He’d already begun making improvements. The outside of the hotel, once a dreary battleship grey, had been painted the colour of Devon clotted cream, and now looked sunny and welcoming. The ancient plastic letters that proclaimed the hotel’s name across the front had been removed, and replaced with a trendy lowercase font in petrol blue. The crumbling terrace that lined the front was re-laid with limestone interspersed with squares of gravel planted up with palms and ornamental grasses which, when combined with the steamer chairs and parasols he had ordered, would add an air of colonial sophistication.
But so far, the changes had been merely cosmetic. The heart of the hotel was where the real transformation had to be made, and Bruno hadn’t wanted to rush in. It had taken him this long to assess his existing clientele versus the one he wanted, and how best to continue pleasing one whilst luring the other. In the meantime, he had been tying up the loose ends of his financial business, informing all his clients that he would now be operating from Devon. He would have to go back up to the city once a week, as some of them still liked to discuss their money worries face to face rather than by phone and email, and Bruno respected that, given that these were often the clients from whom he earned the healthiest commission. All in all, he felt certain his decision to move back to Mariscombe was the right one. And now he had an action plan. Tomorrow it was going to be gloves off.
As Bruno watched a cloud scud across the moon and felt the breeze from the ocean caress his face, he smiled. If he was still living in London, he’d be pounding the pavements with a plastic poop bag in his hand while he waited for Hector’s evening evacuation, instead of the two of them roaming the deserted beach. Already both he and the dog were significantly fitter, and Bruno worked best when his body was finely tuned. He felt good. He almost felt like himself again.
There was really only one blot on the horizon. His mother. Bruno was furious with himself for assuming over the past two years that Joanie had got over Joe’s death. She’d always made such a show of coping whenever he came down: it was amazing what a smudge of lipstick and a well-cooked lunch could disguise. His father was a man of few words who wouldn’t have dreamed of hinting that anything was amiss. Graham’s way of dealing with it was to bury himself in his work: the site demanded an enormous amount of physical attention, and as a result he was occupied during the day and slept well at night. But Joanie . . . Now Bruno was here all the time, now he could call in on her unannounced and see the truth behind the facade, he was desperately worried. Looking back, he could see that there had been a period when she genuinely had coped, on the surface at least. But now she had slipped back down into the mire. The first anniversary of Joe’s death had been and gone; the second was approaching and perhaps it had now dawned on her that he really wasn’t ever coming back.
How did you snap someone out of a depression when they had every right to be thoroughly miserable? Joe, after all, had been if not Joanie’s entire life then a good fifty per cent of it. He had been her
raison d’être
, Bruno realized now, and more than ever he felt guilty that he had criticized Joe for exploiting their mum when it was he who gave rhythm to her days.
Bruno didn’t fool himself that his return to Mariscombe went any way towards filling the hole left by Joe. He didn’t need to be fussed over and mothered; it made him feel thoroughly uncomfortable. And it wasn’t in him to give Joanie the cheeky, irreverent but undeniably genuine affection that Joe had lavished upon her. Bruno wasn’t the demonstrative type. Now, he remembered Joe throwing his arms round Joanie in the kitchen and squeezing her for no apparent reason, ruffling her hair and kissing her whenever he left the house, pulling her into his arms and dancing with her to the radio in the kitchen. If Bruno ever hugged or kissed his mother, it was with good reason, and with a certain restraint. He couldn’t dish out his affection spontaneously or impulsively. It just wasn’t in him to swing her round the kitchen while Elvis sang ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. Which was why her face didn’t light up when he came into the room like it had done with Joe.
And like a flower that has no sun, Joanie was visibly withering without Joe’s attentions. The rooms of their bungalow rang hollow and empty without the thud of music coming from his bedroom. Where once the laundry basket had spilled over with T-shirts and jeans, the pitiful amount of washing that she and Graham produced between them meant it was only worth putting on the machine twice a week. She barely had to clean for between them they made no mess, whereas once the house had been littered with empty cups and glasses, discarded newspapers, abandoned shoes. And Graham didn’t bother coming home for lunch now; he grabbed a sandwich on the site. Once this had been the main meal of the day, with Joe joining them nine times out of ten, and she’d always prided herself on doing meat and two veg whatever the weather, and a homemade pudding.
