The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘I don’t want you to,’ I blurt out. Not that I’ve got anything against ancient monuments.

  He stops. ‘Rosie, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, just that you’re being naïve. Can’t you see that woman likes you?’

  ‘You can’t be jealous.’

  ‘No. Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve got no interest in her. You’re the one that I want.’

  ‘Like the song,’ I say.

  He pulls me into his arms. ‘Just like the song.’

  When I pull away, he holds me tighter. ‘People will see, Rory.’

  ‘Let them look. I don’t care. Do you, really?’

  I relax into his arms, but only because I know we’re in a blind spot where the cameras can’t watch us.

  Peter and Barry weren’t back yet from the audition by the time Rory and I left for home last night, and I’m dying to know how it went. I was tempted to knock on his door this morning to ask, but I’m afraid he’s got bad news. If that’s the case, then it’s better to have everyone around to make him feel better.

  The Colonel is dapper as usual in his smart jacket when he comes downstairs with Miracle. With so many people in the hotel this weekend, the Philanskys probably won’t notice the residents wandering amongst them.

  ‘Reporting for duty?’ I ask, handing him the newspaper.

  ‘Mustn’t lapse on the briefings,’ he says. ‘Good intelligence wins the war. No confirmed sightings of Peter yet?’

  So we’re all anxious for news. ‘Not yet. Nobody’s seen him. He’s probably sleeping in. It must have been a long day yesterday.’

  Miracle is pulling at the front of her black dress where it’s clinging. ‘I prayed all day yesterday that he was okay. I just hope de Lord heard my prayers over all that other singing.’

  It takes me a second to realise she’s talking about the other auditions, as if Jesus sits in an auditorium in Hull. ‘I’m sure He did.’

  Lill puts us out of our misery a few minutes later, leading Peter down the stairs by his arm. He’s washed and dressed and his hair is combed over as neatly as always. There’s nothing obvious in his expression to tell me how the audition went, but when I catch Lill’s eye, she ever-so slightly shakes her head.

  Poor Peter. We all follow them into the conservatory. ‘Did you get to audition?’ Miracle asks.

  ‘We did,’ says Peter. ‘You should have seen the crowd when we got there. I didn’t expect that. Hundreds of people turned up for the audition.’ He smiles. ‘Barry was a bit of a star even backstage before we went on. They interviewed us and all, on camera! There were a lot of nice people there, and a good camaraderie. You wouldn’t expect that, would you, when we were competing? I suppose the real cattiness happens in later rounds, when they start whittling down the talent.’

  He stops talking and points to the paper in the Colonel’s hand. ‘Mind if I see that section when you’re finished?’

  ‘Peter! The audition?’ I remind him.

  ‘Oh, yes. We had to go outside quite a bit so that Barry could stretch his legs, but we just told the people organising, so they could come get us when it was our turn. We didn’t get to go on till after teatime.’

  He stops again.

  ‘Lord, you cannot tell a story!’ Miracle says. ‘De audition, Peter.’

  ‘I’m getting to that,’ he says. ‘They sent us on at around half past eight, I think. No, it was closer to nine.’

  ‘Peter!’

  But he will not be rushed. ‘Some of the audience had left by then, but it was still pretty full. And loud! Barry and I’ve never performed in front of a crowd like that. And all the lights. They were hot.’

  Lill nods. She knows all about onstage lights. ‘Did you and Barry sing the song?’

  ‘Yes, and it started really well. You should have heard the audience when Barry sang the chorus. They loved us! They really loved us.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Peter!’ I say. ‘So you didn’t fall asleep?’

  ‘Oh, I did, right at the start of the last verse. Luckily I slumped, though. I didn’t have my helmet on.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Miracle’s hands fly to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. Did everyone panic?’

  Peter shrugs. ‘Dunno. I was asleep, wasn’t I?’

  ‘So that was the end of your audition?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Peter, I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry? Why should you be sorry? I did it!’ He looks honestly baffled by our sympathetic expressions.

