‘And you’re fired.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Molly shot back. ‘Fire me and Bruno finds out about every single fiddle and every single scam you’ve been operating here.’
‘You’d have to prove it first,’ said Caragh.
‘Trust me – I know where all the bodies are buried.’ Molly smiled sweetly. ‘I promise you I’ve got more than enough evidence. Now I want you to apologize to Hannah.’
Caragh looked mutinous.
‘No way!’ she declared.
Molly stared at her implacably.
‘Cash deals with guests?’ she asked. ‘You forget that the rooms still have to be cleaned, even if the bookings haven’t been through the register. I’ve kept a note.’
An angry red flush was creeping its way up Caragh’s neck. She took a step forward and for a moment Hannah thought she was going to hit Molly. But Molly just folded her arms and took a step forward too. Caragh looked her up and down, before turning to Hannah.
‘Hannah, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,’ she said, in such sugared tones it was impossible to believe she wasn’t genuine. ‘It’s the wrong time of the month and I’ve got an awful lot on my plate. I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’
‘That’s OK,’ mumbled Hannah.
‘I’m sure the guests would be queuing up to sleep with you, if they thought they were in with a chance,’ she added insincerely, before turning on her heel and striding off down the corridor, leaving a trail of Chanel in her wake. Hannah turned to Molly, incredulous.
‘You were amazing.’
Molly’s eyes were hard.
‘I haven’t finished with her yet.’
Hannah recoiled slightly, shocked at this side of Molly’s character.
‘You’re a bit of a tough nut on the quiet, aren’t you?’ she said admiringly.
Molly gave a grim smile.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she answered gruffly. She pushed her trolley away from Hannah down the corridor, and Hannah knew somehow from the set of her shoulders not to go after her.
Later that afternoon, Caragh was lying naked on Frank’s bed. He was pulling his jacket on, getting ready for the evening shift. He should be in the kitchen now, supervising the prep. But she had swooped in on him an hour ago, all fired up, making demands.
He glanced over at her as he did up his buttons. She was stroking her breasts dreamily and unbelievably he felt himself stir again. He wouldn’t have thought it possible.
‘We rule this place, Frank,’ she said to him. ‘This is our kingdom. We should have things exactly as we want them. Your man Bruno is going to get bored any minute. He’ll be back to the big smoke once the last of the sun has gone, you mark my words. That’s when we’ll take over, you and me.’
He didn’t have the courage to contradict her. He hated himself for his gutlessness, because he knew what was holding him back. He’d known at the time it was wrong. Taking a bung from a supplier – being invoiced for prime organic free-range meat when what he was supplied with was perfectly ordinary, and splitting the difference with the rep. It had been Caragh who talked him into it, who told him it was chef’s perks, regular practice, and if he didn’t do it then he was a fool. Now he’d supped with the devil. If he ever got arsy with her, or objected to anything she was doing, she reminded him of what he’d done.
He thought longingly of the advert he’d seen in the local paper. The new hotel that was opening on the other side of the bay was looking for a chef and he knew instinctively it was just the career move he was looking for. Somewhere he could really stamp his own signature, be creative and make a name for himself. Not that he didn’t appreciate the opportunities Bruno had given him, but the Mariscombe Hotel was never going to be on the foodie map. He belonged somewhere like The Rocks, a hip hotel that was aspiring to great things and was gastronomically adventurous, but was small enough for him to be able to cut his teeth.
If he hadn’t been so weak and gullible, he would have had the freedom to do exactly as he wanted. He tucked his red curls under his chef’s hat, sighing inwardly. He was manacled to the crazy Caragh. He was well and truly trapped.
Caragh waited until Frank had got dressed in his chef’s whites and gone off to the kitchen. Then she rolled off the bed, pulled her clothes back on and tiptoed out of his room and down the corridor until she found the door she was looking for. She took her pass keys out of her pocket and swiftly undid the lock.
She looked around the room in scornful distaste. The cuddly elephant on the pillow, the Robert Pattinson calendar, the pitiful collection of cosmetics on the dressing table. Carefully, she pulled open the drawers and started searching. Before long, she found a sheaf of bank statements and a building society book, which made interesting reading. But not interesting enough. She shoved them back and carried on looking.
