‘Then let me know when it comes back on the market,’ Bruno replied smoothly and put the phone down.
The agent hung up at his end, palms sweating slightly. There were rumours, nasty rumours, that you didn’t cross Bruno Thorne. But he hadn’t crossed him, not deliberately. He’d done his best, but you couldn’t fiddle a sealed bid. He was an estate agent, not Paul bloody Daniels. Frankly, why on earth anyone wanted The Rocks at all was beyond him. Every time he’d shown round a client, he’d felt sure he was wasting his time and his breath lamely trying to point out its potential. He knew Mariscombe was supposedly on the up but in his opinion it had a long way to go. There were too many caravan parks, stuffed with Scousers and Brummies in string vests crying out for chips and lager. They wouldn’t thank anyone for tian of crab with a mango and coriander salsa. One boutique hotel does not a Padstow make, the agent mused. Still, it would be interesting to watch them try.
Bruno swept through the foyer of the Mariscombe Hotel, raking his hand through his black curls. He should have played it straight. If he’d just made a decent offer, The Rocks would have been his by now. He was pretty sure he could have second-guessed the top offer, then added on a few thousand that, let’s face it, he could afford to lose. But old habits die hard; Bruno was used to getting a bargain. He’d never paid over the odds for anything in Mariscombe. But it looked as if the tide was on the turn. People in search of a lifestyle were moving in with cash. The fiasco with The Rocks meant the goalposts were moving, and Bruno wasn’t quite so sure of the rules any more. He needed to take stock.
A cleaner dodged out of his way, dragging an ancient vacuum in her wake. He watched her with distaste – no one should be cleaning in the middle of the day, for heaven’s sake. She’d vanished through the double doors that led to the dining room, and something made him follow her. He stood in the doorway, surveying his surroundings as if for the first time. The carpet was a deep maroon, showing up the crumbs from breakfast that still hadn’t been cleared away even though it was nearly lunchtime. The white tablecloths still displayed coffee rings and splodges of ketchup from the full English breakfast enjoyed by the coachloads of pensioners who filled the hotel in the winter months. Although full English implied something generous and satisfying, Bruno knew it consisted of a shrivelled piece of bacon, a slender sausage, a tinned tomato and a spoonful of watery scrambled egg. He sighed and walked back through the foyer to the receptionist.
There was no doubt about it, things had slipped badly. He hadn’t kept on top of the hotel at all. Looking around it now, he couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would want to stay there – apart from the staggering view, of course. It was tired, old-fashioned, dreary. Until recently, he’d been able to get away with it. But people expected more these days. Facilities. Luxury. Design. Even the most demographically challenged seemed to want skin peels and seaweed wraps, fresh mango for breakfast and broadband in every bedroom. Not eighties chintz curtains and a black and white portable telly.
The bookings spoke for themselves. According to the Mariscombe tourist board, they were inundated with requests for accommodation and made hundreds of bookings on behalf of people eager to indulge in the currently fashionable British bucket-and-spade holiday. But analysis showed it was young families heading for the self-catering apartments that were springing up all over the place, or overworked couples keen to de-stress by indulging in the myriad physical activities the coastline offered: surfing, kite-flying, walking, kayaking, paragliding – the opportunities were endless. For what it offered, the Mariscombe Hotel was expensive, and didn’t pass muster. It was a dinosaur, redolent of a bygone era. Its very atmosphere sapped your energy. It just didn’t appeal to the new breed of visitors. They didn’t want three-course dinners in a stuffy, formal dining room. They wanted casual suppers where they could sit down with a beer or a glass of wine, unwind and enjoy the view.
Bruno ran an expert eye around the foyer. The furnishings and the fixtures were all heavy and old-fashioned; the air was stale. The occasional guest crawled through en route to morning coffee on the terrace. Two or three others sat behind the Telegraph by the fireplace. Outside, a wintry sun shone, valiantly attempting to lure the inhabitants of the hotel into its rays.
