The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

  Well, not exactly for nothing, I thought, as I watched Chuck’s face when he came into the room.

  He laughed and shook his head as he took it all in. I’d emailed him about the decorations, but they were so much more lush and blingy in real life. Walking into the room felt like being wrapped in a big sparkly Christmas hug.

  Chuck beamed and nodded in my direction, but he couldn’t come over. His bosses were on either side of him. Then the whole company seemed to enter the room at once –sharply tuxedoed powerful-looking men and young elegant women. Suddenly he wasn’t my Chuck anymore. He was swallowed up by his Wall Street colleagues.

  These were the women Chuck worked with every day! He’d mentioned that the firm hired from the top schools where everyone was super-clever. I imagined a bunch of speccy number-crunchers in corduroys and cardigans. These girls looked like they’d just strutted off the Victoria’s Secret catwalk.

  I hated every bit of them, from the tops of their artfully messy hairdos to the tips of their flawlessly painted toes and all the cleavage in the middle. With so many micro dresses and plunging necklines in the room, my little black dress seemed too prim. And as much as I told myself I was there to do my job, the only thing I wanted was for Chuck to notice me.

  But I couldn’t even see him, let alone be extra-gorgeous so that he’d come over. He was swept off into the melee while I had to run around – well, hobble around, given the four-inch heels that I was definitely not used to – making sure there were enough vol-au-vents and ice cubes for our guests.

  By the time I caught sight of him again, the orchestra was in full flow. The champagne was too. One of Chuck’s bosses was popping open bottles with a sword. Don’t ask me why he was carrying a sword. Judging by the fact that no one seemed alarmed, it must have been his usual party trick.

  Chuck was busy being chummy with a trio of Amazonian underwear models, allegedly his colleagues. I couldn’t exactly barge in on them. For one thing, from all the way down here they’d wonder where the noise was coming from. Besides, what would I say? Sorry to interrupt, but I’d like you to stop being so flirty and beautiful around my … around my what? What was Chuck? Not my boyfriend. Or my lover. He was just my crush.

  I had to stop being stupid and leave the man to enjoy his Christmas party in peace.

  Summoning every ounce of British resolve, for the rest of the night I was as tough as the façade on Buckingham Palace. While everyone else got merry, I did my job. That meant being efficient, solving problems left, right and centre, and definitely not looking for Chuck.

  He slipped up behind me near the end of the night, just as the first notes of ‘Moon River’ floated over us. ‘It was my request. Come with me,’ he said, turning towards the door.

  My façade crumbled. Of course I followed him, into the storeroom across the hall. Even with the door closed we could faintly hear the music.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ He held out his hands.

  ‘What, in here?’

  ‘You’ll have to step over the slide projector when I dip you. Come on. I told you we’d be together.’

  It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but then, what else did I expect when we couldn’t let anyone see us?

  I stepped into his arms and it felt wonderful. Who cared if we weren’t in the ballroom? In front of so many people, we couldn’t have snogged. Or rubbed up against each other like outtakes from Dirty Dancing. And his hand definitely couldn’t have got under my skirt. ‘Are you clocked off for the night now?’ he murmured between kisses.

  ‘Uh-huh. What have you got in mind?’ I was glad he was holding me up. Up against the wall, actually. I was probably too dizzy to stand anyway.

  His next words made me swoon. Swoon, I tell you. ‘God, I want you, Rosie. Not here, it’s too tacky and you don’t deserve anything tacky. I just don’t know if I’d last till we got to my place.’

  The way I was feeling, I wasn’t sure that I would either. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ I said. ‘Stay here. I’ll ring your mobile in a few minutes, okay?’

  A wicked smile bloomed across his face. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Straightening my dress, I hurried to the lift to get back down to the lobby.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Digby asked when he saw me. ‘Good, I’m guessing. Everyone who’s come down so far is wasted out of their minds. Hey, what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I pulled up the room reservations on one of the computers.

  ‘No, seriously, what are you doing?’ He glanced over his shoulder, though we both knew Andi had been gone for hours.

  I blocked one of the singles. Mustn’t be greedy.

  ‘Rosie.’ Digby made me look at him. ‘This is dangerous.’

  ‘I won’t get caught, if nobody tells.’