In the next drawer down she found something that made her grin from ear to ear. A prospectus. A prospectus for a private hospital. And with it, a letter.
Dear Miss Baldwin
We are delighted to confirm that a bed has been reserved for you on the above dates . . .
Blah blah blah. She didn’t need to read much more. She took out her mobile, programmed in the number at the top of the letter, then stuffed everything back in the drawer and left the room exactly as she’d found it.
Ten minutes later she was in the privacy of her own room at the hotel. She pulled out her phone and pushed a button.
‘Is that Mr Burrough’s secretary?’ she asked. ‘It’s Hannah Baldwin here. I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve been thinking about it long and hard. I don’t want to go through with the operation. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the nose God gave me and I’m just going to have to live with it. It just doesn’t seem right to tamper with nature somehow . . . So I’d like to cancel.’
Afterwards, Caragh snapped shut her phone in satisfaction. Silly cow, she thought. What difference did the hideous Hannah Baldwin think a mere nose job was going to make?
T
he next few days saw a mighty heatwave. The lanes around Mariscombe were crawling with camper vans and Porsches, the former looking for somewhere to park, the latter looking for somewhere to stay. There was a national skive as people wilted in the heat and gravitated to the coast for some fresher air.
‘If only we’d been ready,’ groaned George, working out on his calculator what they could have made.
‘But we’re not. And there’s no way we could have been. So there’s no point in worrying about it,’ said Lisa.
Victoria printed off a load of leaflets announcing their imminent opening and bribed Mimi to go and stick them under windscreen wipers in the public car park.
‘Only Porsches, BMWs, Audis and Mercs,’ she instructed. ‘Range Rovers if they’re private reg. Discoveries if they’re less than three years old.
New
Beetles – not the old ones. Minis if they’re convertible with leather upholstery. And avoid anything with child seats like the plague—’
‘For God’s sake, just do the whole lot!’ exclaimed George. ‘We need all the custom we can get. Personally, I don’t mind if they’re driving Robin Reliants.’
Lisa picked up the leaflet.
‘You’re offering fifty per cent off!’ she protested. ‘We didn’t agree that.’
‘A limited number of rooms available at this special price.’
Victoria pointed out the small print patiently. ‘And obviously they won’t be available if they ring up.’
‘That’s fraud.’
‘No. It’s an introductory offer.’
Lisa looked at George, who shrugged.
‘Fine,’ said Lisa wearily. ‘I’m off to the warehouse in Bristol for towels and bedding.’
As Victoria and George opened their mouths, she put up a hand to stop them.
‘I know. I know. White, white. And more white. High thread count. Down from Hungarian geese raised on south-facing slopes. Whatever.’
She flashed them a smile, fond but exasperated, as she left the room. Since her conversation with Bruno a few days before, she’d gained in confidence and learned to deal with George and Victoria. Besides, she had to admit that Victoria was mellowing. Once or twice she had actually taken Lisa’s side against George. In fact, if the truth was known, Lisa was beginning to warm to her. It was nice to have another woman in the house to giggle with and moan about cellulite. Not that Victoria had any, but she liked to pretend she did. Lisa had basically fallen back on the old adage that if you can’t beat them, join them, and it seemed to be working well. Victoria had been incredibly helpful and Mimi was certainly no trouble – they’d barely seen her; she flitted in and out to change her clothes between working down at the beach and going out in the evening.
And, anyway, Lisa told herself, they’d soon be gone. They couldn’t stay here after the hotel was actually open, after all. There simply wasn’t room.
‘Do you really think it’s safe to let her choose the duvet covers?’ asked Victoria once Lisa had gone. ‘She might spot a bargain and come back with something nasty and floral.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said George, but he wasn’t confident. He had a dim memory of Lisa’s duvet cover in Stratford and it had definitely had flounces. Definitely.
Mimi was looking at them in distaste.
‘You two are complete control freaks, do you know that?’
‘Yep,’ said Victoria happily.
Mimi turned away. Inside she was churning with guilt. Don’t bottle out now, she told herself. Mum needs George. Mum needs George. Lisa will have men queuing up to console her. She’s a coper. A doer. A manager. It will be a minor blip in her life.
