Sunshine Over Bluebell Cliff

by Della Galton

  As Clara pondered what to do, she heard the slam of a door and then she glimpsed a blonde head. Definitely not a coincidence then and she was not in the mood to talk to another reporter. For one thing, she didn’t have time. For another, she hadn’t had coffee, which was essential if she was to have a sensible conversation. Also, she hadn’t yet showered or put on any make-up and she was wearing old jeggings with, she suddenly realised in horror, the T-shirt that, in her haste, she must have put on inside out. Why hadn’t any of those friendly dog walkers told her she was wearing her top inside out? Flaming heck. It was obvious now she’d spotted it. It was also on back to front. There was a label sticking out under her nose.

  Clara could see the reporter through the front window. She had just gone up the front path, now she rang the bell, which could be heard jangling through the house. Hopefully she’d go away when she got no answer.

  No such luck. Now she was bending, presumably to look through the letter box. Clearly she was the persistent type, which Clara supposed should be obvious since she’d been here last night too. And now Clara’s car was in the drive, which meant someone was definitely in.

  It was unlikely that she’d come round the back. But just in case she did, Clara considered her options. She could nip back out onto the coast path and mingle with the other dog walkers. Not her preferred option now she knew about the T-shirt. Or she could hide behind the shed. Making a split-second decision, she chose the shed. It was in a corner of the garden and there wasn’t a lot of room between it and the back fence so it was quite a snug fit. But Foxy was less likely to worry if she was still in the garden.

  The little dog was currently sniffing around the dahlias, unaware, as far as Clara could tell, that they even had a visitor. She was a useless guard dog. She hardly ever barked. Thank heaven for small mercies, Clara thought. But then the side gate squeaked as someone pushed it open. Flaming heck, the reporter was coming round the back.

  From her vantage point, squashed between shed and fence, Clara heard a voice say, ‘Oh hello, cutie pie? You all on your own then?’

  Clara didn’t have to see Foxy to know what she’d be doing. Wagging her tail frantically and greeting this interesting new person as a long-lost friend. That’s what she did with everyone she met.

  ‘Where’s your owner then? Is she about? Where’s she gone?’

  Clara closed her eyes. Suddenly she had an awful sense of premonition. Not because she was under any misconception that Foxy understood English, but she did understand games and Clara and her niece and nephew had played hide-and-seek with her a few times.

  Unfortunately, she was right. Ten seconds later, a pleased Foxy was leading the unwanted visitor towards the shed. Her tail wagged joyfully as she spotted Clara jammed into her hiding place and the game was up.

  There was nothing else to do, apart from step out from the narrow space, brush an accumulation of mildew and dirt and cobwebs from the front of her inside-out, back to front T-shirt and say the first thing that came into her head, which was, ‘Terrible mildew problem I’m having with this shed.’

  The woman, who was immaculately turned out – of course she was – looked slightly startled, which wasn’t altogether surprising, Clara decided, thinking quickly and concluding that attack was the best form of defence

  ‘Who are you? You do realise you’re trespassing. This is private property.’

  ‘I do apologise.’

  Clara hadn’t been expecting this. She was pretty sure that journalists regularly trespassed and never apologised – they probably weren’t averse to hiding behind sheds either.

  ‘What do you want?’ she pressed.

  ‘My name’s Anastasia Williams. I’m looking for a Clara King. Would that be you?’

  ‘I’m her gardener,’ Clara said, deciding that lying was probably in her best interests for now. She had never heard of an Anastasia Williams and certainly didn’t know why she was looking for her. ‘She’s away. I can give her a message if you like. But she won’t be back for ten days. She’s in Tenerife.’ Where had that come from? She’d never even been to Tenerife.

  ‘I see. Of course. Yes, I would be grateful if you could give her a message. Thank you. Maybe I could leave you my card.’

  Clara nodded sternly. The woman didn’t sound like a reporter. In fact, now the video had gone and there was no story to speak of any more, she was beginning to doubt her own assumption that she even was a reporter. She decided it wasn’t worth taking the risk. Besides, now she was in character she was quite enjoying playing the part of a grumpy gardener. It was a pity she didn’t have a pair of secateurs she could snip the air with.

