Goodmans Hotel

by Alan Keslian

  Darren, in contrast, never criticised me and was my constant support. As he gained experience he took on more and more responsibility for the hotel. He had settled in well at West London Tertiary College, took Cheung up to his room for the night once or twice a week, and helped me get out for an hour in the evening now and again by arranging for me to meet them both in the Beckford Arms.

  He was fond of telling me horrible stories about people treating one another dreadfully or about human cruelty to animals. One story was about a group of lads at the seaside who caught crabs and mutilated them by poking them with iron rods, breaking off a leg or a claw, and another was of a rabbit-hunting expedition he was persuaded to go on when he was about twelve years old to a warren not far from Twyford. He thought they were going to look at the rabbits, not to kill the poor things. To his horror the boys he was with lit petrol soaked rags in front of some of the burrows and tried to blow or waft the smoke down into them. This attempt to drive the rabbits out of the safety of their earthworks failed, but they caught one that ran straight towards them when fire from their rags spread through the long grass where it was hiding. He watched as the others surrounded it and battered it to death with lumps of wood.

  He passed on to me other grim stories that originated with Andrew or Cheung, probably thinking that they would comfort me. In a curious sort of way they did. However bitter my feelings about Tom, and however sad the evaporation of my imagined wonderful new life at Goodmans Hotel, my misfortunes were not nearly as bad as being set alight or beaten to death with sticks.

  The work on Vincent’s computer network, arranged when he came to the hotel with Lizetta, also helped divert me from gloom. The project engaged my mind for one day a week with new people and brought some of my old technical expertise back into use. His staff were all ‘straight’, but none of them was put off when he introduced me by saying that I used to be the computer manager in a big accountancy firm and now ran a gay hotel.

  By doing this he saved me from worries about ‘coming out’. His staff were used to meeting gay men when they were out on consultancy assignments in the hotel and tourist industry, and were far more interested in asking me questions about my business than they were in talking to me about their own computer system. They were not particularly interested in specifics about Goodmans Hotel, but liked to speculate on the extent of the market for hotel rooms for gay men in London, how many of the guests were business visitors and how many were holiday makers, whether demand was growing, and if there was potential to develop package tours to London for gay visitors from the provinces and abroad.

  They gave me copies of a few reports they had produced for owners of small hotels to show me how they advised on ways to increase profit or reposition a business in the market, and talking to them gave me a wider view of the tourist industry and made me feel less trapped by my circumstances. Andrew had begun with one modest shop. Why should Goodmans Hotel not become a base from which to expand?

  After my work on enhancements to the computer network was finished Vincent asked me to help for one day a week on a large contract with a US tour operator. The corporation was introducing a range of ‘themed’ holidays in Europe aimed at middle America, and one of these, to be called ‘The Essential Scotland’, was to be based in a large Victorian hotel in Dunblane. Vincent’s company had been hired to produce ideas and costed plans to make this ‘Essential’ experience a success.

  The project’s objective did not appeal to me greatly. The ‘Essential Scotland’ the US citizens from middle America were to experience was to consist of coach trips to Loch Lomond, excursions during the day to castles and other historic or quaint places, and evening entertainment with bagpipes and Scottish dancing. However, helping to plan the activities did not mean I had to like them, and when the two full-time consultants assigned to the project spoke to me about it with an irreverence that would have horrified the US client, it seemed as though it might be fun.

  We held meetings to develop our proposals and present them to the corporation’s European representatives, but the work was interspersed with scurrilous suggestions, such as providing tartan baseball caps decorated with haggis feathers, or putting items such as Texas style grouse-burger with French fries on the dinner menu.

  At the third of the meetings I attended we were joined by the group bookings manager from the hotel in Dunblane. He had a high-pitched voice for a man and rather camp mannerisms, but made it clear he was not gay by pointedly mentioning a girlfriend several times. Since he was someone I could never imagine myself having more to do with than necessary, I hoped he was not going out of his way to announce his heterosexuality because of some curious notion about me being interested in him.

  The lampooning of the US visitors and Scottish customs might have been inhibited by his presence, but we tested his ability to take a joke by asking him during a coffee break if he thought it would be possible for a baseball match to be included in the Highland Games to help the US visitors feel at home.

  ‘They can have a day’s cattle rustling included if they’re willing to pay for it,’ he answered. ‘You’d do well to give some attention to indoor events and entertainments. A wet day will spoil any outdoor excursion, no matter how fine the views when the weather’s clear. Have you considered movies with a Scottish theme? Give the Yanks a bunch of heather, plenty of photo opportunities and a tin of shortbread and they’ll probably be happy enough, as long as we can keep them entertained.’

  His sense of humour was fine, but at times he tended to be hectoring and argumentative. Vincent’s two consultants went up to Scotland several times to see the Dunblane hotel and discuss local arrangements with him, and they said he was domineering towards his staff. My commitments in London made the trip impossible for me, but they brought back photographs which gave a fair impression of the place, inside and out, and of some of the nearby attractions, a golf course, a local salmon stream and a distillery.

