Sunshine Over Bluebell Cliff

by Della Galton

  Things were going too well. The hotel was running seamlessly, the atmosphere was happy and the staff were united. Then, on the evening of the thespian’s last night, a rather large spanner was dropped unceremoniously into the works.

  Clara had just handed over to Phil and was walking across the car park, with Foxy, when she heard a voice shout her name.

  She turned, shielding her eyes against the evening sun. A tall figure was hurrying across the gravel and at first, because of the angle of light, and also, she supposed, because he was the last person on earth she was expecting to see, she didn’t recognise him.

  And then suddenly she did. It was Will, her ex, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt and canvas trainers, his brown hair streaked a little by the sun and longer than she remembered.

  ‘Clara,’ he called again. Not that he needed to. He’d already got her full attention.

  Her heartbeat had just sped up – and not for any good reason. Why on earth had Will decided to turn up at her workplace out of the blue when there had been complete silence from him since April?

  The split had been relatively painless as they hadn’t lived together. In fact, when she’d gathered up her possessions from his, they had barely filled a small bag. A toothbrush and some toiletries from his bathroom and her Kindle and a change of clothes from his bedroom.

  He’d had more at hers – she’d given him back two box sets, a coat, a scarf, a pair of boots, several pairs of underpants and his favourite pillow. Sometimes she had wondered if he’d been planning to move in by stealth.

  But, right now, she waited for him to draw to a halt beside her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets and looking up at the side of the building, which overlooked the car park. ‘So, this is the place you dumped me for.’

  ‘I didn’t dump you, Will.’ Oh dear, this wasn’t the best start to their reunion.

  Even Foxy wasn’t her usual effusive self. She had managed a couple of wags, but she didn’t leave her mistress’s side.

  ‘Is that the mangy mutt, you rescued?’

  Foxy put her ears back and Clara bristled.

  ‘She’s not mangy. She belongs to my boss. I’m looking after her. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  She clicked the remote button to open the door of her car and Will’s demeanour changed. He put an urgent hand on her arm.

  ‘No, wait. I’m sorry. We’ve got off on the wrong foot. Have you time for a coffee? I won’t keep you long.’

  That was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘Not if you’ve come to have a go at me, no.’

  ‘I haven’t. I promise. I just want to talk. We could go up to The Anchor if you don’t want to talk here. Or we could go into town. Where are you living now?’

  She saw no reason not to tell him. He must have discovered she’d rented her house out, which was why he’d turned up here. ‘At my boss’s bungalow in Ballard Views.’

  ‘Wow – sounds classy.’ There was the tiniest edge of bitterness in his voice again. Or maybe she was imagining it.

  She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘It’s really nice. I’m very lucky.’

  ‘If you haven’t got time for coffee – maybe we could have a quick chat here? Please, Clara?’

  She struggled with herself. She didn’t want an argument with him here in the car park. There were too many people milling about. Some of the thespians were packing cases into cars, ready for an early start in the morning. A couple were already looking across. It wouldn’t hurt to give Will twenty minutes, but she didn’t want it to be here.

  ‘All right,’ she said eventually, ‘A very quick coffee.’

  They went in convoy to The Anchor, which was one of the closest pubs to the Bluebell and only a short drive away. They sat outside with Foxy in the patio garden, which had hanging baskets of purple and white petunias and trailing variegated ivy and long terracotta tubs crowded with red geraniums abutting the low fence. The air was full of the mixed scents of salt and flowers and, occasionally, when the pub door opened, a waft of cooked food and stale beer.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Will asked, slotting the plastic menus on the table out of their stand.

  ‘Not really, Will. I’ve got to get back. I have plans.’ She didn’t want this quick chat to somehow evolve into a date. ‘What is it that you wanted to talk about?’