  ‘But you didn’t get on Britain’s Got Talent,’ Lill says. ‘You could try again next year, though. If you can keep your emotions in check, then I’m sure you’ll get through the song. It just takes practice.’

  ‘What are you on about, Lill? I never said I wanted to get on the show. I wanted to try out. And we did that. We’ve done exactly what we set out to do.’

  ‘So you’re not upset about the audition?’

  ‘Upset? Rosie, love, it’s a dream come true. I thought I might be getting too old to try for something that huge. But I’m not. We auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent.’ He leans over to the Colonel’s paper. ‘Just the sports section, if you don’t mind.’

  Chapter 22

  We can all act as nonchalant as we’d like, but we’re dying to know (dreading to know) what the critics’ verdict will be. We only heard the critiques while they were here, which sound a lot like complaints when they’re coming at you over the reception desk. Hopefully their final assessments will be more balanced, though after Janey and Cheryl’s verbal assaults on the dinner guests, and the pages of notes Mr and Mrs Plunkett took, we’ve probably got about as much chance as Chef does getting his maraschinos to foam.

  We get our first inkling on Monday afternoon, when three young men turn up at reception. ‘We are here for the kitchen,’ says the tallest, blondest one.

  ‘To do what for the kitchen?’ I doubt they’re here to clean it.

  ‘To work,’ he clarifies.

  I was afraid he’d say that. There’s no way that PK found new chefs in so little time. With a sinking heart, I realise he must have had them in mind all along, assuming we’d fail.

  ‘We are the kitchen staff,’ he explains, though they’re wearing chef whites and aprons, so I could have guessed that. ‘I am Lars, this is Ola and this is Per.’ All three smile broadly and I can’t help but return their grins. It’s the least I can do, because Chef is going to lose his rag on the poor blokes when he sees them.

  ‘If you can show us the kitchen, please?’ Ola, or maybe Per, says.

  ‘Okay, but you should know that we already have a chef.’ It’s only fair to warn them.

  Lars pulls up short at the news. ‘But we understood that this hotel wasn’t open yet?’

  ‘It doesn’t officially relaunch until next week. But we’ve been a hotel, with staff, for many years before our current owners took over.’

  ‘And you didn’t know we were coming. Is that right?’ Now concern flits across all three of their faces. They’re nice faces. If they weren’t about to do my friend out of his job, I’d probably love working with them.

  ‘That’s right, I didn’t know you were coming,’ I say. ‘Neither does our chef.’

  This causes the Swedes to go into an impromptu huddle. I should go and find Rory. He’s the transition manager. Let him transition this. Because I do not want to be the one to tell Chef that it wasn’t enough that he worked for weeks to learn a menu that would make Heston Blumenthal nervous. Thank you very much, and here’s your ten weeks’ statutory redundancy pay. Oh, and good luck finding another job in town when you’re in your sixties and cooking is the only thing you’ve ever done and there are probably dozens of under-thirties who’ll fight you for a job.

  This is what my job has become. Chef was right from the very start. He may as well have just called me Himmler and been done with it, since I’m nothing but a henchman for the Philanskys anyway.

  I don’t want to enforce
the rules when it hurts the people that I care about. I don’t want to be Himmler. I want to be … what’s the opposite of Himmler? I want to be Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music, putting whiskers on roses and rainbows on kittens, making everything all right for everyone.

  ‘We don’t want to make it hard for you,’ Lars says. ‘Do you want to tell your chef we’re here first? It might be easier.’

  ‘Easier for you,’ I mutter.

  I’m just about to go into the kitchen when I spot Rory coming up the drive. He’s got a takeaway coffee clutched in each hand. ‘Where have you been?’

  He holds up the cups in answer. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘These men are here to replace Chef.’

  ‘Replace him? Now? They can’t just replace him. There are procedures to follow in that kind of thing. He needs to have notice and the chance to improve.’

  ‘He has had time to get up to speed with the new menu,’ I say. ‘Does that count?’

