The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  Becky introduced herself to the pleasant girl at reception and explained she was doing a write-up for a local paper. The young woman agreed with her that the hotel suggested a more mellow, less hectic age than our own. ‘It’s what the owner wanted to achieve; the atmosphere of a comfortable Edwardian country-seat but with modern amenities and French cuisine.’

  ‘So it’s a sort of fusion hotel?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s very big on the French stuff. Microwaves are banned from the kitchens. It’s only been open for three months but it’s really taking off. Quite a few famous people have started coming too.’

  Becky laughed. ‘Really?’ She couldn’t imagine any A-listers wanting to spend time in Essex.

  ‘Really,’ the girl said. ‘This bit’s off the record, right? Look who we’ve got staying.’

  She twisted her screen and pointed at a name that meant nothing to Becky; presumably someone who featured in the celebrity magazines she didn’t read or in the reality TV programmes she didn’t watch. Maybe she should gen up on this sort of trivia for the sake of her career. And then the receptionist panicked. ‘Promise you won’t put that in your article?’ she said quickly. ‘I’d be out on my ear if the boss knew I’d let you see this. He’s really strict about client confidentiality.’

  Becky assured her she wouldn’t breathe a word then froze, staring at the screen in disbelief. ‘Just a moment – that’s my name at the bottom. What’s that doing there?’

  The girl winced. ‘Hell. Was it supposed to be a surprise for you? I didn’t realise. Your boyfriend just had Chris type the booking in himself. Mr Ian Watt and Ms Becky Thomson – the bridal suite for tonight.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The bridal suite. That’s what it says here.’

  Becky’s felt her stomach lurch as she read the linked names on the screen again, furious that Ian would take such a liberty. Furious, too, at his conceit in thinking his ‘charm’ was such that he could actually talk her into spending a night with him here – well – anywhere. And then she remembered Ian’s earlier set-up.

  She forced a smile at the receptionist. ‘I take it you were in on this joke? A very good wind-up, by the way.’

  The receptionist looked confused. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Presumably my colleague put Chris up to this and told you to show it to me.’

  ‘No, it’s a real booking.’ The receptionist looked horrified. ‘You mean Mr Watt isn’t your boyfriend?’

  ‘No, he is not. Cancel it.’

  The girl hesitated.

  ‘You can do that, surely?’

  ‘Well, no,’ stuttered the girl. ‘It’s a special code for free stays. Chris typed it in; I can’t undo it.’ The telephone next to her rang. ‘Look, we’ll get Chris to sort it out in a minute. Let me just get this call.’

  Seething with indignation, Becky left her to it and sat in one of the classic English antique chairs in the reception area. So this was the extra favour Ian had intended extracting from the manager. And pathetic Chris Harris had gone along with it.

  She wondered whether to have it out with Ian as soon as she saw him. Or maybe it would be more satisfying to see how he intended to break the news to her and then deal with it – preferably in front of Chris, who clearly needed to ‘man-up’ where users like Ian were concerned.

  And here they were: Ian coming along the corridor with a jaunty swagger, followed by Chris Harris, looking deathly, his forehead beaded with sweat.

  ‘Becky,’ exclaimed Ian. ‘Isn’t this a lovely hotel? Are you getting enough for your write-up?’

  Chris was looking at her with an anxious intensity. God, he really believed she had the power to influence would-be local customers.

  ‘It’s a lovely setting,’ she told him. ‘And I’m sure your hotel doesn’t need the publicity.’

  ‘Everyone could do with good publicity,’ said Ian, quickly. ‘And isn’t it nice of old Chris to insist that we have lunch here?’

  ‘It’s nice that Mr McBride has agreed to cover our expenses,’ said Becky. ‘Or shall I just ring him now to confirm it’s OK?’

  Ian glared at her, while ‘old Chris’ looked resentfully at him.

  ‘Lunch is on the house,’ Chris murmured, standing aside. ‘Would you like to come this way, Miss Thomson?’