  Anastasia Williams rummaged in her bag and pulled out a white business card, which contrasted sharply with her scarlet fingernails, and handed it over. Clara caught a waft of her scent: something flowery but also faintly exotic and definitely out of a hotel manager’s price range.

  Apart from her name and a mobile phone number, the card was blank. Clara turned it over and saw it had the words, Happy Ever After, printed on the back in gold, alongside a small red heart. It didn’t look much like a reporter’s card either.

  ‘What shall I tell Miss King it’s about?’ she said in the haughtiest voice she could muster.

  ‘It’s confidential. But thank you.’ The woman smiled. She had scarlet lips too and were those eyelash extensions? She looked more like a beauty therapist than a reporter and what was that Happy Ever After line about?

  Clara was desperately curious now, but there was no way she was going to backtrack and admit she had been lying through her teeth.

  ‘I’ll make sure she gets the card. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Anastasia said. ‘I was just passing.’

  Well, that was a lie – no way had she just been passing both last night and this morning. But Clara wasn’t about to contradict her. Especially as it looked as though she was about to leave.

  ‘I’m actually on holiday for the next fortnight, so there’s no rush,’ Anastasia added. Then, with a swift goodbye to Foxy – she clearly liked dogs – she was gone.

  Clara fled with relief into the house. ‘Well, that was a narrow escape,’ she said. ‘No thanks to you, you little traitor.

  An unrepentant Foxy pounced on her breakfast and devoured it. Clara peered out of the window to make sure the car had gone and then she googled Anastasia Williams and found a photograph of a black American politician by the same name but nothing that shed any light on her unwanted visitor’s identity. She showered thoughtfully and dressed for work. She would just have to wait until Ms Williams was back from holiday.

  While she was driving into work, her phone rang and she saw on her Bluetooth screen that the call was from Rob Davidson, the cameraman, in response to her message.

  She didn’t answer it. The signal was too up and down in the Purbecks to guarantee a good reception. It would be better to call him when she was stationary.

  So, having conferred briefly with Keith, who did Sunday reception until ten, as well as nights, and learning that everything had quietened down, she phoned Rob Davidson back and discovered he was back in the country, having had a very nice break at his brother’s Antigua beach house apparently. He didn’t say he’d been there with Maureen at first and Clara decided not to mention it straightaway either. At least not until she had found out what she wanted to know, which was how his video had found its way on to YouTube.

  ‘I didn’t put it on YouTube,’ he’d said, sounding slightly outraged at such a suggestion.

  After some coercion from Clara, he’d gone on to confess that he had in fact put it on Twitter.

  ‘But I wasn’t doing anything unprofessional. There was nothing on that footage that could have identified the Bluebell Cliff. Or the climber, come to that. It was just a bit of fun.’

  ‘Apart from his face?’ Clara pointed out.

  ‘You’d only recognise him if you knew him. And you couldn’t even see the hotel. I certainly didn’t put the hotel
name on it.’ His voice was puffed up with righteous indignation.

  ‘Someone did and they would have needed the original video in order to edit it,’ she pressed him. Mr B, who was a geek, had been pretty categorical that this was the only way it could have been done.

  Rob Davidson hesitated. Eventually, he told her that he’d been approached by a bloke in The Anchor.

  ‘He asked me if I’d send him the original video. I didn’t see the harm. He bought me a drink.’

  I bet he did, Clara thought. ‘How did he know about it in the first place?’

  ‘I dunno. He didn’t say. Maybe he saw it on my Twitter account. I’ve got 681 followers.’ For a few seconds, all she could hear was his breathing. He clearly wasn’t going to elaborate.

  ‘What did this bloke look like?’ she pressed.

  ‘He was tanned. Short hair. Ordinary.’

  The tanned bit brought Adam Greenwood to mind, but then probably most people who drank in The Anchor in this gorgeous summer weather would be tanned. The short hair probably also ruled out Will, his had grown, but he could have tied it back.

