I know I’m losing points, but what can I do, aside from go to Tesco for some sandwiches? I suppose I could cut the crusts off and hope for the best. ‘Chef hasn’t made the scones and sandwiches yet.’ It was hard enough getting him to agree to do it at all. I’m not about to ask for scheduling changes now.
‘You’d think they’d be more prepared,’ she says to her husband, as if I’m not standing in front of her.
‘We don’t generally serve afternoon tea at ten o’clock in the morning,’ I point out. The clue’s in the name, surely. ‘But there’s a breakfast buffet in the restaurant till eleven.’
‘Are there scones there?’
The woman is scone-obsessed. ‘We have a full range of pastries and croissants, but no scones, I’m afraid.’ The baked goods come from the bakery down the road and they’re the best in town. We did a lot of due diligence to be sure of that, but the sacrifice was worth it.
Her fleshy lip juts out. ‘Croissants aren’t English. Starbucks sells them at home, but whatever. Fine, we’ll have them in our room.’
I’ll never win with these people. ‘Of course, madam, I’ll send breakfast right up.’
‘Shouldn’t they curtsey or something?’ she asks her husband as he hauls their oversize suitcase towards the lift. ‘Did you write that down?’
‘With which extra hand, Margaret?’ he snaps. Then, when the lift door opens, he says, ‘There’s barely room for a person in here.’
This is going about as well as I thought it would.
‘Let me get their breakfast,’ Rory says, glancing at the impatient queue of people waiting to check in.
‘Ta,’ I tell him. Then I whisper into his ear ‘Don’t forget to doff your cap like a good little peasant.’
He gives me a curtsy.
If the Philanskys plan to send us coachloads of guests regularly, then they’d better get more people on reception to check them in. We shouldn’t be peeving them off with a long wait before they’ve even seen their rooms.
I don’t dare look up when people start making impatient comments. Yet they’re not going to go away, are they? ‘Instead of waiting to check in,’ I tell everyone, ‘if you’d like to go straight in for breakfast, you can leave the luggage here with your passports and I’ll bring your keys and paperwork in to you.’
I just hope Cheryl and Janey are ready for them.
At least I’m left in peace to get through the tedious checking-in process. Actually, it’s a lot nicer doing it without guests breathing down my neck. And it’s no more work for anyone, since everyone would go in for breakfast anyway once they’re checked in. That’s one of the Philansky hotel perks – free breakfast upon arrival and departure.
Rory marches out to reception just as I’m checking my email. There’s still nothing back from Digby. It’s possible he’s no longer at that hotel. Although the email address on the website does include his name, and a five-star hotel would be up to date about a thing like that. Which means he probably just doesn’t want to talk to me. That hurts, even after all this time.
‘Lord and Lady Plunkett have their breakfast in their room,’ Rory says. ‘She made me make the tea for her. She wanted to see how English people do it, but she wasn’t impressed with my technique. She was looking for more pomp than pouring hot water on a teabag.’
‘You could have hummed “God Save the Queen” while you did it,’ I say, pushing the disappointment about Digby from my mind. Nothing has changed, I remind myself. He wasn’t speaking to me before I emailed him either.
‘Next time.’
‘How’s it going in the restaurant?’
‘They’re not impressed with the French press coffee either.’
‘Of course not. It probably isn’t French enough.’
‘One of them accused Cheryl of trying to give her instant coffee because there’s no machine involved. I have to give Cheryl credit. She didn’t pour it over the woman. Janey is just adding water to the espresso and everyone seems happy with that. They love Janey and Cheryl. It’s their accents.’
But it must be their delivery, because I had to keep repeating myself and nobody seemed at all entertained by that. I can understand, though. They won’t have heard many Scarborough accents in the films that make it to the US.
‘The pastries are all gone,’ Rory says.
‘All of them? Already?’ We ordered two per person, even for the children.
He nods. ‘They’re calling us a tiny food nation. We should probably double the order for tomorrow morning. Or else you’re gonna need a bigger pastry.’
