by Della Galton
On the plus side, she woke up to another enquiry from one of the hens who must have been at last night’s party and had seen the cupcakes she’d made. The hen, whose name was Poppy, had sent a close-up photo of a cupcake willy with the message,
I’m getting married in September – could you do these for my hen night please?
Olivia hoped that she felt the same when she’d sobered up. The text had been sent at 3.15 a.m. and had been followed by a dozen emojis of laughing faces and three emojis of cartoon willies with little bowler hats. Where on earth had she got those from?
Getting texts and pictures from strangers who’d seen her cakes, thankfully most of them weren’t close-ups of willies, happened a lot. Much of Olivia’s work came from recommendations. After the first year, she’d barely needed to advertise. Although she did have a website and a Facebook page, both with galleries which she updated regularly with the cakes she was most proud of – very often they were the quirky, unusual ones.
In the past, she’d also done the big trade shows like Cake International in Birmingham. She didn’t do these any more either. There just wasn’t time to do everything. As it was, she sometimes felt as though she was caught between two worlds – acting and cake creation – and both of them had ravenous appetites for her time.
She answered the hen night cupcake enquiry with a link to her website that would take the prospective client straight to her gallery and said she’d be happy to discuss it further.
It was interesting how hen-night cakes had become ruder and ruder lately. She still did hearts and L Plate cupcakes for her more romantic hens. But lots of ladies, these days, wanted sugar paste mouldings of male appendages. Or sugar paste figures in suggestive poses. She’d told Phil about it once and he’d laughed.
‘I know. We have hen and stag nights at The Bluebell sometimes. The women are much ruder than the men.’
The Bluebell, which it was known as by the locals, was one of Dorset’s most renowned hotels. Perched high up on a headland overlooking Studland Bay, it was named after the bluebell woods in its extensive grounds. There was even a decommissioned lighthouse, Phil had said, that made up part of the fabulous accommodation. The lighthouse was listed as one of the UK’s top ten unique places to stay. Not long after they’d met, during rehearsals for Hamlet, he had invited Olivia to the hotel for afternoon tea. It was clear he was proud of the place that employed him as its maître d’ and Olivia had been curious to see it.
‘This place was refurbished by an eccentric multimillionaire,’ Phil told Olivia as they got out of the car on the day of their afternoon tea and she looked up at the white art deco-style building. ‘Caroline Rawlinson made her fortune as a concert pianist and The Bluebell was her retirement project. She wanted to create a hotel where people could come to fulfil their dreams – so with the help of her niece, Kate Rawlinson, who now owns the place, she designed and created several purpose-built rooms. We have writing rooms where would-be novelists can write their bestsellers.’ Phil mimed a pen and paper, although Olivia was pretty sure most novelists used a computer keyboard, these days. ‘If you’re a budding Picasso, you can use an art room. There’s a recording studio for musicians who’ve an urge to record a hit single. We even have a vintage Steinway grand piano.’ His eyes shone as he spoke. ‘Or if your dream is just to take a break from the madness of the world for a while you can do that too.’
‘Wow,’ she’d said, as they walked round to the main entrance. ‘That is an amazing concept.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He’d gestured her to go ahead of him into reception.
She’d thought the hotel might be snobby, as high-end establishments could sometimes be, but The Bluebell managed to combine luxury with a lovely friendly atmosphere. The foyer smelled of air freshener – a mix of coconut and vanilla. There was an oak floor and a wide staircase just past the reception desk, which was where they were headed.
Over the desk was a plaque that Phil took great pride in pointing out – We’re here to help you make your dreams come true.
The young receptionist, who had English rose colouring and was very pretty, had greeted them politely and said to Phil, ‘Would you like me to take you in for your table reservation, sir?’ She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Or can you find your own way?’
‘I think we can manage, thanks, Zoe. Can I introduce Olivia?’
‘He never stops going on about you,’ Zoe said, dropping all pretence at professionalism. ‘It’s great to put a face to a name.’