  What a relief to see Rory shake his head. This might turn out okay. ‘That’s not how it works,’ he says. ‘Chef wasn’t told his performance needed improvement. Like I said, there’s a process to follow here. Goddamn it!’ He storms into the office, leaving me to apologise to the chefs and send them into the conservatory till we can sort this out.

  When I get to the office, Rory is already starting up Skype. ‘You’re calling PK?’

  ‘You know he’s the one behind this, not Curtis,’ he says, just as PK answers. ‘PK, three chefs have just turned up expecting to go to work. Did you forget to tell us something?’

  ‘I never forget anything,’ he says. ‘They need to start today to be ready for the opening.’

  ‘But what about Chef?’ I say.

  ‘Tell him his services are no longer required.’

  I can’t believe he just said that.

  Rory jumps in. ‘PK, you can’t just get rid of someone without notice.’

  ‘Of course I can. I can fire anyone I want to.’ He sits back in his chair, crosses his stripy-shirted arms and looks smug. ‘It’s called employment at will.’

  ‘Maybe in Florida, but not here,’ Rory says. ‘We don’t have employment at will here.’

  ‘Look, the details aren’t my problem, they’re yours. You’re the transition manager, so run along and transition. I don’t care what the guy does. If he needs to stay for a while to make it all legal, then he can stay. They can use him to chop onions or something. As long as Lars and his team are in place today to learn the menu, I don’t care who’s in the kitchen. Are we clear?’

  ‘We’re clear, PK,’ Rory says.

  ‘Be free in thirty minutes,’ PK adds. ‘We need to talk about the feedback.’ He hangs up.

  ‘What an arsehole!’ I say, sending Rory diving for the laptop to be sure the call has really ended.

  ‘I really wish you wouldn’t do that!’ he says. ‘We have to tell Chef. I’ll do it if you want.’

  ‘Tempting, but it should come from a friend.’

  I’m not nervous, exactly, as I head to the kitchen. Being a manager sometimes means having to give people news they don’t want to hear. I guess the problem is that I’ve got that Himmler feeling again. Sure, it’s easy for PK to make decisions. He doesn’t have to deal with the real-life consequences. They’re only numbers for him. To me, they’re real people.

  ‘Chef?’

  He glances up. He’s sitting on the tall kitchen stool reading over a recipe, with his hand absently rubbing his closely shorn hair. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows as usual. He might have to wear the uniform to please the owners, but how he wears it is up to him.

  ‘I’m just going to come straight out with it, I guess. The owners have hired three –’ Mustn’t say chefs. ‘… people, to learn the menu for the opening. They’re here now, in the conservatory.’

  Neither of us says anything while Chef digests the news. Finally, he says, ‘What’s that supposed to mean: they’re learning the menu?’

  But I can see by the look on his face that he knows exactly what I mean. ‘They need to start soon, Chef. Now, in fact. I’m sorry, I had nothing to do with this.’ Herr Commandante. ‘They just turned up. I checked with PK and he says…’ God, I have to give him his notice. I take a deep breath. ‘He says you can stay on and … help them.’

  He nods. ‘Do you know how long I worked here, Rosie, before the Colonel sold the hotel?’

  ‘Eleven years,’ we say at the same time. Chef crosses his beefy arms. ‘And do you know how many times my ability has been questioned in those eleven years? Never. Not once, not so much as a quibble about my cooking. These new owners are trying to say that, suddenly, after eleven years here, plus thirty cooking for the Army, I can’t do my own job? I’m being demoted to a prep cook in my own kitchen.’ He unties his apron. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t quit, Chef! You can’t let them win like that. PK didn’t even know that he couldn’t fire you outright without notice. At least stay on until we can find out if this is legal. You may as well keep getting paid, right? Please? Please stay on? I’ll get Rory to look into it now, if you want. I’m sure that’s part of his job. Believe me, I know you want to stick two fingers up at them. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for months. But be practical. If they want other people to have the stress of trying to deliver that menu, then you may as well sit back, relax and keep taking their money. Don’t you think? I’m just telling you what I would do. For now, Chef, take their money. You’re not a quitter.’