Bruno knew he only had himself to blame. He’d deliberately stayed away from Mariscombe over the past two years, apart from the occasional duty visit to his parents, when he’d slipped in and out of the village unannounced. But he couldn’t bury his head in the sand any longer. If he carried on neglecting the hotel it would start to fall down around his ears. And it should be the jewel in his crown. It was a prime piece of real estate, the best position in the village. He owed it to himself, and to Mariscombe, to restore it to its rightful place before it became a laughing stock. Before he lost so much money that he wasn’t in a position to do anything positive, and the decision-making process was taken out of his hands.
He walked behind the reception desk and settled himself down at the computer. There were no staff in evidence, but Bruno was familiar with the system. He clicked rapidly on the mouse, moving the cursor over the bookings for the next three months, muttering softly under his breath as he did some rapid mental arithmetic, his brows drawing further and further together. The advance bookings were even more dire than he had imagined. He knew that people’s holiday habits had changed, and that they were leaving it later and later to book in order to assess the weather or take advantage of late deals, but even taking that into consideration, surely by now there should be a healthy sprinkling of rooms taken up?
Bruno picked up a nearby pencil with ‘The Mariscombe Hotel’ stamped in gold along its length, and started doing sums on the back of a brochure. If there was one thing Bruno was good at, it was thinking on his feet. Working as a bond trader in his twenties had given him the power of his convictions; the ability to put his head on the chopping block and stand by his decisions. He’d missed that thrill recently. Now he was an independent financial adviser, working from the capacious basement of his house in Kew. Of course, there was always a risk involved in financial advice, but the stakes weren’t as high as they were on the floor, when millions could be lost in a split second, when a moment’s hesitation could cost one dear. Nowadays his risks were calculated, spread, considered. The work was rewarding, but not necessarily exciting.
It was time for a change.
Now, in a split second, Bruno made a decision. If the Mariscombe Hotel wasn’t going to become a millstone round his neck, he had to do something positive. He could sell it, but it went against the grain to sell something which was clearly on its knees. Even if he went down that route in the long term, he had to fatten it up first. He wasn’t going to let somebody else have a bargain at his expense, no way. He put his pencil down decisively as the receptionist walked back into the foyer, clutching a mug of coffee. She started in surprise when she saw Bruno behind the desk.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘Lucky I wasn’t trying to book a room.’
He smiled up at her, but his eyes were hard. Granite grey. Unforgiving.
‘There’s a bell.’ Hannah pointed it out, determined to stand her ground. ‘I would have heard it.’
Bruno waved a dismissive hand.
‘Don’t worry about it. I want you to phone everyone who’s unfortunate enough to have booked in here. Tell them there’s going to be building work going on over the next few months and that some of the facilities might not be available. Give them the chance to cancel, but if they still want to come tell them they can’t complain about the noise and the mess because they’ve been warned. If they really kick up, offer them a discount.’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Twenty per cent. No more. And anyone else who books, tell them the same.’
He strode out from behind the desk. Hannah was still staring at him in disbelief. She knew he was the hotel owner. She’d seen him once or twice before – and let’s be honest, once you’d seen Bruno Thorne, you di
dn’t forget him in a hurry. Even in a polo shirt and jeans, he had presence. There’d been a rumour in the staffroom that he was back – the staff were all jumpy. And it seemed they were right to be nervous.
‘What’s happening then, exactly?’ Hannah wasn’t one to beat around the bush.
‘Let’s just say the honeymoon is over.’
He gave a ghost of a smile, looked her cursorily up and down, then turned on his heel and walked back through the reception area, through the revolving door and out on to the steps that afforded him a panoramic view of the bay. He breathed in the salty tang, felt the ozone hit his lungs and immediately felt exhilarated. God, he loved it here. Whenever he had so much as a glimpse of the wild, craggy rocks, contrasting with the softness of the sand, with the sea either crashing or lapping, depending on its mood, he wondered why he’d ever left. The place was stunning. What had he been doing, stuck in the city, penned in by traffic and pollution and people? Why had he ever gone away? This was where he belonged.
