The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

  Andi got a terrible case of food poisoning years ago on Spring Break in Mexico. It lingered for ages and now she wouldn’t even eat Doritos, let alone be within a mile of a possible outbreak.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that I picked the hotel without asking you,’ he said. ‘The Mr and Mrs Smith recommendations were booked up, but the one I found looks nice too. I think you’ll love it. There’s a national forest nearby, if we want a walk or anything. And skiing. Do you ski?’

  I’d never been on skis before. There weren’t any mountains in Scarborough, let alone snow.

  ‘It’s in Vermont,’ he said. ‘You haven’t been there yet, have you?’

  I shook my head. Somehow my brain had only got as far as having the weekend off. I didn’t realise we were leaving Manhattan.

  ‘Good,’ he said. He looked proud of himself.

  ‘But I haven’t got a bag packed,’ I said.

  ‘Then I guess we’d better do some shopping first. Come on.’

  When Chuck reached for my hand, I knew it was really happening. My boyfriend was whisking me off for the weekend.

  It was a Pretty Woman moment.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said as we sat in traffic on the bridge out of the city, ‘but I’ve told my friend we’d say a quick hello while we’re there. Just very quickly. He wasn’t able to come with us to Colorado and he’s not too far from where we’re staying. Is that okay? We won’t if you don’t want to. I can always meet him for a quick coffee or something on my own.’

  ‘No, of course it’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’d love to meet your friends.’ Meeting Chuck’s friends! It was a huge step and I was ready to leap with both feet.

  ‘I want them to meet you too.’

  ‘Are you thinking dinner, or drinks?’ Selfishly, I hoped for something that wouldn’t take up the whole evening. It would be late by the time we battled the traffic all the way to Vermont, and I wanted Chuck to myself for as much of the weekend as possible. Still, meeting friends was exciting!

  ‘No, no, I thought something in the daytime.’ He took his eyes off the tail lights in front of us to level me with a look. ‘I wouldn’t want to waste an evening with friends when I can have you all to myself.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ I said. ‘Eyes on the road, please.’ As much as I was enjoying my Driving Miss Daisy experience, I wasn’t used to being in the passenger seat on the wrong side of the road. Even though it wasn’t as bad on the motorway as it was on the crowded little roads.

  My legs were cramped and I needed a wee by the time we pulled up in front of a huge white house nestled amongst pine trees. Soft yellow light glowed from most of the windows on its three floors. The snow in front was deep on the ground and glistened in the beam of our headlights. Black Victorian-style lamps illuminated a stone path up to the wide front porch, which was decked in garlands of pine boughs. ‘Is it real? It looks like a film set!’ I said.

  ‘I knew you’d love it!’ Chuck said. ‘I wanted it to be special.’

  Hand in hand, we made our way inside. The reception area was large and wood-panelled with an open fire crackling at one end and a beautiful writing desk at the other. ‘Are you checking in?’ the friendly looking young woman behind the desk asked.

  ‘Yes, for two nights. Rosie MacDonald and Chuck Paulsen,’ Chuck said.

  The woman found our reservation and ran Chuck’s card through the machine. ‘Breakfast is from seven till ten, but you can also order room service if you want. The full menu is in the room. Enjoy your stay!’

  We barely made it up the stairs before we were tearing each other’s clothes off.

  Of course we got room service in the morning.

  By the time we drove to the ski resort to meet Chuck’s friend, Jim, my tummy was flipping like crazy. Meeting Chuck’s friends! Well, his friend. Jim’s girlfriend wasn’t joining us.

  ‘There he is,’ Chuck said as we made our way from the car park to the lodge at the base of the mountain. With everyone else in ski gear, I felt like a gooseberry in my black trousers and wool work coat. Even Chuck had on a ski jacket and black polo neck that made him look more sporty and fit than usual.

  I squinted to make out a tall man waving beside the lodge’s wide doors.

