The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘Can I come over tonight after work?’ Rory asks. ‘I can’t promise you a five-course dinner with wine pairings –’

  ‘Chosen on an iPad?’

  He laughs. ‘Chosen in Tesco. But I could make us shepherd’s pie. Would that help?’

  ‘And tiramisu?’

  ‘You’re pushing the bounds of my sympathy. Besides, it takes too long to set. I can do it for tomorrow, though. Ice cream tonight?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I really don’t want to do what I’m about to do, but I haven’t got much choice. I ring Zynah. She’s the most reasonable of our cleaners. Hopefully she’ll listen to me.

  But the call goes through to her voicemail. Maybe she really is ill. ‘Hi, Zynah,’ I tell her answerphone. ‘It’s Rosie. Rory said that you were too ill to come in today, and I hope you’ll feel better soon. If you’re going to be off more than a few days, you’ll need a doctor’s note, I’m afraid. Otherwise we’ll have to get contract cleaners in. Will you ring me, please, when you get the message?’

  She does ring back a few minutes later. ‘It’s a matter of principle, Rosie. What the hotel is doing isn’t right. You know it isn’t.’

  I know I shouldn’t agree with her. I am the hotel. ‘But you’ve got to work,’ I say. ‘I mean, you have to have money coming in, don’t you? Come on, be reasonable.’

  ‘We are being reasonable,’ she tells me. We. Rory was spot on. This is a coordinated walk-out. ‘I’m joining an agency. The assignments might not be as steady at first, but at least I won’t have to work somewhere that wouldn’t let me in if I didn’t have a loo brush in my hands. That’s disgusting.’

  She’s right. The article was right. We are an apartheid hotel. And I’m sick and tired of defending it. ‘Would it help to know that I’ve just talked to the owner and told him the same thing you’ve just said to me? I know it’s not right, Zynah, and I’m trying to get it changed.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re finally listening to your conscience, but why’d you let them do it in the first place? Wasn’t it your job as the manager to stand up to them? You’re the only one who could have. It’s too little, too late now. You should probably get the contract cleaners in. Bye, Rosie.’

  With a heavy heart I ring Stella, Sue and Liz and have nearly identical conversations with them. It leaves me no choice but to talk to the contract-cleaning agencies about sending over a team from tomorrow. Just temporary for now. I can’t bring myself to cut off our usual cleaners, even if that’s exactly what they’ve done to us.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching Rory cook. He’s one of those people who lines up all the ingredients on the worktop and reads all the way through a recipe before he lifts a spoon. The kitchen hasn’t seen this kind of organisation since my gran used to visit. She’d clean out Mum’s cabinets and bin all the spices that had gone out of date since her last visit. Mum loved that. For months after, she’d blame her mother for any lack of seasoning in our meals.

  I haven’t had the heart to break the news to Mum and Dad that in two weeks I’ll no longer be the hotel manager. They’d only worry about me, and I’m doing enough of that for all of us. No matter how many times I tell myself this is just a job, I don’t believe me. Even setting aside what it means personally, there are the residents to think of.

  At least the Colonel’s lifetime tenancy means that he won’t be chucked out on his medals. But Lill and Miracle won’t be so lucky. There’s no way the Philanskys are going to renew their contracts when they expire in a few years.

  I am relieved that at least Peter won’t lose Barry. The charity that certifies the medical dogs figures it might take up to six months, but Barry’s officially in training now, so he can stay with his human. Though when Peter’s lease ends, they’ll be out on the street with Miracle and Lill.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Rory says, setting down the pan he’s just wrestled from the over-filled cabinet. ‘Thinking about work?’ He moves behind my chair to put his arms around me and kiss the side of my head. ‘I might know a way to take your mind off things for an hour or so.’

  ‘An hour? Someone’s aiming high.’ Although he hasn’t been far off yet.

  ‘That includes a nap after,’ he says. ‘Seriously, though, do you want to talk?’