They were all smiling as Olivia and Phil strolled in to the restaurant where a waiter who addressed Phil as boss, showed them to a window table.
Olivia had looked out at a terrace dotted with tables, beyond which lawns stretched down to a low fence that bordered the garden. ‘What a fantastic position,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing the South West Coast Path is behind that fence?’
‘Yep. If it was a bit warmer, we could have sat outside.’
‘Can I get you guys a drink while you look at the menu?’ the waiter asked.
‘We’re here for one of Mr B’s famous afternoon teas, but yes, why not?’ Phil glanced at Olivia.
‘Diet Coke for me please.’
‘I’ll have the same, thanks Sam.’
‘Is Mr B the chef’s nickname?’ Olivia had asked when Sam had disappeared again.
‘It’s what everyone calls him,’ Phil said. ‘Basically, he’s a paranoid conspiracy theorist who thinks the world is out to get him and that someone might steal his identity if anyone knows his real name. Eccentric is an understatement.’
‘He sounds interesting. Will I get to meet him?’
‘I don’t think he’s here today.’ Phil had sounded relieved.
Sam had arrived back with a tray. Their cokes came with slices of frozen orange floating in the top and fat white straws decorated with tiny bluebells.
‘Thanks,’ Phil said, picking up his glass and clinking it against Olivia’s. ‘Here’s looking forward to the best afternoon tea in the county. Mr B may be a bit weird, but everyone makes allowances because he’s a first-class chef.’
Olivia put the straw to her lips to take a sip of her Coke. Or at least that’s what she planned to do. It seemed that no matter how hard she sucked, no Coke was forthcoming. She had adjusted the straw, frowning. Then she realised that Phil seemed to be having the same problem.
He’d gone a bit red in the face from the effort of sucking. Then suddenly he whipped the straw out of his drink, studied it, said something under his breath that sounded like, ‘imbecile,’ and shoved back his chair. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ He’d leaped to his feet and strode across the restaurant, although not in the direction of the kitchens.
Olivia had watched in amazement as he headed for a table not far from them where a man was reading a newspaper held up high so that his face was completely obscured. The newspaper appeared to be shaking.
Phil hurled the straw at him. ‘I suppose you think that’s flaming funny.’
The man, who had short dark hair, jumped to his feet and only then did Olivia notice he was wearing the trademark checked trousers and white top of a chef.
‘It was mildly amusing. Yes. But it had nothing to do with me. I’ve been sitting right here ever since you arrived.’
‘I could get you sacked. I’m a customer.’ Olivia saw Phil’s lips twitch.
‘No you couldn’t.’ The chef picked up the straw and studied it. ‘Looks like a faulty batch to me.’ He gave a Cheshire cat grin. ‘I’m on a break, but don’t mind me. I’ll get you a replacement straw, sir. And one for the lady?’ He’d glanced in Olivia’s direction and tilted his head in a question.
She pulled her straw out of her Coke and gave it a closer inspection. One end had been neatly melded together.
She nodded towards Mr B and he said something that sounded like, ‘Watercress-gate,’ to Phil, which made Phil snort with laughter.
‘Does Mr B often play tricks on the guests?’ she’d asked him when he got back to the
table, still frowning.
‘No. It’s just me.’ Phil sat back down and picked up his napkin. ‘I didn’t think he was in today or I’d have been more on my guard.’ He reached across and picked up the straw she’d taken from her Coke. ‘He must have glued the end shut. Fairly amateur for Mr B. I’d have expected him to come up with something more sophisticated than that. Not that he’s ever admitted to any of the stunts he’s pulled. He’s always got an alibi. I think that’s the bit he’s best at.’
‘Are you saying this happens often?’
‘Quite often. It means there’s never a dull moment at work.’
‘But don’t you mind?’
His lips had quirked. ‘OK – I should confess it’s not exactly one-sided.’
