Sunshine Over Bluebell Cliff

by Della Galton

Taking a deep breath, she was about to try one more time – giving up was not in her nature – when she heard the swoosh of the automatic doors behind her. Someone else had walked into the foyer. ‘Good evening, Adam.’

  ‘Good evening Geraldine.’

  Geraldine turned out to be another elderly woman in pearls and a jade jacquard dress. It must be the second shift for dinner.

  ‘Fabulous weather, isn’t it?’ Geraldine was obviously in the mood for a chat. ‘I’ve just had such a lovely walk along the cliff. Did you see that piece in The Times about Jacob Rees-Mogg? After what we were saying yesterday about…’ she broke off as if suddenly becoming aware of Clara. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. Have I interrupted?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Clara said. ‘I was just going.’ She was clearly wasting her time trying to talk to him at the moment.

  Adam didn’t even look at her, let alone make any attempt to stop her. She could feel the heat still in her face as she walked past Geraldine. Part anger, part humiliation. He could at least have been civil. The Brothers Grim reputation was well earned. At least it was in his case. Nick might be nice, but Adam was clearly unpleasant enough for both of them.

  Just before the glass doors swooshed shut behind her, she heard him say, ‘No one important, Geraldine, no. Please don’t worry.’

  When she finally got back home again, just before eight, there was a car parked outside the bungalow that she didn’t recognise. Deciding that the last thing she needed was a run-in with another reporter, Clara drove straight past it, glancing in as she passed and noticing a smartly dressed blonde talking on her phone. She may well have just stopped to answer a call, but Clara decided not to take the chance. If she was a reporter, she was going to have a very long wait.

  After a moment of indecision, Clara headed back towards her sister’s instead. Rosanna and Ed lived in a three -bedroom detached house in Swanage, not far from the family home where they’d grown up and where their parents still lived. It wasn’t far and it would be good to have a catch-up in person.

  To her very great relief, Rosanna was in and pleased to see her.

  ‘How’s it going, honey? Hmmm, not well, I can see. Come in. Will you be needing a restorative glass of Prosecco or maybe cake? I’ve got both. Or is it more serious than that?’

  ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,’ Clara said, breathing in the scents of the familiar house as she stepped into the hall: Rosanna’s Jimmy Choo signature scent, the faint mustiness of outside coats on a row of hooks and coffee wafting through from somewhere.

  ‘Is it all right to bring Foxy in? Where is everyone?’

  ‘Of course it’s all right.’ Rosanna ushered them into the bright family kitchen. ‘Ed’s still in Scotland and the kids are both on sleepovers. I was just watching back episodes of Loose Women with a very large tub of caramel popcorn. But I’d much rather talk to you.’ She paced around her kitchen as she spoke, putting cups in the dishwasher, fiddling around with her all-singing, all-dancing coffee machine. Rosanna could never keep still for long. Which was probably how she managed to stay reed thin, Clara had often thought, despite the amount of junk food she ate. Or maybe it was just that the two sisters were completely different. They both had conker-brown hair and dark eyes, but that was where the resemblance ended.

  Rosanna took after their mother, who was tall and willowy, and Clara took after their father, who wasn’t. Dad, bless him, had given up the battle to stay slim and regularly patted his round tummy and told everyone that a little of what you fancied never hurt anyone.

  ‘The Prosecco’s in the fridge,’ Rosanna said. ‘Pour me a glass while you’re at it. I’m alternating with coffee. Are you hungry? I’ve got some olives in the fridge too and some cheese. How about the hound? Does she need a drink?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Clara retrieved the Prosecco and the olives, noticing as she did so a new fridge magnet, which said, in black italics, Did I just roll my eyes out loud? That summed Rosanna up, she thought, amused, as she sat at the oblong oak table, pleased to be in the comforting ebb and flow of her sister’s chatter.

  Rosanna made coffee and filled up a bowl of water for Foxy. Then she came across to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘So… did you get any further with tracking down the dipstick who put up that video?’

  ‘No not yet.’ Clara looked into her sister’s concerned brown eyes and sighed. ‘It’s been a bit of a day.’