  He led them to a table in the walnut-panelled dining room and handed them each one of the Monmouth’s ornate, gold-tasselled menus. He then disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a waiter who he brought to the table just as Ian was holding up a knife to the light.

  ‘Is there something wrong with it?’ asked Chris.

  ‘Relax, old boy,’ said Ian. ‘I was admiring the hallmark.’

  ‘You may need to frisk him when we leave,’ said Becky and noticed Chris cast a bewildered look at Ian, who was now perusing the menu.

  From where she was sitting Becky could see part of the reception desk through the open dining-room door and made a mental note to ask the receptionist for a screen print of the bridal suite booking. Once she got back to the office she would show it to Mr McBride; surely even his favoured nephew wouldn’t survive this. But then the receptionist moved back into her line of view and it wasn’t the young woman from before; an older man had taken her place. Becky cursed inwardly.

  Ian completed his protracted perusal of the menu and settled for moules marinière. ‘And, I suppose, let’s have a look at the wine list.’

  ‘You’re driving,’ snapped Becky and then, more gently to the waiter, ‘a salad, please. And a glass of tap water.’

  ‘You haven’t even opened your menu,’ said Ian. ‘How can you do a write-up of the food based on a salad?’

  ‘I’m not a food connoisseur,’ said Becky.

  ‘How about a perigourdine salad?’ asked Chris, ‘it has duck and walnuts and –‘

  ‘Does it need a lot of preparation?’ said Becky. ‘We have to be back in the office this afternoon.’

  ‘No more than for a plain salad.’ Chris cast a surprised look at a frowning Ian.

  ‘Hang on,’ Ian said. ‘We’re not in a rush.’

  ‘I am. I have work to do.’ Becky snatched the menu from him and handed it, together with her own to the waiter. ‘I’d like the salad Mr Harris mentioned, please.’ The waiter made off with their order before Ian had a chance to protest.

  He glared at Becky. Chris, who had been hovering with uncertainty, hurriedly pulled up a chair. ‘I’m sorry I was so tied up earlier on, Miss Thomson. Is there anything about the hotel you’d like to ask me?’

  Becky felt she had enough information for her write-up but realised Chris was misinterpreting her aggression towards Ian as dissatisfaction with the hotel. She took a notepad out of her bag and tried to think of a tame question. ‘What clientele are you trying to target?’ she asked.

  Chris embarked on a rather rambling explanation about the hotel being within easy reach of both Stansted airport and London and listed the European countries they planned to target, especially France. Becky felt guilty that she was only pretending to take notes. Ian looked bored until their food arrived. Chris moved on to a long account of the struggle to find British staff who could speak French fluently. Becky’s attention wandered. How was she going to convince the receptionist now on duty to give her a screen print of the bridal suite room booking? She turned to look at him to see if that provided inspiration but found her view blocked by a man standing in the doorway: Matthew Darnley was scanning the dining room as if to check all was well.

  No dinner jacket and formal wear today, of course, just a smart business suit. But other than that, Matthew Darnley was as dark, tall and good-looking as she remembered. His gaze landed on Chris and Becky saw him frown, presumably wondering what his manager was up to. Unfortunately, as she was scrutinising him, he caught her at it. He did a similar double take to the one in his kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he mouthed silently then smiled at her. Embarrassed, she gave him a small smile back and refocused on her meal.

>   She made a half-hearted attempt to eat her salad, which was delicious but she could not enjoy knowing they were not paying for it. Ian, who had no such qualms, was eating a mouthful of mussels and dribbling as he talked about the difficulty in getting access to private fishing lakes while Chris tried to look interested. Becky turned back to see if Matthew was still in the doorway. He wasn’t. He had walked to the reception desk and must have asked the receptionist to twist round the monitor so he could examine the screen. Panic struck Becky – Matthew would see that booking. She could strangle Ian. The urge to race over to reception and plead with Matthew Darnley not to be misled by what he was certainly going to read was almost overwhelming. Becky twisted her napkin in her lap, agonised – prayed – that he’d miss the damning entry. But of course he didn’t and seconds later she heard his raised voice. The other diners stopped eating and looked towards reception too.

