by Della Galton
But despite the beauty of her surroundings, Clara’s stomach crunched with nerves. She racked her brains. Had she done something wrong? She walked apprehensively towards the staff entrance.
The Bluebell Cliff, affectionately called The Bluebell by its staff, had been named after the locally renowned bluebell woods, alongside which it stood. It perched on a headland overlooking the English Channel with Studland Bay on one side and Anvil Point on the other.
The hotel itself was a long, low, white painted art deco-style building with a flat roof, which had stood there since the thirties. It had gone through various transformations, but the most recent had been a huge refurbishment the previous year, headed up by Kate, who also owned it. It had opened for business at Christmas.
Kate had been acting manager ever since but had employed Clara to take over the role three months ago. She was just coming up to the end of her probationary period. Clara loved the job and she had worked her socks off, which was why she was so nervous now.
She walked through the foyer, which smelled sweetly of vanilla air freshener. Zoe Wilkins, the bubbly young blonde receptionist, was dealing with a guest, so she couldn’t sound her out. Breakfast noise and the smell of bacon and coffee filtered through from the restaurant. All seemed normal.
The door of the manager’s office was closed. Should she knock?
Yes, perhaps today she should. Just the one knock to show respect. She did this, and then stepped inside. Kate was on the phone, but she gestured Clara towards a chair with her hand.
Kate’s dog, Foxy, so named because she looked like a fox, with her pointy ears and sharp snout and smooth reddish brown fur, was curled up in her basket. She gave Clara a sleepy wag but didn’t get up. Clara bent to pet one of her soft ears before sitting down.
This room was big enough for two modern desks and two office chairs on wheels and some filing cabinets and a cupboard where they kept brochures and other paperwork. It was a mixture of old and new with the beautiful decorative cornice running around its high ceilings and a big bay window that overlooked the lawns. Usually this room buzzed with Kate’s energy. She was a workaholic, which was something she and Clara had in common. But at the moment all Clara could feel was tension.
She tried to read Kate’s body language. She was talking to a guest by the sound of it. She looked tired. There were shadows beneath her eyes. Kate was thirty-three and her usual demeanour was one of organised calm. Nothing ever seemed to faze her, but today she was definitely stressed.
‘Don’t worry, sir. That will all be in place before you arrive. Leave it to us. It’s our job. Thanks. You too, sir.’ She finally put down the phone. ‘Good grief, some people are pedantic. Clara, hi. Thanks for coming in so promptly. You got my message?’
‘I did.’ Clara waited.
‘Don’t look so worried. It’s not bad news. Well, it kind of is, but for me, not for you. I’m not explaining myself very well. Sorry.’ She rested her elbows on the desk in front of her. ‘I’ll start at the beginning. Last night, I had a traumatic phone call from my mother. She lives with my stepfather and – well, to cut a long story short – they’re getting divorced. It’s messy. He’s a lawyer. Mum is in bits and there’s no one to help her but me.’
Clara nodded, feeling slightly bemused that her employer was sharing such a confidence.
‘I expect you’re wondering what any of this has to do with you?’ Kate’s worried eyes met hers. ‘The thing is, they live in Australia. Adelaide in Southern Australia to be precise and I need to go out there. I can’t be any help at all from here. I realised that last night. Mum’s desperate. And I know you’ve only been here three months and your feet have barely touched the ground, but I need someone I can trust to look after this place.’
Clara felt a thump of shock. ‘You mean the hotel?’
‘Yes. I know it’s a huge ask.’ Kate rubbed her eyes distractedly. ‘But I can’t help Mum from England. I need to be out there by her side. And I’m totally torn. It’s the worst possible timing. We’re barely established and, as you know, this place is my baby. It was my Aunt Carrie’s dream.’
Her eyes flicked towards the portrait of an elegant, rather beautiful woman sitting at a grand piano, that had pride of place on the wall of the office. Caroline Rawlinson had been a world-renowned concert pianist and had made her fortune composing and doing recitals in England and the US. She had been both the brains and the financier behind the Bluebell. The hotel had been her retirement project. Her swansong.
Kate had told Clara the story the first time they had met. Tragically, Caroline had died in a car accident on her last ever tour and Kate, who was a builder cum project manager and already involved in the refurbishment, had inherited the hotel and had made it her mission to complete her Aunt Carrie’s dream.
‘This place was what she worked for all her life,’ Kate was saying. ‘She entrusted it to me for safekeeping because she knew I felt as passionately about it as she did.’ She stopped talking as abruptly as she had begun. ‘Hell, I’m not sure I’m making any sense. I’ve been up half the night worrying about it.’
No wonder she looked tired. Clara felt a tug of empathy. Family break-ups stirred up all sorts of horrible emotions. Helplessness and frustration to name but two. She’d had enough personal experience of family break-ups of her own in the last few months.
‘It would mean that you’d be in sole charge of running the place. You don’t have to decide straight away,’ Kate offered. ‘I’ll get Zoe to bring us some coffee.’ She half rose from the chair.
‘When are you thinking of flying and how long do you think you’ll be away?’ Clara asked.
‘As soon as I can get a flight and, I’m not sure yet, but, realistically, I’d need to be away for at least three weeks. I don’t know how long it’s all going to take.’
‘It’s fine,’ Clara heard herself saying in a voice that was a great deal calmer than she felt. ‘I’d be happy to help.’ What was she doing? It was one of her life rules never to make split-second decisions.
But it was too late. Kate was already looking at her hopefully.