The rest of the critics arrive in dribs and drabs during the afternoon. They’re all from the UK, and even though I know I should be frightened of them, instead I feel a sort of camaraderie. They’ll understand afternoon tea and kettles in the room and tiny lifts in old buildings. We’re kindred spirits, even on opposite sides of the reception desk.
Most of the American guests have gone out to walk around the town, but not Mrs Plunkett. ‘Excuse me,’ she calls into the office. ‘Where’s the phone in the room?’
‘Most people just use their mobiles,’ I tell her, ‘so we haven’t got landlines in the rooms. But I’m happy to make any bookings you’d like?’
‘It costs too much to use our cell phones!’ she says.
‘You’re welcome to use the phone in reception.’
‘That’s not very private.’
What’s she going to do, ring for phone sex? ‘You could use the one in the office if you’d like privacy,’ I suggest.
Out goes her lip. ‘It’s just not very convenient to have to come down here all the time.’ She stomps off, probably to make sure her husband adds that to his complaints list.
Much as I want to throttle the woman before she can grass me up, she does give me an idea. We’ve all got mobile phones here, but she’s right. People travelling from overseas will have higher calling charges. So I scribble off a fax to PK, who must be sitting on his fax machine, because minutes later he faxes back a badly drawn thumb. I guess that’s his approval.
I find Rory in the bar squinting at a cocktail book. The bloke who actually knows how to mix drinks won’t start till we officially open, so Rory is our only alternative.
We’ve never really needed a barman before. The Colonel always pours his own drinks and the other residents usually stick to tea. The karaoke crowd like their beer or, if they’re feeling exotic, maybe a gin and tonic, and guests usually just go out to one of the pubs nearby.
‘Can you juggle cocktail shakers yet?’ I ask Rory.
‘Want to see?’ He grabs two gleaming chrome shakers and throws them into the air. They bounce off his hands and clatter to the wooden floor. ‘It’s not perfect yet, but you’re still impressed, aren’t you?’
‘It’s like Tom Cruise is actually in the room.’ We’d been in hysterics mimicking the spectacularly bad film, Cocktail, on telly the other week. We could have been watching the old BBC test card, frankly, and it would have been just as fun slouching together on my sofa with a takeaway from the Italian.
‘Is there any chance you could take a break and go down to Vodafone to get some pre-paid phones?’ I ask. ‘I’d do it, but there are still a few guests due to arrive. If you could get the cheapest you can find with a ten quid top-up, please. They don’t even need Internet. We’re going to offer mobiles to each of the American guests to use while they’re here. Two dozen should be more than enough. I’ve got the hotel credit card in the office.’
‘You’ve suggested this to PK or Curtis?’ he asks.
‘God, Rory!’ He acts like I’m a child who needs permission for every little thing. I’m a professional doing my job. And unless I’ve missed a memo, that job is running this hotel and accommodating our guests. ‘Yes, Mummy and Daddy said I could.’
He doesn’t need to know that I did ask for permission.
‘If you could just please spit my head back out, Rosie, I’ll explain that I wasn’t checking up on you. I was trying to give y
ou a compliment. That’s the kind of idea that the Philanskys love. They’d say they like the initiative,’ he adds in a terrible Forrest Gump accent. ‘Well done.’
Of course, that just makes me feel bad. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were being snarky.’
‘Sometimes I’m just being nice. You could be better at accepting praise, you know.’
‘Well, I don’t hear it very often,’ I say. That came out a lot sadder than I meant it.
But Rory picks up on it. He comes out from behind the bar. ‘Don’t you know that you’re amazing, Rosie?’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
‘It’s my opinion. Does it matter?’
‘Oh, you and your clever words.’ I push him away from me, but not very hard. I’m not comfortable with this kind of talk. Not because I don’t want to hear it, but because I’m doing everything I can not to launch myself on Rory and cover him with grateful kisses. How pathetic would that look?
‘But I’m serious,’ he says. ‘Can’t you see how I feel about you? You must know.’ Now he’s got me locked into a staring contest. ‘Even when you were singing insults at me at karaoke, I was mad about you. You’d better face the facts, Rosie MacDonald. I’m falling in love with you, despite your best efforts to put me off.’
