brought us a picnic for lunch. It was meant to be a surprise.’

  He’s quiet for a moment. ‘That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. You’re such a romantic, I love it.’

  I wanted to be strong, I really did. I wanted to make a stand, be a rock and tell him that I did not appreciate being treated like some kind of dirty little secret. Even though he was right. I was the one who’d insisted on secrecy.

  So my next wheedling question definitely didn’t come from my head. It must have been lower down. ‘I’m just going into Central Park now. It’s not too late for a picnic, if you still want to?’

  ‘Give me twenty minutes, okay?’ he said. ‘Where can I meet you?’

  I found an empty bench in a pretty spot not far inside the entrance. I collapsed on the seat. Just thinking about what it would have meant if he hadn’t rung me was making me want to breathe into a paper bag. I felt like a person on the side of the motorway who’d just dodged six lanes of oncoming traffic.

  Chuck turned up eighteen minutes later. I timed it. In my sensitive state, those two extra minutes spoke volumes.

  The way he kissed me, you’d think we’d been apart for months. And right there in the middle of Central Park, with lunchtime crowds all around, I let him. Sod being discreet. I was in love and I didn’t care who knew it.

  ‘It might be a little cold to sit on the ground,’ I said, starting to unpack the food. I was desperate not to make a big deal about earlier. The sooner it was ancient history, the better.

  ‘Before we eat,’ Chuck said. ‘I have something for you.’

  He pulled a pale-blue box from his coat pocket. ‘I hope you’ll like it.’ His dark-blue eyes sought mine.

  Inside was a silver necklace with a heart pendant woven from delicate leaves and branches. It was so lovely I could hardly breathe.

  ‘Those are olive leaves,’ he said. ‘I wanted to get you a necklace anyway, but it’s also a peace offering. I’m so sorry if I upset you earlier. I really was just thinking of you.’

  ‘No one’s ever given me anything like this before,’ I told him. ‘Thank you. I love it so much I may never take it off.’ The delicate clasp was tiny, but I managed to get the necklace on. I wouldn’t have to fiddle with it again because I wasn’t kidding about never taking it off.

  ‘Here, how’s it look?’ I lifted my hair off my shoulders.

  Chuck dived for my neck. ‘It looks beautiful,’ he said, kissing his way to the pendant.

  ‘You’re not looking.’

  ‘I’m tasting. It’s better. Who needs lunch?’

  I laughed. ‘We do. I paid a fortune for this stuff.’

  He straightened up. ‘I don’t think I handle surprises very well,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about that. I guess I like to do the surprising.’

  I touched my necklace. ‘You can surprise me any time,’ I told him.

  Chapter 17

  God, how I hate being surprised now. It’s hardly ever anything nice like jewellery or a holiday. More like a forgotten tax deadline or a computer virus or a cracked tooth just before a long weekend when the dentist is closed.

  Or another faxed list of things we’re expected to do. This time the directions are from Curtis. And just when I was starting to think of him as the good one.

  ‘You are joking,’ says Cheryl. ‘Who chucks away perfectly good wine?’

  I’ve just explained that they’re supposed to prime the glasses by swishing some wine around in each one before they serve the bottle. Cheryl’s right. Why waste wine like that, especially at the prices we’re charging? ‘It’s supposed to get rid of any bits of washing-up liquid in the glass,’ I say.

  ‘And why the bloomin’ heck would someone want a freezing cold fork?’ Janey asks, poking Cheryl in the boob with one to emphasise her point.

  ‘So that the chilled salad stays crisp.’ I’m reading from Curtis’s fax. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘We can’t have wilting in the restaurant,’ says Cheryl, snorting her derision. ‘Obviously.’ She pulls at her green-striped uniform, which is a little tight across the chest. Still, the fifties style really suits her hourglass frame. I hate to admit that anything the Philanskys do is good, but the waitress uniforms do add a certain something.

  ‘Just remember to grab a fork from the freezer when you bring out a salad,’ I say. ‘That won’t be too hard.’

  ‘It’s not like we’ll have that many customers to worry about anyway,’ Janey points out. ‘Ninety quid for dinner? They’re having a laugh. Maybe if the Queen and Prince Philip visit.’

  ‘They wouldn’t pay that,’ Cheryl says. ‘They’ve got more sense. And they’d never work out this menu. All this just for wine?’ She’s stabbing at one of the iPads that arrived yesterday. It came pre-programmed, but still needs an advanced degree to operate. ‘What’s wrong with a few printed pages, reds on one side, whites on the other? This is too much faffing around.’

  ‘It’s supposed to let the diners choose the wine based on what they’re eating and what they like,’ I say. But it’s no use. I can’t toe the party line. ‘Never mind. Sod the iPads. Just learn a few reds and a few whites and suggest those.’

  Unfortunately, I say this just as Rory comes in. ‘Don’t sod the iPads,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to use them. They’re not that hard to work out. Here, give me.’ He starts tapping at the screen. ‘See? Here you can pick what you’re eating: red meat, white meat, fish, game, etc. Then it takes you to … hold on, that’s not right.’ He stabs a button. ‘There. Then it takes you to a screen with preferences. Dry, sweet, semi-dry, semi-sweet, etc.’