  He knows I’m right. He’d be competing for jobs with twenty-somethings who’ll work for a pittance just to get the experience. And there aren’t that many jobs here to begin with.

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve got nothing better to do today anyway,’ he says, retying his apron. He goes back to reading his menu.

  As soon as Rory sees me coming back from the kitchen, he says, ‘Come with me.’ Taking my hand, he walks with me outside. There’s a fresh breeze, but it’s not as cold as it could be for late November. The weak light has turned the sea a pale grey. The tide’s nearly all the way in, sending the waves to run nearly to the wall at the back of the beach.

  ‘We have to Skype the Philanskys,’ I remind him.

  ‘We’ve got time. Let’s worry about you for a few minutes first. I know that was wasn’t easy.’

  ‘It was all right. Part of the job,’ I say. ‘For now.’

  ‘You know, you don’t have to be so hard with me all the time.’

  ‘We’re worrying about you? I thought we were worrying about me.’

  He gives me a whisper of a smile. ‘I don’t think what PK is doing to Chef is legal. He might have got away with it if he hadn’t made that chopping onions comment. It’s constructive dismissal when someone’s demoted. When someone else is brought in above him to do his job. Chef won’t have to leave.’

  ‘I think he will leave, though, eventually. He’s a practical bloke. He knows how hard it will be to find another job, but his pride won’t let him stay indefinitely.’

  ‘Is all this making you want to leave too?’ he asks. ‘Because …’ He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he’s going to say. In exactly one month and one week, his assignment will end. And that means his reason for staying in Scarborough will too, unless he accepts the hotel manager’s role.

  He did – very tentatively – bring up the idea of leaving here together. It would be the most sensible thing to do. That way there’s no bad blood at work between us. We’d both get a fresh start with a new job.

  I know that makes sense, practically. But quitting is the last thing on my mind. Every time PK comes up with another ridiculous rule or insults me or one of my friends, I just want to hold on more tightly to my job. I ran away once, and when I think back, that’s the biggest thing I regret about New York. Even more than backing out on Digby, who I haven’t heard back from yet, by the way. More than falling for Chuck in the first place, or not seeing that he was only playing me. The thing that really bothers me is t
hat he chased me away so easily. At the first hint that he might go to my boss, there I was, booking the next flight back to the UK. I had no control about how that relationship – or whatever you want to call it – ended. But I should have had more faith in myself, instead of throwing away my entire career. Not after I’d paid my dues in lowly jobs and crappy hotels and long hours until I’d made it to New York, with an assignment locked up for Paris.

  I will not let anyone run me out of my job again. I’m better than that. I’ll be a barnacle on this hotel. PK won’t be able to pry me off with a crowbar. Because I’ve wanted to run a hotel for more than a decade. That might be a tiddly little ambition to someone like PK. But it’s my dream, and to me it’s big.

  This is no ordinary Skype call. It’s not with PK, and it’s not with Curtis. When the screen lights up, they’re both there – PK leaning against the front of his desk and Curtis sitting on top of it with his legs crossed and his shoes off. PK must just love that.

  Rory does a decent job of hiding his surprise while I scrutinise our owners, looking for any similarities that might hint that they’re related. I guess maybe it’s in their heavy jowls.

  ‘How are you, little dudes?’ Curtis calls.

  ‘Fine, thanks, Curtis,’ says Rory. ‘Eager to hear the feedback. Nice to see you both.’

  ‘Well, first of all,’ Curtis says, ‘you’re awesome for handling the critics when you’re not even open yet. That was above and beyond.’

  ‘Actually, it was their job,’ PK reminds everyone. ‘The reviewers all rated their stay on standard questionnaires. Are you ready?’ It’s a rhetorical question since he doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘The hotel scored a two point six out of five overall. That’s not good. You did best on hospitality–’

  ‘Best on hospitality, that’s awesome!’ Curtis interrupts. PK glares at him.

  ‘And worst on the food,’ PK goes on. ‘Though your service was bad too. You shouldn’t have sent them in for breakfast before they’d even checked in. A number of the guests wanted to go straight to their rooms. They had just come off long flights.’