  I do. He is my boyfriend and pretty much contractually obliged to try to make me feel better. But he’s also part of the problem. Not only will I lose my job to him in two weeks. I’ll lose any chance of being able to help the residents. He’ll be officially in opposition then.

  As if reading my mind, he says, ‘I haven’t said yes to the new job.’

  ‘You haven’t? But why not?’ You’d think this news would please me, but my insides are filling up with dread.

  He pulls away from me. ‘We need to talk, Rosie.’

  Just as I thought. There are few words that strike more fear in a girlfriend’s heart. After all that’s happened, of course he’s not going to stick around Scarborough. He’s probably already got his next assignment, in the Isle of Man or Burkina Faso or somewhere inconvenient like that.

  I’ll give him this: at least he’s not going to run off in the night, never to be seen again. At least he’s telling me first.

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’ he says.

  ‘You’re the one who wants to talk. So go ahead. Talk.’ We may as well get this over with.

  ‘I know you’ve said you don’t want me to give up the job so you can have it, and I think I understand that. So if you don’t want me to give up the job, but I don’t want to have something that really should be yours, then I don’t really have a choice.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ll just have to come with you wherever you find your next job, and find one too.’

  It takes me a split second to digest what he’s saying. Then I do what any grateful girlfriend would. I laugh in his face. ‘You’re terrible at giving good news.’

  ‘I have to say I really didn’t think that you’d focus on my wording. What did you think I was going to tell you?’

  ‘That you’re leaving.’ I don’t bother punctuating this with ‘me’ at the end. It’s implied.

  ‘I can’t leave, Rosie. Why would you think that? Just because we haven’t always agreed at work doesn’t mean that I’d leave. I wouldn’t, even if you were completely unbearable at the hotel. And you are, sometimes. Still, how could I leave when I love you?’

  ‘… Are you going to leave me hanging?’ he asks, when I say nothing. ‘Again? Because this isn’t doing anything for my self-esteem, to be honest.’

  ‘I have to tell you something.’

  ‘Now I’m nervous,’ he says.

  ‘It’s nothing bad. At least, it’s nothing bad about us. I need to tell you about New York.’

  Finally, I tell him the whole story. It all tumbles out, faster and faster, as if hurrying gives the humiliation less time to settle. But somehow, as I watch his face while he listens, it stops being scary. I’m handing him the most fragile part of me, and he’s taking it gently with both hands. He’s not squeezing, or turning it this way and that for a better look. He’s just making sure it’s safe. It is safe in his hands.

  ‘So, if it takes me a little while longer to say it,’ I tell him, ‘that’s why. It’s not because I don’t … It’s because I do.’

  Chapter 26

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want someone else to carry your end, Colonel?’ Rory calls from somewhere deep inside the pine needles. ‘Or maybe we should at least stop for a minute.’ Though, as it is, it’s taken ages just to get from the front drive, where the giant tree was dropped off.

  ‘No, no, march on!’ the Colonel cries, pointing his cane at the hotel’s front door. With him shuffling at a snail’s pace, at this rate we’ll have the tree up around Valentine’s Day. But no one wants to be the one to retire the Colonel. Not when this tradition means so much to him.

  The hotel has had an enormous fir in the conservatory every December since the Colonel’s parents first bought the
hotel, before he was born. At night its lights sparkle all the way out to the road and makes the old place look extra-gorgeous. We’ve already strung the pine garlands and fairy lights all along the tops of the walls inside, looping them over the CCTV cameras. The mantlepieces are covered in boughs too, and red and gold baubles.

  I’ve got great memories of coming here with Mum and Dad when I was little. We’d sit in the glow of the tree’s lights with our neighbours, drinking hot chocolate (me) and Irish coffees (everyone else). The Colonel’s sister, Beatrice, would float around in her kimono and Christmas bauble earrings – the perfect hostess – and there was usually someone playing piano or singing, or both.

  It’s not hard to see why the Colonel loves the tradition.

  ‘Do you want me to take a turn?’ I ask Rory. My hands are freezing out here and I’m not the one who’s had them wrapped around a cold tree trunk for the last ten minutes.