‘Watercress-gate?’ she asked, catching on.
Phil waved a hand. ‘Yeah. That was one of mine. I impersonated our watercress suppliers. I told Mr B that due to a health and safety issue, One Stop Watercress needed to recall all of the watercress they’d supplied that week as it was contaminated with mercury and might well be lethal.’ His eyes sparked with mirth at the memory. ‘I timed it perfectly. He’d made watercress soup for dinner – it’s his speciality – and he was running around the dining room whipping away bowls of the stuff from bemused diners. Hugely entertaining.’
‘How long did you let him do that?’ Olivia had asked in horrified fascination.
‘Oh, not too long. Not enough for anyone to get upset and complain to Clara, the manager. Just enough time for a couple of the diners to think he was a total fruit loop. Which he is.’ He paused. ‘The best bit was that the group were from Toastmasters International. And they made watercress their topic for the live presentations at the end of their stay. Mr B had to put up with watercress health and safety jokes for an entire fortnight.’
‘It sounds as though you and Mr B are very well matched.’
‘No. I’ve definitely got the edge.’ He glanced up as Mr B arrived with the replacement straws. ‘Not up to your usual standard,’ he said.
The chef tilted his head. Olivia saw he too was trying not to smile. ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you,’ he said to Olivia, giving her the slightest bow and holding out his hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. All of it good.’
Close up, he was very tall and thin with dark hair and frown lines that made him look older than she guessed he was.
‘It’s a pity Olivia can’t say the same about you,’ Phil said and Mr B looked delighted.
‘Better to be notorious than dull,’ he’d said, before giving both of them another little nod and heading, straight-backed, towards the kitchen. ‘Enjoy your afternoon tea.’
‘He won’t do anything to that, will he?’ Olivia said to Phil in alarm when the chef was out of earshot.
‘No, don’t worry. He’s done for today. He wouldn’t do anything unprofessional anyway. There’s a line. And he only did the straws because it’s quiet in here. He must be bored.’
They’d had the most delicious afternoon tea Olivia had ever tasted, with tiny cream cheese and smoked salmon sandwiches, miniature home-made quiches, followed by brownies dusted with edible gold glitter and Victoria sponge cupcakes with marzipan bluebells. The cakes were great, even by Olivia’s exacting standards.
When they’d finished, Phil had offered to give Olivia a full tour of The Bluebell.
‘Are you sure that’s OK? Your boss won’t mind?’
‘Clara is incredibly forward-thinking. She sees everyone who looks around as a potential client. Besides, she’s not here,’ he said, as he showed her the purpose-built rooms and one gorgeous boutique bedroom that wasn’t in use. ‘If Clara was here, then Mr B wouldn’t have been loitering in the restaurant waiting to see how his straw trick had panned out. Come on, I’ll show you the lighthouse.’
He took her out of a back door of the hotel and across a patch of grass, past what looked like a kitchen garden, towards the vanilla-coloured lighthouse, which wasn’t tall as lighthouses went, but still impressive enough.
‘Once a guy climbed up the outside to propose to his sweetheart,’ Phil told her. ‘Clara hired a professional climber who brought the safety ropes and gave him some pointers.’
‘Wow!’ Olivia gasped. ‘What did she say? Or he?’
‘It was definitely a she and I’m not sure,’ Phil said, changing the subject quickly. ‘But the point is he did it because it was his dream and that’s what we cater for. That’s why we’re here. The Bluebell has a wedding licence. So you can also get married here and spend your first night in the lighthouse honeymoon suite. No one’s in it today, so I can give you a quick tour if you like?’
He’d let them in the main door and they’d climbed up the spiral staircase of the lighthouse, pausing briefly on a small passing place to let a chambermaid come down.
At the top of the stairs, they’d stood in a circular room that was flooded with light and Olivia caught her breath. The room was stunning. Bespoke circular furniture, clearly designed for the place, made it cosy and timeless and the uninterrupted view over what had been a sparkling blue sea on that day was spectacular.
