It didn’t fade away with the Victorians either. To listen to the Colonel, Scarborough was as exotic as Thailand when he was growing up, but with donkeys on the beach instead of elephants. It was the place to be, right into the sixties. There was live entertainment every night – dances and performances and variety acts, the orchestra at the Spa and household names like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones at the Futurist. That would have been when Lill first came on the scene, too, as a fresh-faced teenager with a great voice, great legs and great ambitions.
They were catching Scarborough’s last hurrah, though they didn’t know it at the time. People started going abroad for their dose of sea and sun and suddenly donkeys on the beach didn’t seem quite as appealing.
We still get tourists in the summer, who sit near the water eating ice cream and fish and chips. But most of us are struggling to bring in enough business. Having grown up here, I can tell you it’s hard coming from a town that was once something. There’s a saddening air of nostalgia about it and I, for one, couldn’t wait to go somewhere that felt hopeful.
So I really can understand why the Colonel has sold up, even if Lill can’t. I’m just not sure our new owners can do any better.
I’m really afraid they’ll do worse.
We can hear Lill long before we carry PK into the restaurant. ‘She’s rehearsing,’ I whisper to Rory. He’s got the laptop open in front of him as we walk, so we can talk behind our boss’s back, as it were.
‘We have to go in,’ Rory whispers back. ‘It’ll be okay.’ Then to PK he explains, ‘One of the hotel’s residents is a professional singer. That’s Lill you hear practising in the restaurant.’
I hate to interrupt Lill when she’s doing a number, so we stand and watch her finish. It’s a dress rehearsal, so she’s got her microphone to her red lips, even though it’s not plugged in. She’s changed since this morning, and her shell-pink minidress with the shimmery fringe undulates as her body sways with her signature sixties twist. She always goes to auditions glammed up to her back teeth.
Lill’s musical career began alongside some of the greats, and you know they’re great because they only needed one name: Petula, Dusty, Marianne, Cilla. They’re a roll-call of sixties talent, though I bet you haven’t heard of Lill. Not many people have outside of the north-east, but even after fifty years in the business, she’s still trying for her big break.
Her rich voice fills the large restaurant, sweetly hitting the high notes and digging down into the lower growly chorus too. Opening her eyes as the last of the song dies away, she says, ‘Hey, doll, who’s this?’
‘Lillian Raines, may I introduce you to PK Philansky, one of our new owners.’
Lill fixes the screen with a sultry stare. She bats her double-thick false eyelashes. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ She doesn’t seem to be thrown by his hairstyle, but then she never watches telly. She might not even know who his doppelganger is.
‘Wow, lady, you’ve got some set of pipes!’ PK says.
‘Thank you. That’s exactly what my friend Dusty once said to me.’ She flicks her blonde bob away from her shoulder. ‘I’m practising for my audition tomorrow. That was one of Dusty’s numbers. I’ve always thought it was one of her best, though Cilla would never admit it.’
Unfortunately for Lill, PK is unmoved by her name-dropping. ‘Break a leg!’ PK tells her. He’s probably got no idea that she’s talking about some of Britain’s best-loved singers of her generation. ‘Let’s go see the kitchen,’ he says. ‘Come on, you’re driving, Rory. Nice to meet you, Lillian!’
‘Maybe I should just check with Chef first?’ I say, though I already know what the answer will be.
‘Check what?’ Comes PK’s voice from the tinny laptop speaker. ‘To see if the owner can go into his own kitchen? He won’t mind.’
Rory looks scared.
‘Bugger off out of here,’ Chef growls as soon as he sees us coming through the swinging door. ‘Bloody fish didn’t come till half an hour ago and I’m behind as it is.’
‘Chef, this is PK. One of our new owners. He just wanted to see the kitchen quickly.’ We can only hope that a lifetime of military discipline will keep Chef from being rude to someone who outranks him.
‘Oh, right.’ Chef wipes his hands on his none-too-clean apron. ‘There. You’ve seen it. Now bugger off and let me work or dinner will be late.’
