Was she gossiping about him to the other guests? The thought chilled his blood. More to the point, was she talking about him to Monica? He had seen no evidence of this but Penny had the sharpest nose in the business and she might have suspected that something was up.
If indeed it was. He really had made a total ass of himself that night. Memories kept rising up, each more blush-making than the last. His self-pitying burblings about Babette’s Feast and subsequent drooling over Stéphane Audran’s beauty, unchivalrous in the circumstances. A sentimental drone about the adorableness of his babies when they were little, equally tactless as Monica was childless. At one point – dear God! – he seemed to remember laying his head in Monica’s lap. And then the hopeless fumbling on the landing, his drunken plea that she mustn’t leave him alone. Had he tried to unbutton her blouse or had she done that herself? He remembered an attempt at a kiss but the rest was thankfully lost in oblivion.
No wonder Monica had scarcely spoken to him since then. He could hardly blame her. Though inebriated herself, she probably remembered it in all its repulsive detail. How foolish he had been, to think she might have found him as attractive as he found her! Now he thought about it, she had probably fabricated the dead husband to repel any advances on his part. He hadn’t understood it at the time but it made sense now.
For he had been drawn to her. She was a striking woman – dark, whiplash-thin, with an interesting face that reminded him of Dorothy Parker. Underneath the chic haircut, however, he sensed a seething mass of self-doubt and insecurity. After the years with Penny he was ready to tackle a neurotic woman again. And she had made him laugh.
It was a shame he couldn’t ask Penny’s advice; she would have something bracing to say, flinging the window open on the fetid room of his psyche. But Penny of course was the last person in whom he could confide.
The next morning Monica was nowhere to be seen. Buffy missed her at breakfast and when he went into the kitchen, where the class had assembled, she wasn’t there. He felt a lurch of disappointment. By mid-morning there was still no sign of her. He crept upstairs and tapped on her door. There was no answer, but when he looked into the room, her things were still there. She hadn’t packed up and gone, then; but where was she?
Monica
Work was Monica’s comfort. After the break-up with Malcolm she had thrown herself into her job, taking on more responsibility, working overtime. Anything to delay returning to her empty flat where grief and madness lurked.
Now she was standing at the recycling centre, the wind whipping her face, phoning her assistant Rupert.
‘Any messages?’ she asked.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with,’ he said. ‘You’re on holiday, remember?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t you worry, I’m holding the fort. You have a great time, wherever you are.’ He didn’t even know that she was on a cookery course.
Monica switched off her mobile. So now what? She pictured the office, the red plastic chairs around the conference table, the view of Leadenhall Market; she pictured her desk by the window, pictured it with such longing that her body ached.
Traffic thundered past. Mountains of black plastic bags were heaped against the skips; due to the cutbacks, the collections had been discontinued until further notice. She had read this in the local paper, along with news of an anti-capitalist rally in Cardiff. Recently she had felt the rumble of discontent growing louder, the approaching thunderstorm. In fact, her most recent CEOs’ shindig had been disrupted by protesters. Acme Motivation were considering increased security at the various hotels they used, something that was due for discussion on her return.
The conference table. The pens and pads laid out at each place. The bottles of water. The problems to be solved, in all their simple complexity. Work was a gleaming city surrounded by a dark, tangled forest filled with snakes.
Now what? Back at Myrtle House everybody else had bonded together, they would be cooking in the kitchen, they probably hadn’t even noticed her absence. It was like being at school again, being left out of the team. No doubt they all knew each other’s names, while she had been distracted by that humiliating business with Buffy. Oh God.
At that moment a battered van slewed to a halt beside her. A man leaned across the passenger seat and wound down the window.
‘How much, love?’ he asked in a sing-song Welsh voice.
Monica drank too much at dinner. She knew it at the time, even as she poured herself another glass. And why bloody not? Her relationship with alcohol had lasted longer than her relationship with any man. It wasn’t a love affair, or even a love–hate thing; that would be too simplistic. And yet underneath it all it was as simple as simple could be – people might come and go, but a bottle was always there. And she liked the taste, for God’s sake!
Buffy hadn’t spoken to her all evening. He wasn’t even avoiding her. He had simply forgotten about her. Besides, his daughter Nyange had turned up.
Monica had no idea she was his daughter, of course. The woman was black! Big-boned, handsome, with a challenging, stroppy look to her. Only when Penny hugged her, with a whoop of delight, did Monica learn her identity – that she was the product of Buffy’s loins. ‘He had this thing with a dancer,’ Penny whispered.
It was at this point that Monica finally gave up. Buffy was a multi-storey car park crammed with vehicles, its sign saying No Spaces. Having circled the block a couple of times, she had to admit defeat and drive home. The whole love thing – with Buffy, with anyone – was too emotionally draining; even her internet dates were little cot deaths. She would give it all up and concentrate on her work.
The night’s movie was The Wedding Banquet. As Monica sat down she could see no sign of Buffy or his daughter. The wine had made her dozy. After a while she realised that her head was resting on her neighbour’s shoulder. Maybe she’d been snoring!