Bruno had spoken to their GP, who had been sympathetic but made it clear there was little she could do.
‘I’ve told her there is medication that could help, but she won’t touch it. The problem with women of her generation is the stigma attached to antidepressants. I’ve no doubt it would help her enormously, but I can’t force her to take it. And I don’t suppose you can either.’ She smiled at Bruno. ‘I know it sounds trite, but give her time . . .’
Any other solution he had come up with also seemed trite. A holiday, a puppy. He tried to get her to start up playing bridge again, but she had just sighed and said, ‘What’s the point?’ A question he couldn’t answer, as he’d never seen the point of bridge in the first place, but she’d enjoyed it once. He tried to get her on to the golf course, even though he would really rather stick hot needles in his eyes than play, but she refused. Instead, she spent the day with the curtains half closed and an endless diet of mindless television booming at her as she drifted round the house in the same grey cardigan and shapeless trousers. Joanie had once been smart – not fashionable, perhaps, but she had an extensive wardrobe of linen skirts and trousers, cotton and silk knit sweaters, all coordinated in navy and coral and cream, which she wore with Italian shoes and the nice gold jewellery Graham had bought her on landmark birthdays. Her hair had once been cut and highlighted regularly, whereas now it was flat and dull and lifeless and grey. Inactivity was making her lumpy and misshapen. His mother, his bright, busy, sunny mother wasn’t even a shadow of her former self. She was unrecognizable.
Every time Bruno went to see her he came away guilty and depressed, to the point where it became tempting not to go. The absolute grey dreariness of her life sapped his strength. Worst of all, he had no one to share his frustrations with. He didn’t count the doctor. And he certainly couldn’t discuss it with his father, who had never mentioned Joe’s name since the day of the funeral, but seemed to be coping, functioning, making decisions, interacting. Common sense told Bruno he was doing everything he could, but he wasn’t used to not being in control of a situation. And, of course, compounding it all was his guilt. The knowledge that if it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t be in this ghastly situation. He looked out to sea, as if it might hold the answer in its depths, but all he could see was the twinkle of a lighthouse further down the coast.
He whistled for Hector, who appeared out of the darkness and nudged at his leg, indicating that he wanted to play. The two of them mimicked a fight, each knowing just how far they could push the other – Hector pretending to growl, Bruno fondling the dog’s ears roughly as he jumped up at him. Bruno grinned wryly to himself as he realized that the most intimacy he had with another living creature these days was with his bloody dog. Maybe he’d add finding a woman to his To Do list, though it might be tricky to find his type in Mariscombe. Bruno liked his women to have a bit of an edge.
Resigned to sharing his bed with Hector for the time being, Bruno slid shut the veranda doors and locked them. He’d get an early night. He needed a clear head for tomorrow, for tomorrow his staff were in for a shock.
T
he next evening, Bruno sauntered into the kitchen at six fifteen. The Stereophonics were blaring out of a portable iPod dock, the sound tinny and distorted. Along one work surface were rows of prawn cocktails: metal bowls brimming with limp iceberg lettuce, a few pitiful prawns scattered on top dressed with a luminous pink gloop. Further along, on a stainless-steel warming shelf, were rows of plates covered with metal domes. He lifted one up. Underneath was a clump of yellow rice, some watery tomato-based slop and a dried-out piece of cod. It was at least an hour before this was due to be served. What the hell was it going to be like by the time it reached the table?
He pushed open the fire exit. Outside, Frank the chef and Ed the kitchen porter were having a fag, both dressed in their baggy black and white trousers. Bruno crooked a finger at Frank, who flicked his fag in the bin and, shooting a glance at Ed, followed him inside.
Bruno indicated the plate he’d been examining.
‘Talk me through this, would you? What is it, exactly?’
‘Roasted Mediterranean cod on a bed of golden saffron rice.’
Bruno raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Define Mediterranean.’
Frank pointed at the sauce.
‘Um, well – that’s ratatouille.’
‘Is that what it said on the tin?’
Frank looked deeply uncomfortable.
‘Look, Tuesdays is always Mediterranean cod. It has been ever since I’ve been here.’
Bruno crossed his arms.
‘I wouldn’t feed this to my dog. And, believe me, he’d eat anything.’
Frank could feel himself colouring furiously. Why the sudden inquisition?
