by Marian Keyes
‘So?’ Madelyn interrupted. ‘The competition winners, Mr and Mrs Roberts, their ETA is one o’clock. Which room have they been allocated?
‘Not sure,’ Cara said. ‘I’ll know when I see them.’
Now and again, in a radio phone-in, a lucky duo won a couple of nights in the Ardglass. They tended to be people who couldn’t ordinarily afford a stay. Cara and her team got very excited on their behalf: they wanted them to experience the full wonder of the hotel.
‘What do we know about them?’
They always did a discreet social-media search on expected guests to ensure that gaffes, such as gifting a complimentary bottle of champagne to a recovering alcoholic, didn’t happen.
‘Not much. Married couple. Paula and Dave Roberts. Mid-forties-ish. From a small town in County Laois. Looks like they have two teenagers.’ Some competition winners were totally on for the penthouse. But others, unused to five-star hotels, were more relaxed in a regular room. But Cara never knew for absolute sure which way to go until she’d met them.
TWO
One hundred and eighty kilometres away, in the Lough Lein hotel in County Kerry, Nell read from the laminated mini-bar list. ‘Seven euro for a beer? Three euro for a can of Coke?’ She paused, shocked. ‘They’re having a laugh. There was a Lidl by that last roundabout – we could buy stuff for, like, far less than this.’
Liam shrugged. ‘No need. Have anything you want. Jessie’s paying.’
‘I don’t feel okay about that.’
‘Look, the cost of our room – all the rooms – will dwarf anyone’s bar bill. Even yours. Anyway, Jessie doesn’t judge. She’s not like that.’
Nell considered how many rooms Jessie had booked and enumerated them on her fingers. ‘Jessie and Johnny, Cara and Ed, you and me. Then there’s the kids – Ferdia and … What’s his buddy’s name? Barty. Okay, them. Saoirse and Bridey. TJ and Dilly. Cara and Ed’s pair. Is that all of us? I’m running out of fingers …’
‘So, seven rooms. But she books way in advance and gets a discount.’
‘Four nights, five-star hotel, the top floor, view of the lake, Easter weekend. Liam, they must be loaded.’
‘She works hard. They both do.’ They’d talked about this too much. It was starting to piss him off.
Without any real interest, he switched on the TV and speedily clicked his way through an afternoon chat show, a technicolour cartoon, a rugby match and a news report of desperate-seeming crowds, standing in the rain, behind coils of barbed wire … The camera focused on a small boy sitting on his father’s shoulders, wearing what looked like a Tesco bag to protect his head from the downpour. Immediately Liam hit the off button – but it was too late, Nell had seen. ‘Let’s check out our balcony,’ he said quickly.
He slid open the glass doors and stepped outside. To his relief, Nell followed. In silence, they leant on the railing, looking out over the muted navy blue of the lake and the craggy grey-green mountains on the far side. Three storeys below, in the grounds, shrieking children ran around.
‘Beautiful, right?’ Liam prompted. ‘Very Instagrammable.’
‘Ha-ha.’ Nell reached for her phone and clicked off a flurry of shots. ‘Yeah, it’s stunning.’
‘Now are you glad you came?’
‘Hah! Like I had any choice.’
Liam shrugged. When Jessie issued her decrees, people tended to fall in.
It was five months since he’d married Nell. To begin with, Jessie had given them space, but in the last number of weeks, she’d invited them to several family events. Pressure had really been brought to bear for this weekend.
‘I’ve litch never met a human with such a strong will,’ Nell said.
‘You’re not exactly a pushover yourself. My money would be on you,’ Liam said, and was relieved to see her smile.
Further along the corridor, Johnny was disappointed to discover that he and Jessie were billeted in a two-bedroomed suite, sharing with their two youngest daughters, TJ and Dilly. This weekend, he’d been hoping to have sex with Jessie, without fearing the sound of small feet running out of their bedroom and bursting into his.
A locked door was his idea of freedom.
But Jessie had said that Dilly was still too young. ‘Maybe next year, when she’s eight.’
‘She’ll be eight next month. And she’s sharing with TJ. TJ’s nine, she’ll take care of her.’
‘Shut it.’
Speaking of which, here came TJ, trailed by Dilly. ‘Mum, I’ve unpacked my case. Applause, please.’