‘Really? Are you sure?’ She sat back down again. ‘I’ll need to get someone to look after Foxy too. I was about to phone the kennels when Zoe put that customer through.’
‘She’ll hate kennels,’ Clara said, wishing she’d edited the words before they’d come out of her mouth because Kate looked worried again.
‘I know. She’ll think I’ve abandoned her.’
Foxy was an ex-street dog and had been living from bin to bin – she’d been adept at avoiding the dog catcher – before she’d been hit by a car and ended up with three legs. It was Clara who had rescued her and taken her to a vet’s because the driver who’d hit her had failed to stop.
Clara would have kept her if she’d had a garden, which she didn’t, but Kate had stepped in and offered. She had known about it all because Clara had been on her way to interview for this job at the time and the rescue operation had made her late. Clara still felt slightly guilty that Kate had ended up with Foxy, but it had seemed a good solution. That was another thing they had in common. They loved dogs and couldn’t bear to see one in trouble.
‘I can look after her,’ Clara said, breaking her life rule not to make split-second decisions for the second time in as many minutes.
‘But you haven’t got a garden… unless…’ Kate broke off, thoughtfully. ‘This may be a bit “out there” – but how would you feel about house-sitting my bungalow too? You’d be really close to work, which might be easier than driving in from Wareham, especially with the summer traffic. That road can get gridlocked. It’s only an eight-minute commute from mine. Foxy would be happier too. Oh my God, listen to me… that’s a mad idea.’
‘It sounds pretty sensible to me.’ Clara’s head was starting to spin, but in a good way. This was so not what she’d been expecting when she had walked in this morning, but every instinct she had was telling her it was a good idea, if a little
crazy.
‘There’s a heck of a lot to organise,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll have to brief the rest of the staff. I’ll call a team meeting to let everyone know what’s going on. I’m not expecting you to be here all the hours that I am. I haven’t asked him yet, but I’m sure Phil would step up to the plate and help. I’d want you to be in overall charge though.’
Phil Grimshaw was the maître d’. He was a darkly handsome, forty-year-old RADA-trained actor who had never quite made the big time but acted between catering jobs. He could be unpredictable – Kate said it was his artistic temperament – but Clara had liked him from the moment they’d been introduced.
Kate was on her feet again. ‘I’ll be back in a second. But, Clara, are you absolutely sure you don’t need some more time to think about this? I feel as though I’ve sprung it all on you. I could call our agency and get in a temporary manager, but I’d much rather have you.’ She stood with one hand on the doorknob. ‘And Foxy could go to kennels. It wouldn’t kill her. House-sitting as well as doing my job is completely above and beyond…’
‘I’m absolutely sure,’ Clara said, and Kate smiled for the first time since she’d arrived before disappearing into the foyer.
When she’d gone, Clara let out a breath. Looking after a three-legged dog and living at her boss’s bungalow were actually small fry when compared to being in sole charge of the Bluebell.
The Bluebell was not your average kind of hotel. Its seven-acre plot incorporated a decommissioned lighthouse which had been refurbished to a very high spec and was listed as one of the top ten most luxurious and unique places to stay in the United Kingdom. As well as the lighthouse, there was a small amphitheatre, where it was rumoured Richard Burton had once performed. At least that’s what it said in the hotel brochure.
The hotel itself boasted twenty individual gorgeous boutique bedrooms. There was a selection of other specialist rooms too – they included writing rooms, a yoga studio, which converted to an art room with the addition of and/or removal of some furniture, and a dedicated music room that housed a vintage Steinway grand piano because of Aunt Carrie’s musical background. There was even an in-house recording studio.
Kate had been right. It was a big ask. The Bluebell was unique. And not just because it had specialist accommodation and facilities. The guests who came to stay didn’t just come for the sea air and the beautiful Dorset location and the chef’s fabulous cooking. Although, of course, all of that was part of the package. They came for another reason entirely.
The Bluebell was a hotel where people came to live out their dreams.
Its mission statement was, ‘We’re here to help you make your dreams come true.’
As Kate had said, the whole concept had been her much-loved, late aunt’s idea and the hotel had only been open six months. They were at the beginning of their first all-important summer. Kate had told her when she started that they were also licensed to hold weddings and their first ‘no expense spared’ dream wedding was taking place on the second Saturday in October. Kate would be back by then by the sound of it.
Clara squared her shoulders as she sat at the desk and doodled circles around the distinctive bluebell logo on a notepad in front of her. She wasn’t new to the hotel trade – she’d worked in kitchens as soon as she’d been old enough to get a Saturday job. She had a degree in Hotel and Hospitality Management. She’d managed a hotel with double the amount of bedrooms. Even so, The Bluebell was one hell of a responsibility. She hoped she hadn’t bitten off a great deal more than she could chew.
About the Author
Della Galton is the author of 15 books, including Ice and a Slice. She writes short stories, teaches writing groups and is Agony Aunt for Writers Forum Magazine. She lives in Dorset.
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First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
Copyright © Della Galton, 2021
Cover Design by Debbie Clement Design
Cover Photography: Shutterstock
The moral right of Della Galton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-83889-110-7
Large Print ISBN 978-1-80280-874-2
Hardback ISBN 978-1-80280-875-9
Ebook ISBN 978-1-83889-111-4
Kindle ISBN 978-1-83889-112-1
Audio CD ISBN 978-1-83889-229-6
MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-80280-928-2
Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-83889-109-1
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