Monica muttered an excuse, got up and left the room, bumping against the door frame. Her head was spinning; she must go to bed.
She went into the lounge to collect her handbag. Buffy, Nyange, Voda and India were sitting there, papers spread on the coffee table. Monica muttered her apologies and looked around. Where had she left the blasted thing?
‘We’re discussing the appalling state of my finances,’ said Buffy. ‘Nyange’s come down to help. She’s an accountant.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Monica stupidly.
‘She’s been bullying me for months about doing up this place and making it into a proper hotel,’ said Buffy.
‘I’m not bullying you,’ said Nyange. ‘I’m just talking sense.’
Monica spotted her handbag on the window seat, underneath a pile of newspapers. She picked it up and clutched it to her chest like a shield. ‘I do a lot of work with hotels,’ she said suddenly.
‘Do you?’ Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. Now she had his attention! Tonight, in his maroon velvet jacket he looked like an ageing croupier in a washed-up seaside town. He looked hopeless. Monica felt a surge of power.
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ she asked.
Buffy shifted up on the sofa. ‘Come on then, spit it out.’ He patted the cushion.
She ignored his invitation. Instead, she leaned against the mantelpiece, a figure of authority.
‘This place has masses of potential, none of which you’ve exploited,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to be frank?’
‘Yes, yes!’ said Buffy.
What the hell. Soon she would be gone. Before she went, however, she would give him something to remember.
‘Why do people pay their hard-earned cash to go to a hotel?’ she said. ‘To step into another world, to be pampered, to live in a bubble. There are certain things they expect nowadays, certain standards, and this place just doesn’t have them. Myrtle House isn’t shabby-chic, it’s just shabby. I nearly brained myself yesterday tripping over a hole in the carpet. And I won’t even start on the bathroom facilities.’ The fire was scorching the back of her
legs. Monica moved away and sat on the arm of the sofa, like a teacher addressing a row of schoolchildren. ‘What sort of guests do you want? High end? I work with the rich. Even in the deepest recession, they always survive. In fact, they get richer. And what they want is something money can’t buy, something that you have here in spades – great countryside and the sort of community that doesn’t exist any more. With the right investment this place could be turned around – not just your hotel but the whole town.’ Her voice quickened. ‘I see Knockton as the new Hay-on-Wye. A Destination Town! Get some celebs down here, get some A-list creatives, set up a photo shoot in one of those retro shops, that hilarious gents’ outfitter’s, say, place a piece in the Sunday Times property pages extolling its charms, plant a story about an actress raising her own pigs and the punters will follow. I promise.’
Monica paused for breath. A log settled, with a sigh, in the fire.
‘And this is where they’ll stay,’ she said. ‘Your boutique hotel.’
‘Boutique?’ said Buffy faintly.
‘It’s crying out for expansion and I have an idea. Find some investors and buy the Old Court House next door.’
‘What?’ Buffy stared at her.
‘I looked at the details in the estate agent’s window,’ Monica said. ‘It’s a fabulous building, masses of potential. Knock through and expand. Create new bedrooms. Convert the cells into a spa –’
‘The cells?’ said India.
‘– treatment rooms – massage, therapies. Convert the courtroom into a conference centre. For various reasons my clients are looking for venues off the beaten track. Nowadays they need somewhere discreet and secure.’
‘Who are they, the Mafia?’ asked Buffy.
‘And Knockton’s perfect because nobody’s heard of it.’
She shot Buffy a challenging look, picked up her handbag and left the room.
Penny
Overnight the temperature dropped. When Penny looked out, the garden was white with frost. An icy draught leaked through the window sashes; she could feel it even through her Hotel Cipriani dressing gown.
The lavatory flushed. Penny darted out, clutching her washbag, but the bathroom door slammed shut. Somebody had beaten her to it. Through the walls she could sense people in their rooms, poised to make a move. It was like being back in her childhood, the whole family sharing one bathroom as people did then, even in Godalming.
‘. . . the latest government figures reveal that youth unemployment has now reached one million,’ said the news on her radio.
How full of hope she had been, just starting out! And how easy to find work straight from school, as a reporter for the Surrey Gazette. One took such things for granted then. Not for the first time, Penny was glad she hadn’t had children. A harsh world faced them now, and it was all the fault of their so-called elders and betters. In her youth, bank managers had been avuncular chaps who played golf with one’s father. They were there to reassure and help.
These past few days Penny had found herself dwelling on the past, not something in which she usually indulged. The house was dotted with triggers from her life with Buffy, that was why – a stripy rug they had bought together in Greece; various pictures that had been in his possession before she had met him, including one ghastly daub by Jacquetta. On the mantelpiece was a statue of Osiris she had given Buffy after a freebie to Egypt and which she suspected he had never liked; she had bought it on expenses, ah those were the days! And now it was all gone – the days of high living, the days of living with Buffy. Now he was a gallant old wreck with a drinker’s nose. She had to admire him for launching out on a new venture this late in life – she had done the same thing herself – but today there seemed to be an air of desperation about both their endeavours. What would have happened if they had both just stuck it out together? Would they have sunk into an undemanding companionship? Would that have been a cop-out, or really rather nice? For she had to admit it: she was dreading the drive home to Suffolk and the cold dark cottage that awaited her.
