Frank smiled to himself. His blood was up. He felt excited for the first time in years. He was going to blow Bruno’s mind.
By nine, he was hurrying back to his room. Many of the live-in staff at the Mariscombe Hotel were accommodated in a sprawling wooden chalet tucked away in the far corner of the grounds, shielded from public view by a high hedge of rhododendrons. There was a central living area and a kitchen, and a dozen small bedrooms. Outside, the washing line was hung with drying wetsuits, bikinis and towels; surfboards were propped up against the wall, along with bicycles and skateboards. It was nirvana; a student doss-house, the bins brimming with empty cans and take-away cartons, a place where the washing up was never done and the sheets were never changed, because the inmates barely slept. Life was one long party, with a token nod to the work that paid for their lifestyle. With food and accommodation thrown in, the only cash they needed was for beer and dope. Clothes didn’t matter much here. No one needed a car. CDs and DVDs were pirated and pooled.
Frank realized that Bruno had hit the nail right on the head. You could forget the real world existed in Mariscombe: status symbols, responsibility and ambition meant nothing. But could it last forever? Without some sort of momentum, it would be easy to become totally dysfunctional. The archetypal beach bum. He’d seen them around the Jolly Roger and the Old Boathouse – sad fifty-year-olds with dreadlocks and tobacco-stained fingers, staring longingly at the firm young flesh on display, always eager to be in on a round but suddenly noticeable by their absence when it was their shout. Frank despised them. Yet there was nothing stopping him heading that way at the moment. This, he realized, was his wake-up call and he better get it right.
He pulled a cardboard box out from under his bed. Inside were his bibles. He couldn’t remember how long it was since he had last looked at them; it wasn’t very cool to be seen to take your job seriously at the Mariscombe Hotel. But things were going to change. Frank knew it wouldn’t be long before he was inspired as he started leafing through. Gordon, Jamie, Rick – all the heroes of great English cooking. Just a few minutes reminded him what it was that had made him want to become a chef in the first place. Ideas flooded his mind, overwhelming him. He needed to write it all down. Shit, he didn’t even have a pen and paper. Hannah would have some. She was bound to be in. She always was these days. He leaped off the bed, out of the door and ran down the corridor, bursting into Hannah’s room without knocking. She was lying on her bed reading last week’s Grazia.
‘Have you got a pen? And any paper?’
She sat up, blushing.
‘Course.’ She burrowed in a drawer and pulled out a ring-bound notebook and a packet of scented gel-pens. Frank took them gratefully.
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s OK. Any time.’ She smiled at him quizzically. ‘How come you’re not out on the razz?’
Frank opened his mouth to tell her, then thought better of it.
‘I’ve got a couple of letters I need to write.’
‘Oh.’
Frank held up the notebook, backing out of the door.
‘Cheers.’
Back in his room, Frank looked at the pens. There was purple, pink, green, yellow or orange. Dubiously he drew out the purple one and sniffed it. Grape, apparently. He wasn’t quite sure of the point. He certainly wasn’t in the habit of sniffing his correspondence, but perhaps some people did. Anyway, he was sure Bruno wouldn’t care. Swiftly, he began to draw, sketching out ideas, the purple pen flying across the page as he drew tables and chairs, labelled boxes with arrows and drew little icons to illustrate his ideas.
*
In the room down the corridor, Hannah felt hot knowing that she and Frank were the only two people in the building. Everyone else was out drinking; they’d pile back around midnight, and the music would go on. Hannah didn’t mind her self-imposed incarceration. After all, staying in meant saving at least ten pounds. Which was ten pounds nearer her goal. She pulled open her bedside drawer and looked at her latest bank statement. Only two hundred and forty pounds to go. When she lumped it together with all the money she’d got for her eighteenth, she’d have enough.
She’d researched it meticulously. She’d been on the Internet, trawled through all the cosmetic surgery sites. She’d read hundreds of before and after tales, and satisfied herself that the risk was worth it. That the rise in self-esteem was certainly worth a couple of weeks of pain. Or mere discomfort, if you believed some of the more reassuring accounts. Life-changing, they said. To a woman.