‘I – Thank you,’ I say.
He keeps watching me but my lips are sealed. No matter what my heart is telling me, and I’m willing to admit that it’s about to burst, I can’t say it back yet.
‘Well, I guess that’s better than telling me to sod off,’ he says of my silence. I try to smile my feelings, but I’m afraid it’s not enough.
The moment thankfully passes when one of the critics comes downstairs to ask when happy hour is. She’s pretty but twitchy, and looks like she needs a drink.
‘It’s a twenty-four-hour happy hour around here,’ I tell her. ‘What would you like?’
Back on safe ground, I make our guest a martini while Rory gets his coat from the office. ‘Thanks,’ she says when I set the gleaming glass on the bar. ‘God, I need this.’ She takes a big sip. ‘I never sleep on flights.’
‘You must fly a lot in your work,’ I say. Listen to me, making bartendery small talk. If I had a dishcloth to hand, I’d start polishing a glass for authenticity.
‘I’m always in the air,’ she says. ‘But not usually overseas. This is a treat, though I feel like shit right now.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.’
Rory pops his head back into the bar. ‘Won’t I need to sign for the card?’
‘Just sign my name. No one ever checks.’
‘Right. I’ll try to look like a Rosie. Enjoy your drink!’ he tells the woman.
Her eyes follow him out the door. ‘Is he coming back?’
‘Who, Rory? He’s just running quickly into town.’
But her question makes me pay more attention. Who is this Yankee Doodle asking about my boyfriend? She’s older than us, or at least she seems more sophisticated. Her shiny brown hair is swept up in a loose ponytail and her body looks running fit. She’s wearing nice jeans and her finely woven jumper is clearly expensive. ‘Maybe you’d like to go into town?’ I suggest. ‘There’s the Sea Life Sanctuary. Or the geology museum.’ Though she doesn’t look like the type who finds rocks and bones interesting.
‘No, thanks, I’ll just wait around here and see if that yummy guy wants to entertain me.’ She goes back to her drink and leaves me to worry.
Chapter 21
Since the dining room is the size of a football pitch, even with the fifty or so guests seated for dinner, it’s not full. It’s full enough for Janey and Cheryl to be running round like headless chickens, though. Janey’s apron has twisted nearly to the back and Cheryl’s chignon is falling down on one side. Meanwhile, I have to stand helplessly by instead of giving them a hand, because those damn cameras are watching everything, and the Philanskys are very clear that they want to see how each operations department works. We’re all operations departments now.
There’s nothing stopping me from spying from the doorway, though, where the cameras can’t see me. It’s like watching a car crash unfold in slow motion.
We drilled the service into their heads, but in the heat of the moment they’ve forgotten everything. If they’re not rushing back to the kitchen for the chilled forks they’ve forgotten, then they’re running into each other trying to figure out whether they’re supposed to be serving from the left or the right. What’s worse, they won’t stop bickering about it.
‘Excuse me!’ one of the female guests calls to Janey. ‘Is this supposed to be the maraschino foam?’ She’s pointing to a runny stream of red juice on her plate.
‘That’s what it’s supposed to be,’ Janey confirms. She realises that her apron has twisted around her slim waist and yanks it back to the front.
‘Then why isn’t it foaming?’ the woman wants to know. ‘And that charred mackerel wasn’t charred. There was hardly any black on it.’
‘You should have seen the first batch, love. Chef charred it to cinders! I mean, it was practically a nuclear bombsite. Who wants to eat this stuff anyway? It’s all just shit with sugar on, if you ask me.’
‘And when will my shoes be ready?’ the man beside her asks. PK’s publicity promised the guests a complementary shoe-polishing service. Even though we had no one to do it. I’ve had to bribe the room-cleaners to have a go when they come in tomorrow.
‘We’re not a cobblers, petal,’ Janey tells the man. ‘You’ll get them tomorrow once they’re done.’
