Sunshine Over Bluebell Cliff

by Della Galton

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, Clara. It’s only a couple of glasses – and – er – sugar?’ He was reaching behind the bar for a dustpan and brush. ‘These things happen.’ His eyes were sympathetic. ‘Although I may have to ban the hound,’ he added, winking.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him gratefully. Hopefully Anastasia was far enough away not to have heard him call her Clara.

  Then she fled for the third and what she very much hoped was the final time.

  All the way home the scene played on a loop in her head. It was right up there as one of the most humiliating experiences of her life – it even topped the shed incident. But what cruel twist of fate had decreed that Adam’s girlfriend – because that was surely who she was – should be present on both occasions?

  It was much later when the nightmare scene was starting to fade that she remembered the little spike of feeling that had prodded her when Adam had bent to kiss Anastasia. Not jealousy surely. It was certainly nothing to her what Adam and Anastasia did.

  12

  ‘That kind of thing only happens to me,’ Clara defended herself to Mr B the following Monday morning. He had popped into the office to see her about the menu for a function they were holding in a couple of weeks and he’d clearly been given a massively embellished version of Friday evening’s drama at The Anchor from his friend, Steve.

  Not that you needed to embellish it all that much, she supposed. It had been dramatic enough all by itself.

  ‘And what’s this about you moonlighting as a gardener?’ he’d added in amusement.

  She filled him in on the backstory, including the hiding behind the shed bit, due to the appearance of what she’d thought was a reporter, but not the inside out T-shirt. She would never live that one down. She was always dressed immaculately at work. As Gran pointed out on a regular basis, one must have standards.

  Mr B wasn’t surprised that she’d been hiding behind the shed. ‘I’d have hidden if I’d thought she was a reporter. You can’t trust any of them, boss. They’re all total liars. Fake news is everywhere.’

  ‘Bit of a generalisation, don’t you think?’ Clara said, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Nope.’ Mr B twirled in the other chair. ‘The media is in the pocket of the government. Their purpose is not to inform us but to manipulate the masses and keep us in line at all costs. Why else do you think they only ever tell us bad news?’

  ‘Because it sells papers.’

  ‘That’s a very small part of it. They want to suppress us. Keep us cowed and in fear and remind us we live in a hopeless society where every year things get a little worse and we get a little poorer and a little more desperate. The time of the uprising is coming.’

  ‘Sounds as though there’s no hope for us at all,’ Clara said in a deadpan voice and he looked at her sharply.

  ‘OK, I may have slightly overegged the uprising bit. Not that I think I did. But they do manipulate the news. And it is all about control. So that we think what they want us to think and not what we would think otherwise. And I can tell you something else…’ He broke off and, in the pause, Clara wondered how to change the subject, but then quite unexpectedly he did it for her. ‘At least we’ve established that Adam Greenwood goes into The Anchor,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know we were trying to establish that.’ She looked at him curiously.

  ‘Didn’t you say that’s where the lighthouse video got sold? To a man who drank in The Anchor?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right, I did. But I also said that lots of people drank in The Anchor.’

  ‘Not so many that have a motive,’ Mr B pointed out and did some more twirling, which made the mechanism of the chair squeak. She must get some WD-40 on that.

  ‘I thought we’d decided The Manor House are our friends, not our enemies.’

  ‘Maybe they’re pretending to be our friends, whilst secretly still plotting against us. He was friendly enough when he borrowed the beer. I must remember to get that back off him. How did he seem on Friday night?’

  ‘Highly amused. How long has Steve been working at The Anchor anyway? Would he have been there when our cameraman went in?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately not. He only started in mid-July. He’s doing holiday cover. The same thought had occurred to me when I realised he was working there. So I checked.’

  Clara felt warmed by his loyalty and the fact that he cared enough to have done such a thing. No one else had mentioned Lighthousegate lately, which she supposed was a blessing. But it was nice to hear Mr B was still on the case.

