by Della Galton
Not because Kate paid her too much, she had taken pains to point out once, but because she never bought anything new. She was an experienced eBayer and great at getting bargains. She had recently introduced Zoe, an eBay virgin, to the benefits of auctions and had given her a crash course in getting a good deal.
‘Thanks for sorting out Mrs Jones?’ Zoe said, sitting at the other desk opposite her.
‘No problem.’ Clara picked up her latte and tried, unsuccessfully, to resist the biscuits.
‘Did you say something to her? When she said goodbye, she was speaking normally.’
‘I noticed she was wearing hearing aids and I thought that her batteries might be low – which, it turned out, they were. Luckily, she had some replacements with her.’
‘Wow. Respect.’ Zoe’s eyes widened. ‘I’d never have thought of that.’
‘My gran has the same problem sometimes.’ Well, actually Gran deliberately switched hers off when she’d had enough of a conversation, but it would have felt disloyal to say that to Zoe.
‘Have you heard any more from Arnold Fairweather?’ Zoe asked.
‘Yes.’ Clara sighed. ‘As it happens, I had an email from him just now. When you get a moment, could you please send a small bouquet of flowers with a card from us all, wishing him a speedy recovery. It’s probably best if you don’t include our usual feedback form. You win some, you lose him.’
‘I’m on it. Good point. He was OK though, wasn’t he? He seemed all right on Saturday. I thought they’d ruled out anything physical?’
‘He had groin strain apparently. And a touch of rope burn on his hands, poor chap. Probably just as well his lady friend didn’t accept his proposal.’
Zoe’s lips twitched.
Clara remained straight-faced. She did not want to tempt fate. People were far too unpredictable. No matter that Arnold had signed a disclaimer saying he was taking full responsibility for his antics, and in his email he’d also grudgingly accepted that the hotel wasn’t to blame, you couldn’t be too careful these days.
‘No dramas with the thespians?’ she added.
‘Only the ones they’re rehearsing, which are going well, I’ve heard.
‘Excellent. By the way,’ Clara said, pushing the plate of biscuits away resolutely, although not so resolutely that she hadn’t already wolfed down two! ‘regarding the dog handlers, I did tell you that there would be four actual dogs coming, didn’t I? They’re using the amphitheatre for their practice sessions. The weather is supposed to be good, but we do have a contingency plan in the form of a marquee that we can erect if needed.’
‘No problem,’ Zoe said, glancing at her phone, which had just pinged with an email.
So had Clara’s. It was eBay, informing her that she’d just been outbid on a beautiful vintage bag. How annoying.
With a couple of swift clicks, she upped her bid.
Zoe was doing something on her phone too.
An email pinged back almost immediately to tell her she needed to go higher.
Zoe’s phone pinged too and she looked smug.
Clara cleared her throat. ‘Are we by any chance bidding against each other for the same bag? Purple vintage with a touch of rose. Really pretty?’
Zoe’s face dropped. ‘That’s the one. What’s your max?’
‘I’ve exceeded it already,’ Clara lied because she knew Zoe was probably over her budget by now. ‘How many other people are bidding?’
‘I don’t think there is anyone else, but there are still eleven minutes left.’
‘Well, I’m done. I wanted it to go with a rather nice lilac jacket I’ve just bought. I’ve got another one.’
‘If I get it, you can borrow it,’ Zoe promised.
‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’
Zoe disappeared and Clara filed Arnold Fairweather’s email for future reference and hoped that was the last they would hear from him.
She looked back at her to-do list. Doing the rotas was the next thing on it. Zoe did daytime reception and Keith Armstrong, who was the spit of Jack Nicholson, and had been a night porter his entire life, did the nights. He was close to retirement age and ponderous, but meticulous.
Mr B was the head chef and oversaw the kitchen. He was brilliant, if a little eccentric – he had once told her that his two ambitions in life were to find a cure for insomnia and to keep kunekune pigs. Clara had never seen a kunekune but she was pretty sure that any kind of pig wouldn’t be a suitable pet for a flat, which was what Mr B had. He was also a conspiracy theorist, which Kate had said could sometimes cause problems.