Just then, gazing out of the window, she saw Monica. She was walking down the garden path, wheeling her suitcase. The door in the wall led to the back lane; she must have parked her car there.
Penny left her room and ran down the stairs. From the kitchen came the smell of frying bacon. The cold air hit her as she opened the back door and strode down the path. And now she was in the back lane where Monica’s car stood in a cloud of exhaust smoke, its engine running.
Monica was scraping frost off the windscreen. When Penny called her name she jumped and swung round.
‘What are you doing here?’ She stared at Penny in her dressing gown and slippers.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to London,’ Monica said. ‘I’ve told Voda.’
‘But why?’
‘They need me at work,’ said Monica.
‘Do they?’
Monica turned away and attacked the windscreen with her scraper. Penny tapped the shoulder of her overcoat.
‘Can we sit in the car? It’s freezing.’
Monica shot her a puzzled look. She nodded, however, and opened the passenger door. They sat side by side, the engine still running.
‘Don’t leave,’ said Penny.
‘I told you. There’s a crisis at the office.’
Penny gazed at the frosted windscreen. Monica’s side, the driver’s side, was scraped clean. It reminded her of the specs worn by a girl at school who was blind in one eye – one lens clouded, the other clear.
‘I’ve seen you looking at Buffy,’ Penny said. ‘The way you look at him.’
Monica sat very still. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Penny took a breath. ‘I recognise that look, you see, because I was like that once.’
Monica’s gloved hands lay in her lap. There was something touching about her gloves – powder-blue knitted ones, the sort a child would wear.
‘He’s not such a bad old thing, you know,’ said Penny. ‘If you wanted, I could give you a reference. In fact, sometimes I wish I hadn’t run off with somebody else.’
‘Nothing’s happened between us.’ Monica stiffened. ‘Or has he told you something?’
‘No.’ Penny shook her head. ‘I know he likes you, though.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I can see it in his face,’ said Penny. ‘Take my word for it. You see, he used to look at me like that.’
‘I’m sure he did,’ said Monica sharply. ‘And all the others.’
There was a silence. ‘You can’t expect him not to have had a life,’ said Penny. ‘You have, I have. We all have.’
‘Not as much as him.’
‘Are you jealous of me?’ Penny blurted out. ‘Look, feel me, I’m just a normal person.’ She slipped her hand into Monica’s gloved one and held it tight. ‘Just normal flesh and blood.’ Monica didn’t reply. Penny tried again: ‘He and I weren’t at it hammer and tongs, if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, we had our moments but it was more a companionable thing. Know what our first date was? Buying an orthopaedic mattress for his back –’ She stopped. Monica’s hand lay inert in hers. ‘Listen, Monica, I used to feel like that. I used to torture myself, thinking of all the women he’d slept with. I used to think, were they better at it than me? Did they do things I didn’t know how to do? Did he find them more exciting? Maybe he thought the same about me but I didn’t know, I never asked.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘It wasn’t just the sex. I envied them for knowing him when he was younger and slimmer and livelier. I mean, he and Popsi even rode a motorbike together, of all things; she knew a completely unknown Buffy – a racy, slim man on a motorbike! I envied her that so much I felt sick.’ Penny’s voice rose. Now she had started she couldn’t stop, even though her bladder was bursting. ‘And how could he love someone with such a stupid name? I asked him once and he said it was because Popsi hated her real name. What was it? I asked. And he said Penelope. That’s my name! He’d even slept with my name before!�
�� She burst into hysterical laughter. ‘And then I met her, and she was just a jolly middle-aged woman with lipstick on her teeth, and I met Jacquetta and some of the others and I realised they were just normal women like me, like you and me sitting here. And he’d loved them just as I’d loved all sorts of men, and what was really upsetting me was remembering the past, and our youth, and how we would never be those people again, any of us.’
She paused for breath. Monica, too, was breathing heavily. Despite the heater, smoke came out of their mouths.
‘He doesn’t fancy me and I don’t fancy him,’ said Monica in a flat voice. ‘And even if he does, and I did, I can’t face it. I can’t face being hurt. This man I knew, he was married but I loved him so much I thought I was going mad. He stole my best years, he stole the children I never had, and I can’t do that again and that’s that.’
‘Don’t blame Buffy for something that happened to you. He’s had his knocks but he’s up for it, I can tell. Why don’t you just go for it?’
Monica swung round to face her. ‘Why don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘With Harold?’
Penny’s heart jumped. She picked at the towelling of her bathrobe. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ve seen that look. I can recognise it too, you know.’
The heater hummed in the silence. ‘I really must go to the loo,’ said Penny. ‘I’m bursting.’
Monica smiled. ‘I’m glad I met you.’ She kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good luck with that bathroom.’
Penny got out. As she walked towards the house she heard the car drive off.
Buffy
Heartbreak Hotel Page 25