  ‘Kate seems to think it was a prank that got out of hand,’ she said. She was still trying to forget about Will’s coincidental disappearance. ‘But I agree with you that it’s worth keeping an ear to the ground.’

  ‘Ear firmly on ground, boss. Always.’

  ‘Did you say something about a menu?’ Clara asked, keen to get back to the subject they were supposed to be talking about.

  ‘Yeah I did.’ His face grew businesslike and he waved a bit of paper at her. ‘This is what they’re proposing. It’s a bit more expensive than what we had budgeted for – so I wanted to run it by you.’

  ‘Of course.’ She glanced at it. ‘That’s the annual dinner for the Young Farmers isn’t it – that should be fine. It’s the first one we’ve done for them. I want to impress them.’

  ‘Apparently they usually go to the Manor House,’ Mr B said, pressing his lips into a straight line. ‘Still, with a bit of luck, the Brothers Grim will never find out.’

  Clara hadn’t realised that. Oops.

  The door opened and Zoe appeared. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t know you were busy…’

  ‘It’s cool, babe, I’m just going.’ Mr B untangled his legs like a stick insect and stood up. ‘Laters. I’m off to plan a menu.’

  Zoe was looking very pleased with herself. ‘You’ll never guess who has just booked rooms for the beginning of October?’

  ‘Take That?’ Mr B called over his shoulder as he swept past her.

  Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘Does he really think I’m that shallow?’

  ‘Yes,’ he does,’ came a disembodied voice from outside the office.

  ‘Who is it?’ Clara said. ‘Come on. I can’t stand the suspense.’

  ‘It’s a guy who is planning to attempt to break an actual Guinness World Record.’ Zoe’s eyes were shining with excitement. She had a piece of paper in her hand. ‘He’s doing it as part of the Brancombe Oktoberfest. His mother’s coming along to support him and they want to stay here for the night before and the night after. Because they think it may bring them luck. Being as we are the hotel where people can come to fulfil their dreams.’

  That was the second time she’d heard that lately, Clara thought, making another mental note to tell Kate. Maybe they could find a way of incorporating it into their promotional literature: Have a record-breaking breakfast at the Bluebell Cliff.

  ‘So what is the record?’ she asked. ‘It’s nothing to do with lighthouses, is it?’

  ‘Of course not. You’ll love it though. It’s right up your street. Go on – I’ll give you three guesses.’

  ‘Is it something to do with food?’

  Zoe looked startled. ‘It is. Yes. How did you know that?’

  ‘Well, you did say it was right up my street. Is it how many ginger nuts you can eat in a minute?’

  ‘No. But you’re not a million miles away.’

  ‘Phew. So my ginger nuts are safe. Chocolate Hobnobs then?’

  ‘No, but chocolate is involved. My mum used to eat them back in the dark ages, long before we were born.’

  ‘When in the dark ages?’

  ‘The seventies.’ Zoe smirked. ‘Last clue. They’re very chewy.’

  ‘No idea. You’re going to have to tell me.’

  ‘Curly Wurlys – I saw an advert when I was looking for the Milk Tray one. Outchews everything for 3p. You must remember that.’

  ‘I wasn’t born in the seventies, you cheeky mare. Tell me about the re
cord.’

  ‘It’s for Curly Wurly stretching. As in, the longest length you can stretch a Curly Wurly bar in three minutes. It was set in 2015 in Somerset apparently.’ She referred to her piece of paper. ‘The current record is 426.2 centimetres or nearly fourteen feet, if you prefer it in old measurements. That’s nearly twice as high as Mr B.’

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t someone’s idea of a wind-up?’

  ‘No it isn’t. The record really does exist. I checked. Our contender’s called Micky Tucker. He lives in Somerset too, but the record attempt will take place at Swanage during this year’s Oktoberfest. There are all sorts of chocolate challenges going on apparently. We should go.’

  ‘If there’s chocolate involved, we will definitely go,’ Clara said and then caught herself. ‘What I mean, of course, is that The Bluebell Cliff will be proud to be linked with something like that. And Kate will love it. If they succeed, maybe we can put their picture up in reception.’