Jakob Novak, who hailed from the Czech Republic and had a tendency to be ultra-serious for a man in his mid-twenties, was head waiter. He reported to Mr B.
In addition, they had two regular kitchen staff, a waitress and a couple of chambermaids and two part-time gardeners. They also used a catering agency for backup.
A knock on the office door interrupted her thoughts and Mr B popped his head round it. His chef’s hat was slightly askew and he was frowning.
‘Have you got a minute, boss?’
‘Of course. Come in.’ Other than Kate, she was the only one who knew his full name, but actually it had become quite fun to play along and call him Mr B like he insisted everyone else did.
A quote popped into her mind. You don’t have to be nuts to work here, but it helps. You probably weren’t allowed to put up notices like that any more. But it certainly applied to the staff here. They were all a bit quirky. Maybe you had to be to work somewhere like this. They were all hugely loyal too, which was one of Clara’s favourite traits in a person. Loyalty and kindness. They were hugely underrated qualities, in her opinion.
‘What’s the problem?’ she asked as Mr B sat down in Zoe’s recently vacated swivel chair., It was on wheels and the kind you could twirl around, which he did now, his long, checked-trouser-clad legs sticking out in front of him. He was very tall and thin and he reminded her a little of a young Rowan Atkinson with his mobile face, black hair and slightly bulbous nose.
When the chair was facing in her direction again, Mr B folded his arms and sighed heavily, his thick dark eyebrows almost meeting.
‘I’m having problems with One Stop Watercress. They’re sending us an inferior product. I’ve had to decline this morning’s delivery. It was rank.’
‘Oh dear.’ She paused, waiting for him to elaborate, which she knew he would in a nanosecond or two. Mr B always had plenty to say for himself.
‘I know what’s happening and I know why it’s happening. All the best stuff is going to the Manor House. The manager of One Stop is in cahoots with their chef, who also happens to co-own the place. They’ve had it in for us since we opened. We’re direct competition for them, you see. That’s what it’s all about. They think that if they sabotage our food chain by sending us inferior ingredients they’ll get more business. I’ve seen it before.’
Of course he had. Mr B had seen every conspiracy under the sun. Barely a week went by without him going head to head with someone or another over real or imagined plots to get at him. They usually blew over fairly quickly and, on the plus side, Mr B was an absolutely brilliant chef. He was one hundred per cent reliable, one hundred per cent loyal, and one hundred per cent respected in the industry. People fell over themselves to work with him.
Clara made soothing noises as he twirled around in his chair and added, ‘I might have to change suppliers. Would you sanction that?’
‘Is there a better one?’ she asked.
‘Not really.’
‘And we can’t grow it here?’ She knew they couldn’t. It was too specialist. Although they did grow a lot of other stuff in the organic vegetable gardens that were located at the rear of the kitchens. Being as self-sufficient as possible and sourcing the best local ingredients when they couldn’t be was part of the ethos of the hotel and something else that she loved about this place.
It was Clara’s dream to have her own smallholding and grow her own food,
preferably with a hunky bloke by her side who’d have big biceps from felling trees and putting up fences, not to mention an all-over tan. Neither would he want to go travelling. He’d also get on well with her parents and her grandparents and Rosanna, her sister, and Ed, her long-haul brother-in-law.
It was somewhere around here that the bubble burst. Partly because Clara had never met a man like this. He was clearly even rarer than a knight in shining armour. And she could never have afforded a smallholding either – not in Dorset anyway, where a beach hut could set you back over a hundred grand – but it was a nice dream and something to work towards.
‘It needs to grow in running water,’ Mr B said.
‘What does?’ Did Mr B know something she didn’t about getting the perfect man?
‘Watercress.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘Of course I am. Change suppliers if you can find a better one within budget. But maybe give One Stop one more chance. I can talk to them if you like?’