  ‘I don’t just mean the room.’

  But I couldn’t think about that now. I wasn’t thinking about anything except Chuck. I popped a key card into the machine.

  My hand was shaking as I rang Chuck’s mobile. ‘Meet me at the lift on the sixth floor.’

  It was the start of everything.

  Chapter 6

  ‘What century are we in?’ Lill scoffs as we gawp at the brawny builders carrying everything inside. ‘I thought bidets went the way of the dodo.’ She smoothes down the front of her minidress. It’s surprisingly subtle for her, in a purply blue, but she’s got them in every colour – and often all colours at once. Lill’s a huge fan of rayon, and between her dresses and her white pleather go-go boots, we were all relieved when she finally traded her fags in for a vape. She risked catching fire whenever she lit up.

  The hotel bar is completely off-limits now that the mountain of fixtures and fittings is growing fast in there. It’s also become a home-from-home for the builders. Every surface is littered with their takeaway cups, nails, screws and odd bits and bobs.

  ‘I definitely didn’t think toilets came in colours like that,’ I tell her. Pale pink? Mint green? Where are we, Miami in 1955? Not even the builders can hide their scorn, and a few of them are old enough to have gone through the eighties, so they know a thing or two about horrid decor.

  It’s not only the renovation that we’re finding difficult, though. None of us were prepared for the pace of change when the Colonel first told us we had new owners. The Americans aren’t wasting any time.

  ‘Time is money,’ Rory intones for about the hundredth time when I whinge at him later. It’s nearly lunchtime and the builders are sequestered in the bar, drinking mugs of tea. ‘They think they can get most of it done within a month.’ He pushes his specs back up on his nose.

  ‘A month! But it takes builders a month just to complain about the job that needs doing,’ I say. ‘And it’s less than three months till Christmas. We can say goodbye to any work in December.’

  But Rory shakes his head. ‘The owners worked a fixed-price contract for completion by the end of October. They might not know eff-all about the UK, but they do know what builders are like.’

  ‘Does that mean we’ve got to be ready to open before Christmas?’ When he nods I suddenly wish the owners weren’t quite so savvy. ‘What did you mean that the owners don’t know eff-all about the UK?’

  Rory grins. ‘They’ve never been here,’ he says, rerolling the sleeves on his shirt. Now that he knows us, he doesn’t wear his suit jacket anymore. In fact, he doesn’t look like a harsh City type at all. ‘They haven’t even got passports, but you didn’t hear that from me, so don’t mention it on the call, okay?’

  We’re Skyping with them in a few minutes. Meeting my bosses. Yikes!

  ‘They hired some kind of business scout from London to find the hotel,’ he explains. ‘The scout hired me and found the builders. I’ve never even met them in person. Are you ready for the call? Just try not to stare too much at PK’s hair.’

  ‘Please, Rory. I’m a professional. What’s wrong with PK’s hair?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘It
’s not worse than yours, is it?’ Rory hasn’t got what I’d call a hairstyle so much as a follicle garden growing out of control on top of his head.

  ‘You can be the judge,’ he says, not offended at all. ‘We’ve got the other brother, Curtis, first, though.’ He clicks through to Skype. ‘Ready? You look nice, by the way.’

  It’s just one of my usual cardis that I wear over a plain t-shirt – navy blue with little sparkles near the collar – so I’m not sure why it’s particularly nice. And my trousers are baggy at the knees, but I’m not about to object to a compliment. ‘Ta. Is there anything special I need to know?’ I probably should have asked that more than two seconds before the call.

  ‘Nah, just be yourself. And try not to get flustered. His questions can come from left field. Usually he’s just thinking aloud. It’s best to wait to see if he actually wants an answer before you give one.’

  ‘In other words: shut up. Got it, ta for that.’

  When the call is answered, our laptop screen is filled with a colourful fifty-something man sitting cross-legged on top of his desk. ‘Hey, how’s it hangin’ in the UK?’ He makes a devil’s horns sign with his hand.

  Rory waits a second, maybe deciding if Curtis really does want to know how it is hanging, before saying, ‘Everything is fine, thanks, Curtis. May I introduce Rosie MacDonald? Rosie, this is Curtis Philansky.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ I tell my new boss.