  Over a latte for her and a half a shandy for him he told her.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush.’ His eyes were vulnerable and she felt a spike of something, not quite guilt, but maybe regret, about the way that things had ended. ‘The truth is, I’ve really missed you. You look really great by the way. You’ve lost weight – not that you needed to. You’ve always looked great.’ He bit his lip. ‘The thing is… I’ve missed you more, as time’s gone on, not less, and I was wondering – well, I was wondering… how you felt…’

  ‘I won’t say I haven’t thought about you, Will, but the truths is, I don’t—’

  He put up a hand before she could finish. ‘Can I just run something by you?’

  ‘Yes, you can, but…’ She had a feeling she knew what was coming and she was beginning to wish she hadn’t agreed to this impromptu drink.

  ‘I can see now that I didn’t really think that trip through. I sprung it on you. It was mad. But what if we were just to go back to things like they were before. We were good together, you and me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t see the point, Will. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Ah, but it has. For one thing, I’m not working at Apple any more. I’ve got another techie job, but it’s from home. I can virtually pick my own shifts, which means I could work around yours. It would be so much better.’ He leaned across the table, his eyes not quite pleading but getting that way.

  Oh heck, why hadn’t she trusted her instincts? She stood up. ‘I’m so sorry, Will, but I don’t feel the same way about you any more.’

  It was like whipping a puppy. He looked so broken.

  ‘Have you met someone else?’

  ‘No,’ she said over her shoulder as she walked away with a relieved Foxy. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  Maybe it would have been easier for him if she’d said that she had. This thought circled in her head during the ten-minute drive back to the bungalow. Maybe it would have been better for his ego.

  She was probably overthinking it, she decided, as she fed Foxy and let her into the garden. She was tired and it had been a shock to see him.

  Her mobile pinged as she was standing at the back door and she saw it was a text from Rosanna.

  How’s your dream job going? Fancy a chat? What time are you in?

  Suddenly she did feel like talking to her sister. She speed-dialled her straight back.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’ Rosanna’s warm, deep voice sounded pleased to hear from her. All the women in her family had deep voices. Their mother sounded more and more like Rula Lenska the older she’d got and Thelma, their grandmother, occasionally got mistaken for a man on the phone. It was much better than being high or shrill, Clara had often thought, and it tended to make you sound authoritative, even when you weren’t really trying. Which came in handy in her job.

  They exchanged pleasantries about Clara’s niece and nephew, Sophie, eleven, and Tom, nine. Then Clara told her about the thespians and about Arnold Fairweather and then finally she told her about Will turning up.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have gone for a coffee with him, but I really didn’t think it would hurt.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Rosanna said. ‘He always was a bit intense, wasn’t he? Very much an all-or-nothing kind of guy. It goes with the geekery, I guess. There isn’t any middle ground with a computer. Still, I suppose at least he’s got the message now. How was he when you left?’

  ‘Upset. I think he really expected me to leap back into his arms. I don’t know why really. He hasn’t so much as texted me since April. Anyway, I thought you liked him. You told me I should compromise when we s
plit up.’

  ‘That was Mum. I told you there was no such thing as a knight in shining armour. And there isn’t.’ She paused. ‘I did like him. But I guess he wasn’t the one for you. Stop worrying about him, honey. I’m glad the job’s going well.’

  ‘Me too,’ Clara said. ‘Thanks for listening. I think I might sleep a bit better now.’

  ‘Phone back if you can’t. I won’t be in bed early. Ed’s got a delivery in Glasgow and I’m watching YouTube videos.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Funny ones. Or, more to the point, ones my new phone thinks I’ll find funny. It’s Ed’s fault. He bought me this all-singing, all-dancing phone for our anniversary.’

  Clara yawned. ‘Wow. He’s a sweetie. And thanks again. I really appreciate you listening.’

  ‘That’s what big sisters are for. And put Will Lightfoot out of your head. It’s not your fault he can’t move on. However…’ A beat. ‘There’s no reason you can’t…’ There was another little pause during which Clara could almost hear the cogs in her sister’s brain whirring. ‘Maybe you should try some online dating – that’ll take your mind off Will.’