For the six million, trillionth time in her life, she looked at her profile. It was not so much the size of her nose, though that was considerable. It was the way it jutted out from between her eyes, far too high up, then bent suddenly in the middle, dropping down at a sharp angle so that the end hovered over her top lip. She stroked her nose thoughtfully, wondering just what size and shape she would end up with. She was realistic enough to know that she would have to have something that was in proportion with the rest of her; not a dinky little Meg Ryan number. She would have to go on the surgeon’s advice. But at least it would be straight. And smaller, if not actually small.
Hannah flopped back down on her bed with her mirror, casting a quick look at the clock. It would be at least another hour before the others came back and she had some company. She loved working at the Mariscombe Hotel. It was like having a huge extended family – a mad, noisy rabble of brothers and sisters. She’d been brought up on a remote farm on Exmoor, the youngest daughter of elderly parents who had increasingly needed her help, meaning that at certain times of the year she had missed large chunks of school. And being so far off the beaten track meant that she’d had no social life to speak of. It had been a lonely existence, and a tough one. Working at the hotel was a holiday in comparison; when you’d stayed up all night lambing for two weeks on end, or broken your back rushing to get the hay in before the rains came, sitting at a hotel reception desk being polite was child’s play.
Her parents had been disappointed when she’d decided to go and study travel and tourism at college. They’d somehow expected her to stay on and help them, but Hannah had found the courage to stand up for herself. She’d done her HND, then got herself a job at the Mariscombe Hotel, which was less than an hour away. That had been her only compromise, that she hadn’t sought gainful employment further afield. She was near enough to get back if her parents really needed her, and she promised to take her leave at the times of year when they needed her most to help on the farm. So Hannah never really had a holiday, but she didn’t mind. This was as close to a holiday as it got.
The only thing Hannah found difficult was being so ungainly. She was five foot ten, with large feet and hands. Growing up on a farm, where appearances didn’t matter, with a mother who didn’t even use face cream, meant that Hannah hadn’t been self-conscious about her appearance for the first eighteen years of her life. In fact, her size and strength had been a positive attribute. But here, where so many of the other girls at the hotel were utterly gorgeous, and had so many opportunities to show off their perfection, her lack of physical beauty had become painfully apparent. Whenever they all went down to the beach, Hannah always stayed fully clothed, while the other girls stripped down to dinky little bikinis, their skin golden and flawless. No one had ever encouraged her to get undressed. It was as if it was obvious that she wouldn’t want to inflict her hideous body on the rest of them.
But they all liked her. Adored her, in fact. Hannah was the mother figure, the one who looked after them all and clucked around them. She was in charge of the barbecue on the beach; she made sure they all put sun cream on; she made sure they picked up all their litter. They came to her with their woes and problems – something she found rather baffling, as what did she know of affairs of the heart? But somehow her advice was always sound. And, anyway, she was a good listener. Auntie Hannah, they called her, and she didn’t mind, even though it was never reciprocated. She hadn’t told anyone else about her unrequited crush. A
nd they didn’t seem to notice that she blushed furiously whenever Frank was near. But why would he look at her, when he had Caragh, lean and groomed, her chestnut hair gleaming, as sleek as a thoroughbred entered for the Derby?
But Hannah wasn’t one to mope and feel sorry for herself. Ever practical, she had decided to take matters into her own hands. No one had to suffer ugliness in this day and age. She peered at herself in her mirror again. She would start with her nose and work her way down. Collagen next, to plump up her lips – they were rather thin, decidedly unkissable. Hardly even worth putting lip gloss on. Then a boob job. Ironically, despite her size, Hannah had rather small bosoms. Implants would do no harm, to plump them up a bit, and a lift to make them high and rounded. Finally, some judicious liposuction – those bloody child-bearing hips of hers that had never born any children, and were quite unlikely to unless she took drastic action –
There was a sudden rap on the door and she dropped the mirror guiltily, as if she was about to be discovered brandishing a Rampant Rabbit. Not that that would be unusual in here. All the girls had them. Except her. At over twenty-five pounds, it would eat too far into her budget.