‘Thanks, but I can handle them,’ he said, just as there was a loud squeal from reception.
Oh my goodness, what on earth was happening now!
Almost immediately Zoe reappeared in the doorway. ‘Oooh,’ she said, shutting up swiftly when she saw Mr B, but it was hard to miss that fact that her English rose prettiness was all flushed with excitement.
She’d got the bag then!
At lunchtime, Clara took Foxy for her usual walk. This wasn’t strictly necessary. There was more than enough outside space in the hotel grounds for her to run around in, but Clara had a horror of a guest stepping in dog poo accidentally (not a great start to living your dream). Dogs were welcome at the Bluebell and although the gardeners would pick up mess if they spotted it, Clara didn’t want to add to their burden, so Foxy got walked outside the premises, where Clara could clear up after her personally.
Today’s walk took her past the Manor House Hotel, known locally as the Manor House. Like the Bluebell, their gardens came down to the footpath along the cliffs, but unlike the Bluebell, which had a low fence, they had hedges. There were plenty of gaps and Clara peered through, curious to see what their nearest neighbour and competitor was up to.
The gardens, which weren’t as extensive as the Bluebell’s, but which were a lot more mature, as theirs had only recently been planted out, were well kept. They clearly had a conscientious gardener. Flower beds full of bright delphiniums bloomed and the lawns were bowling-green smooth and, from her vantage point, she could see the giant chess set, which had four-foot-high marble pieces, reputedly carved by a local sculptor, up near an open-plan terrace.
The Manor House itself, which looked great from the front, was a touch on the shabby side at the back. Salt air played havoc with paintwork and the Manor, which was white, but currently looked grey, was definitely in need of a paint job.
It had Gothic-like turrets at either end of the building and on one of these there were tiles missing. Below this turret, Clara spied a patch of damp. That was interesting. So maybe the Manor House wasn’t doing as well as usual. It certainly didn’t look like it. Maybe Mr B did have a point about the competition aspects of things.
‘Can I help you?’
She was so deep in thought that the disembodied voice made her jump. Clara couldn’t see anyone. Then she spotted a man standing just on the other side of the hedge. He was tall and dark-haired and very tanned. Muscled legs protruded from khaki shorts and he wore an olive vest top over bronzed shoulders. He blended nicely with the background. No wonder she hadn’t seen him. He was carrying a pair of secateurs. As her gaze travelled back up to his face, she realised with a jolt that he was not smiling.
‘Um. No. I was just curious.’
‘We have a front entrance. If you wish to make a booking, you should come to that.’
‘I don’t wish to make a booking.’ She was wrong-footed and, to make matters worse, Foxy had just slipped through the hedge into the hotel gardens and was dancing around, wriggling her sinewy chestnut body and wagging her tail ecstatically at this new prospective titbit giver.
‘I’d appreciate it if you would call him back. Dogs are not permitted.’ His voice was as stern as his almost black eyes.
Foxy ignored Clara’s entreaties to come back and wagged even harder. One of the wags touched the gardener’s leg and he stiffened and snipped the secateurs in the air a couple of times as if he’d have liked to have cut off the offending tail and be done with it.
‘Foxy,’ yelled Clara, but Foxy had clearly heard the secateurs too and she’d got the message. With one last affronted look at the man, she wriggled back through the hedge and sat as close to Clara’s legs as she could get with her ears back.
‘Sorry,’ Clara said, bending to clip on Foxy’s lead and thinking privately, what a stroppy character – there had been no need for that secateurs performance at all! Never-the-less, she was embarrassed. If Mr B was to be believed, there was enough discomfort between the two hotels without her causing any more trouble.
But when she looked up again, the gardener had disappeared as swiftly as he’d materialised.
She continued with her walk, but the experience had unsettled her. It wasn’t as if they were in direct competition with the Manor House. OK, there might be a little bit of overlap. They both did corporate events and they both did weddings. The Bluebell didn’t turn down a booking just because it wasn’t of an artistic or creative nature. Even so, there was enough business for both of them. The Bluebell catered for a more eclectic clientele and, it would be fair to say, a more discerning customer, but there was no reason the two hotels couldn’t exist harmoniously.