  ‘You know I don’t do the internet. Unless it’s eBay or Wish.com,’ Clara murmured. ‘So no… Don’t even go there.’

  ‘Spoilsport. OK, honey. Not online dating. Although I do have this friend I was talking to who does—’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘Really? You wouldn’t want to try any kind of—’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Clara said, knowing that semi-agreement would shut Rosanna up quicker than full-on resistance. ‘Sweet Dreams, Sis.’

  Clara overslept. She woke up from a dream in which she was for sale in a Girlfriend Auction and Will was the highest bidder. It hadn’t been online either. She’d been in a cage in the middle of a cattle market that smelled faintly of pigs and she’d been staring out at a sea of men’s faces, most of whom she didn’t know, although Mr B had been in there, so had that stroppy gardener from the Manor House. They’d both been scowling, while Will had been grinning like an overconfident comedian. You had to point your phone at the cage and press a button to make a bid. To make matters worse, she’d been stark naked.

  She sat up, galvanised by panic and sweating, before realising that she was not in a cattle market and she was not stark naked – she was wearing her Central Perk Friends nightshirt – but, shit, she was late. What time was it?

  Her phone was beeping, which meant it was later than 7.00 a.m. because it was on silent until then. She grabbed it – 8.15. Bloody hell. She hardly ever overslept. She leapt out of bed, aware of the brightness of the sun streaming through the blinds.

  The beeping turned out to be a reminder telling her she had a missed call from Zoe. There was also a text from Rosanna, which said

  Phone me when you get this. URGENT.

  She had to get to work. Saturday was changeover day. Goodbye to the thespians and hello to the dog trainers and musicians. She hoped Zoe wasn’t phoning in sick, but suddenly she was more concerned about Rosanna. She wasn’t a drama queen, so URGENT was serious. Was something wrong with one of the kids or Ed?

  A small whine at the bedroom door reminded her Foxy must have been patiently crossing her legs – the three she had left. She let her out, then raced around the kitchen. Coffee was essential. She phoned Rosanna while the machine was hissing it into a cup.

  ‘Hi. Is everything OK? Are you all right? Are the kids all right?’

  ‘Yes, we’re all fine.’ Rosanna went into brusque mode. ‘But I was worried. Did you see the link I sent?’

  ‘What link?’

  ‘Check your phone. Then call me back.’

  Clara did as she was bid. She hadn’t scrolled down enough before to even see the link, which, when she clicked on it, took her to a video on YouTube. She pressed play and frowned as a familiar image filled her screen. It was the Bluebell’s lighthouse with the backdrop of a gorgeous pink sunset behind it. It looked idyllic. But, hang on a minute, there was Arnold Fairweather climbing up it, a great black spider of a man. He was nearly at the halfway point.

  Clara felt a cold dread start in the pit of her stomach as she remembered what was going to happen next. And here it came: the point at which Arnold had lost his footing, switching in an instant from being a spider to being a struggling fly on a thin rope strand of web.

  For a moment, the image freeze-framed on the dangling man, and then it got worse because the camera zoomed in on his face. In this close-up version, you could see that Arnold’s eyes were wide with terror, his face was pale and sweaty and he was obviously struggling to breathe. His hands came into view, pawing at his chest in a grotesque parody of someone who could be having a heart attack.

  Then the camera zoomed out again and a line of text rolled across the screen: The Bluebell Cliff Hotel – The place where dreams come true. Doesn’t look like much of a dream to us!

  Clara felt sick. For a few seconds, she thought she might actually be sick. But she wasn’t. She was just light-headed with shock. YouTube had started to play the next video on her phone. She stopped it, noticing with another surge of horror that the lighthouse one already had more than 7,000 views and several hundred likes.

  She called Rosanna back.