  ‘What the feck is dry wine?’ Janey asks. ‘All wine is wet.’

  ‘It just means not sweet,’ Rory explains. ‘Or you can choose by varietal.’

  ‘By what?’ Janey demands.

  ‘Varietal?’ Rory says, sounding less sure of himself. ‘I think it means grape.’

  ‘Why not just say grape?’ Cheryl wants to know.

  He shrugs. ‘Or region. Look, it’s meant to give the diner more options.’

  ‘But they don’t need all those options,’ I say. ‘They just want a glass of plonk to go with dinner.’

  ‘Rosie, can I talk to you outside for a minute?’ he says.

  When
we get out into the corridor, Rory says, ‘I think it’s best if you try to be a little more enthusiastic about the owners’ plans.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but their plans are stupid. Do you expect me to lie?’

  ‘Honestly, yes, that would be good. We’ve got no chance of making this work if you keep undermining all the changes.’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ I warn him.

  ‘Well, stop making it harder to do mine,’ he snaps back.

  ‘Are we rowing?’

  ‘Only about work,’ he says. ‘Not about us.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘Me neither.’ We kiss to make up, sort of, but I can’t help thinking that it would be a lot easier not to work with my boyfriend.

  When I go back in to the restaurant, I do force myself to swallow down any more snide remarks about Curtis’s suggestions. I don’t even sneer when I say they want extra chairs at each table for ladies’ handbags. A chair for handbags! Believe me, that kind of restraint isn’t easy. I’m just glad Chef is safely in the kitchen when I say it.

  It doesn’t make it any easier to push the owners’ rules on my friends just because I suspect that Rory is right. He might be able to separate his feelings from his profession, but I can’t. I’ve never been able to. Digby was a perfect case in point.

  I do still sometimes wonder whatever happened to him after he left New York. He did go on to take up the Paris assignment. The hotel had a little send-off for him, but by that time I knew he really didn’t want to be my friend anymore, so I made my excuses and stayed away. I wrote him a letter to try to explain why I’d done what I’d done. I slipped it into his bag. I couldn’t face trying to hand it to him and watching him tear it up in front of me.

  I don’t know if he ever even opened it.

  I tried to track him down online a few times after I got back to Scarborough, but we weren’t Facebook friends so I couldn’t get any information. It’s nice to think that he went on to great things; that his Paris assignment was the start of a whole new exciting life. Maybe he met someone while he was there and now lives on the Left Bank with her and their beautiful bilingual children. No, wait. He’s only been gone three years, so I hope he’s at least got a cool girlfriend who wears berets and smokes roll-ups. Or maybe he runs one of the fantastic hotels that are always getting written up in the travel magazines.

  Checking first that nobody’s about, because this isn’t miles away from Google-stalking an ex, I search for Digby Schramer.

  I scan the results. ‘No way.’ Well, I needn’t have worried about him being a failure in Paris. The entire first page is taken up by articles with his name.

  Digby is concierge to the stars! I click around the links and his smiling farm-boy face beams at me from the monitor. Hotel guests love him as much for his spot-on recommendations as for the insider knowledge he’s gleaned from living in the City of Love. There’s even a video of him doing an interview. In French!

  I’m so chuffed for him. Really I am. I’m pretty chuffed for me too, to be honest. There’s a slight shift in the huge cloud of guilt that’s hung over me all this time. I still feel terrible about losing his friendship, but at least I didn’t muck up his life in the process.

  I still owe him an apology, though. Maybe he’ll listen to one now.

  Clicking on the contact link for his hotel’s concierge service, I start typing before I can chicken out.

  Hi Digby, I type. I hope you don’t mind me getting in touch. I’ve just seen all your success in Paris and wanted to say congratulations.

  I reread that last sentence. Then I delete it. That’s not why I’m getting in touch.

  I wanted to say, officially and from the bottom of my heart, that I’m sorry. I’m so happy to see how successful you’ve become in Paris, but I know I didn’t make it easy for you. I hope you’ll be able to forgive the way I treated you. It was unfair. All the best, Rosie

  My finger hovers over the send button for a few seconds. Don’t be a coward, Rosie. Digby deserves your apology. I probably won’t hear back from him, and part of me hopes I don’t, because I think I’d rather imagine that he’s forgiven me than know he’s still angry.

  It does leave me wondering – for about the millionth time – where I’d be if I’d gone with him. Not in Scarborough, that’s for sure.

  The fax machine whirs to life just as Rory comes in later. I’m really starting to hate that stupid machine. ‘More commandments,’ I tell him, going to collect the pages.

  ‘Curtis wants us to Skype him,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what he faxed?’ Rory’s forehead furrows.

  ‘No, there are more ideas here. That’s what it says at the bottom.’ I squint at Curtis’s writing. ‘What’s this say?’

  ‘Pillow menu?’