  Chris Harris went white and pushed back his chair. ‘God, it’s Matthew. I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow. Excuse me.’ He hurried out to the reception area.

  ‘Pathetic, isn’t he?’ Ian sneered. ‘You’d think he was in the army. Jumps to it at the mere sight of his employer.’

  ‘Maybe you would too, if your job was on the line.’

  Matthew Darnley stormed into the dining room with Chris in tow.

  ‘Which table?’ he said. Chris pointed out where Ian and Becky were sitting and Matthew marched over.

  Becky darted a look at Ian, intending to ask him how he was going to deal with the situation he’d provoked. She got a fierce and urgent whisper that amazed her, ‘Just remember whatever I did was for both of us, we’re in this together – right?’

  ‘No we’re not,’ Becky hissed back as Matthew reached them, his discomfited manager fingering the knot of his tie and trailing in his wake.

  Ian, first, was the focus of Matthew’s attention. ‘And you are?’

  Ian gave his name and occupation on the Essex Gleaner then stupidly tried to curry favour. ‘You’ve never met me, Mr Darnley, but I’ve often admired the grounds of your Noak Hall.’

  ‘Then you must have been trespassing,’ snapped Matthew. He picked up Ian’s camera. ‘I really don’t need your newspaper’s publicity but, just to satisfy my curiosity, how many photos of the Monmouth did you take this morning for your readers?’

  Ian muttered something about the unsatisfactory light. Matthew gestured for Chris to pull back the dining-room curtains fully. Sunlight streamed into the room, motes dancing in the beam.

  And then Matthew was standing before her – no inclination now to smile. He didn’t say anything for what seemed to Becky an eternity, ‘So you’re a reporter?’

  Becky nodded.

  ‘And I suppose it was just a co-incidence that you were at Noak Hall the other day?’

  No, that was another stunt of Ian’s, Becky wanted to say, but with her boss’s nephew sitting opposite she didn’t dare. When she hesitated, Matthew snapped ‘Never mind’ and rested his hand on the spiral-ringed notebook beside her plate. ‘So who did you interview today, Miss Thomson?’

  Becky could hardly say she had had an informal chat with the young receptionist who had been on duty earlier.

  Impatient for an answer, Matthew Darnley peeled back the cover on her notebook to reveal a page with nothing on it but the name of the celebrity guest who Becky hadn’t recognised. She had idly scribbled it down meaning to google the man later and see if it was someone she should have heard of.

  He tore out the page and scrunched it in his pocket. ‘You’re every bit as bad as your boyfriend, aren’t you?’

  Becky found her voice. ‘He is not my boyfriend.’

  ‘No? Well you’ll forgive me, Miss Thomson, for assuming that he was. I just saw your names on the monitor booked into the nuptial suite here for tonight. Sorry to be a killjoy but I’ve cancelled that booking. We don’t accommodate freeloaders.’

  He turned to Chris Harris. ‘Normally it would be your job to escort undesirables off the premises but this time I’ll see to it myself.’

  Matthew stood there glaring until Ian and Becky put their knives and forks together on their unfinished meals and rose to follow him out of the restaurant. Ian strode ahead nonchalantly, hands in his pockets, but Becky had never felt so humiliated in her life. When she attempted to lag behind Ian, and be less conspicuous, Matthew Darnley firmly cupped her elbow. He didn’t make her go faster than she wanted but he didn’t release her either. And she’d never forget the pair of snooty women in the lobby who, fully aware of what was going on, gave her the once over before shrinking away as if she were contaminated. At that moment she didn’t know who she hated more – wheeling-and-dealing Ian who’d got her into this nightmare situation or Matthew Darnley who was convinced she had schemed to get something for nothing. He saw them all the way to Ian’s car and for a moment Becky thought Matthew was going to push her head down – policeman-style – as she got in but he stood back and said nothing. She could feel his eyes on her until Ian pulled away.

  ‘Got to admit,’ Ian said, as they pulled out of the driveway. ‘It was a bit of a laugh.’