  ‘Was he tall or short? Fair or dark?’ she tried to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  ‘I wasn’t looking that closely. Tall, I suppose.’

  ‘So would you recognise him again?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Look, I didn’t mean any harm. It was all just a bit of fun. A bit of banter.’

  ‘Would you be able to point him out to me if I came to The Anchor with you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, it’s all a bit hazy. I’d had a few drinks. It would probably be a waste of time. Your time, I mean. It’s a pointless exercise.’

  It was clear where his loyalties lay and they weren’t with her. His tone of voice had become brusquer as the conversation had progressed.

  Clara let the silence hang between them and, a few moments later, he said, ‘I’ve taken it off Twitter. I’ve done everything I can do. And, as you said yourself, it’s not on YouTube any more, so there’s not really any harm been done, has there?’

  If they’d been face to face, she’d have throttled him. Fortunately for him, they weren’t.

  ‘You will still recommend me on your website though, won’t you?’ For the first time, he came close to being obsequious.

  ‘No, Rob, we won’t be recommending you on our website any more. Arnold Fairweather wasn’t just your client, he was ours too. He was heartbroken – understandably – to hear that you’d absconded with his lady friend. That was completely inappropriate. At The Bluebell Cliff Hotel, we pride ourselves on discretion and professionalism at all times.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘We’re going to have to terminate your agreement and we will also have to cancel any forthcoming bookings. I’ll send you an email to follow. If you have any issues when you’ve read it, do feel free to contact your solicitor.’

  8

  Thank goodness for families, Clara thought for the second time in twenty-four hours as she and Foxy arrived at her parents for lunch at just before two.

  She thought about phoning Will. Her parents only lived about ten minutes from his house. Perhaps she should call round afterwards and see him, rather than phone. She was loath to get in touch with him at all, but she needed to definitely rule him out of being the man behind the leaked video.

  Kate had said when they’d spoken earlier that she had no idea why anyone would want to damage the hotel’s reputation. Maybe that hadn’t been their intention. Maybe it really was just a silly prank that had got out of hand. Kate had sounded upbeat and positive and had said again that at least the video was no longer available. She had agreed with Clara that it was too quick for YouTube to have removed it. Whoever had uploaded it must have had second thoughts and taken it down themselves. But it couldn’t do any more damage, if in fact it had done any at all, and that, unless there were any further developments, it might be better to put the whole thing behind them.

  Clara had agreed with her, but in her heart she wasn’t so sure. Someone had had a deliberate go at the hotel, either to get at Kate or to get at her. That hadn’t been accidental.

  ‘How are you, love?’ It was her father who came to the door to let her and Foxy in, not Mum, who she knew would be creating a banquet in the kitchen.

  Before she could reply or even get over the threshold, Dad was stampeded out of the way by Sophie and Tom, her beloved niece and nephew, both of whom adored her and had come racing to the front door.

  Clara could see her father smiling broadly just behind them.

  ‘Hi Dad, is that a new shirt? Hi Sophie, I loved your Battenberg. Tom, you’ve got taller.’

  ‘I know,’ Tom said proudly. ‘And my feet have grown. I’ve got new shoes.’

  ‘He’s always getting new shoes,’ huffed Sophie. ‘It’s not fair. Hello Foxy? Is it OK if Foxy sits on the sofa with me, Grandad?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Sofas are for humans not for dogs. Let your Auntie Clara in for goodness’ sake.’

  Clara glimpsed Rosanna chatting to their mother through the connecting door between the lounge and the kitchen, where Ed was pouring drinks.

  The house smelled gloriously of roast beef and garlic and herb stuffing, Mum’s speciality. Even in the height of summer, Mum stuck to tradition and insisted on cooking a full roast on a Sunday lunchtime.

  Clara closed her eyes and breathed it all blissfully in. Just for an hour or two, she thought, she could let go of all the trials and tribulations of the week and let the warmth of her family wrap around her.

  Five minutes later, she was ensconced on the squashy red corner sofa. So was Foxy, she noticed. The little dog had sneaked up between Sophie and Tom and Tom was stroking her head. Dad, back in his armchair, was turning a blind eye, as he so often did.