My mistake. Nobody outranks Chef in his kitchen.
‘Relax, Chef, dinner’s not for hours,’ PK says. ‘Isn’t it only noon over there?’
‘He means lunch,’ Rory explains. ‘The restaurant doesn’t have a dinner service.’
‘Of course it does,’ PK says. ‘Or at least it will. I’ve got big plans for the restaurant. Go back to your cooking, Chef. We’ll talk more.’
And, ominously, with that PK disappears from the screen.
Chapter 7
Curtis and PK Philansky are what you’d call self-made men. They’re children of Polish immigrants, raised in the north-eastern state of Maryland, and they’re living the American dream. They learned the value of investing early, loaning their pocket money to friends at healthy rates of interest. Now they invest millions instead of just pennies.
I got all that off their Wikipedia page. It’s probably mostly bollocks, but it’s how they want to be seen. There was no mention of their flight phobia or their feud or the inspiration for PK’s unusual hairstyle. In public, at least, they look like normal businessmen.
‘You’ve got a package,’ Peter says, taking off his crash helmet at the door. He wears it when he’s outside in case he falls over from one of his sleep attacks. He carries the postal bag to my desk without bothering to hide the fact that he’s reading the return label. ‘From America. Exciting.’
‘Work-related, I’m guessing. It must be from the owners. They didn’t mention anything.’
‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth,’ he says. ‘Open it!’
When I peel away the paper, at first I think they’re tacky tablecloths. They are tacky, but to my horror I see that they’re not tablecloths. It’s much worse than that. ‘Uniforms?’
‘In those colours? God, I’m sorry. Can you tape it back up and return to sender? Say you never got them?’
I wish. ‘They’re colour-coordinating us with the bidets,’ I say.
The first dress I pull out has green and white stripes with a pink sash and collar and pink trim on all its edges. The others – waitress uniforms – have a pink apron laying over the stripes. ‘I think we’re really meant to wear these.’
But that’s not all, because nestled beneath the dresses is a green-striped man’s uniform. With a green apron. There’s no way Chef is going to be caught dead in that. He might kill someone in it, though.
‘I’m sensing a theme here,’ Peter says. ‘What’s next, flamingos?’
‘Probably painted all over the outside of the hotel.’ I daren’t imagine.
I was willing to give the Philansky brothers the benefit of the doubt when Rory told me they’ve never set foot here. But haven’t they even Googled Scarborough to see what it looks like? I mean, I go online to see what’s what before I buy a new pair of shoes, and shoes don’t cost nearly what the hotel did. They really ought to have done some research.
Rory comes in with two takeaway cups of coffee. Normally I’d be grateful, but I’m in no mood just now. Something tells me those uniforms won’t come as a shock to him.
‘Did you know about the uniforms?’ I shove the postal bag dangerously close to the cups on the desk.
‘Curtis mentioned them.’ Gingerly, he holds up one of the dresses. ‘But I had no idea they’d look like this.’ He takes one look at my expression and says, ‘You want me to ring him, don’t you?’
‘No, I want to ring him, Rory. I can’t help feeling like I’m being cut out of the loop, and that’s not making me feel great. I am the manager of this hotel.’ I don’t like to pull rank, especially when I’m probably only a private in the pecking
order, but still.
‘We’ll ring him together,’ he says.
‘I’m a big girl, I can do it myself.’
‘No, actually, you can’t.’ He sighs. ‘You’re not going to like hearing this, but I do need to be involved when anyone talks with the owners. That’s not my rule, by the way, so don’t shoot the messenger. They want everything to run through me as the transition manager. Also, for the record, those are hideous uniforms. It’s got to be illegal under one of the European employment laws to make someone wear such a mentally distressing outfit, and we should definitely push back on them. Even if most of their ideas are non-negotiable, we’ve at least got to try. Can we please do it together?’
I wish I was the kind of person who could keep up a good grump. But I’m hopeless at it and, sure enough, I can feel my irritation going off the boil with Rory’s words. I’d be much better at getting my way if I didn’t always see the other person’s point of view.