  ‘I can imagine. Oh, sweetheart. What a horrible thing to happen when your boss is away. Life is never simple, is it? Have a piece of Battenberg – Sophie made it in Home Economics. It’s surprisingly good.

  Clara peeled off a small square of marzipan and popped it in her mouth and felt marginally better as its sweetness melted on her tongue.

  Foxy, smelling the sugar, put a paw on her knee.

  ‘I just had a totally unnecessary argument with someone,’ Clara explained.

  ‘Not Will?’

  ‘No – I haven’t spoken to him yet.’

  She told Rosanna about Adam Greenwood and her sister looked suitably outraged.

  ‘What a pompous prat. Did you say he was the owner too?’

  ‘Yes. He and his brother bought it about five years ago, from what I can gather, and they both live and work there, but neither of them have partners apparently. At least not live-in ones. I only went round to introduce myself. I wish I hadn’t. I thought Mr B was overreacting when he said that the Manor House were antagonistic towards the Bluebell, but I’m not so sure now.’ She paused. ‘Funnily enough I had a phone call from Adam Greenwood once before about some long-term booking he was accusing us of pinching. I didn’t think anything much of it at the time. I put it down to him having a bad day, but he did seem unreasonably cross. Maybe they are struggling. From what I saw today, the place could certainly do with some money being spent on it – it’s quite shabby – and I don’t mean in a shabby-chic kind of way.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound as though they have a surplus of staff either if the owners are doing more than one job.’

  ‘Exactly. Maybe Mr B had a point about them being behind the YouTube video.’

  Rosanna raised her eyebrows. ‘Have you decided to rule out Will?’

  ‘Not entirely, I guess. I am going to speak to him, but I can’t believe he’s behind this. Like I said this morning. Was it really only this morning? That seems like a million years ago.’

  ‘Yes, I must admit I was surprised to see you, although I’m really glad you’re here.’

  Clara popped an olive into her mouth and Rosanna steepled her hands.

  ‘So who else has a good reason to want to discredit the hotel? Have you upset anyone lately?’ she teased.

  ‘Apart from Arnold – no, I don’t think so. We haven’t even had any dissatisfied customers, as far as I know. The worst review we’ve ever had on TripAdvisor was from someone who thought their poached egg was on the hard side.’ Clara hesitated. ‘Besides, I’m no techie, but it has to be someone who had access to the video, which narrows it down to Arnold – I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him – and the cameraman. I haven’t managed to get hold of him yet. He’s in Antigua with Arnold’s ex. She ran off with him after the event apparently. Note to self: big romantic gestures can backfire badly. Poor chap.’

  ‘He’s probably better off without her.’ Rosanna sipped her wine. ‘What happened to the chocolates?’

  ‘I’m assuming they ate them. Arnold certainly didn’t have them strapped to his back when we were in A&E.’

  ‘What, all of them?! He should have donated them to you by the sound of it.’

  ‘Well he didn’t. Perhaps he donated them to the paramedics in the ambulance. A thank you for wasting their time.’

  ‘So the cameraman could have plastered that video all over YouTube and then legged it abroad.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he could. It’s a bit mean though, isn’t it – absconding with a man’s girlfriend and publicly humiliating him too. And why drag us into
it? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.’

  ‘Yes, that does sound unlikely.’

  Rosanna got up and paced around her kitchen, which didn’t take long as, like her, it was long and thin. The table was in an alcove, where an old pantry had once been. The house was ex-council, solidly built in a different era. Ed and Rosanna had done loads to it since they’d bought it and because it was on a corner plot it had a big garden too that was great for the kids and also well used for family gatherings.

  ‘How did you come across that video anyway?’ Clara asked her. ‘Was it completely random?’

  ‘It was. Yes. Like I said, I’d been watching loads of stuff on YouTube and it popped up, possibly because it’s local to here – I don’t know how the algorithms work. Have they asked YouTube to take it down yet? That must be a bit of a palaver.’

  ‘The solicitor has it in hand apparently.’

