by Emma Jackson
‘I’ve already been gone twenty minutes.’
‘You really were eavesdropping.’
‘Yes. And thank you for glossing over my date with Stephen, et cetera.’
‘By et cetera, I assume you are referring to his brother. The gallant Captain Cartwright.’
My eyebrows shot up. ‘Does he get to use that? Captain?’
She shrugged one shoulder and grinned at me. ‘I like him, Beth. I could see you two together.’
‘Look, Lyd. I’m too swamped at the hotel to come down here for a chat about my love life.’ I stared down into my tea. ‘Besides which, he’s a guest; he’ll be leaving in a few days.’
‘Yeah, but he only lives in London. You can drive. He can drive. There’s public transport. All this mobile phone technology to keep people in touch. Why is it a problem?’
‘I dunno.’ I couldn’t have sounded more like my mulish fifteen-year-old self if I tried. Lydia was not stuffy or prudish in the slightest, but it didn’t mean I wanted to admit to her I was just having a short-term fumble with Nick. ‘Have you got any—’ A packet of cookies appeared beneath my nose. She knew me too well. I took four, shoving the first one into my mouth whole. As well as feeling cold to the marrow, I was starving.
‘It’s going to be hard after Peter. I understand that. But don’t let Nick slip through your fingers.’ Lydia took a cookie herself and dipped it into her tea. ‘He likes you. He was trying really, really hard not to talk about you constantly. It was very sweet. And he’s very dishy. And a pilot, Beth. You could get me free flights.’
I laughed, because I knew she was joking – at least partly – and ate another biscuit to stop myself from asking what he’d said about me. Eventually, when I finished chewing and swallowed, I took a long slurp of tea and shook my head.
‘It’s such bad timing. I’m not ready. And I’m trying to keep everything at the hotel from going to pot. And he’s…’
‘What is he?’
‘Going through a very difficult time too.’
‘None of that means it’s bad timing. You both might be exactly what the other needs.’
We might be what each other needed in the short term. He was a crush to move me on from Peter, and a kind enough person to want to help me out with things around the hotel. And I was a distraction for him from his first Christmas without his mother, but I couldn’t consider it anything more than that because he couldn’t even be honest with me about her passing.
I’d just got out of a relationship with a man who felt he needed to hide anything that made him look weak or a failure. I never would’ve thought those things about Peter, but he’d thought them and by refusing to tell me the truth about problems with his business, he’d ended up inventing lie after lie and then resenting me for it. There was no way I was going to get myself into that kind of mess again.
‘All right, cupid. It’s not Valentine’s Day yet. You can quit with the sales pitch.’
‘A good businesswoman never quits.’ She winked.
‘A good friend knows when to.’
Lydia held up her hands. ‘I spoke to your mum earlier.’
‘What? She called you?’
‘Yes, but don’t sound so put out about it. She said she tried to ring you but there was no answer from your mobile and the hotel phone is switched to voicemail.’
I swore and searched my pockets for my mobile, coming up empty. How had I misplaced my phone? I usually had it within arm’s reach all day. I’d obviously had it in the bedrooms when Lydia texted me earlier and then… My mind was blank. I’d gone down to the kitchen and found out about the butcher’s delivery.
‘Don’t panic. I told her that the mince pie and mulled wine evening went well, and everything was ticking along nicely.’
‘Yeah. Ticking. Like a bomb that’s about to go off in my face any minute.’ At Lydia’s concerned frown, I sighed. ‘How was she? How’s Grandad? Did she say when she’s going to come home?’
‘She said your grandad’s looking a little better and the roads are icy but improving.’
The reassurance that they were both doing okay eased a little knot of worry I hadn’t even been able to focus on. I knew I’d wanted to try and get hold of her on Grandad’s landline today but no matter how many times I’d thought about it, put it on my mental to-do list, I’d forgotten. This was what happened when you had to manage the hotel. She and I had mainly communicated by text when I was living in London because it was so much easier. The hotel wasn’t so much of a ‘demanding mistress’, as a needy toddler that would never grow up.