But if this is an example of the kind of transition he’s going to have to manage, then he won’t have it any easier than we will. ‘Let’s ring Curtis,’ I tell him.
At least our owner is sitting in a chair this time, like a normal adult, when he answers our Skype. ‘Hey, Rory. Hi, Rosie. What’s up?’
‘We just wanted to let you know that the uniforms were delivered,’ Rory says.
I’m amazed he can be so diplomatic. I’d have held up a uniform and made gagging noises. He really is good at this managing thing.
‘Most excellent! Aren’t they great? We have them made especially for us. They’re one of a kind.’
‘They’re certainly colourful,’ says Rory. ‘The thing is, they’re not really in keeping with the feel of the hotel. It’s a Victorian building, you see. Something a bit more formal might be a better fit.’
‘Snoresville!’ Curtis sings. ‘Formal is the last thing we want to be. We’re trendy and fun.’
Those uniforms make us look like boiled sweets. And not even the good ones, either, but those plastic-tasting ribbony things that crazy great aunties keep in sticky bowls by their telly chair.
‘Then we can’t change the uniforms?’ Rory asks.
‘No can do, little buddy. It’s our brand. Everyone else there might be stick-in-the-muds, but we don’t want to be like everyone else. That’s not our MO. We’re like us, totally unique. Speaking of which …’ Curtis disappears for a second from the screen, only to emerge with handfuls of printed fabric.
‘Can you see it? It’s the upholstery samples for the cushions.’
Either the screen colour needs adjusting or a flock of flamingos has exploded all over his upholstery sample. ‘What cushions?’ I ask. I’m afraid of the answer.
‘New furniture throughout,’ Curtis says. ‘You should see our hotels in Florida. Our guests love the style.’
‘But shouldn’t style be in context?’ I ask. ‘We’re nothing like Florida! We are British.’ Suddenly my accent has gone all royal family.
Curtis just laughs. ‘You Brits are so cute. Your beaches aren’t as wide and the buildings are all ancient, but it’s the same idea. Little dudette, don’t fret. It’ll all be okay, you’ll see. We might not know Scarborough, but we know about luxury beachfront hotels.’
Did he just say luxury? ‘We’ve only got three stars, Curtis,’ I point out.
‘For now. Wait till we reopen. It’s going to be epic! Peace out, little dudes.’
We get the fax not long after our call. Yes, that’s right, I said fax. Three pages of scrawled notes from Curtis. It’s been so long since we’ve received one that at first I don’t realise where the wailing is coming from.
‘Blast, that damn fire alarm,’ the Colonel says, knocking back a last sip of scotch. ‘Let me just top up my drink before you make me go outside.’ He starts for the bar before remembering that it’s now the builders’ social club. They have started work on the rooms, even though the Council still hasn’t approved the renovations. Like Rory said, it’s on PK’s head if it all goes wrong.
‘It’s just the fax machine, Colonel. We don’t have to go outside.’
‘Thank bloody Christ for that.’ But instead of toddling off like he usually does, he hovers by the reception desk.
‘Is everything all right, Colonel?’ I haven’t really got time for a heart-to-heart, but I can’t just leave him when he looks so sad.
‘Mustn’t grumble, Rose Dear,’ he says. ‘There’s those with bigger problems than me.’
‘Well, at least you’ll not have to worry about the hotel anymore.’
A huge sigh escapes him. ‘I almost wish I did. I think I’m too old for a tactical change at this late stage in the war, my girl. I’m not as flexible as I once was.’ His grin is cheeky. He knows full well that granite is more pliant than he’s ever been.
It’s not hard to see what’s shaped the Colonel over the decades. There’s a pretty big clue in the name, though I didn’t know him in action, as it were.
His sister was still alive when I first worked here in my teens, and I guess the Colonel was off on a battlefield somewhere. Her name was Beatrice and she was one of our colourful local characters. Everyone knew her, or knew of her. She dressed in flowing silk Chinese robes and wore chopsticks in her beehive, though as far as any of us knew she’d never been further east than Suffolk.