‘When, tomorrow? I’ll need them in the morning. You don’t expect me to come to breakfast in my socks.’
‘Well, you should have thought about that before you sent them out to be polished, then.’
Frantically I wave my arms from the doorway to catch Janey’s attention, but she’s already turned her back on the woman, the man and me, and taken her opinions to the kitchen. For now.
The woman is left open-mouthed, staring after our straight-talking waitress’s retreating form.
Cheryl does see me, though. ‘Are you doing okay?’ I ask her, pointing to her saggy chignon. ‘If that’s bothering you, I could help you pin it back up.’
‘I’ve no time,’ she says. ‘I’m run off my feet. Six courses for over twenty tables? It’s just two of us. I miss Chef’s shepherd’s pie dinners.’
‘Me too, but we’ve got to try to get this right. I’m sure it just takes practice.’ Then I notice a couple craning their necks towards us. ‘I think they want attention.’
‘Everybody wants attention,’ she mutters.
Then I catch her answering the woman’s question. ‘Sorry, flower, there’s no real food for the sprogs. The poncy new owners have something against fish fingers and chips. This all just –’
‘Cheryl!’ I call from the doorway. Luckily it stops her finishing her sentence. The last thing we need is for all the critics to write about our Shit With Sugar On menu.
‘This is going well,’ Rory murmurs when he comes up behind me with another tray of drinks. They’re lurid green.
‘What are those? They look foul.’
‘It’s the Leicester Square,’ he says. ‘Like the lights, it glows.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘That’s because you’re not a sophisticated world traveller like me … plus, it probably hasn’t been drunk since before we were born. There was a bottle of Midori behind the bar that was so old I wasn’t sure I’d get it open. I’ve just been looking up cocktails by liquor and changing the names. They’ll drink anything if it sounds English.’
‘Just don’t get them too drunk, or I’ll have to double up later as a bouncer.’
But Rory shakes his head. ‘That’s not within your operations department.’ He goes off to deliver the latest round of drinks.
At least when he’s in here, he’s not being chatted up by that critic in the bar. She’s been glued to her seat since I served her first martini. I did tr
y to get her to come in for dinner, but she says she’s not hungry. She just sits there, waiting to pounce on Rory every time he goes in to make another round.
I’ve followed him in there so often that now it’s getting ridiculous. My excuses were a stretch to start with. Now they’ve got the elasticity of a bungee cord over Victoria Falls. It’s when I ask whether a martini is vegan that Rory shoots me a look that tells me I’ve been rumbled.
‘Unless they classify potatoes as animals, I’d say yes,’ he says.
‘Actually, it depends,’ the critic says. She should know, I guess, having drunk a bucketful. ‘Some vermouths use gelatine in the process.’
Rory shrugs at me. ‘Has a guest asked for a vegan martini?’
‘Erm, no, I just wondered, that’s all. What are you making now?’
‘A batch of Big Bens,’ he says, pouring blue curacao into a cocktail shaker with some vodka.
‘That looks like a Blue Lagoon to me,’ says the critic.
Rory winks at her.
They both laugh.
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ she says.
I hate how intimate she sounds. She’s only known Rory for about two seconds. ‘Shouldn’t you be in having dinner?’ I snap. ‘I mean, you’ll need to assess the food, won’t you?’
‘Bring it in to me, will you?’ she says. ‘I don’t feel like being sociable tonight.’
Rory can tell by the look on my face what I think of that suggestion. ‘If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring in your starter.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, looking pointedly at me.
‘You shouldn’t encourage her,’ I tell Rory as we walk together back towards the dining room.
‘But the guest is always right,’ he says. ‘It says so right there at the top of the Philansky Commandments.’ At first we thought that fax was a joke. It is literally ten proclamations, saying things like Thou shalt look professional and keepeth your shirt tucked in at all times. We’re working for a cheesy Moses.
‘They’re especially always right when they’re assessing us,’ Rory continues. ‘It’ll only take a minute, and I’m going back in there anyway. I’ve got to mix up some more Stonehenges.’
The Big Dreams Beach Hotel Page 19