‘No promises then?’
‘No promises.’
I nodded. That was understandable. My short experience of driving two minutes from the hotel was enough to make me realise Mum had been totally right; it wasn’t sensible for me to try to drive up to Norfolk in such bad conditions. I didn’t want her and Grandad ending up stranded. No. I had to face it. It was most likely I was on my own until after Christmas.
‘Aren’t you enjoying it at all?’ Lydia asked, hitching herself up onto a stool and giving me a deceptively casual look.
‘What? Looking after the hotel, by myself?’ I almost spilled my tea in shock at the thought.
‘You’re a natural with the guests though, always have been.’ She cocked her head to the side, considering me. ‘I know you’ve been feeling less sociable since your break-up but ultimately, you’re a people-person aren’t you. You get a buzz from working with others, that’s why you enjoyed your tutoring so much.’
I took a couple of deep draughts of hot tea and put the mug down. ‘Okay, Lydia, what’s the real reason you wanted me to come down here for a chat? It wasn’t just to wish me a Merry Christmas and do some match-making was it?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine, busted. But first off, I want you to know, your mother did not ask me to have this conversation with you, all right?’
I made a dubious um-hum noise. I’d reserve judgement until I knew the topic she was about to haul me over the coals for.
‘Your mum is considering selling the hotel.’
‘What? No way. She hasn’t said anything to me about it.’
‘She hasn’t wanted to burden you with it, while you’ve been getting over your break-up. She’s been concerned – we both have – that you’re avoiding thinking about the future, that you’ve given up your music. You’ve just seemed a bit…lost and she didn’t want to pull the stability of the hotel out from under your feet too. It’s your home.’
My mouth flapped open and shut while I tried to sort through the shock. Between the idea that my mum no longer wanted to run the hotel and the worries I’d obviously caused them both, it was difficult to know where to start.
‘But she loves the hotel. It’s been everything to her, for so long. Why does she want to sell it? Are there money problems?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just a lot of work for one person to manage. Much as I hate to say it, she’s not a spring chicken anymore. I suggested semi-retirement, appointing a manager, but she’s worried she won’t be able to hand over control to someone else. I think making a clean break seems easier than trying to find someone she could train up to run it the way she does and who she trusts completely…’ She tilted her head and widened her eyes meaningfully at me.
Ah-hah, now the pieces were slotting into place. My chest grew tight and I rubbed at my temples, where I could feel a headache coming on.
‘Right. I think I can join the dots. She wants me to stay on to help her out, so she doesn’t have to sell?’
‘Just consider it. Start thinking about what you want to do. It’s an option.’ She gave a big shrug and picked a chocolate chip out of the edge of her cookie.
I shook my head and downed the rest of my tea, putting my mug in the sink. ‘I haven’t got time to think about it at the moment. I’ve gotta run. You have a lovely Christmas, Lydia.’
She put her cup down and held her arms out for a big hug. ‘Merry Christmas, honey.
Oh, hang on.’ She disappeared around the corner and hurried back holding out a sprig of mistletoe. ‘Here. Take this with you.’ She gave me a little wink. ‘You never know when it might come in handy.’
I took it because I didn’t have the energy to debate it with her and shoved it in my pocket as I left.
Chapter Fourteen
Back at the hotel Neeta was rubbing spices into meat, basting joints and stirring pots that were bubbling on the stove. Her cheeks had a dusky rose tinge to them and I’d never seen her chef’s whites so splattered. I still had the delivery note from the butcher in my pocket, alongside the sprig of mistletoe. As I pulled out the blue folder on the counter by the back door to file the paperwork away, I noticed a big red leather notebook nestled beside it. My mum’s notebook.
‘Neeta?’ I called, picking it up and nearly breaking my wrist. ‘Did you know my mum keeps her notebook out here in the kitchen?’