  He and Chuck embraced and slapped each other on the back. ‘You’re Rosie? Nice to meet you. I’m Jim.’ He stuck out his hand for me to shake. He wasn’t as hot as Chuck, but had the same kind of all-American look – a wide smile, strong jawline and the kiss of winter sun. Like Chuck, he was dressed for the mountain. We went into the lodge, where people were clomping around in their ski boots with buffet trays and coffees. I couldn’t stop smiling. I probably looked like a moron, but I so wanted Jim to like me. Mentally I was making plans to take Chuck out with Digby one night, so he could get my friend’s stamp of approval too.

  Jim asked a lot of questions about where I was from and how I came to be in New York. He was polite and attentive, funny and warm. Exactly as I imagined one of Chuck’s best friends would be. Maybe next year I’d go skiing with them. I could take lessons in the day and meet them for lunch and the après ski, which sounded like the best part of skiing anyway. I’d probably be as good as Chuck after a year or two of practice. We could even do weekends away through the winter so I could learn faster. It might not be very far to the nearest ski slope from the city. I could go on my own for the day on Sundays to practise.

  By the time we’d finished our coffees, I had an entire plan mapped out to become a ski champion by next Christmas. I could see at least six jackets on women in the lodge that would look good on me.

  ‘Here, Rosie, take a quick picture before we go, will you?’ Chuck handed his phone to me.

  ‘Is that all right?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Hang on. Let me get you in front of the window with the mountain behind.’

  Chuck and Jim threw their arms across each other and grinned for the camera. ‘No, wait,’ I said. ‘Your faces are in shadow. Come this way. Sorry. That’s better. Hang on, I’ll take one with mine.’

  ‘That’s okay, sweetheart,’ Chuck said. ‘I can send it to you. Jim wants to get on his skis.’

  ‘While the sun’s out,’ Jim added.

  ‘Yes, of course, sorry.’ I felt silly for holding Jim up any longer. It was kind of him to take time away from skiing to meet us in the first place.

  ‘But it was really nice to meet you, Rosie. Chuck, keep in touch, okay? And maybe I can get down to New York one weekend.’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely!’ I said. ‘We’ll see you then.’

  Jim kissed my cheek as we said goodbye.

  ‘Are Jim and his girlfriend serious?’ I asked Chuck later as we poked around one of the impossibly quaint shops on the high street. I’d never really liked that shabby chic look, but one weekend in Vermont and suddenly I wanted Cath Kidston herself to come decorate my flat.

  ‘They’ve been together forever,’ Chuck said, inspecting the bottom of a ceramic coffee cup for the price. ‘Since our freshman year. Why? Do you have a crush on him?’

  ‘No! He’s just so nice that I hoped he had someone who was in love with him. Why? Are you jealous?’

  ‘Insanely.’ He swooped on me to fold me into his arms. ‘Nah, not really. I’m not the jealous type. People are together because they want to be. It’s much nicer that way.’ He kissed my lips. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ Pulling away, he takes a small cellophane box from behind his back. ‘It’s maple sugar candy. Have you ever had it?’

  I shook my head. Inside the box was a thick leaf, like a biscuit, only made from sugar.

  ‘You’ll either love it or hate it, but given the way you polish off desserts, I’m guessing you’ll love it. Since we couldn’t be here when the leaves were turning, this is the next best thing. I’d start with a tiny bite, if I were you.’

  ‘It’s pure sugar!’ I said, puckering as I nibbled. ‘I’d love to see the fall foliage here one day.’

/>   He smiled. ‘Maybe next year we will.’

  My future was as bright as the winter sun on the snow outside.

  Chapter 10

  The future is a funny thing. Take the Colonel, for example. This time last year he probably thought his twilight years … all twenty of them … would be spent in the hotel he’d known all his life, in the company of the woman he was mad for. Then the Philansky brothers came along to make him an offer, he found he didn’t want to refuse. If Lill has her way, he’ll die of frostbite just from being in the same room. Now his future, not to mention ours, is anyone’s guess.

  I will reapply for the manager position, though if the brothers decide I’m not fit for my own job, there aren’t many other big hotels here to manage. I can’t see me working at a Travelodge or one of the tiny B&Bs in town. So that might be me out on my ear too.

  Maybe it’s what I need. A kick up the old career, so to speak. I never planned to stay so long in Scarborough anyway. I certainly didn’t plan to be unemployed for months after I left New York, but that’s what happened.