He looked out across the water, as if seeking a sign that what he was about to do wasn’t utter madness. On the other side of the bay, tucked on the edge of a far cliff, he saw the outline of The Rocks. For a moment he tensed as he remembered his earlier conversation with the estate agent, but then he relaxed. Perhaps it was a good thing that he hadn’t won the bid. He was going to need all the money he could get his hands on, if he was going to turn this place round.
He marched back inside, along the corridor, past the dining room and the kitchens, which smelt of over-boiled soup, then ran lightly down the back staircase that led to the laundry area that doubled as a staffroom. He pushed open the swing door to find seven startled faces staring up at him. Three chambermaids, two waiters and the kitchen porter were sitting round a baize-topped table, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and looking in awe at Hannah, who had wasted no time in running down to deliver the latest bombshell. In the background, industrial tumble-dryers whirred.
‘Cigarettes out, now. If I catch you smoking again in here, you’re fired,’ Bruno snapped, sweeping an open packet off the table and crushing it in one hand.
‘Hey!’ One of the waiters dared to protest, leaping to his feet, ignoring a warning glance from one of the chambermaids. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I think I can,’ replied Bruno mildly. ‘Who the fuck wants their sheets smelling of stale tobacco? Where’s Caragh?’
‘Um…’
There was a panicky exchange of complicit glances. Bruno raised an eyebrow, looking from one to another. One of the chambermaids looked down at her fingernails in confusion, obviously not wanting to split. Bruno analysed her. She was a pretty little thing. She didn’t look much older than fourteen. He peered at her name badge.
‘Molly?’ he asked gently.
The girl blushed, self-conscious at being picked out.
‘Sorry. I don’t know. I saw her first thing, but…’
She trailed off. Bruno, secretly admiring her loyalty, turned his gaze to Hannah.
‘Hannah?’
Hannah glanced momentarily at her colleagues, then squared her shoulders.
‘It’s her coffee break.’ She straightened her cuffs before looking up defiantly. ‘So you’ll probably find her in one of the Tower Suites.’
Raising an eyebrow, Bruno nodded his thanks, pulled a pass key off one of the hooks and was gone as quickly as he’d arrived. The others turned on Hannah.
‘What did you go and tell on Caragh for? She’ll go ballistic!’ exclaimed Molly.
Hannah bit her lip, slightly worried about the consequences now she had let the cat out of the bag.
‘Because it’s about time somebody knew. She can’t get away with the way she behaves forever. And he ought to know…’
‘Who was that bloke, anyway?’ Ed, the young kitchen porter, pink with acne and confusion, was flummoxed by the exchange.
One of the waiters looked at him witheringly.
‘For God’s sake, Ed. Keep up. That’s Bruno Thorne. He owns this place. And the chip shop. And the arcade. And the caravan park.’
‘Oh. Roight.’
‘Looks like he’s on the warpath. I don’t fancy Caragh’s chances if he catches her with her pants down.’
Hannah looked pleased. Ed looked worried.
‘Shall I phone up the suite and warn her?’
Hannah leaned forward.
‘You do that, Ed, and I’ll shut you in the walk-in freezer.’
Ed blanched – as much as a boy with chronic acne could blanch – while the others fell about laughing. Except Molly, who looked rather pale.
‘You OK?’ asked Hannah.
‘Yeah.’ Molly bent down to tie up her shoelace, letting her hair fall over her face so Hannah couldn’t see her confusion.
‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’ The other chambermaids were already preening themselves, slapping on lip gloss.
‘Course not.’ Molly stood up straight and pushed back her shoulders. ‘He’s way too old.’
‘Who cares, if he’s rich? And he’s well fit.’
Across the room, Hannah looked in the mirror on the back of the door and sighed. She was an ungainly girl, with a large nose and small eyes rather too close together, giving her a sly, untrustworthy look, although she was actually perfectly honest. In fact, she had a reputation for plain speaking – you didn’t ask Hannah if your bum looked big if you couldn’t cope with the truth.
‘He’d never look at me, would he?’ she sighed. ‘It’s no good. I’ll have to try and get some overtime. I’m never going to save enough at this rate.’