At some point in the future, Clara decided she would call round and introduce herself properly to ensure there’d be no repeat of this afternoon’s awkwardness. For now, she resolved to put the incident out of her head.
4
The thespians turned out to be excellent fun. It was still a gorgeously hot July with barely a breath of wind ruffling the lawns of the clifftop site. Who needed to go abroad? The local beaches were packed with day trippers and families – if you stood at certain points of the grounds, you could see the strip of gold beach that was Swanage Bay in the distance thronging with people, although the Bluebell was too far away to hear much of the tourists. Clara was glad she wasn’t travelling in from her house in Wareham each day. Kate had been right; the traffic was horrendous.
One afternoon, with a sluggish but reluctant to miss anything Foxy in tow, Clara had wandered down to watch part of a rehearsal in the amphitheatre. It was blissful in the shade of a pop-up blue and white striped gazebo that Clara had organised with one of their suppliers to come in and sell refreshing home-made lemonade.
The stallholder always put out a bowl of water for Foxy. Most people on the site loved the three-legged dog with her bright eyes and wagging tail and she was expert at keeping away from the ones who weren’t so keen. Since Kate had gone away and the heat wave had arrived, Foxy spent most of her time flopped out somewhere near Clara. She was clearly not about to let another mistress disappear into the distance.
All the staff had been down to the outdoor theatre to watch rehearsals at various times because the actors were keen to have an audience and had invited them. They raved about the beauty of the setting – it rivalled the Minack Theatre in Cornwall apparently, although it was quite a bit smaller. What an accolade that was – Clara had been to the Minack once and during the interval someone had shouted from the clifftop that they could see dolphins going by in the bay.
Clara had never seen dolphins from Ballard Down, but she lived in hope. It would be utterly fantastic if they could put that in their brochure; she had asked everyone to keep an eye out. In the meantime, she had put the bit about the Minack’s similarity to the Bluebell amphitheatre in Kate’s weekly report and she’d been thrilled.
Even when the thespians were indoors, they slipped unconsciously into character, enthusing everyone they came int
o contact with and lapsing into Shakespearian. Everyone, from the chambermaids to Phil Grimshaw, who was in his element, joined in at every opportunity.
Now and then, Clara came across Phil, who could pass for a Byronic hero and had played a few on stage in the past, deep in conversation with one or other of the thespians. She suspected he was offering his services to the merry troupe and hoped he wasn’t about to take off and join them – she couldn’t afford to lose Phil. It would be a disaster if he left on her watch while Kate was away. She decided to keep an extra special eye on him, they were coming into peak season and his experience was invaluable to the team.
In the meantime, the words, ‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo,’ echoed regularly over the bannisters of the Bluebell’s impressive curved wooden staircase, often followed by ‘Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow.’ This was usually succeeded by a scuttling of footsteps going off to various rooms. The place echoed with the deep booming voices and raucous laughter of actors, all of whom were clearly having a wonderful time.
‘It makes you want to be on the stage, doesn’t it?’ Zoe had said to Clara wistfully.
‘No,’ Clara had replied. ‘I have quite enough drama with Mr B and Phil.’ What with the heat and the testosterone, there was the odd spat in the kitchen, but nothing too serious. Truth be told, she’d enjoyed the theatrical fortnight too.
It sounded as though Kate was definitely going to need the full three weeks in Australia. She hadn’t said too much about the details on the phone – she was always bright and breezy and positive – but last time they had spoken, she had dropped into the conversation that her mum had one or two health issues, so it was just as well she was around to help with them.
‘I think I’ll need to be here until the end of July. If that’s all right with you, of course, Clara?’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ Clara had confirmed. ‘I’m enjoying myself.’ There was a tiny selfish part of Clara that hoped her boss would stay away for the whole summer. She was loving being in sole charge of such a happy team.