‘You’re a legend. It’s more than your father has done.’
‘Why would I,’ Johnny said, ‘when you do it so much better than me?’
‘Do it, you lazy feck!’ TJ said.
Johnny laughed. ‘Wonder who she heard saying that.’
‘It was Mum.’
‘I know, hon. It was a rhetorical question.’
‘What’s that?’
‘“Rhetorical” means it doesn’t need an answer,’ Bridey explained loftily.
Where had she come from?
‘Your suite door was open,’ Bridey said. ‘You really need to be more careful. I could have been anyone.’ She turned to TJ and Dilly. ‘Right, kiddos. Let’s inspect this room of yours.’
Johnny began to hang up his clothes. ‘Bridey’s bound to find some safety issue. She’s a pain in the hole.’
‘Johnny, no. Don’t say that, she has ears like a bat. Anyway, that officious thing, she’s only twelve, she’ll grow out of it.’
He’d paused in his unpacking. ‘I brought a suit? We’re supposed to be relaxing.’
‘Saturday night, we’re having dinner in the fancy restaurant.’
‘I don’t want to wear a suit.’
‘No one’s making you. It’s there if you want the option.’
Yeah, right. ‘Okay, Mission Control, give me my schedule.’
‘Tonight, casual dinner in the Brasserie, six thirty, nice and early. Afterwards the kids go to the movie and the rest of us have a few drinks. Tomorrow, Good Friday, day at leisure.’
That just meant she hadn’t organized any big lunches or dinners. He’d still be made to go for a hike. Or to meet friends from Dublin who were also down in Kerry. And what was the point of that? They could see them at home any time. He was meant to be on a break.
‘Tomorrow, people can get room service,’ Jessie said. ‘Have toasted sangers in the lobby, whatever they like.’
‘Even go into Killarney for chips?’ Bridey asked. She, along with TJ and Dilly, had shoaled back into the room.
Johnny could see that Jessie wasn’t keen on that idea. She liked everyone on the premises, where they could be summoned at a moment’s notice. If she could have made them wear electronic anklets she would have.
‘Mum, Dad, are you aware that their window opens? Might I remind everyone, we’re on the third floor?’
‘It opens literally two inches,’ Jessie said. Her phone beeped and she picked it up. ‘No fecking way!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Ferdia and Barty missed their train.’
‘Pair of flakes.’ TJ sounded uncannily like her mother.
‘They were at some protest.’ Jessie pressed buttons, then clamped her phone to her ear. ‘Ferdia, what the hell?’
‘Oh, yikes.’ Dilly put her hands over her ears.
‘Really? Well, listen – no! No. You are not bailing on this weekend. With rights come responsibilities. This is your family.’ As she’d been speaking, she’d been clicking on her iPad. ‘There’s a train at one p.m. tomorrow, gets into Killarney at four forty-five. Be on it.’ She ended the call.
Rancour lingered in the air.
Dilly asked, ‘Mum, can Auntie Nell come out to play?’
Jessie shooed them away. ‘Bridey, show her how to ring Liam and Nell’s room.’ She sat in uncharacteristic stillness, clearly mulling something over. ‘Someone will have to collect that pair of eejits from the station tomorrow,’ she said. ‘W
hich might interfere with –’
‘I thought tomorrow was “day at leisure”!’
‘Yeah, but …’ She flashed him a guilty grin. ‘I was thinking … We’ve never done the jaunting car thing. At the Gap of Dunloe?’
‘No, babes, no. Only American tourists do that.’
‘It would be fun.’
‘Jessie.’ He abandoned his unpacking. ‘The shame would end me.’
‘We’re making memories.’
‘Seriously. I’ll need therapy to recover from a memory like that.’
‘Auntie Nell’s here!’ Dilly squealed from the hallway. ‘And her hair is pink!’
Dilly dragged in her newest aunt. Nell’s long thick hair was indeed pink, a pastel wash rather than a fluorescent eyesore.
‘Oh, my God, you look amazing!’ Jessie jumped to her feet. ‘Not just the hair, but all of you!’