  ‘You too, Rosie.’ He laughs. ‘Pleasure to meet you. You Brits are all so proper. If we ever meet in the flesh, you’d get a hug, you know.’

  Then I’m glad we’ve not met in the flesh. I don’t really go in for hugging strangers. Especially ones who look like him.

  His sky-blue t-shirt reads ‘Billabong’. Casual Friday, you might think, if it weren’t a Tuesday. Or maybe he’s a Silicon Valley exec. They wear jeans and trainers to work.

  But he’s not wearing jeans. He’s not wearing any trousers at all. He looks perfectly at ease video-conferencing us while sitting cross-legged on his desk … wearing green and white shorts and flashing his undercarriage.

  His eighties blond-tipped bouffant hair is putting me off too. It isn’t flattering to his jowly face.

  This bloke seems to think he’s one of the lost Beach Boys.

  But he is now one of my bosses. I need to remember that.

  It’s just that I haven’t had a real boss in three years, since Andi in New York. The Colonel couldn’t be less of a boss. He just wants to be left alone to follow Lill around the hotel with a drink in his hand. Everyone who works for him knows their job backwards. As long as we take care of the few guests we get and don’t let the hotel slide further into dereliction, he’s happy enough.

  I’m going to have to get used to being an employee again.

  ‘Rory says you’re a beach babe, Rosie.’

  Rory looks as horrified as I’m sure I do. ‘I think Curtis means that I told him about you being raised here by the sea in Scarborough,’ he explains.

  ‘Right,’ Curtis says. ‘You surf?’

  That’s when I put two and two together. Those are surfboards lined up along the back wall behind his desk. ‘No, I’m sorry. The water’s usually too cold for me. Even in summer. It is the North Sea.’

  ‘North sea, south sea, you could wear a wettie. Anyway, I’m totally stoked about the hotel. Wait till they finish. It’s gonna be amazing! Have they started on the rooms?’

  ‘They delivered the toilets and other fixtures just this morning,’ Rory says.

  ‘Yeah, awesome! Aren’t they epic? Our guests on Sanibel love them. You should see all the Instagram photos we get.’

  I can just imagine: #tacky #Whatcenturyisthis? ‘They’re very … striking,’ I tell Curtis.

  ‘Tip of the iceberg, dudette. Listen, Rosie. I want us to talk every week. I’m a very hands-on person, unlike like my brother, who’s got the people skills of a goat. I won’t just leave you with a bunch of instructions, okay? You can talk to me about anything. I want you to know that I hear you, Rosie. You can page me any time.’

  Page him?! I wait a second, but he does seem to want an answer. ‘Yes, okay. Of course.’

  ‘I’m relying on you and Rory to make the hotel as epic as our others.’ He runs his hand over the top of his head, making his hair froth up like an over-steamed cappuccino. ‘The competition’s tough out there, man. When in doubt, paddle out, that’s what I always say.’

  ‘Where are we paddling, Curtis?’ I ask.

  ‘To England, dudette! The British Oahu! The US is a crowded line-up, but Europe’s got empty waves. This is gonna be heroic. Sun, sand and surf in Scarborough. Can you get urbal tea there?’ It takes me a second to realise he means herbal. ‘Lapsang souchong and matcha? We’re gonna need urbal tea for the hotel.’

  ‘We can get any kind of tea you like,’ Rory says.

  He waves his devil-horn hand at us again. ‘That’s cool, little dude. We’ll talk tomorrow. Same time.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a dentist’s appointment tomorrow at eleven,’ I say. ‘I might not be back quite in time.’

  ‘I meant Rory,’ Curtis says. ‘We’ll talk as usual.’

  ‘Right, yes, talk to you tomorrow,’ Rory says.

  ‘Peace out, till next time.’

  The screen goes blank.

  ‘Do you talk to him a lot?’ I ask. This possibility isn’t sitting well. Rory may have only been here a few weeks, but he seems like one of us. Not one of them. Or is he?

  ‘Most days,’ he admits. ‘They like to know everything that’s going on.’

  ‘And you can always page him,’ I smirk. ‘Why don’t they just come over here and see for themselves? If I’d invested a wodge in a hotel, I’d want to see what I was getting. But maybe they’ve got more money than sense.’