  ‘Oh my God. What do I do? How do I get that taken down?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’ve already flagged it as inappropriate content, which means that YouTube will be alerted. You can do it too. It’s got to be libellous, hasn’t it? Whoever posted it is having a pop at the hotel. It’s definitely defamatory. Can you get hold of your boss? What time is it in Australia?’

  ‘They’re ten hours ahead. I’ll phone her in a minute. I’m not that familiar with YouTube. Can you tell how long it’s been there?’

  ‘Someone put it on last night. About eight p.m.’

  There was a beat.

  Then Rosanna put into words the same thing that was going through Clara’s head. ‘Will wouldn’t do something like that, would he?’

  She thought about his silence over the last two and a half months and then his unexpected arrival last night. It was a coincidence, but she didn’t really think he’d be that nasty.

  ‘He’d certainly know how to do it, but how would he get the content?’

  ‘No, you’re right. Forget I said that. Try not to worry. I’d better let you go. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Thanks for flagging it. I will.’

  Clara put down the phone and called Zoe. She was half expecting Zoe to tell her about YouTube, but she just wanted to mention that one of the chambermaids had phoned in sick and was it OK to phone the agency.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Clara told her. ‘That’s always fine on a big changeover. I’ll be in soon.’ Then she hung up again and called Kate.

  5

  When she finally got into work, Clara was feeling slightly better. Kate had been straight on to someone she called her friendly solicitor – they must be on good terms, Clara surmised, as he’d interrupted a round of golf to give her some quite lengthy advice first thing on a Saturday. Kate had emailed a list of things to do and with each action Clara took she felt more in control.

  One of the suggestions had been to call an emergency staff meeting. The solicitor’s advice on the email reverberated in her head – It’s all about damage limitation. You can’t reverse what’s happened but you can minimise any possible damage by your reaction to it. You’ll need to brief everyone in your organisation as soon as possible. It’s important to present a united front.

  Clara had arranged for this briefing to take place at midday and it was just before 11.00 when she pulled into the Bluebell’s car park.

  It was checkout time and several thespians were milling about, transporting luggage into cars. Several smiled at her. One of them flung out his arms and called, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…’

  His mate thumped his arm. ‘Stop messing about. We’ve gotta get a wriggle on. Have you set that bloody satnav?’

/>   Someone was playing the Steinway and the faint strains of a melody were drifting across the summer air. This was usually a sound that would have lifted Clara’s heart, but today she was too preoccupied and too focused on damage limitation.

  There was a young couple she didn’t recognise sitting on the low wall that separated the car park from the gardens. They had their heads bent close together and were tittering at something on a phone.

  Were they watching the video? No, of course they weren’t. She was going to send herself mad if she thought that about everyone she met.

  As Clara reached reception, she passed a man with a German shepherd on a leash. He must be one of the dog trainers who’d asked if they could come early to drop off some equipment. He nodded at her and she thought of Crufts and Number Ones and the hotel’s reputation.

  There’s no such thing as bad publicity, she reminded herself. But it would be handy to figure out who had leaked that video. There weren’t that many options. Arnold and Maureen of course – but why would either of them want to put themselves up for weeks of potential humiliation in order to have a pop at the hotel? That didn’t make much sense. Matt, the pro climber was a possible, but that didn’t strike her as particularly likely either, as it would reflect badly on him. Which left the cameraman. He was the most likely culprit.

  These thoughts had been circling in her head since she’d seen that video. She was no closer to addressing any of them. Although Arnold was top of her list to phone. Once she’d spoken to him, she needed to brief Phil and then the staff meeting. It would take place in the first-floor meeting room.

  The room was set up in boardroom style from the last time it had been used and Clara took up her laptop and linked it to the projector.

  Including herself and Phil, there were eleven people who worked at the Bluebell, either full- or part-time, and eight were here now. Clara hadn’t managed to get hold of the contract gardener, but he’d be in later anyway and one of the chambermaids had called in sick, as Zoe had said. She had also let Keith go home after his night porter shift, having briefed him separately on the phone before she had left home.