  She probably shouldn’t get too carried away. It might not happen. The record might not get broken. But it was very exciting that they had chosen her hotel.

  ‘And talking of Curly Wurlys,’ she said, glancing back at Zoe. ‘It must be lunchtime. I’m just going to take Foxy for a walk and then I’m off to get some. All this talk of chocolate is making me hungry.’

  Foxy pricked up her ears from her basket at the mention of chocolate and, ten minutes later, she and Clara were out on the coast path.

  She was so lucky, Clara thought, as she walked with the sun in her face and the sea breeze ruffling her hair; the English Channel laid out below the cliffs with the endless blue sky curving over it. She was so lucky to have this job, so lucky to live in such a beautiful part of the world.

  The last hotel Clara had managed had been in Bath, and beautiful as Bath was, the city was no match for the Purbecks. It had been expensive-going walking in Bath at lunchtimes too – all those tempting shops. She had actually managed to save quite a bit of money since she’d been living here, even before she had been living rent-free.

  She was so lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realise she’d reached the back of the Manor House until she was walking alongside it. She was almost in the same spot she’d been when she had mistaken Adam for a grumpy gardener. There was the gap in the hedge that Foxy had run through.

  Her heart sped up, where was Foxy anyway? To her relief, the little dog was sniffing round in the grass a few metres ahead.

  Then, almost as if she was walking into a flashback, she saw Adam with his secateurs on the other side of the hedge. Hopefully Foxy wouldn’t spot him and hopefully he wouldn’t spot Clara either. Other than ducking down and hiding from him, there was nothing she could do.

  It was too late anyway. He’d seen her. Despite the fact she was in her trainers and wasn’t much taller than his hedge.

  ‘Good afternoon, Clara.’

  Cheerful Orlando today. Perhaps he’d had a flashback too – of her squirming with embarrassment the last time they’d met.

  ‘Good afternoon, Adam.’ She decided dignity was the better part of valour. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Superbulous. That’s a cross between superb and fabulous. Just in case you were wondering.’

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’ The words were out of her mouth before she’d had a chance to consider they might be a bit cheeky. Especially if he’d heard her unsaid rider. For a change.

  Which he clearly had because he said mildly, ‘Yes, it does happen occasionally. Contrary to popular belief.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Good to see you’ve got that dog safely under control today.’ His eyes sparkled with amusement.

  She stroked Foxy’s head protectively. ‘I shouldn’t have left her tied to a table. It was thoughtless.’

  ‘I had no idea you were a gardener,’ he added conversationally.

  ‘I’m not. You didn’t tell her, did you?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She let out a breath of relief. More for Rosanna’s sake than her own, because that would have taken some explaining. ‘I was hiding behind my shed,’ she said, not sure why she felt the need to explain herself to him. ‘And she caught me. Saying I was a gardener was the first thing that came into my head.’

  To her surprise, he burst out laughing. ‘I must admit I’ve sometimes been tempted to hide too when Anastasia comes calling.’

  ‘If you don’t want to go out with her perhaps you should just tell her?’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that. She’s my cousin and she’s very persistent. As I’m sure you’re aware if she caught you hiding behind your own shed.’

  His cousin huh! That was interesting. ‘Ah. Well from one gardener to another, thank you for not grassing me up. Pun intended.’

  ‘No problem at all.’ He had moved a step closer.

  Feeling magnanimous, partly because it was such a nice day and partly because he was being so convivial, she added, ‘And sorry again about what happened when you came to see me at the Bluebell. As I told your voicemail, it was not my intention to throw your apology back in your face.’

  Something flashed in his eyes. She wasn’t sure what – surprise or perhaps respect. That was a plus. Maybe they could finally put the animosity between the two hotels to bed.

  He cleared his throat. ‘And, as I told your voicemail, your apology is accepted.’ A beat. ‘So how about we agree to wipe the slate clean and begin again.’ He held out his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

  ‘That’s a very fine plan,’ she said, taking his hand, which was suntanned and felt warm in hers.