  Rory shakes his head. ‘They can’t come over unless they take the QEII. They’re both afraid to fly.’

  ‘That’s why they’ve never been here?’

  ‘That’s why.’

  ‘Curtis is off his trolley,’ I say.

  ‘That’s nothing. Wait till you meet his brother.’

  No matter how much I needle Rory, he won’t give me any more hints about PK’s hair. I’m quickly learning that Rory is one of those annoyingly discreet people. Which is good, I guess, if you tell him a secret. But it makes him useless at gossiping. By the time he’s dialling into PK’s side of head office, I’ve imagined everything from tattoos to badgers on his head.

  Rory wasn’t kidding when he said that our new owners despise each other. That’s why we’re having separate calls with them, even though they share an office building. Rory says that’s because it was their head office before the problems started, and neither one wants to give up their stake. So they fashioned two entrances and sit within spitting distance of one another, without ever speaking directly. They must use their employees like a bitterly divorced couple uses their children.

  I thought I was ready for anything after the call with surfer dude Curtis, but when our screen lights up with PK’s face, the snort of laughter escapes before I can stop it. Covering it up with a cough doesn’t fool anyone.

  PK’s hair is ginger, but that’s not what made me honk. After all, I’m Titian-hued myself. I just can’t stop staring at its candy-flossness, which is combed in the most amazingly complicated style that looks …

  Well, if Curtis reminded me of Patrick Swayze in Point Break, PK’s barnet is the spitting image of a certain reality-TV-star-turned-Leader-of-the-Free-World.

  Rory writes something on his notepad and slides it over so I can see. Look familiar? Stop staring!

  I have to look. OMG, seriously?!

  PK has braces on over his blue stripy business shirt (with its contrasting white collar). He’s got the sleeves rolled up and every molecule of this bloke means business.

  ‘Rory, hello,’ PK says. ‘And you’re Rosie? Nice to meet you. Have the bidets been delivered?’

  ‘They came th
is morning, PK,’ Rory says.

  ‘Good. It’s all about being classy over there, right? We’ll start with their asses and work our way up.’ He smiles at his own joke. ‘Keep an eye on the builders, I don’t want any slacking.’

  ‘We’re just waiting for the final letter from the Council to start,’ Rory says. ‘I’ve chased it up and we should have it by the end of the week.’

  ‘Nobody’s gotten ahead by following the rules, Rory. I want the builders starting yesterday.’

  Rory hesitates. ‘If for some reason we don’t get approval, the Council can make us reinstate everything as it was. That would mean more delay and more money.’

  But PK just laughs. ‘They aren’t going to make us undo anything. I want those builders started. Are we clear on that?’

  ‘As long as you’re clear that I’ve registered my objection.’

  Rory’s voice is steely. He might be a nice bloke, but he’s no pushover.

  ‘Good,’ says PK. ‘I’ll be faxing over a list of ideas to consider. You can register any objections once you’ve read them.’ Then he laughs. ‘I did hire you because you don’t take nonsense from anyone. Speaking of nonsense, have you talked to my useless brother yet?’

  ‘We will, PK, after this call,’ Rory lies. I guess PK likes to think he’s the priority.

  ‘Now, walk me around,’ he says. ‘I want to see what’s going on at my hotel.’

  Rory seems to be ready for PK’s request. He carries PK around on the laptop – like some dismembered head – complaining about everything he sees. The furniture in the bar is too old-fashioned. The oak panelling is drab. Yes, those are velvet curtains, but we need them to keep the wind from blowing through the old sash windows. No, there’s no spa. Or gym or fancy bottled water or hot towels for when guests arrive. Sorry we don’t wear uniforms or rigor-mortis smiles of welcome. The only thing he can’t complain about is the view from the conservatory at the front of the hotel.

  We sit perched on the clifftop overlooking the bay. The hotel would have been impressive back in the day, when Scarborough was heaving with seaside tourists. Some of the old black-and-white photos in the bar give a glimpse, but the reality would have been loads more chaotic and colourful, with horses and bright carriages, bathing huts, ladies in pastel hats and men in yellow straw boaters. Bright advertisement boards would have lined the promenade with everyone selling ice cream, candy floss and fish and chips.