  As long as the hotel and Andrew’s businesses were trouble free, working a day a week for Vincent was manageable. However, tiredness after a couple of months of this workload was inevitable, and a few weeks after the turn of the year an incident at the garden centre put me under real pressure.

  The manager rang me late one afternoon to tell me that a member of his staff had run off with the day’s takings. Leaving the hotel unattended I hurried over to find him talking to two heavily built men near the cash desk. They looked unlikely customers for winter flowering plants. They stopped talking as I approached and stood glaring at the manager across the counter. Since I’d gone over straight away his casual dismissive greeting, ‘I’ll join you upstairs in a second,’ annoyed me.

  I went up to the little staff room to wait. When he came up I asked, ‘Who on earth were they?’

  ‘They came in by mistake. Seem to have been given the wrong address. Anyway, about the theft, sorry to drag you over here. He’s got away with the best part of the day’s takings. Fortunately I’m always taking money out of the cash drawer and putting it away in the safe, but he timed his move well.’

  There was a self-contradiction in these statements. If he frequently removed money from the cash drawer the best part of a day’s takings would not have been there to be stolen, but this was not a good time to query the inconsistency. ‘Who did you say took the money?’

  ‘You always were straight to the point! You’ve probably guessed already. It was Jamie.’

  My question was an obvious one to ask, hardly ‘straight to the point’, and why should he think I had guessed Jamie was the thief? ‘Have the police been in yet?’

  ‘Police? No.’

  ‘How long is it since you called them?’

  ‘What’s the point in bringing them into it? We won’t be seeing that money again. We’d only be making unnecessary trouble.’

  ‘We can’t pretend that nothing has happened. The insurers will want to know that we’ve notified the police. Unless he’s spent it all already we may be able to get ba
ck what’s left.’

  ‘We won’t see any of the money again, you can forget about that.’

  ‘It isn’t our money to forget about. The insurers will want details, the loss will have to be shown as a debit in the accounts.’ This was standard practice, and my tone was not provocative, but he lost his temper.

  ‘Don’t make things harder for me than they are already. I’ll make the money up out of my own pocket if you’re that fussed about it.’

  ‘I’m not "fussed" about anything. This is Andrew’s money. What do you think we should do? Let people steal whatever they want from him and do nothing about it?’

  ‘What Andrew said to me was that you would be keeping an eye on the books. He didn’t say you’d be coming in interfering with how I run the place.’

  ‘You asked me to come over because of a theft. If you’re running a business and someone steals a significant amount of money, why would you not inform the police?’

  He looked at me contemptuously. ‘You don’t know anything about this business. You were just some sort of computerised accountant before Andrew helped you set up that hotel.’

  His mouth, which had never shaped itself into a smile in my direction, was spitting at me now. Had he always disliked me? I could overrule him and call in the police myself, but doing that would antagonise him more, and if he walked out the effect on the business would be far worse than the loss of a day’s takings.

  ‘Thanks for telling me what you think of me.’ I said. ‘All right, you’re the one who knows all about the business, you decide what to do. We can’t pretend the money is still in the till. Somehow or other the loss has to be covered for the accounts. Other than that do whatever you like.’

  ‘I told you. I’ll make the money up out of my own pocket. Forget it.’

  ‘What did you call me over for if you intended to cover it up?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We were silent for a minute or so, searching for a way to discontinue hostilities. Tentatively I asked, ‘Do we have a home address for Jamie, maybe someone should call to see if… ?’

  ‘Yes, he lives in one of Andrew’s flats. Let me deal with it. You’re acting for Andrew, so you had to know what happened. It’s best for me to sort it out. Thanks for coming over, but you don’t need to do anything.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it.’ I left the shop insulted and offended. Evidently his occasional critical comments, for example that I did not know my daisies from my dandelions, had not been mildly humorous reproofs but were signs of serious dislike. How totally misconceived my earlier thoughts had been about us perhaps being compatible in a relationship.

  The next morning he had recovered his temper and rang in a conciliatory mood wanting to tell me more about the theft. When he called I was about to set off for Vincent’s offices and had to put him off until the evening. He was locking up when I arrived at the garden centre, and he took me upstairs where he made a pot of tea. We found it difficult to know how to start, and uncomfortably I asked, ‘Have there been any developments?’

  Ignoring my question he said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but there’s been nothing between Jamie and me for a few months.’

  ‘There was something between you, earlier?’

  ‘Everyone knows there was.’

  ‘Everyone who works here, maybe. I didn’t. If Jamie was around we said hello, that was about it. No one ever said anything to me about… you and him.’

  He looked at me doubtfully. ‘You’d better hear the whole story. Andrew will have to know sometime, one way or another.’ He had grey shadows around his eyes and looked miserable. Knowing nothing of my problems, as well as resenting having to report to me while Andrew was away, he probably imagined me having a contented comfortable life, smugly looking down on those who were less happy.