Nell wore loose navy overalls, Dr Martens and a scarf tied in a big bow on her head – she looked as if she’d been painting a shed. And perhaps she had. Her job involved building theatre sets, so Johnny found it difficult to distinguish between her work-wear and her normal get-up. Jessie, Johnny knew, approved strongly of Nell’s look. She thought, as a family, it gave them ‘texture’.
‘Thank you for this …’ Nell gestured awkwardly. ‘Our room, this hotel. Liam and I could never stay somewhere so beautiful.’
‘Oh, honey,’ Jessie said. ‘You’re so welcome. We’re all so happy you’re here.’
‘Thanks.’ Her face flooded with colour.
‘Can my hair be made pink?’ Dilly asked.
‘Probably not, bunny,’ Jessie said. ‘You’re too dark.’
Seventeen-year-old Saoirse, twelve-year-old Bridey and nine-year-old TJ were Jessie mini-mes: tall and blonde. Dilly, the youngest, a solid little unit with tangled brown hair, was undeniably a Casey.
‘Ooh! But what about you, Mum? Your hair is light. Get yours made pink!’
‘I’d kill to look even a tenth as cool as Nell, but there are more chemicals in my hair than in the whole of North Korea. If I add anything else, it’ll fall off in my hands.’
‘Not to mention causing uproar at work,’ Johnny said.
‘Yeah.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Nell! Listen, have you booked a spa treatment for this weekend?’
‘Um, no …’ Nell squirmed. ‘I’ve never had a massage.’
‘What? No! That’s not right.’
Nell smiled. ‘I dunno if it’s my sort of thing.’
‘Please, you must have one. Just charge it to the room. Oh, God.’ Anxiety seized Jessie. ‘They might all be booked out. We’ll do it now. Johnny, ring down to the spa.’
‘Don’t,’ Nell said. ‘Please.’
Halfway to the phone, Johnny froze. Which woman was he more scared of?
He was saved by TJ. ‘Are we going, or what?’
‘Going,’ Nell said. She, Bridey, TJ and Dilly hurried from the suite.
‘Oh, Johnny.’ Jessie was aghast. ‘She’s never had a massage.’
‘She’s thirty, a millennial. They’ve no money.’
‘I know. Like, I know. But –’
‘Get a hold of yourself! You’re talking like she’s never seen a banana. Carry on telling me the schedule for this “relaxed”, “relaxing” weekend.’
‘It will be relaxing!’ She giggled. ‘God, the state of me – the beatings will continue until morale improves, right?’
THREE
At about one o’clock, a man and a woman, stiff with self-consciousness, advanced reluctantly into the Ardglass reception area. Cara hurried from behind the counter, wearing her biggest smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Roberts?’
‘Um. That’s us.’
This was definitely not a penthouse situation. These poor people were terrified. Dave’s suit had been cut for a younger, slimmer man and Paula’s too-formal dress had probably been bought specially. The Ardglass’s regular guests tended to breeze in dressed down in trainers and unstructured athleisure wear, the muted tones and casual air belying hefty price tags.
Gently she guided the Robertses to a cluster of armchairs. ‘Can I offer you coffee? Tea? A glass of champagne?’
‘We don’t want to be any trouble,’ Dave said.
‘It’s no trouble at all. But we can have it sent to your room as soon as we’ve checked you in. We’ll do that, will we?’ She smiled again, desperately keen for them to enjoy this. The Honeymoon Suite was also a no-go, she decided. They’d likely be embarrassed by its sexy implications. But she wanted more for them than a regular room. Click, click, click, went her head, mentally scanning all the bookings over the next few days. ‘Let me just get your check-in details.’ She went to the reception counter and threw, out of the side of her mouth, ‘Corrib Suite’, at Madelyn.
‘Perfect,’ Madelyn breathed, and picked up the phone, straight into action.
Cara kept the Robertses talking while the Corrib Suite was quickly kitted out with champagne, flowers, handmade chocolates and a welcome card from Patience, the deputy manager.
High in the eaves, it was smaller than the other suites. The cream and pale gold décor of the sweet little sitting room was attractively cosy. The bedroom was bright, simple and straightforward – no four-poster complications to scare them.
Paula looked around. ‘This is nice.’ She seemed marginally less terrified.
‘How about that cup of tea now?’
Paula scanned the room. ‘Kettle?’ she asked.
