Mainlander

by Will Smith

  ‘In what fucking country is it okay to just stop for no reason on a bend?’ He sighed, pulling out to overtake while adding another horn blast. As he lurched forward, so did the hire car, the driver having decided to blight Rob’s day further by taking up a halting vanguard on his route.

  ‘Oh, screw this!’ cried Rob, and took the freed-up left turn, heading for the inner coast road and hopefully a run out east to Gorey and the Royal Jersey Golf Club in which he never slipped under third gear.

  As he bombed up the road past the new estates with their creamy exteriors and orange roofs, the converted granite farmhouses with incongruous uPVC windows, the Edwardian houses, whose grandeur had been smirched with pebble-dash, and the occasional field of tomatoes, he realised this detour would take him close to the Samares Tennis Club. He would go there first, then the Royal. Although, thinking about it, maybe he should retain just one of his three golf-club memberships and, as the most prestigious, the Royal was the one to keep. They all had their merits, though. The Royal was the closest to the hotel, but St John’s was closer to the new house, and Les Mielles way out on the west coast was the furthest away but had the best course. Maybe it would be better to take a breath and make a decision in the clear light of day. Go to Samares, though, he thought, taking the left back west towards town, a wider road whose sizeable properties on one side were dwarfed by the manor house and grounds that they overlooked on the other.

  Yup, death to the tennis clubs, stay of execution for the golf clubs – he needed places to drop in for a drink where the right sort were relaxing at two or more of the Island’s compass points. You couldn’t put a figure on that, much as Christophe might try.

  Both the tennis clubs could definitely go, though. He would do that right now. It was a no-brainer: he would have his own court. That was a fact …

  But, damn it, there was a queue for the car park! What with all there was to do that day, Rob decided there wasn’t time to sit in traffic, and actually, now that he thought about it, if he pulled out of both Samares and Les Landes, he wouldn’t have anywhere to play tennis in the short term. His logic snagged: he didn’t own a functioning racket, and hadn’t for two years, but it was less about the tennis and more about the social scene, not forgetting the ample opportunities for seeing women in short white skirts working up a sheen of sweat. So, on balance, probably better to wait until his own court was built and functioning before he pulled out of the clubs. Over the thirty seconds it took Rob to reach this conclusion, the queue had dissipated, but he’d made up his mind and roared off, fully intending to drop in on his old pal Rory Sarre at Five Oaks Garage and see what kind of price he’d get for his surplus vehicles.

  He wasn’t ditching Christophe’s plans wholesale, just reconfiguring those elements that concerned him directly. The changes to the running of the hotel, well, that was different: a lot of it made perfect business sense, but in truth it was hard to separate the two. Christophe wanted Rob to pull every string he could to secure patronage for the upcoming royal visit, then spread the word that it was happening. But how could he do that without working his contacts at the golf and tennis clubs? That was the clincher, no question. Those would have to stay, at least until the visit was secured. Ditching the Royal Golf Club felt less like a bad omen and more like suicide. To realise Christophe’s plans to stabilise the hotel’s future, he had to modify them for his own financial future. That’s what Christophe didn’t understand: the ‘perks’ and ‘indulgences’ that he was seeking to exterminate were precisely the kind of living advertising that drove Rob’s business. Success breeds success. Act like a god and the world will worship you. He could spin the relocation of the boat as an extension of his hotel, but there was no way he could, say, sell a car without buying a new one and not have it perceived as what it was: a frantic and necessary restructuring of the debts that had suddenly loomed above him, like a wave in the dark.