  I was jetlagged to the back teeth when I landed back home, which made it easy not to have to think about much. Mostly I slept and watched crap late-night telly in my parents’ sitting room. I wasn’t in any fit state to look for work anyway, which happened to suit Mum and Dad, who needed the extra help packing for France. Though they got tired of finding me drooling on their sofa when they came downstairs for breakfast.

  They spent weeks sorting their life into cardboard boxes, neatly labelled in the way that real lives rarely are, and I drove with them to the house in France. I couldn’t very well just abandon them there in their new drive, so I stayed to unpack. Then I stayed to unwind after all the unpacking.

  By the time I got back to Scarborough, finding a job seemed less urgent. I had some savings and a place to live and a lot of daytime naps and late-night telly to catch up on.

  Let’s be honest. I was a right waster, and if I hadn’t happened to see the advert for my job tacked up on the wall in the Italian restaurant, I might still be sleeping on my parents’ old sofa. For once the stars aligned, and a too-cheap-to-pay-for-advertising hotel owner met an unemployed space-waster on the path of least resistance that they both knew well.

  ‘How many are you expecting?’ Chef barks as I start peeling another potato from the mountain on the worktop.

  ‘Chef, you ask me the same thing every month. Do I ever have an answer? Just worry about the sausages and gravy. There’s always enough.’

  ‘Don’t peel so much. You’re wasting food.’

  He says this every month too. For some reason I’ve become his go-to girl for kitchen duty whenever we do these bring-a-dish buffet suppers. Then he moans about everything I do.

  This month, though, I don’t mind the grazed knuckles and complaints, since it’s for Miracle’s birthday dinner too. I want everything to be extra-nice. She’s been up in her room all day. I just hope her children have at least rung her. I checked the post, twice. There weren’t any cards.

  ‘Hello?’ Rory calls from the kitchen doorway.

  ‘No unauthorised personnel in my kitchen!’ Chef roars.

  ‘Oh, right, sorry.’ He shifts the carrier bag he’s holding to one hand so he can push his glasses back up his nose. ‘It’s just that I’ve got my dish and it’s got cream in. Is there room to refrigerate it? If not, then I might be able to find room in the bar fridge. If the builders haven’t filled it with beer again.’

  ‘I’ve told them no more drinking on the premises.’ I felt bad doing that, but Rory was right. The insurance people won’t be too happy if someone screws his hand to the wall or drops a hammer on his foot and they find out that there’s been alcohol on the job. Their commitment to the Considerate Builders Scheme went right out the window with their beer privileges, though.

  At least they’re almost finished. They’ve installed the tacky toilets in all the rooms on the top two floors. They’ve replaced all the carpets and painted … in shades of mint green, baby blue and candy-floss pink. They’re no happier to have those shades spattering their work clothes than we are to have them on our walls.

  I stop peeling to try to get a look inside Rory’s bag. ‘I’m impressed that you’ve brought something.’

  ‘I thought that was the idea,’ he says. ‘Or have I missed a memo again?’

  ‘No, I just meant that you didn’t have to. That looks home-made.’

  Rory nods. ‘Tiramisu. I learned it while I was working in Venice. I was friends with a chef there. She showed me.’

  Judging by his blush, I wonder what else she showed him.

  Not my business.

  ‘I wanted to do something nice for you all,’ Rory goes on. ‘And especially as it’s Miracle’s birthday. My landlady let me use her kitchen.’

  ‘She’s warmed up, then.’

  ‘Well, I am very charming,’ Rory says. ‘Do you want help with those? I’m the youngest of three. I was trained in potato peeling from an early age.’

  ‘You’re a man of many talents,’ I say. ‘Is there nothing you can’t do?’

  He thinks for a second. ‘I can’t sing for toffee.’

  ‘Nobody’s singing in my kitchen,’ Chef says, handing Rory another peeler.