‘The rooms don’t have kettles,’ Cara said. ‘But anything you’d like, anything at all, just ring down.’
‘Okay,’ Paula said quickly.
Cara suspected she wouldn’t. Paula and Dave were humble people who were more likely to try to sleep with every light in the room blazing than to bother someone to explain how to turn them off.
Cara rang for the tea, then said, ‘Seriously. Those lads downstairs in room service need to be kept busy or else they’ll be out of a job.’
Dave’s attempt at a smile was more of a grimace.
‘You won’t be putting anyone out.’ She directed this next bit at Paula. ‘Let someone else wait on you for a change. I don’t know about you, but I’ve two boys and I seem to spend my entire life standing at the hob, frying fish fingers.’
Was Paula starting to understand that there was a real person behind Cara’s uniform and name badge?
‘I feel as soon as they finish one meal,’ Cara said, ‘it’s time for me to start cooking another.’
Now Paula smiled.
‘I’ve been lucky enough to stay here a couple of times,’ Cara said. ‘It took me a while to relax. Then I got the hang of it. They really know how to take care of you – they want to do it. Now, let me show you the features of the room.’
She talked them through the lighting and the sound system. ‘Room-service menu here. But basically they’ll do anything you like, cheese on toast, curry chips, even if it’s not listed.’
A knock on the door announced the arrival of the tea. As Gustav, the young uniformed waiter, delicately poured from the silver pot into the china cups, Dave hovered, as tense as a board, a fiver clutched in his fist.
At his first opportunity, he thrust the note at the boy and blurted, ‘Thanks, son.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Gustav murmured.
Dave turned away from him. He looked spent. And that wouldn’t do. The Robertses seemed like big tea drinkers. If Dave had to go through that every time they wanted a cup, he’d be dead from the stress of tipping by the end of the day. Not to mention stony broke.
She was already formulating a solution when her internal line rang. It was Hannah the hair. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Paula and Dave. ‘I need to …’
Out in the corridor, she said, ‘Hannah?’
‘Cancellation. You want your hair blow-dried? Got to be right now, though.’
‘You serious? What time is it? One thirty? I’m already off the clock! Be with you in ten. Thank you.’ First, though, she raced down to
the storeroom in the basement. ‘Any spare kettles?’ There were bound to be. All kinds of peculiar abandoned things lived there. A functioning kettle turned up in moments. In the kitchen, she assembled a tray with a silver teapot, a strainer, china cups, all the paraphernalia necessary to make tea, then hurried back up to the Corrib Suite.
Paula opened the door. ‘Oh!’
‘You can have all of this,’ Cara said, ‘if you promise to order everything else your heart desires.’
Then Dave appeared. They both looked so relieved she wanted to cry. ‘Grand,’ he said. ‘We’ll do that. Like, thanks.’
Downstairs, Cara cut across the garden to the glass and sandstone spa, where Hannah was waiting. Dressed in black combats and a black top, she looked more like a sniper than a hairdresser.
‘You’re not doing me a sneaky favour?’ Cara asked suspiciously.
‘Nah. Guest cancelled. Ten minutes’ notice. They still get charged, I still get paid. Weekend away, you’ll have a better time with good hair. Jump up there till I shampoo you. Get rid of –’
‘That poxy chignon.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re so right. Good hair makes everything better.’ Cara brimmed with sudden levity, as Hannah massaged her skull. ‘I’ve sort of been dreading this weekend.’
‘Why’s that? All those kids?’
‘Ha-ha. No, but now that you mention it … My own two boys are the most amazing kids ever born. Like, obvs.’ She joined in with Hannah’s grim laughter. ‘And their cousins are lovely. But …’ It was the boredom she couldn’t handle. Half an hour spent taking care of a gang of eight-year-olds and she began to panic. It made her desperate to dive into her phone but unable to fully surrender because, without her constant surveillance, one of the kids was likely to fall into a fire or break their leg jumping off a table.
At the mirror, Hannah switched on her hairdryer, with the same grim purpose as a person revving up a chainsaw. ‘Boho waves do you?’
‘God, anything. Yes.’
After the dryer, Hannah did some magic with a GHD. Cara watched as lengths of shiny, dark-brown waves tumbled around her face and wondered why she could never manage this at home.