  He was looking forward to the righting of the ship – he loved a bit of slash and burn. Staff would be cut by a third and the remainder made to work harder; Rob’s largesse would be replaced with the pragmatism of a man who had worked himself up from fifteen-hour shifts in Marseille bars and Paris kitchens to running one of the swishest hotels in the Island. And Rob was thrilled with the idea of kick-starting some buzz by offering half-price accommodation to bands playing the Fort Regent Leisure Centre: Marillion, Big Country and the Stranglers were all lined up over the next six months. They would make up the loss on the rooms with money spent in the restaurant and the bar by the bands and crew, as well as the locals hoping to mix with the stars. His only panic was the presence of potential groupies and his inability to resist, but he was fairly certain Louise had stopped him ever going off-piste in the Island again. The restaurant would get on its feet with a weekly tasting menu and matching wines for the well-to-do set, and a brasserie menu for those wanting a taste of the high life without the dent to the wallet. All told, everything was back on the straight and narrow, so really no need to dispose of the extra wheels. More to the point, the new house was going to have a four-car garage, and they’d already laid the concrete for the floor, so to change his mind on that would be a false economy, and to have a garage running at 25 per cent occupancy was kind of nuts.

  He took a left rather than burn up Mont Millais and on to Sarre’s garage, heading instead through town to the marina. He was still going to cancel the berth, once he’d swung by his broker. For one he would enjoy making Carrière feel like yesterday’s man. Maybe he’d wind him up by implying he was starting his own exclusive marina in St Clement’s Bay. But also, if he didn’t take up the mooring outside the hotel, it would be clear visual proof to Christophe that he had agreed to do one thing, then done another. The fact was, cutting all these membership fees and cars was small beer compared to the big chunk of debt his shares sale would clear, but he had to show willing. He didn’t want to upset his lieutenant, especially when he was about to loan him ten grand to make Louise go away.

  He pulled the Porsche into the car park of an old grey granite building with peeling red window frames, the frumpy aunt of the sexy new buildings at either side, with their reflective glass. Behind this run of offices loomed the south-east face of Mont de la Ville, which, at its modest tabletop peak, was garlanded by a huge wall of large granite blocks, akin to the stones of a pyramid. These were the foundations and walls of Fort Regent, now converted to the venue whose bands he hoped to snare.

  Bounding up the narrow stairway, he wondered as ever why the centre of such an awful lot of money should feel like the offices of some provincial theatrical agent. Most of the business was done on the phone, but that didn’t excuse the pervasive shoddiness of the place where the phones were answered. Rob had occasionally toyed with moving to one of the flashier brokers, with chrome-pipe furniture rather than the MDF desks that he imagined had been reclaimed from a bankrupt sixth-form college, but he’d never popped into the offices with enough regularity for it to be an issue. Above and beyond that, Rick was a financial whiz-kid and therefore the one member of Rob’s circle for whom he suspended his usual standards of physical deportment. At school the younger boy had taught Rob how to win at poker, and the patronage of the older, cooler, leaner pin-up had signalled a dwindling in taunts about weight and given him the confidence to get his much-commented-upon odour problem under control.

  ‘Hello, how can I help?’ asked the pudgy girl on Reception.

  Rob decided she must be either new to the business or of limited memory not to recognise her boss’s most important client. He was about to deliver a withering introduction when the bulbous Rick Leverrier leapt out of his office to stride open-armed towards him, pausing after the hug to retuck his shirt, which had been lifted out of his brace-pinioned suit trousers by the raising of his arms.

  ‘Robertram!’ he declaimed. Rob had acquired this nickname by being head of Bertram House in his final year at school.

  ‘Ricky the Hutt!’ Rick’s moniker came from his rotund
ity, which was akin to that of Return of the Jedi’s slug-like crime boss. He had cultivated it to replace such unasked-for playground alter egos as ‘Lord Lard Arse’, ‘Fatty Bum Buckle’ and ‘Tryer Fuck’, the latter a particularly cruel reference to both his weight and the late loss of his virginity.

  ‘Julie, drinks, please. Tea, coffee, something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee, black.’

  ‘Add a nip of the old barley water? Make it a Mick’s coffee.’

  ‘Too early for me, Rick.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t know whether this is the start of the morning for you, or the end of a long night. I’ll have the same, love – I’ve got a head on me today like Captain Langville. “Declension – der, die, das, die. Den, die, das, what?”’ He delivered the ‘what?’ with a puzzled furrow, and Rob chuckled at the memory of the elderly teacher of German whose questions in his final years had seemed directed more to himself than his pupils.