  We spend the next half hour working on the potato mountain and humming under our breaths while Chef tells us to shut it. Rory’s right. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

  ‘Nice turnout tonight,’ Peter says later as we watch the dining room fill up with families and older people. Everyone’s clutching their dishes and pots to share. Cheryl and Janey are bickering as they set out the plates and cutlery. For best friends, they usually sound like mortal enemies.

  Almost everyone who arrives says hello to Peter and has a smile or a pat for Barry, who accepts his adoration with typical poise. Still banned from the dining room, they’re stationed in the doorway. Peter hates for Barry to miss out on social occasions.

  ‘It’s a dreary Tuesday night in October. In Scarborough,’ I remind him. ‘What else have people got to do?’

  They could be out at one of the local clubs, of course, although they won’t get to see Lill there. The club owners still haven’t got enough sense to book her. ‘She’s putting on a brave face, as usual,’ I say to Peter, ‘but if I’d been knocked back that many times, I’d have given up by now.’

  Poor Lill. She’s lost out again on her audition to someone younger. And she really wanted that gig too. ‘When was the last time she worked?’ I ask him.

  ‘It’s been a year, I think. No, longer. Summer last year when she got that run at the school.’

  We both flinch at the memory. Here’s Lill, a professional solo artist who’s fronted some of the most famous bands in the world, reduced to singing nursery rhymes to keep a bunch of toddlers from crying until snack time. She never lets on how disappointing it must be, but it’s really so unfair.

  She floats up to us on a cloud of red and orange feathers. They’re trimming the bottom of her swirly-patterned sleeveless dress. ‘It’s a full house tonight,’ she says. She’s got her performance eyelashes on – double thick and jet black – and she’s sipping a cup of ginger tea. That means she’s planning to sing.

  Though she’ll never be the one to ask. ‘Would you do a few songs for us later, Lill? Please? If I set up a microphone?’

  She pretends to think about it. ‘Sure, doll, but let me eat something first, okay? I’m at my best on a full stomach.’

  I love seeing her on nights like this, with a room full of people. Her audience. Even if they are here to share a meal, they always love hearing her.

  ‘Well, Barry had better say goodnight,’ Peter says. ‘I’ll just get him settled upstairs.’

  ‘Night, Barry!’ Lill and I say together.

  ‘Lill’s going to sing for us!’ I tell Rory as he approaches us.

  ‘That’s great. I’ve been dying to hear you, Lill.’

  ‘Thank you, doll. It’s nothing, re
ally.’

  Once she goes off to refresh her tea, Rory says, ‘You already knew that Lill was going to sing. You had me make space at that end for her, remember?’

  ‘I know, but I like her to feel like she’s doing us a favour. It lets her know she’s wanted.’

  Rory looks at me. ‘That’s a nice thing to do. You really care about Lill and the others.’

  I laugh uncomfortably.

  ‘No, really. You look after each other here like a family. I’m a little jealous. I’m never on an assignment long enough to get close to the people I work with. It’s an occupational hazard, I guess.’

  ‘You could, though, if you decided to. I’m sure most of the places would hire you permanently if you wanted a job.’

  ‘You’re right, I’ve never wanted to. But I’m starting to think about it now.’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting any younger, and it all goes downhill in your thirties. Or so I’ve been told. Though, of all the places you could go, Scarborough wouldn’t be at the top of my list.’

  He pulls his hair up into a crooked quiff. ‘The attraction’s not Scarborough, Rosie. It’s you.’

  ‘You’re such a bullshitter,’ I say, to cover my embarrassment. ‘You can’t like me. We haven’t even …’

  ‘Done it? Is that an offer?’

  ‘I was going to say we haven’t had a date.’

  ‘Come on, Rosie. It’s so obvious that I like you. I’ve told you. Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t know if you like me back?’

  ‘Stop putting words in my mouth. I’ve got to check on Chef,’ I say. ‘Here. Can you hand one of these out to everyone?’ I shove a little box of blue chips into his hands.

  ‘What are these for?’

  ‘Votes.’

  I turn to the kitchen before he can see my smile. Of course I like him, and probably not only because he’s the only man who’s shown any interest in me in years. You learn a lot about a person working together every day. Little things that help build up a picture.

  I like the picture that’s emerged. Very much, actually.