  Rosanna waved a bottle of Prosecco at her from the fridge. ‘Do you want a top-up? You can stay over if you like? Save driving? We’re all at Mum’s tomorrow for lunch, aren’t we?’

  ‘Thanks. And yes, I know. But I think I’d better go home. I want to nip in to work in the morning just to give Phil a hand until things calm down a bit.’

  ‘Is that a step tracker?’ Rosanna asked, gesturing to her wrist. ‘I haven’t seen that before. Are you on a new fitness regime?’

  ‘When am I not?’ She sighed.

  ‘You don’t need to be. You always look stunning.’

  ‘That’s got more to do with the art of disguise. Heels and flattering jackets. Every pound shows. What I would give for three more inches of height.’

  ‘I’ll swap you three inches of my height for three inches of your cleavage,’ Rosanna said and they both smiled. It was a familiar conversation.

  Clara rolled back her sleeve to reveal the plum-coloured strap. ‘And yes it is a step tracker. It’s a FunFit. I got it cheap on Wish.com. The reviews said it was as good as the market leader, although I have my doubts.’

  ‘It looks the part. What does it do?’

  ‘It counts steps walked and calories burned. It claims to calculate your average heart rate and tell you how well you’ve slept.’

  ‘Impressive. Does it actually do all that?’

  Clara glanced at the screen. ‘Well, yes, but it’s not very accurate. Let’s say it errs on the side of optimism. It reckons I’ve walked 283 steps since I’ve been sitting at this table and burnt twenty-five calories. That sounds unlikely, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Sadly it does,’ Rosanna agreed. ‘So it’s pretty rubbish then.’

  ‘It is, but it makes me laugh. The reports are hilarious. It’s linked to my phone. I’ll show you.’ Clara hooked out her mobile. ‘This is last week’s: I got a score of 31. It says: “Walking is a static activity of which one must do more speed if one hopes to achieve fun, fitness and health wise. Very bad, no good movement. Your static activity fitness improvement has not been health wise. Try must harder.’

  When they’d stopped laughing, Rosanna asked for a closer look at the reports and Clara handed over her phone.

  ‘Did you read their privacy statement? “If you leak the password you may lose your personality.” Do you think they mean identity?’

  Clara snorted again. It felt good to laugh. ‘I guess you get what you pay for. It only cost £7.50. I think the market leader’s about £120.’

  ‘I might get one for Sophie’s birthday. It’s got to be worth it just for the entertainment factor.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Clara yawned. ‘I’d better get home, darling. Thanks so much for the chat.’ As she spoke, Foxy put her sharp snout on her knee and looked up at her reproachfully. Flaming heck, she hadn’t fed her either. How had she managed to forget that?

  At the front door, they hugged and Clara felt the chill night air creep round her shoulders. She didn’t realise it had got so late. Phoning Will would have to wait until tomorrow. At least that reporter should have left by now.

  7

  To Clara’s relief, the reporter had gone and, to her surprise, she slept really well too. This was probably due to sheer emotional exhaustion, she thought, although her FunFit didn’t agree. Her sleep report on the front screen of her phone was headed up with the word, Bad, which was highlighted in red.

  Your indicators, this night warning, is less than ideal. Health wise sleep. No no no. Bad.

  She had overslept though, even for a Sunday. It was just after half eight. She opened YouTube to check whether they had taken down the video and discovered it was gone. Blimey, that was efficient. She wondered if that had been Kate’s solicitor’s influence or whether they had simply decided to respond to the ‘inappropriate content’ flags. Or maybe whoever had put it up there had had second thoughts and decided to remove it themselves.

  There was also an email from Kate asking how it was going and saying she would phone later for a catch-up. Poor Kate. She had enough on her plate, sorting out things with her mother. There had been some more complications with the divorce apparently and her mother’s health issues weren’t helping. Clara was keen to spare her from work hassle as well.

  While she had her phone in her hand, she searched Google using various key words that included: Lighthouse, Milk Tray, and Funny Proposals. To her huge relief, she couldn’t find any trace of the video. Which didn’t mean it was no longer online, of course, but was definitely a good sign.