‘Come in.’
Frank poked his head round.
‘I need you to tell me if you think I’m going mad.’
He came in tentatively, waving the notebook she’d lent him earlier.
‘What is it?’
‘My ideas for the new dining room.’ He sat down on the bed next to her carefully. ‘Bruno wanted my input.’
‘Oh.’ Hannah took the notebook off him and sniffed it. ‘Grape.’
Frank nodded, impatient.
‘Yeah. But what do you think? Do you reckon this would work?’
He was sitting right next to her. She could feel his body heat only inches away. The pages in front of her swam. Her heart was pounding. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She couldn’t really take in anything he had written, but she had to concentrate. She had to give him a coherent answer. She took a deep breath and steadied the pages.
Intrigued, she leafed through his outlines and his sample menus. Unable to wait for her to read through it, he leaned over and started explaining his thought process.
‘I think we should split the dining room in half. Have a grill on one side – traditional, waitress service with the tables properly laid up. We can just serve steaks or fish or chicken, with a selection of sauces. On the other side, for more casual dining, and for families with kids, we have a wood-burning pizza oven and burger bar. Then a huge salad bar down the centre of the room, dividing one area from the other. I don’t mean prepackaged coleslaw and slimy potatoes in salad cream. I mean proper green salad, with romaine and radicchio and Little Gem lettuce. Greek salad. Couscous with roasted vegetables –’
He broke off, realizing he was ranting.
‘Sorry,’ he grinned. ‘I’m just really excited. What do you think? Honestly?’
‘I think… wow,’ said Hannah admiringly. ‘And I’m not just saying that. This would be fantastic. It’s just what the hotel needs.’
Frank rubbed his chin.
‘I’m still not sure about desserts. They can be such a fag. And we don’t have a proper pastry chef.’
‘Why don’t you do an American ice-cream parlour type thing? Sundaes and banana splits and milkshakes? And brownies and cheesecake?’
Frank beamed. How easy would that be? They could bake the desserts fresh in the morning and have them available all day.
‘You’re a genius.’
Hannah felt herself go pink with pleasure as he patted her on the shoulder. As he stood up, her heart sank. Now she’d done her bit, given him reassurance and advice, he was going.
At the door, he stopped.
‘Do you fancy a drink?’
He probably just felt sorry for her. Felt he had to offer.
‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to save money.’
‘We don’t have to go out,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got a few bottles of Becks in my room. We can sit outside and chill till the others get back.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll just put this stuff away. I’ll see you outside in five.’
‘Great.’
He shut the door. Hannah hugged herself excitedly. She’d have at least forty minutes alone with him if she was lucky. She wished fervently she’d put on something more attractive than her old black velour J-Lo tracksuit – it really had seen better days and it was decidedly saggy round the bottom. But he’d think she was weird if she got changed. At least her hair was clean. She pulled it out of its scrunchie and it fell to her shoulders. Mousy, but shining…
Caragh Flynn was a conundrum, decided Bruno. She was clever, cunning and spectacularly lazy. She reminded him of an exotic cat. Sleek and sly, confident in her supremacy, trading on her looks.
He’d asked her to come over for a drink that evening, to discuss the hotel. She’d arrived bang on time. Eight thirty. She was wearing a black skirt, just above the knee, with a white blouse, crisp and pristine, but just transparent enough to reveal the lacy straps of the white bra underneath. Court shoes – not high, but enough heel to elongate her already long, slender, lightly tanned legs. A smudge of grey eyeliner, a hint of lip gloss. The faintest trace of some light, fresh scent. Pearl earrings and a slim gold chain with a crucifix round her neck.