‘People hire it out for anniversaries and special occasions,’ Phil told her. ‘It’s not just for honeymoons.’
‘How the other half live,’ she’d said. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘I haven’t shown you the best bit yet.’ He’d grabbed her hand and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he’d been going to show her the bedroom, which looked as though it must be up at the top of another little spiral staircase that led off this room.
At the time of their visit, it had been so early in their relationship that she hadn’t yet seen Phil’s own bedroom. He’d been the perfect gentleman in that respect, telling her there was no hurry and they didn’t need to rush things. It was one of the things she’d really liked about him. It had been so soon after Tom and she didn’t want to jump straight into a rebound relationship.
But Phil hadn’t shown her the lighthouse bedroom. He’d beckoned her downstairs again. They’d stepped out into the sunshine of the day once more, where he’d turned to her, his eyes alight.
‘Now I’m going to show you the other reason that this is the perfect place for me to work,’ he’d said. ‘Step this way.’
A few minutes later, they’d been standing in a small but perfect amphitheatre that could seat maybe thirty or forty people and reminded Olivia of the Minack Theatre in Cornwall.
‘Rumour has it,’ Phil began and threw open his arms to encompass the theatre, ‘that back in the day, Richard Burton himself performed here.’
Olivia had widened her eyes in mock disbelief and he’d said, ‘I know. I was doubtful myself, but no one’s ever told us different – and it’s printed in the brochure, so it must be true.’
As they’d stood, hand in hand in the sunlit amphitheatre with seagulls circling over the cliffs and the freshness of sea air in their lungs, anything had seemed possible.
Olivia hadn’t been to The Bluebell since, but she’d loved Phil’s dedication to the place.
The buzz of her phone interrupted Olivia’s daydreams and she reached for it absent-mindedly, knocking it onto the kitchen floor. Fortunately, it had fallen face up so it didn’t break.
For a brief moment, she’d suspected a message from Clarice – she hadn’t banished it from her mind that much then.
It was actually a text from Phil.
Morning, lovely. Looking forward to lunch. I’ve got a plan.
* * *
Sounds nice. I’ll aim to be at yours for midday.
She got a smiley faced emoji back. Phil wasn’t a verbose kind of guy, either face to face or when he was messaging. On first impressions he could come across as a little stern. If she hadn’t known about the ongoing pranks crusade between him and Mr B, she might have thought him to be lacking in humour, but this was clearly not the case. The more Phil had told her about the ‘vendetta’ between the two men, which had apparently been going on for years and c
ould get quite elaborate, the more she had laughed.
Like many actors Phil was quite shy. He once confessed that he was much more comfortable showing his emotions on stage than he was in real life. Olivia wasn’t sure whether this was insecurity or just introversion – but one thing she was sure about was that, with the exception of her Aunt Dawn, Phil was the only person she’d ever met who instinctively got her.
8
She was about to set off for Phil’s when she noticed a missed call from Ruby.
There was no message, so Olivia phoned her sister back and got the number busy tone.
She sent a text:
Sorry I missed you. Just off to see Phil. Chat later?
There was also a message from Hannah.
How was the audition? Do I have a famous bestie?
Olivia texted back:
Not yet. Watch this space.
She got a smiley faced emoji back.
There was no reply from Ruby, so Olivia took that as a yes to her ‘chat later’ and she headed for Swanage.
Like her, Phil lived in a mid-terrace two-bedroom house, but Brancombe was very different to Weymouth. More residential housing estate than harbourside community, Phil didn’t know his neighbours and didn’t want to.
‘I’m hardly ever here anyway,’ he’d told Olivia. ‘It was the first house the rental agency had that fitted the bill. Reasonable rent and somewhere to get my head down at night.’
Olivia had rolled her eyes.
That was something they definitely didn’t have in common. She’d bought out Tom’s half of number five last year when they’d split and she loved it.