  ‘Talk to me then. Andrew always speaks well of you. We’ll do the best we can, he can’t expect more than that.’

  ‘I’m sorry for dragging you into all this. You really didn’t know about Jamie and me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have spoken the way I did yesterday, the situation is driving me nuts. You remember the two men who were downstairs when you came into the shop? They were trying to make trouble. The whole mess had got beyond me by the time I came up here to see you. All of this is my own stupid fault. You knew Jamie – enough to say hello to, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was an old flame. We hadn’t seen each other for years and years, and one night we bumped into each other in a club, and… things started up between us again. He was out of work. I took him on as favour.’

  ‘And he’s let you down rather badly?’

  ‘Yes. A couple of months is about the longest my boyfriends ever last. The sexual interest waned, but we hadn’t fallen out or rowed. We carried on being friends and his work was okay. The first signs of a problem came a few weeks ago when he began to slip out more and more frequently to the betting shop.

  He worked in a betting shop before I took him on. People in that line usually stay in it. I should have suspected something. If we hadn’t been sleeping together maybe I would have made a few ’phone calls and checked him out more. Suppose that’s what happens when it’s not your brain that’s making the decisions.’

  ‘We all fall into that trap. A winning smile robs us of all our powers of judgement.’

  A little more relaxed now, he nodded. ‘Thanks for saying that. It’s the sort of thing Andrew would have said. There’s more. Jamie ran up gambling debts, and the two men who came into the shop yesterday were looking for him. They were threatening to make trouble unless I gave them his address or paid what he owed.’

  ‘He’s the one who got himself into a mess; if he came to us, told us he was in trouble… we might be able to help… but as things are… ’

  ‘The two men who are after him came back to the shop today, asking where they could find him, talking about him owing money. They stood staring at the till.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Told them if he owed money it was nothing to do with the business, that he’d disappeared.’

  ‘Is there much cash here now – if they tried to break in?’

  ‘No, not even in the safe. I took everything down to the bank last minute. We’ve got a good alarm system, with an automatic dial up to the police. It’s not like a jewellers, there isn’t a lot of small high value stuff on the shelves. You don’t get dodgy people in the pub coming up to you and asking if you’d like to buy a nice garden trowel or a bag of potting compost, do you?’

  ‘Actually, no one has ever offered to sell me anything in a pub. Must be something about me.’

  ‘Or the pubs you go to. What will you say to Andrew?’

  ‘Probably nothing. The loss of part of a day’s takings won’t ruin the business, why detract from his holiday by worrying him about it?’

  For a while we chatted about Andrew’s holiday and speculated about how much longer he was likely to be away. We were interrupted by the sound of someone banging on the shop door and the display windows below us. Downstairs through the glass of the door we saw the two thugs, who even if we were hidden by the darkness of the shop would have seen the upstairs light and deduced that someone was in. We opened the door a few inches, each of us keeping a foot planted firmly against it. They glared at us through the gap.

  ‘You know why we’re here. This is our third call. Your time’s up. The cash, or the address of the man who owes it, now.’ They leaned hard against the door; we pushed back, barely able to resist.

  ‘Like I told you this afternoon, the man you’re looking for has left. He used to work here, but not any more.’

  The taller of the men tried to force his boot into the space between door and doorframe. They were likely to win the struggle eventually because of their greater weight. In a drawer under the counter was a remote control unit for the shop’s alarm system, but it was impossible to reach it without giving up our def
ence of the door. I had my mobile ’phone with me, pulled it from my pocket, and held it up high where they could see it.

  ‘You’re making threats and demanding money. Fuck off, or it’s the police, now.’

  One of them took a step back, then threw all his weight against the door, but we held it firm. ‘You fucking queers,’ he snarled. They backed off and walked to their car, parked across the road. We watched them drive off, then locked up, turned off the upstairs lights, and from the first floor windows checked again they had gone. The garden centre manager’s car was parked at the back, and after double checking all the doors and windows we set the alarm system and he drove me the short distance back to the hotel.

  ‘Will we get out of this alive?’ I asked.

  ‘Good job you were there. From my point of view that is, not from yours. During opening hours there’s always two or three of us on the premises, so it’s not that easy for them to make trouble. Thanks for backing me up tonight. Don’t worry about it, it’s my problem.’

  Had I not been so tired, anxiety over what had happened might have kept me awake, but in fact I slept deeply and hated having to get up early to help with the breakfasts. A week or a fortnight in Sitges or Mykonos would have done me good. Casual sex with another tourist or a local man wanting a good time would have refreshed me and made me feel less sexually frustrated. Perhaps those few days, which now seemed an age ago, with Georges at the Hotel des Amis were the best that life would ever offer me by way of a relationship. If only other people were as straightforward and good natured as he and his mother had been. Maybe holiday affairs were a sort of fertile terrain between the frost-hardened wilderness of casual sex and the treacherous precipices of long term relationships.