This girl was no surfer chick. She was a consummate professional. Bruno guessed that it had taken her quite some time to dress. To look so businesslike and efficient, yet give the hints of softness and femininity that would leave most men putty in her hands.
Bruno led her through into the living room. He saw her eyes flick around the walls, appraising the contents of the room in a split second, but not giving anything away. Bruno smiled to himself. He could tell by the set of her shoulders, the way she was carrying her head, that it was a strain for her to keep up this cool nonchalance, to pretend as if she wafted in and out of million-pound pads every day of her life. This little girl from the bogs of Ireland, with her sherry-coloured eyes and her copper hair.
He gestured for her to sit on the sofa with the view of the bay, then planted himself on the one adjacent, crossing one leg over so his foot rested on his knee. She sat bolt upright, but she met his gaze boldly.
‘So,’ she said, in her softest, most beguiling Kerry lilt. ‘You’ve had a while to suss everybody out. What do you think of the show so far?’
For a moment Bruno felt as if the tables had been turned, and he was the one under scrutiny. She was incredibly self-possessed, and he couldn’t help admire her for it.
‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘if I didn’t already own the place I wouldn’t touch it with a shitty stick. It’s a dinosaur. The staff are delinquents. And before you start defending yourself, I know you’re only the acting manageress. You took on a poisoned chalice, and you’ve had no direction, no support, no budget… frankly, I’m amazed you’ve stuck around.’
‘I was going to give it till the end of the summer,’ admitted Caragh. ‘Then maybe go off to Dubai.’
‘What brought you over here in the first place? I know your part of the world. It’s incredibly beautiful. And not so different from here.’
‘Small-town Irish life is ten times more claustrophobic than English. I’m not Doctor Flynn’s daughter over here.’
‘So you can behave as badly as you like?’
He was teasing her. She could have bristled, but she didn’t. She leaned back in the sofa, tilted her head to one side.
‘Not so much that. There’s more interesting people to behave badly with.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear, a habit Bruno had noticed. ‘My brother’s an equine vet just outside Bath. I came over to stay with him a few years ago, and it was like being able to breathe all of a sudden. I was already trained in hotel management; I’d been working at one of the big hotels on the outskirts of Killarney. It was pretty easy to get a job here.’
‘Well, as you might have guessed, I want to s
hake things up.’
‘You’ll be bankrupt by Christmas if you don’t.’
He laughed at her bluntness.
‘Actually, I think this place could limp on indefinitely just as it is. But I think it would be much more of a challenge to turn it around.’
He began outlining his plans. She listened attentively. After a few minutes, she shifted forwards in her chair slightly, tipping her pelvis, then uncrossed her legs languidly. Bruno was left in no doubt that she was a natural redhead.
Christ, he thought. Did she know how long he’d gone without? In that split second he remembered exactly what it was he’d been missing and he nearly betrayed himself. For a moment, he was tempted. She was, after all, his type: sleek and groomed and ruthless. She had that little bit of edge he liked. He imagined that she would be totally uninhibited, that she would go out of her way to impress him with her bedroom antics. Under all that crisp clothing she’d be a vixen, a wildcat. Bruno knew it would only take one click of his fingers. But he managed to restrain himself. That was exactly what she wanted. For him to fall for her charms and be put off the scent. He ploughed manfully on with his prosaic descriptions.
‘I’m installing a new computer system. Each guest will have a card, like a credit card, and every transaction will be recorded on that card until they come to settle up. There’ll be virtually no need for cash in the entire hotel.’
‘Good idea.’ Caragh smiled her approval.
‘It will make fiddling well-nigh impossible.’
‘Fiddling?’
Bruno nodded gravely.
‘I’ve had all the figures examined by a friend of mine who’s an expert in these things. He’s trained to spot patterns. The books here just don’t add up. The takings are totally erratic; the average spend per customer isn’t at all consistent. Which suggests the staff are on the take. Whether some or all of them isn’t clear at the moment.’
Love on the Rocks Page 14