‘I haven’t had any complaints,’ he said defensively.
‘That’s because everyone who stays here is practically lobotomized. But all that’s going to change.’ Bruno paced across the kitchen, looking round, taking in the grease stains, the peeling lino on the floor, the old, cracked margarine tubs filled with misshapen slices of cucumber and grated carrot ready for garnish.
‘What would you do here? If you could? Given free rein.’
Frank scratched his head. He wasn’t used to being questioned. He’d worked on automatic pilot for three years. If his career wasn’t fulfilling, then his lifestyle was. He lived to surf, not cook. Even if he had once had dreams of thrilling people’s tastebuds.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered lamely.
Bruno pulled open the fridge, raking his eyes up and down the shelves, evidently not impressed by what he saw. He slammed it shut and turned to face his quarry. ‘I want to turn this place round, Frank. I want this hotel to be fresh, vibrant, family friendly. And I want the food to match. There’s not going to be any place for pre-packed crap with bought-in cook-in sauces crammed with additives. I’m not talking off-the-chart gourmet cooking. I just want decent, fresh grub and plenty of it.’
‘I see.’
‘The place is fossilized. I want to rejuvenate it. My target clientele is wealthy grandparents treating their family to a holiday – thirty-something sons and daughters with two or three young children. We need to work out a menu that will keep them all happy, so they can eat together if they want to. Or use the babysitting service and have a romantic dinner
à deux
.’
His eyes bored into Frank.
‘I need to know if you’re the person to help me do it, or if I leave you to breakfasts and running the coffee bar.’
Frank opened his mouth to speak, recognizing that this was his one chance to get it right.
‘I think it sounds great. I’d . . . really like the challenge.’
Bruno nodded curtly.
‘Good. Because I think you probably had ambition once. But like everyone else here you’ve got lazy.’
‘I do my job!’ protested Frank. ‘No one goes hungry. I’m never late. I’m here until the last dessert plate comes back in empty.’
‘Frank. Please. Don’t try and fool me. You’ve worked things out so you can get away with doing the bare minimum, haven’t you?’
Frank squirmed, not sure whether to confess or deny Bruno’s accusations. To his surprise, Bruno just grinned.
‘Listen, I know how Mariscombe works. It might seem like heaven on earth. The ultimate playground. But it saps people’s ambition. They end up drifting through life on a diet of dope and surf and sun. All they care about is the state of the waves and how quickly they can bunk off work.’
As Frank opened his mouth to contradict, Bruno put up his hand to stop him.
‘It’s a great lifestyle. If you have nothing else to offer the world. But I’ve been watching you, Frank. I’ve looked at your CV. Your references. You’re not a drop-out. I think you’ve just lost your way. And I’m prepared to take some of the blame for that. This place is a dump. Why would you serve up anything better than the swill you’ve been churning out night after night? I’d do the same. Get the slop out on to the plates and get out of the kitchen and into the pub.’
By now Frank was writhing in discomfort. Bruno had put his finger right on it. It was true. Frank didn’t care. Not any more. Of course, he had once. He’d had immense pride in his work. Bruno’s voice cut through his thoughts.
‘Let’s be honest, Frank. You’re twenty-four. In five, ten years’ time, is it you the girls are going to be after? When you’re my age –’ Bruno smiled self-deprecatingly – ‘you’re not going to be such a babe magnet. You might be grateful to have something to fall back on. Like a career.’
He moved over towards the swing door, casting a dismissive look at the prawn cocktails; the sauce had now congealed and some of the lettuce was visibily brown at the edges.
‘You’ve got one day to prove yourself. I want you to serve me dinner tomorrow night. The sort of meal you would be proud to serve here. Show me what you’re capable of. If I like it, we’ll work together. I’m no chef, Frank, so I need someone who can translate my vision for me; tell me what I can and can’t do. I have to trust whoever it is. And admire them. So impress me.’
A moment later he was gone. The only evidence that he’d ever been there was the door swinging back and forth with the force of his exit. Frank leaned back against the work surface, shell-shocked. Who did Bruno think he was? Gordon bloody Ramsay? Bollocking him like that, laying down the gauntlet. He could shove his job. There were any number of places up and down the coast Frank could find another job. Woolacombe, Croyde – he didn’t care, as long as he could surf and have his pick of the girls.