  ‘You can’t be serious. I suppose they’ll be able to order their choice of dry, semi-dry or sweet from their iPad? Wheat-free, sunny side up?’

  Rory laughs. ‘All this must go over well at their other hotels or they wouldn’t be suggesting it here.’ He scans down the page. ‘A shoe-shine service isn’t so bad. People do like clean shoes.’

  ‘Are the fairies supposed to come in to do them every night? Because I don’t see how else they’ll get done.’ Spit polishing someone’s loafers is definitely not in my job description.

  ‘Fairies aren’t specified here,’ Rory says. ‘Let’s ring him. You can ask about the fairies.’

  Curtis is sitting cross-legged on the desk as usual when he answers the video call. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he says. ‘Did you get my fax?’

  ‘We got it, Curtis, thanks,’ I say. ‘I guess you want to explain the details?’

  ‘And play you something. Hang on, little dudes, you’re going to love this!’ He pushes a handheld recorder up to the screen.

  ‘Good morning! This is your wake-up call. It’s now seven o’clock, so move your fanny!’

  Rory and I crease up.

  ‘I know, it’s great, isn’t it?’ Curtis says, completely missing the joke. ‘We’ve got a bunch of celebrities to do the wake-up calls.’

  ‘It’s definitely unique,’ I say. ‘But who was that?’

  ‘The sound quality must not be good on Skype,’ he says. ‘It’s none other than Courtney Robertson. You know, the winner from The Bachelor 2013? We’ve also got the bachelor, Ben Flajnik, and one of the judges from America’s Got Talent. Wait, listen, here she is.’

  Rory and I put our ears to the tiny mic to hear a woman telling us it’s eight o’clock and time to get up – thankfully without moving our fannies – and the look on Curtis’s face tells me that I’m supposed to recognise her, but I have no idea who she’s supposed to be.

  ‘Brandy Norwood!’ he says. ‘Our guests will get woken up by celebrities. Isn’t that awesome?’

  It might be awesome if they were actual celebrities. Or even if their programmes aired in Britain. But it’s no use trying to explain that to Curtis. He’s so excited that he’s actually flapping. ‘Great,’ I say instead. He goes on a bit more about people we’ve never heard of before wishing us peace and good surf and hanging up.

  ‘I hate to bring this up, but we should talk about the events,’ Rory tells me after. ‘Please don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Well, I’m just going to get pissed off again, aren’t I?’

  ‘Not if you see sense,’ he says, then squeezes his lips together. ‘Oh my God, did that just come out of my mouth? I’m sorry! All I mean is, we have to be practical now that the cameras are in place. If you want to fight for the rights of the residents to use the common areas, it’s probably not a good idea to have people who obviously aren’t guests wandering around. Not to mention dogs.’

  ‘Barry uses the back stairs now,’ I say.

  ‘I’m talking about Paula’s pooches. Don’t they usually get groomed in the bar?’

  ‘You’re crushing the entire ethos of this hotel, Rory.’

  He might as well just slap up a Travel
odge sign in front and be done with it.

  ‘I’m not doing anything! Rosie, you seem to forget that we’ve got new owners.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten anything, thank you very much. And you keep saying “we” when I think you mean “me”.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I’m on your side.’

  ‘So you keep saying every time you trample on us.’

  He sighs. ‘I can’t make this any easier if you won’t let me. Take my advice. Cancel Paula’s grooming day or the Philanskys are going to go after you. It doesn’t make any money anyway.’

  ‘It’s not about making money! It’s about supporting our community.’

  ‘Rosie, one of the best things about you is your devotion to the people here, but you really aren’t getting the whole point of a business. And I’m sorry, but this is a business.’

  ‘Oh, why don’t you just piss off, Rory! And don’t even think about trying to cancel karaoke tonight. Lill’s been looking forward to it for weeks. I swear, if you cancel it, I’ll never speak to you again.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I just don’t get how I can like you so much when you’re such a stubborn pain in the arse.’

  Funny, because that’s exactly what I’m wondering about him.

  Things are still tense as the time nears for people to start turning up. I check my email one last time before signing off the computer. Nothing from Digby. So he didn’t see my message and jump at the chance to forgive me. Not that I expected him to. I only hoped. I still do.

  To be honest, I’ve got enough worry piled on my plate. Those cameras, for one thing. Maybe I am being unreasonable. And Rory is right about my loyalty to my friends and our neighbours. Which probably makes me a less-than-model hotel employee when I’m being expected to make all these changes.

  ‘Hubba hubba!’ Rory whistles when he sees Janey and Cheryl. ‘Am I allowed to say that?’

  ‘I’d be offended if you didn’t, flower, ta very much!’ Cheryl says, smoothing her hands over the fitted electric-blue gown she’s got on. With her hair in soft ringlets and her eyeliner flicked just so, she could be a fifties screen siren.

  Not to be outdone, Janey hip-checks her friend. Her bright-red gown is nearly the same style as Cheryl’s, though it lacks the curves. ‘You did say we have to be properly dressed these days,’ she says to me with a wink.