  ‘Poor old boy was really losing it by the end. I was in his last class when you could answer him in French and he wouldn’t notice.’ Rick shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t take the piss, really. Did you see his obit in the Island News? He was a bloody translator at Nuremberg. Never mentioned it. Imagine dealing with that and then having to put up with us little shits. Anyway, come through. Hold the calls, Julie.’

  ‘Sure. Just a reminder that you have Alan Le Motte coming in at three.’

  ‘Ooh, see if you can shunt it a bit, till I’m done with Rob.’

  Rob went in and sat on an orange S-shaped plastic chair, which sagged worryingly under his weight, as Rick shut the door and lumbered to the executive chair behind his desk, his one furniture extravagance.

  ‘She new?’

  ‘Julie? No – been with me years. Why?’

  ‘She didn’t seem to know who I am.’

  ‘Rare indeed for a woman in this Island. Good call on Exotech by the way – copper’s already gone up three points. You don’t mind if I keep an eye on this while we wag, do you?’ Rick motioned to a small green-screened computer monitor on his desk.

  ‘Not at all. There’d be something wrong if you didn’t have one eye on it.’

  ‘Exactly … Bollocks. Dow Jones is dropping like a stone today.’

  ‘August the twenty-fifth was an all-time high, though, so it’s still well up.’

  ‘Yeah, nothing to worry about long-term. How can I help?’

  ‘Well,’ said Rob, ‘I’ve reached a point financially where—’

  ‘Oh, Christ, I’m getting canned, aren’t I? You’re moving to Varden’s just like every other bastard.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then? Don’t tell me you’re going with one of the UK branches? You won’t get the personal touch there. Come on, we have a history …’

  ‘Between you and me, I need more money, which is why—’

  ‘I’ll up your leverage to fifty per cent.’

  Rob paused imperceptibly. ‘Fifty?’

  ‘Yup. I’ll take that risk to keep you. I’ll be honest with you, having you as a client brings a lot of people in.’

  ‘You’ve always told me forty per cent leverage is the safety line. Most of the time we’ve walked a steady thirty. I’ve always pushed for more, and you’ve pushed back, saying look at the long-term margins, that’s where I want to be.’

  ‘The markets have changed. Okay, there’s that blip today, but we’re on a rising curve.’

  Rob chewed his lip.

  ‘Hey, if you don’t want to take the risk, then fine. But I’ll make you more money than anyone else can. You know that’s the truth.’

  Rob laughed and extended his hand. ‘Can’t argue with that. You never lose, Rick. You never lost a single game.’

  ‘Well, that was poker, and most of the time we were just betting with porn mags.’

  Julie came in with the coffee and Rick scrambled for something to fill the agonising echo of the last phrase.

  ‘Great, coffee. Nothing like it. They’d ban it if it came out now. Same with alcohol. Read that somewhere. How’s the hotel by the way?’

  ‘Awesome. You should come down – it’s the only stop-off for the City boys. Hang in the bar with your ears open, you’d pick up a fair few tips.’

  Julie handed Rob his drink. ‘It was milk, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, but never mind. We’re kind of wrapped up here. I’ve got to swing by the marina. Unlike you, pal, they are definitely getting canned!’

  Hugs, handshakes and promises of untold riches complete, Rob pounded down the stairs two at a time, alive with the certainties of resurgent success. He doubted his heart could have taken that coffee – it would have beaten its way through his sternum. He’d gone in to cash in, and come out with a higher stake. By expanding his portfolio he’d soon bring in more than he’d have got by selling. This was why he owned a hotel, whereas Christophe was an employee. Big picture, risks, balls, verve, that was business, not piddling around trying to cut costs by using cheaper napkins. He got back in his car, cranked up the ZZ Top and roared off in the direction of the harbour. Seeing how Rick had panicked at the thought of losing him, Carrière and his cohorts were bound to beg him to stay, but he wouldn’t. Without his name on the books, any members’ club in the Island might as well shut up shop.