She forced herself to visualize the future that she saw for them, to give her the motivation for what she was about to do. Mum and George at the helm of The Rocks, which would become the hippest hotel in the West Country. Meanwhile, she and Matt would become the hot new couple in town. She could go and do Theatre Studies at the college in Bamford – she’d already looked into it. Or maybe she could open a shop, selling her own label surf clothing. The possibilities were endless.
There was just one small sacrifice to be made in order for this nirvana to be reached. She’d go to the post office this morning, after she’d handed out the leaflets. Mimi pulled on her crocheted sun hat, stuck her feet into her day-glo flip-flops and set off down the hill.
That morning George had set himself the task of oiling the new decking they’d had laid outside the dining room, a particularly smelly and dirty task, but one which had to be done while the weather was dry and it was certainly that. By one o’clock he was drenched with sweat and suspected he might have sunstroke. He decided he’d go and get himself a little bottle of beer and a sandwich.
As he headed back in through the French doors he spotted Victoria curled up on a picnic rug in the shade of a tree, leafing through some papers, a pen tucked behind her left ear. She smiled up at him.
‘I was just going to get a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy something?’
‘Lovely. I’m starving.’
He went through the dining room and into the kitchen. The house felt eerily quiet and he was suddenly aware that this was the first time he and Victoria had been properly alone together since her arrival. Lisa was out, Mimi was out, the decorators were off on another job while the bathrooms were being finished. He rummaged in the fridge and found some ham and tomatoes, then quickly assembled a plate of sandwiches. He filled a jug with a couple of bottles of beer and topped it up with lemonade, then put everything on a tray with plates and glasses, adding a bowl of crisps and a couple of rosy apples for good measure. Then he wandered back outside.
‘Nothing like an impromptu picnic. Though it’s not exactly gourmet, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s perfect. Come and sit down.’ Victoria patted the rug next to her invitingly. ‘You look as if you could do with a rest.’
‘How are things going, anyway?’ asked George as he sat, placing the tray carefully between them.
‘You know what?’ said Victoria, reaching out for a sandwich. ‘I’ve put on three pounds already since I’ve been here and I don’t care. Normally, I’d be slitting my wrists or checking myself into some clinic to have my jaw wired. But I really couldn’t give a toss. It doesn’t matter in this place what you look like.’
‘I’ve never seen you look better.’
George was perfectly genuine. Victoria looked softer. Her hair was twisted up into a clip, tendrils falling down round her face. She wore hardly any make-up, and the sun had brought out the freckles dusted across her nose that were usually covered in foundation. She was wearing a turquoise kaftan over a bikini and beaded flip-flops. He ran his eyes along her legs, the smooth, hairless calves, the knees she always complained were knobbly but that he used to love to kiss behind, her thighs with the sprinkling of pale golden hairs that were almost invisible to the naked eye . . .
George tore his eyes away and hastily poured them each a shandy, waiting for the foam to subside before he passed her a glass.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And . . . thank you for letting us stay.’
George gave a small, non-committal nod.
‘I can’t believe the change in Mimi,’ Victoria went on. ‘She’s so happy. Vivacious.’
‘I know. It suits her down here.’
‘She seems to have real friends. Proper friends. And I think there’s a boy involved, though she hasn’t said as much.’ Victoria bit her lip, anguished. ‘What am I going to do, Georgie? I know I can’t crash at The Rocks for ever. It’s not fair on you.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I’d love to stay around here. It’s just a question of whether I can earn any money in this area. And I’d have to find somewhere to rent. I can’t afford to buy, that’s certain. Trouble is, I know the area’s gone mad but I don’t know if they’re ready for PR yet. There’s a guy on the beach who teaches surfing – he was talking to me about needing some publicity. And there’s a couple of new restaurants opening. But it’s not like anyone’s got a PR budget . . . And what else do I do?’ Victoria looked at him, her green eyes troubled. ‘I’d open a shop but I haven’t got any capital. Thanks to Nick Taverner.’
A big fat tear rolled down her cheek. George found himself wanting to say all sorts of things, not least that Nick Taverner had ended up with her money because she’d been spectacularly stupid. But she didn’t need telling that.