  ‘Let’s just get the Colonel inside,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Hey, Colonel?’ I say. ‘Do you think that tree will fit through the door? It looks too narrow. Could I hold your end for you while you check? We might have to wrap it in something to shove it through.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he says, cheerily letting me take his place. He won’t break any land-speed records, but he is a bit faster to the door without the tree. ‘It’s tight, but if you turn it around and take it through bottom-first, the boughs bend in the right direction through the door and they won’t snap.’

  Rory smiles at me down the length of the tree. It might take the Colonel until Christmas to get it decorated, but at least we’ll all be inside where it’s warm.

  Peter is just getting the fire started in the conservatory when we wrestle the tree into its stand. Barry comes to inspect the work as I screw in the metal bolts that hold the trunk in place. What dog isn’t interested in a tree? ‘That tree’s so fresh it doesn’t even know it’s dead yet,’ says Peter. He says the same thing every year.

  ‘It smells divine.’ Lill says this every year too.

  The lights and baubles are in the boxes stacked beside one of the flamingo sofas. The Colonel will spend days hanging them all, though after he fell into the tree last year, we have to keep him off the ladder. Rory or I can climb up to hang the baubles at the top.

  ‘Is it straight?’ I call to Rory, who’s holding it upright.

  ‘It’s straight,’ he says.

  So I keep screwing in the bolts, till they are embedded in the tree. When I stand up, Rory encircles my waist with his arms. ‘Our first Christmas tree.’

  ‘It’s not straight,’ I say, pulling away to inspect it.

  ‘Isn’t it? Ah, well, it’s good enough.’

  ‘It’s not good enough. It’s not straight,’ I say.

  The Colonel considers the tree. ‘It’s nearly straight.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Peter adds.

  ‘You are hopeless!’ says Lill. ‘It obviously needs adjusting.’ Then she laughs. ‘There’s a lesson in male-female relations if ever there was one.’ She cocks her thumb at the Colonel, Rory and Peter, who’ve lined up on one side of the tree. ‘Come on, doll. I’ll hold it while you unscrew. We’ll get it right.’

  ‘I’ll save you a spot under the mistletoe, Lillian,’ says the Colonel.

  Everyone is in a jolly mood as more baubles go up. This is my favourite time of the year at the hotel. We’ve got more guests now, but other than that, it’s just the same as always. We’re all together, and that’s what matters.

  Plus, there’s Rory. My boyfriend is with me at Christmastime! It’s nearly perfect. Or it would be, except for the small matter of my employment.

  I hate waiting for things, even good things. So waiting for the other shoe to drop after my conversation with (or rant at) Curtis the other day feels distinctly uncomfortable. No matter how I spin it, I’ve been out of line with one of my bosses. He might be the nice one compared to his brother – PK probably would have sacked me on the spot – but I can’t rely on his kindness to avoid the consequences. They’re coming. Tonight feels like a very temporary stay of execution.

  It’s nearly midnight when Rory and I get back to my house. Even though he’s stayed over loads of times, he never assumes it, and always asks first. I like extending the invitation.

  We’re definitely couple-comfortable around each other now. I wouldn’t let him see me flossing my teeth, let alone anything else I might be doing in the loo, but I don’t have to be on my very best date behaviour either. I don’t mind slobbing out in my trackies around him, and we’ve comingled our washing. You know things are comfy when you see your pants together on the spin cycle.

  ‘Will you get a Christmas tree for the house?’ he asks as I let us in.

  ‘Mum and Dad always get it when they get here. We don’t put it up till the week of Christmas. It goes right in that corner next to the fireplace. I can actually imagine I can see it whenever I look there.’

  ‘And you hang all your favourite baubles,’ he says, ‘and sing “Fairytale of New York” together.’