  He drew up in the club car park and got out to look over the marina. It was low tide so the pontoons were floating thirty feet below him in the water trapped by the sill, beyond which lay the shelter of the Albert Pier, where the passenger ferries and fishing vessels deposited their cargo. It always knocked off the glamour, having to pass those big iron buckets with their rust streaks, although the hydrofoils had a certain futuristic something. In the distance beyond, the Victoria Pier stretched out a second protective pincer on which sat fat yellow and red cranes waiting for the tankers that brought the things the Island couldn’t produce itself in sufficient quality or quantity: clothing, alcohol, white goods. The tops of the highest masts nodded slightly at his eye level. Rob never understood why people bothered with sails when technology had moved on. Might as well decline anaesthetic on the grounds you preferred ‘the old ways’.

  He walked round the clubhouse to the entrance on the other side and glanced down at the drying moorings in the Old Harbour, where the smaller, less ostentatious craft lay on their keels. The draining tide had left ledges and rivulets in the wet sand, greyed over time by oil leaks. This place was not quite dying, but was certainly leached of life. It was definitely time to move on, he thought, as he pushed open the double swing doors to the marina clubhouse as though he was entering a Western bordello.

  ‘Hey, Sheena.’ He winked at her – a fortysomething woman with a smoker’s face and coarse blonde hair – as he signed in at the front desk. ‘Richard around?’

  ‘He’s in the bar, I think,’ she replied.

  ‘Cheers, doll,’ he replied, with a grin he mistakenly thought had made her day.

  He went into the dark oak bar and saw Richard Carrière sitting on a stool leafing through The Times, his trademark red jeans clashing with the orange tan that gave his white hair a tinge of neon.

  ‘Afternoon, Richard,’ boomed Rob, disappointed that only a few members dotted the bar to witness his withdrawal from the old boy’s monstrous clutches.

  Carrière swung round. ‘Rob,’ he replied, with a tight smile. ‘Not seen you for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got more pies than fingers right now.’

  ‘That’s nice for you. You taking her out today, or just dropping in as part of a roving one-man ad campaign?’

  ‘Ha! Actually I’ve come to cancel the berth.’

  Carrière’s face lengthened, revealing white crow’s feet left untanned from a sea-squint.

  Yes, thought Rob. That rocked you.

  ‘Oh. Selling her, are we?’ The old stag refused to follow the young buck’s script.

  ‘No. Why would I do that?’

  ‘To help pay for all those empty rooms. I’m joking – everyone’s
had a bad season. Isn’t that right, Stanley?’ Carrière called, to a man with slicked-back grey hair in a yellow polo shirt and blue blazer, who was nursing some kind of pink drink in the corner.

  ‘No, Richard, we’ve had a boom year at Victor Hugo’s. Surprising, ’cause young de la Haye there referred to it as feeling more like a retirement home than a hotel.’

  ‘Did I? When did I say that?’ asked Rob, puzzled at the bristling atmosphere.

  ‘When you announced the relaunch of your dad’s place. The announcement, not the actual relaunch. There was quite a delay between those two events as I recall.’

  ‘I don’t remember saying that.’

  ‘Well, you did.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To someone within earshot of a good friend of mine.’

  ‘Like I say, I don’t recall. But I’ve no reason to denigrate the Victor Hugo. There’s more than enough grockles to go round.’

  ‘Not by the look of your front-desk register!’ Stanley added, with a laugh. He glanced around for others to join in, but they either weren’t paying attention or didn’t care.

  ‘Well, filling a hundred rooms is more of a challenge than … What have you got? Twenty-five?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘So even at thirty per cent occupancy, I’d still be fuller than you.’

  ‘True, but you’d also be paying a bunch of extra staff to sit around scratching their arses while they wait for a reason to clean and launder the seventy-odd rooms you’ve got gathering dust. My gaff may feel like an old people’s home, but yours is like a bloody stately home you can’t afford the upkeep on.’