  ‘Clara, do you think it might be a good idea to arrange some kind of lunch to discuss this properly? The idea of us working co-operatively together – passing business to each other – rather than working against each other. Not that we were working against each other, exactly…’ He broke off.

  ‘You mean a business lunch meeting?’

  ‘Um yes. Absolutely. Purely business.’

  He was clearly on the same wavelength as her today. Another plus point.

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said, realising that she would. It was quite a shock to realise that actually she liked the man. It wouldn’t be any great hardship to spend some time in his company. It would also be bloody brilliant if she could report back to Kate that the Manor House and the Bluebell had come to an amicable agreement and that from this point onwards they would be working together instead of winding each other up.

  At least Mr B would have his watercress.

  13

  This was an important meeting, which was why she was taking so much trouble getting ready for it, Clara told herself as she tried and failed to make a decision on what to wear to meet Adam.

  They had abandoned the lunchtime plan and gone for an evening meeting in the end, because Adam had said it was easier to leave Nick to cope in the evenings than at lunchtime. ‘He’s just started this medication which means he’s better later in the day,’ he’d explained.

  ‘That’s better for me too,’ Clara had agreed.

  A suit didn’t feel quite right for an evening meal, but she didn’t want to be too casual. She decided eventually on a cream vest top, rose jeggings and a casual pink jacket that she would only put on if needed. A few guests had complimented her on the jacket lately, but it was still warm in the evenings. They were having one of those beautiful summers, a few degrees hotter than the ones she remembered from childhood, that seemed to be the bittersweet side of climate change.

  They were going to a gastro pub between West Lulworth and Dorchester called The Five Gold Coins that Adam had recommended. He was in living quarters at The Manor House and he had offered to pick her up. She had surprised herself by accepting.

  She must, on some level, trust him. Although, of course, she realised as she let Foxy out one last time before she left her alone, if he did want to know her address, he had only to ask his cousin.

  She was ready a
few minutes before the time they’d agreed, which was just as well because he was early. He was wearing a pale checked shirt, open at the neck, and dark trousers and he smelled of something expensively citrus. There was a tiny fleck of dried blood to on one side of his jaw where he’d obviously nicked himself shaving.

  He drove an old Jaguar with a personalised plate, AG 777.

  ‘The number plate cost more than the car,’ he quipped when she commented on it as she climbed into a seat that smelled of age and old leather. He tapped the steering wheel with affection. ‘But this car is my honey. I wouldn’t change her.’

  Honey was an odd choice of word, Clara thought; too human for a car. She wondered if he’d ever been married. She’d asked Phil once and he’d just shrugged and said, ‘I doubt it. Who’d put up with him?’

  Mr B was more forthcoming about the Brothers Grim, although not about their personal lives. As far as Mr B knew, they had bought the Manor House ten years ago from a hotel chain similar to the one that had once owned the Bluebell. They had slowly rebuilt its once good reputation that the hotel chain had let slip and they had sunk shedloads of money into it, but it was debatable whether this was enough.

  ‘Seaside hotels are in their death throes,’ Mr B had told her cheerfully. ‘Give it another decade and there’ll be none left. They’ll all have been turned into apartments owned by the Chinese.’

  ‘The Chinese?’

  ‘Yep, the same ones that own half of London. It’s part of their world domination plan.’

  For all Clara knew he may have been right. About eighty per cent of Mr B’s conspiracy theories had some truth in them, and about twenty per cent of these were spot on, but it was hard to tell which were which. She wasn’t sure where he got his information from, although she did know he was a self-confessed insomniac. He also had a girlfriend, although not a live-in one. He’d been seeing Kate’s best friend, Meg, for the last couple of years. Meg was cool. A little eccentric, but a lot saner, on the surface at least, than Mr B. Although, apparently, Meg too had an urge to keep kunekune pigs instead of having children.