‘Urr…yes…were you looking for it?’ Her muffled voice came from inside the walk-in refrigerator. I was pleased Neeta was in there so that she couldn’t see my face because I really liked her, but I could’ve killed her at that moment. Had it really not occurred to her that my mum’s holy bible of hotel management would help me?
It was starting to make a lot more sense to me as to why Mum got so wound up at the little things people let slip or just plain didn’t think about. All those little things added to the big pile of crap she had to deal with every day. No wonder she was worn out from this place.
But when Neeta staggered out of the fridge with a ton of vegetables, I remembered that she was basically trying to fit two days’ worth of work into one to help me out, and I kept my comments to myself.
I took the notebook with me to the office, hung up my coat and settled down in the chair. When I pulled the elastic band off it sprung open independently, shedding business cards and wallpaper samples and leaflets. I flicked through it and to start off with it was not as illuminating as I would’ve hoped but then I found a list of agencies she used to fill in for staff holidays and sickness. God, that would have been so useful a couple of days ago. Was it even worth trying now? It was quarter to four on Christmas Eve; even if I got to speak to an agent, who was going to be willing to take on a job now? Well, I guessed I wouldn’t know if I didn’t start dialling.
Six phone calls later, four that went straight to answerphone, one with a receptionist who would ‘ask someone to get back to me’, and the final one with someone who was clearly drunk, I gave up. I carried on reading, trying not to panic too much about being the only person hosting Christmas Day and trying to co-ordinate an elaborate dinner for twenty-odd people.
Maybe I could enlist Dorie’s help again? She could just sit and instruct me what to do. I’d ask her the next time I saw her and if she said no… Well, it was always possible Mum would arrive back tonight like the best present Santa ever brought me. A girl could dream.
On a page that listed the Mince Pie Evening with the to-do list attached, I spotted my name and homed in on a line that had been crossed out:
Beth to help out playing piano in library for Carol Evening on Christmas Eve?
Why had she crossed that out? It sounded like a nice idea and judging by the way the guests had eaten up the Mince Pie Evening – pun totally intended – they would be well up for it. Had she assumed that I would be reluctant because I was reluctant about everything recently? Or because she and Lydia thought I’d given up music? I was still processing the conversation with Lydia, but the fact they thought I could just give up on music was almost as shocking to me as the idea that my mum wanted to sell the hotel. I’d given up imagining I could earn a living from it but not playing altogether.
What was I going to do to earn a living now though? Could I take on a managerial role at the hotel?
I turned on the computer and printed out some sheet music. The piano was in the library, which was empty. I wondered what all the guests were doing to busy themselves between lunch and dinner, what with the bar not being open again. Clearly they weren’t reading.
It was an upright piano in the corner of the room beside the fireplace. Tucked away enough so it didn’t seem out of place in the library, because music and libraries generally don’t go hand in hand, but Mum had chosen to put it in there because then I would disturb fewer guests when I practised. As far as I knew, no one else had ever played it. Essentially, it was my piano. The stool was worn in the centre and fit my bottom perfectly.
I opened the lid and shuffled the music around on the rest, adjusted the distance of the stool so my feet could touch the pedals comfortably, laid my fingers on the keys and…the door creaked open behind me.
‘Hey.’
My stomach flipped over at the sound of Nick’s voice behind me and I hit a muddle of keys, emitting a jarring broken chord involuntarily.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
I removed my hands from the keys and hit the sostenuto pedal to minimise the cacophony. ‘It’s fine. Looking for something to read?’ I asked inanely as he came over to stand beside me. He stayed at arm’s length though.
‘Picking another one for Nan.’ He waved the small, worn paperback in his hand. There was a half-naked woman on the cover who was either being abducted or rescued by a half-naked man. Whichever scenario it was, she looked like she was enjoying it.
‘You’re good at recommending romance novels, are you?’
‘I’ve never read one, but she tells me there’s a big selection to choose from and she finds it too difficult.’