  The talk was of summer camp and Sophie’s violin lessons.

  ‘She’s getting on really well,’ Rosanna said, coming in to tell them dinner would be ready in ten minutes and did everyone want Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘She’s not,’ Tom said. ‘I have to wear earplugs.’

  ‘I had to wear earplugs when you learned the piano,’ Sophie countered. ‘I still do.’

  ‘That’s because it’s out of tune,’ Tom said.

  ‘You’re the one that’s out of tune.’

  ‘Stop it you two,’ Ed said, coming in behind them. ‘Hello, Clara love. How are you?’

  She got up to kiss her brother-in-law on both cheeks. He had his sleeves rolled up and he smelled of aftershave and Blackthorn cider and the steamy warmth of the kitchen.

  ‘Is that a new Radley, Auntie Clara?’ Sophie asked, suddenly spotting her bag over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, do you like it?’ Clara patted the small cream and blue multiway, which depicted a seaside scene of a deckchair and a bright yellow sun.

  ‘It’s really cool.’

  Foxy let out a small whine.

  ‘I thought I told you not to let that dog up there,’ Dad said in mock exasperation from his chair.

  ‘She’s not touching the sofa, Grandad, she’s only touching our laps,’ Sophie defended. ‘Isn’t she, Tom?’

  ‘Yep,’ Tom said. Brother and sister were always a united front when anyone prodded them from the outside.

  ‘Well, everyone can get off the sofa in a minute,’ Rosanna announced from the doorway. ‘We’re just about to dish up. Dad, can you come and carve please?’

  ‘No Gran or Grandad?’ Clara mouthed to Rosanna as she went through to the kitchen.

  Rosanna shook her head and Clara didn’t push it. No doubt she would get the full story later.

  The old oak table in the kitchen, which was big enough to seat ten, had been owned by her parents for as long as Clara could remember. It was scratched and faded with age and it had hosted Christmases, birthdays and anniversary meals, children’s parties and once even a wake.

  She couldn’t imagine life without regular meals at this table. She and Rosanna had once joked that their parents would have to stip
ulate in their will that it was sawn in half because they’d never be able to decide who should inherit it.

  That wasn’t true now, of course, Clara thought. It would go to Rosanna. What on earth was she going to do with a table for ten!

  She switched off her thoughts and dragged her attention back to the room as everyone jostled to get into their seats.

  For the first few moments of dinner, there was silence as everyone concentrated on the business of eating and the dishing out of home-made horseradish sauce and mint sauce, not because you had mint sauce with beef, any more than you had garlic and herb stuffing with it, but because Dad liked it with everything. Then the Sunday conversations began. The same conversations they had every time, with only minor variations.

  ‘This is a good cut of beef, Angie.’ That was from Ed.

  ‘Where did you get these little carrots from, they’re delicious.’ That was from Rosanna.

  ‘Great roasties, love.’ That was from Dad.

  Clara let it all wash over her. The clatter of cutlery, the buzz of conversation. It was like balm after the last few days. Sooner or later, though, she knew the conversation would turn to other subjects. They would hone in on individual members of the family.

  It could be Dad’s cars. Cars were his hobby – he was either selling a car or planning to buy a new one. At the moment he was planning to buy a new one. It took him months of research before he decided on make, model and year based on blogs like Honest John. Then he would scour the country via eBay for the best possible bargain.

  Or they would talk about Ed’s travels and the people he met. Last month, he’d told them about a ‘would-be’ illegal immigrant who’d tried to break into the back of his truck in the middle of the night when he was parked up in a service station just outside Calais.

  ‘How desperate people had to be to flee their homes in search of a better life,’ he’d added at the time and they’d all agreed that they had so much to be thankful for.

  Or they would talk about Mum’s latest Granny-isms, which was what Sophie and Tom called Angie’s habit of mixing up words. They weren’t spoonerisms exactly, but they were almost as funny. She regularly called iPads, eye patches and smartphones, smart gnomes, much to the glee of Sophie and Tom, who delighted in putting her right.