Molly put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
‘I think you’re crazy, Hannah. You don’t want to go having plastic surgery. It might not look right. Anyway, it’s personality that counts.’
‘Oh yeah. That would be why Frank’s shagging Caragh. Because she’s got such a great personality. Not because of her looks.’
Hannah sounded bitter. Molly bit her lip. It was true. Caragh was gorgeous, and an utter cow, whilst Hannah had a heart of gold underneath her bumptious exterior. But the truth of it was, life wasn’t fair. If anyone knew that, it was Molly.
There were two Tower Suites, east and west, one at each end of the hotel. The laundry trolley was outside the second. Bruno took out his pass key, unlocked the door and walked straight in. He didn’t bat an eyelid as Caragh, skirt round her waist and stockings round her ankles, squealed and wriggled out from underneath Frank, the head chef.
‘Haven’t you heard of knocking?’
Bruno ignored her. Instead he tossed her a set of keys.
‘I want you to open up my house. I want it cleaned from top to bottom. Fresh linen on all the beds. Towels, toiletries, light bulbs – everything double-checked and replenished. And the fridge and the freezer filled. I’ll get you a list. And I want somebody to come in every day from now on to clean.’
Frank was fumbling, pulling up his trousers and tucking his shirt in. As Bruno turned to walk back out of the room he pointed a finger at him.
‘And you’re fired.’
‘What?’ Frank looked at him in outrage. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘I just did.’
‘I’ll take you to an industrial tribunal.’
‘See you there. As far as I’m concerned, shagging on my time on my premises is a sackable offence.’
Moments later the door clicked shut. Bruno was gone. Frank looked close to tears.
‘He can’t sack me, can he, Caragh?’
‘He can do what he likes. He’s the boss.’ Caragh had an overwhelming sense of self-preservation and no compassion whatsoever. She smoothed her skirt down over her hips and inspected her appearance in the mirror, patting her auburn bob into place, then picked up Bruno’s keys, suddenly the professional. Totally ignoring Frank’s mews of panic, she ran down to the reception area, where Hannah had installed herself back behind the desk.
‘I’ve got to go and open up your man’s house,’ she ann
ounced, jingling the keys Bruno had thrown at her. ‘Want to come and have a snoop?’
Hannah turned to face her, trying not to look guilty.
‘I don’t think I’d better. I’ve got to phone all the future bookings. Warn them about the noise.’
‘What noise? What’s going on?’
‘Sounds like we’re having a refurb.’
‘Nobody told me,’ said Caragh indignantly. ‘But then, why would they? I’m only the manager.’
‘Probably because you won’t be here.’
The deep voice behind her made Caragh whirl round. Bruno was standing there, gazing at her stonily.
‘Unless you stop gossiping and get on with the job.
Here’s my grocery list.’ He handed her a list, handwritten in black capitals. ‘I want fresh flowers, too. No chrysanths, no carnations. And no yellow.’
Seconds later, he was gone.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Caragh. ‘He doesn’t take any prisoners, does he?’
‘He could tie me up any day of the week,’ sighed Hannah.
Caragh looked at her sharply for a moment, then looked down at the list she had been given. ‘Serrano ham. Ice cubes. Limes. San Pellegrino – what’s that?’
Hannah shrugged.
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Vine-ripened tomatoes. Fresh coffee – coarsely ground. Blueberries.’ She rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘I’m not exactly going to get this lot around here, am I?’
‘You’ll have to go to the supermarket in Bamford.’
Caragh puffed herself up like an angry cobra.
‘I don’t think this is my job. I’m management. Not some skivvy. I’m going to tell him to shove his shopping list up his arse.’
‘I don’t mind doing it.’ Hannah stretched out her hand for the list, but Caragh suddenly thought better of it.
‘Actually, no. You’re right. It could be interesting.’
They both gazed outside, where they could see Bruno pacing up and down on the terrace, raking his hands through his black curls, talking into his phone. They both admired the broadness of his back, his athletic stride.
Love on the Rocks Page 7