  A WhatsApp message pinged through from Rosanna which simply said:

  Chin up, Sis. Don’t let the b******s grind you down. Laters. xx

  Clara felt warmed – it was good to have such a supportive family around her – they got together for a roast at least one Sunday a month, Mum, Dad, Rosanna, Ed and the kids and sometimes one or the other of her maternal grandparents, Thelma and Eric Price. Her father’s parents had both died within months of each other two years earlier, but Mum’s parents had the longevity gene. They also had a very long marriage – fifty-seven years – but this was currently under threat because, to the rest of the family’s great distress, they had recently separated from each other.

  Five and a half months ago, Grandad Eric had what had once been known as a midlife crisis, but, at seventy-seven, he’d had it quite late. He had run off with his whist partner, Mary, who’d been eleven years Thelma’s junior. After barely a fortnight, he’d realised he’d made a huge mistake and had tried to come back, but Gran, who was still smarting from hurt and humiliation, had told him he wasn’t welcome.

  Rosanna had been firmly in Gran’s corner and had egged her on at every turn. Rosanna could be quite unforgiving, but their mother had felt he’d been punished enough. She’d hated the thought of her parents splitting up after fifty-seven years of marriage. The situation was still in limbo. Grandad was living with his brother Jim and his wife, Elsie, in Weymouth. Gran was in the family home in Church Knowle, which was twenty minutes or so to the west of Swanage.

  Opinion was divided on whether this separation was temporary or permanent. Mum thought it was temporary. Rosanna thought it might be permanent. Clara was hoping and praying that Mum was right.

  Today they were all meeting at Mum and Dad’s, but fortunately lunches never began until two, so there was time for her to nip into work first.

  She leaped out of bed and tugged on an old T-shirt that was really due for the wash and her dog-walking jeggings. She would give Foxy a good long walk to make up for yesterday. One good thing about having a dog to look after was that she was doing tonnes of exercise. Will had been right. She had lost weight. She’d lost half a stone since she’d seen him, and a few more pounds since she’d had Foxy and this certainly wasn’t because she’d reined in on the biscuits.

  The FunFit bracelet might be wildly inaccurate as far as step counting was concerned, but at least she could tell whether she was going up or down. That was helpful.

  She wasn’t slender like Rosanna, but she couldn’t be described as chunky either. Ten pounds was a lot when you were o
nly five foot four.

  Clara was on the coast path with a delighted ‘full of beans’ Foxy by nine. The bungalow, like the Bluebell, had a garden that backed onto it and a gate that gave direct access.

  It was a bright sunny morning and a brisk southwesterly breeze skittered along the coast path, sending waves ripping through the long grass on the cliffs that echoed the real ones on the ocean far below. As she walked, Clara breathed in the mixed smells of ozone and the sweet coconut scent of flowering gorse. She didn’t think she would ever get tired of this view, the vast sky, the endless sea and the greens and browns and olives and gold of the surrounding countryside. Some of the cultivated fields she could see had strips along the edges scattered with wild flowers. There were the bright splashes of poppies, the blues of cornflowers and the yellow of sunflowers. It was breathtaking and despite the emotional hangover of the previous day it was impossible not to feel uplifted.

  She met a handful of other walkers, some of them with dogs, some with backpacks, and she spent a pleasant half an hour walking, exchanging chit-chat with strangers about what a glorious July they were having and wasn’t it good that for once the school summer holidays were living up to their name, and how much difference a bit of sunshine made.

  She felt relaxed as she approached the back gate of the bungalow once more. She whistled to Foxy, who bounded up, wagging her tail, which wriggled the whole of her red gold body. She hadn’t had her breakfast yet, which, Clara had recently discovered, was by far the best way to get her to come back quickly. Foxy loved chasing rabbits and seagulls and having a full belly made her selectively deaf, but if she was walked before she was fed, she became far more obedient.

  Clara ushered her in through the back gate and was about to follow her when she glimpsed the movement of a red car pulling up at the front of the bungalow. Now that was a coincidence. That reporter had been in a red car too. Could she possibly be back?