  ‘While drinking wine and eating tubs of Celebrations. Yep, that’s pretty much how we do Chrimbo. Then we go stir-crazy by Boxing Day night and go to the pub just to have someone outside the family to talk to.’ Every year I get so excited to spend those days with my parents, and every year I’m so bored to tears that I wonder why I wanted to do it, and then I get just as excited, and bored, the next year. I do love a good emotionally conflicted tradition.

  He laughs. ‘It sounds like every family in the country. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having one more round the tree this year? I’d like to meet your parents. But only if you think that’s a good idea.’

  I launch myself into his arms with a squeal. ‘I’d love you to be with us for Christmas! We’ll have so much fun and we wouldn’t have to stay with my parents the whole time … They’re pretty liberal but they’ll only just have met you, so I don’t know how they’ll feel about sleepovers in the house. You can come for Christmas eve, though, and maybe even the carolling if you fancy it, and Christmas Day, which actually starts first thing in the morning with Dad’s famous breakfast and that’s when the sherry drinking starts too, but you could drink anything you want, coffee even.’

  Rory is laughing. ‘I’d love to do it all, but I will have to go back to my parents’ for Christmas Eve and Day at least … I just meant that I’d like to meet your parents before I go.’

  ‘Oh, right, of course.’ I’ve basically just invited the bloke to move in with us. Well, at least this isn’t awkward.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, tipping my face up to his. ‘I love that you want me to be with your family, and I’d love to. I can stay here till Christmas Eve morning and then be back Boxing Day night. If it weren’t for my parents, I’d stay the whole time. Thank you for including me.’

  This is turning out to be the best Christmas since the year I got my Buzz Lightyear doll. Though Mum backed over him in the car when I left him in the drive a few months later. I hope Rory will last longer than Buzz did.

  Back at work a few days later, my temporary stay is suspended when Curtis wants to Skype. ‘I really wouldn’t worry,’ Rory says as we get the laptop ready. ‘Curtis is the reasonable one, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but I wasn’t.’

  He pulls me into a hug against his shoulder. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.’

  Curtis’s surf shorts are covered in Christmas trees and he’s got tinsel wreathed around his head. He looks like a surfing elf. ‘Merry almost-Christmas, little buddies! The tree looks great!’

  It takes me a second to remember the cameras.

  ‘It looks like Charlie Dickens lives there,’ he says. ‘The guests must love that ye olde England feel.’

  ‘It clashes a bit with the flamingos and the pink toilets,’ Rory says, ‘but yes, they seem to like the traditional decor.’

  Well done, Rory, I think. He’s hardly ever snarky with the Philanskys.

  We fill C
urtis in on the situation with the cleaning staff. The temporary team is doing okay, but I can’t bring myself to make them permanent yet. As soon as I do, then Zayna and the others will definitely not have jobs with us. We’ll have to do it in the New Year, though. Or Rory will, since I won’t be managing the hotel anymore.

  That little fact is no easier to swallow than it was when PK first told me. I’m just about managing not to bring it up constantly. When I do, Rory only offers again to quit, which isn’t what I want, and then we go round and round and end up in the same place, only with both of us feeling bad.

  Our conversation with Curtis has petered out. ‘So,’ I say.

  ‘So.’ Curtis looks like he’s waiting for something, though he’s the one who wanted the call so, really, he should be doing the talking.

  But he seems to think it’s my turn.

  I suppose I do owe him an apology for shouting at him, though not for the sentiment. I’m standing by what I said, no matter how many businessmen try to tell me I’m wrong. What is wrong is excluding the community that’s supported this hotel for a century. And I was right. The town isn’t taking the snub lying down. Taxis still won’t bring guests here or pick them up. And the bakery owner who supplies our morning croissants says he’s not sure he’ll be able to renew the contract next month. He says he’s busy. What he means is that he’s peeved off, like the rest of the town.

  ‘Erm, Curtis? I’m sorry. For the way I talked to you last time.’

  He nods but he doesn’t smile. ‘I guess they do things a little differently in England. We don’t usually swear at our company owners. But I think you were just worried about the hotel, Rosie, and that’s not a completely bad thing.’