The hotel was Beatrice’s pet project more than it was a business so, really, we were buggered even back then. She was still very much involved in the day-to-day running of the hotel, up to the minute she died. The stroke dropped her right behind the reception desk, actually. It was the way she’d have wanted to go. With her boots on, as the Colonel liked to say. He got his orders for home duty at that point and stepped into the breach. Or at least he stepped into Beatrice’s flamboyant shoes with his own down-to-earth feet.
When I first met him, I saw a gruff old man who bordered on rude and scared me a little. Military to his marrow, the Colonel stands as stiffly as he speaks. But that’s just his way. As long as he’s got a whisky and a comfortable chair, he’s happy enough.
Or at least he was, before Lill started giving him the cold shoulder. I guess it’s been obvious all along that he’s in love with her. His face lights up whenever she’s around and he’s always the first to pull out her chair for her and ask if she’s comfortable. That must be how old people flirt.
‘There’s been no progress with Lill, I take it?’
‘It’s a standoff, Rose Dear. I can’t advance until she lets down her guard.’
‘Any signs of that happening?’
‘She makes Korea look like a bit of a skirmish, my girl.’
‘Have you tried apologising for selling the hotel without talking to her about it first? That might soften her up. I’m sure she’ll come to understand why you did it. She probably just wanted to feel involved.’
‘But she’s not involved,’ he says. ‘It’s my hotel. I wouldn’t like to bother her with my problems.’
‘But, Colonel, she’d want to be bothered.’ Why can’t men ever understand that?
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve spent fifty years studying military strategy and I’ll never understand women. Still, I must try. What have I got left, twenty years? I thought we might spend it together. Now everything’s changing.’
Twenty years? The Colonel is eighty-two now. He’s more of an optimist than I imagined, but it would be rude to correct him. ‘Keep trying,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sure she’ll come round. And I’m also sure not everything here’s going to change. You’ll still be here with the rest of us. The clientele might be a bit different, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. It’ll all be fine.’
My eye falls on the faxed pages. ‘Will you excuse me? I’ve just got to speak to Rory about something.’
‘Off you go. Oh, and Rose?’
I turn back to him.
‘I’m glad you’re looking after us. You won’t let anything go wrong, will you?’
‘What’s that say?’ I ask Rory, squinting at t
he fax. ‘Name sours? What is that? Name tags?’ Does Curtis want our names etched on to sweeties pinned to our chests?
We’ve been trying to decipher the fax for nearly an hour. It might be a fun game if the implications weren’t so dire.
‘Wave sounds,’ says Rory. ‘See here? It says Beach Boys. It must be the music he wants in the hotel.’
‘You mean piped music through speakers? What’s wrong with just … silence?’ But I know the answer. Curtis and PK aren’t silence-is-golden types. ‘Where’s this music supposed to go?’
Rory looks uncomfortable. ‘I’m only guessing here, but I think they’ll want speakers in all the public areas – the bar and restaurant and reception.’ He scans the page. ‘Yep, right here.’
‘We’re not a nightclub,’ I say, which makes him laugh.
‘How many nightclubs do you know that play wave sounds and the Beach Boys? I’m sure they’re thinking of some quiet background music, that’s all.’
But we both know this is a lie.
‘The bigger issue is those uniforms,’ he goes on. ‘You’re going to have to wear them. Chef too, unfortunately. I can go with you to break the news, if you like? Maybe it’s best to give him some time to get used to the idea. It won’t be so bad.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to wear one.’
‘It is one of the advantages of being a freelancer,’ he says. ‘That and getting time off between assignments to go on holiday, and never really getting bored with a job. And the good pay and meeting new people and living in new places … actually, I’m not going to lie to you. It’s all ace. I’d hate to be stuck in a permanent job. No offence. I just mean it’s not for everyone.’
The Big Dreams Beach Hotel Page 7