  Becky didn’t reply and spent the rest of the journey back to Chelmsford planning what she’d say when she marched into the editor’s office and denounced his nephew for sexual harassment.

  But when they arrived at the Essex Gleaner’s premises Mr McBride was already pacing the car park, furious.

  ‘I’ve had a call from the proprietor of The Monmouth. He tells me how disappointed he is that a pair from our newspaper tried to blackmail the staff there into giving them a free room for the night. So, whose idea was it?’

  Becky looked at Ian to see if he was going to own up but he said nothing. Mr McBride angrily waved his nephew away and signalled for Becky to follow him. He showed her into his office, sat down and stared at her, unsmilingly.

  ‘When I call a meeting for all staff I expect all staff to attend.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Becky.

  ‘My ethics meeting – two weeks ago. I assumed you weren’t there because you were ill. Now I’m told you spent that morning nosing around Mr Darnley’s place. So I want to know who authorised you to look for a story concerning him?’

  ‘No one authorised me, as such,’ said Becky. ‘But Ian –’

  ‘Did you discuss it with anyone first?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. Because Ian –’

  ‘Your employment is terminated with immediate effect.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Becky blurted out.

  ‘You’re on probation. So I can.’

  Becky stared at him. She was sure Mr McBride knew who was really to blame.

  He blinked under her gaze. ‘You don’t adhere to the core values of the company and your performance is unsatisfactory.’

  No one had suggested that before but Becky could see there was no point arguing. Mr McBride marched her to her desk, and, humiliatingly, called Patsy over to relieve Becky of her smartphone, laptop, and security pass. Everyone in the vicinity kept their heads down. Becky looked around. There was no sign of Ian, which was probably just as well as she had no idea what shape her fury would take if she saw him.

  For the second time that day Becky was escorted from a site with no opportunity to explain.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Fired?’ said her mother, frowning. Having never really got her head around Becky’s job at the Essex Gleaner, she was now having problems understanding Becky’s sudden loss of it. ‘But why?’

  ‘I’ve told you why,’ said Becky, wearily. She’d actually toned down the account of her day to say she had refused to go out with the nephew of the editor and they had decided her face didn’t fit. Her mother thought that any non-secretarial office job was straying into dangerous territory and tales of illicitly booked bridal suites and being thrown out of hotels would just consolidate this view.

  Her brother, Joe, was full of impotent indignation on Becky’s behalf. ‘You should take them to court for sexu
al harassment. You have rights.’

  ‘Yes, probably. But taking them to a tribunal is not a great start to my career.’

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ said their mother.

  ‘How is it for the best?’

  ‘Well, you know, maybe it was a bit too much for you. You need to find a job that’s a bit more – steady. Forget this writing business.’

  ‘It’s journalism,’ snapped Becky. ‘And I will get another job.’

  ‘But you said the job market was even worse than last year.’

  ‘You don’t have to be so negative, Mum.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  Becky stormed up to her room. What was wrong with their mother? But she recalled her maternal grandparents had been mired in a sort of old-world working-class passivity too. ‘That’s not for the likes of us,’ was a common catchphrase; one that was brought out when the young Becky had expressed an interest in university or even when Joe, in his early teens, had said (hopefully) that he needed satellite TV to watch the football.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ their grandmother had snapped. ‘Working-class people having satellite TV.’ She seemed oblivious to the satellite dishes that had erupted like shelf fungus on the other houses in their estate.

  Becky needed someone she could confide in – someone who was the antithesis of her mother – and she had just remembered a half-forgotten invitation from someone exactly like that. A quick phone call confirmed her friend would be delighted to see her tonight.

  Becky walked out of the house, down the scrubbed front path which crouched in fear between her mother’s sparse and regimented flower beds, and to the nearest bus stop where she caught a bus to the much more upmarket area of Hutton. From there it was only another short walk to a property whose front garden was so lush and exotic she could imagine animals breaking out of a zoo just to lose themselves in its thickets of pampas grass and bamboo. She rang the bell and the lady who had created this carefully crafted wilderness opened the door with a delighted smile.