There was a big selection of romance novels in here. Most had been my nanna’s and my mum had then read them. Particularly after Nanna passed away. I’d read a few. Obviously trying to find the sexy bits to start with when I was a teenager, then I just loved the happy endings…and the sexy bits.
‘They’re over here.’ I got up and went to the only waist-high bookcase in there, situated by the chaise. All the others were heavy floor-to-ceiling affairs, loaded with crime fiction, thrillers, local history, picture books, and those beautiful vintage classics my mum couldn’t resist. We even had a little stepladder for getting up to the top shelf.
‘Uh, great.’ He crouched down and tilted his head to the side to read the spines. That impulse I had to pluck at his curls was still there, tingling in my fingertips. But it was too intimate. It would smack of ownership or something. Lydia’s optimistic voice was whispering from one shoulder but there was another telling me this was all a terrible rebound mistake I would end up regretting. ‘Wow, these titles are very…descriptive.’
‘It’s nice to get what it says on the tin. You’re not one of those boring people who sneer at romance are you?’
Part of me wanted him to start saying really patronising, derogatory things about romance. To break the accumulation of desirable characteristics I kept discovering about him. It was a lot harder to convince myself that I didn’t want to date Nick when I was in the same room as him and his scent was curling its way into my lungs and fogging up by brain.
‘No. Of course not.’ He looked up at me, eyebrows raised, the picture of innocence. ‘My nan loves these, and happiness isn’t something to be sneered at.’
God damn it, Nicholas, could you not just be a chauvinistic arsehole for one moment?
‘I’ve never really paid a lot of attention to what Nan was reading though.’ He looked at the novel he was still holding critically. ‘I mean, this guy’s got a kilt on. So Scottish and maybe historical? Men don’t wear kilts much these days, do they?’
‘They do at weddings.’
‘I don’t think they’re at a wedding. Unless it’s a really messy reception – her boob’s nearly hanging out.’
I laughed and he smiled at me like he’d won something. If he had, I’d won it too. My heart was getting too big for my chest. I looked away and pretended to focus on the titles again.
‘Here, this one’s a good one.’ I plucked a newer one out with a lovely purpley-pink cover
and the hero lifting the heroine up like they were dancing. ‘She’s been ignoring emails saying that she’s betrothed to an African prince, because obviously it’s just a scam but guess what?’
He laughed. ‘That does sound good.’ He took it, turning it over and sliding his glasses down his nose to read the blurb on the back. He laughed again. ‘Kind of like the Eddie Murphy film.’ He slipped the book his nan was finished with into the space on the shelf and stood up, sliding the new novel into his back pocket.
‘First chocolate in your pockets, now romance novels. You’re like a walking vending machine for women with PMS.’
‘Just need to stock up on hot water bottles and paracetamol.’ He gestured to the piano. ‘Were you about to practise?’
‘Yeah, sort of. I was thinking of playing this evening to see if everyone wanted to sing carols but…’ I lifted one shoulder and glanced at the piano. ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea. Bit cheesy.’
‘Christmas is all about cheese. I think lots of the guests would like that. I know Nan would and my…’ He trailed off as he looked from the piano to the fireplace, to the Christmas tree, his face growing more sober with every decoration or festive centrepiece he found. He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands away, like he was trying to hold himself in.
I took a step towards him and touched his arm. The muscle beneath his shirt was rock hard with tension. ‘Are you okay?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Could I listen to you practise? Just for a minute before I go give Nan her book. She’s gone upstairs to her room for a nap before dinner. Wants me to wake her in half an hour.’
There was no way that I would say no. Nick was reaching for something to pull himself out of his agitated state and he’d focused on music. The piano is so versatile, whatever music would help, sad or joyful, I could offer it to him. And I wanted to. This was what I loved about music. The way it could build a bridge between people who couldn’t find the words themselves, or offer an escape, or anchor them in a special moment. There was nothing like it.
