by Marian Keyes
‘Thank you, Ferdia, it is “a bit” …’
‘All the women’s roles seem decorative or, like, menial,’ he said. ‘Saoirse’s a showgirl, Mum’s a secretary, you’re some grifter. It’s so not cool.’
‘No.’ She kept her face solemn. ‘It’s not cool, Ferdia, not cool at all.’
FIFTY-SIX
‘It’s a fancy-dress party?’ Patience asked.
‘Worse,’ Cara said. She was trying to explain the concept of a murder-mystery weekend to her non-Irish colleagues. ‘We’ve been given identities, like people from Agatha Christie books, you know, vicars, explorers, retired majors. We dress up and stay in character all weekend. A couple of people will be “murdered” and we have to figure out who did it.’
Patience’s smooth brow puckered. ‘White people are weird,’ she eventually said, and went off to her office.
‘Who’s your character?’ Zachery asked. ‘Do you know yet?’
‘Madame Hestia Nyx, renowned spiritualist.’ She’d been terrified that she’d have to squeeze herself into a short dress or a fitted evening gown, so she’d pleaded with Johnny for a role that didn’t require figure-hugging clothing. Johnny had protested that the hotel made those decisions but Cara had insisted, ‘It can’t hurt to ask.’
He’d come back and said, ‘Would a spiritualist do you? Sort of like a fortune teller?’
‘What does a spiritualist wear?’ Ling asked Cara.
‘You know, floaty stuff, scarves, jingly bracelets, black kohl. I provide the clothes and the hotel provides the props – I suppose things like a crystal ball. Maybe tarot cards.’
‘What’s the hotel?’ Vihaan asked. They were all very interested in hotels.
‘Gulban Manor. In Northern Ireland. Antrim.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Ling said.
‘Well,’ Vihaan sighed, ‘not everywhere can be the Ardglass.’
In fact, Cara had been able to find out almost nothing about Gulban Manor, save the location, which was two miles from the nearest village. The website gave no information on room amenities – specifically mini-bars – except to say, ‘Gulban Manor offers a variety of accommodation, from generously sized family rooms to fun, themed spaces.’ That meant she’d have to sneak chocolate into her luggage, just in case the urge to overeat came on her. And, with a sinking heart, she realized that it probably would.
Despite her incessant resolutions to stop, she didn’t seem to be able to. It was scaring her now. Every day – at least twice or three times, sometimes even more – the longing overtook her. Being out of her routine seemed to make her more susceptible.
Her ribs ached, her throat felt raw, and all of a sudden, her broken tooth had begun to throb.
Fond as she was of Jessie and Johnny, she was worn out by these elaborate weekends. After those horrible few days in Mayo, only a month ago, couldn’t Johnny have done something simpler? Her time with Ed and the kids was limited and precious. Johnny had decreed that this party was a no-kids thing, which meant that the lads would barely see Ed for two weeks in a row.
As for finding a decent gift for Jessie! Usually she gave spa vouchers for the Ardglass, because she got a 50 per cent discount. And because everyone was in love with that spa. But she needed to up her game for a fiftieth. The Ardglass gave an annual two-night stay to many of their employees, which could be bartered with staff in other hotels around the world. By doing a deal with the woman who managed a small gem of a hotel in Finland, she’d got a two-night stay for Jessie and Johnny, in a suite overlooking Helsinki harbour. And Tiina and Kaarle would have a dreamy weekend in the Ardglass at a time of their choosing. Lucky feckers.
Peak time for a complaint was twenty or thirty minutes after a guest had arrived in their room. That was when the relief of finally being in their own private space wore off. Suddenly they found themselves back in their body, redirecting all their habitual dissatisfactions at their new surroundings.
They might decide that actually, 700 square feet was too small and they needed an upgrade. Or, beautiful though the view over the square was, they didn’t like the sounds of the traffic.
It was fifteen minutes since Mr O’Doherty had been shown to his suite.
‘Five euro says he will want a second bathroom,’ Vihaan said.
‘No,’ Ling said. ‘My bet is he will want a higher floor.’
‘Five euro?’ Vihaan was sharp-eyed with delight.
‘Guys,’ Cara said, ‘we can’t bet actual money. This is only okay if we do it for fun.’
‘So what’s your prediction?’ Vihaan asked.
‘It won’t be straightforward. It’ll be something about the décor, that it’s too –’
‘Beautiful?’
‘Which rooms are ready?’ Cara picked up the latest list from the housekeeping team. She was already mentally shuffling bookings. Today only two rooms in the whole hotel weren’t reserved: the Penthouse Suite and the mezzanine roof-garden. Some of today’s expected guests had requested specific rooms, so they couldn’t be changed, but there was a certain leeway with the others: so long as they got the grade of room they had booked – or a better one – they tended to be happy. Most of their guests were decent. It was just the occasional arse, like Owen O’Doherty, who took delight in finding fault.
‘What’s keeping him?’ Ling asked.
‘He’s taking a shower, messing up the bathroom, so Housekeeping will have to do it all again.’
‘It’s been twenty-nine minutes,’ Vihaan said. ‘I think you’re wrong.’
The phone rang – but it was an outside call, from Gemi, one of the drivers. ‘Good morning, Cara. I’m with Mr and Mrs Nilsson. We should be with you in four minutes.’
‘… Thank you, Gemi.’ Shite. ‘The honeymooners will be here in four!’
‘They’re early!’
By almost an hour. ‘Vihaan, get Madelyn back off break. Ling, get the flowers and the paperwork.’
… And what now?
Anto darted into the lobby, exuding panic. ‘Incoming,’ he said. ‘People-carrier. A man, a woman, three kids. The mother is in a sari.’
The Ranganthans? They weren’t expected until tomorrow. Unless … Oh, God, no.
‘Second people-carrier behind with the luggage. Tons of it. Like an LV shop on wheels.’
It was then, with impeccable timing, that Owen O’Doherty decided to call. ‘This room sucks.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr O’Doherty.’ Cara grabbed Vihaan and scrawled on a pad, ‘Get Hospitality NOW.’ The Ranganthans would need to be fed and watered while their booking mix-up was untangled. ‘Mr O’Doherty, is there anything in particular about your room?’
‘Try all of it. Too many tassels and flowers and shit. It’s fugly and, ya know, old-timey.’
Here came Mr Ranganthan, trailing his wife and three children. Still stuck to the phone, Cara widened her eyes and smiled madly at them.
In her ear, Owen O’Doherty barked, ‘I want a calm space. Don’t you have a Zen sorta room?’
Still smiling like a loon, she said, ‘Sadly not, Mr O’Doherty.’ She knew what was coming.
‘You gotta have a room that’s all white.’ Right on cue, he said, ‘What about your Honeymoon Suite?’
Thinking fast, fast, fast, she went through the permutations: she could upgrade the honeymooners to the Penthouse Suite. They were young and would probably be thrilled. But the Honeymoon Suite was romantic – it even had an outdoor hot-tub on a tiny roof-garden, shielded from the neighbouring buildings by honeysuckle topiary. ‘I’m afraid our Honeymoon Suite is booked.’ Sudden rage flared. ‘By honeymooners.’
‘Can’t you move them? No? What about the penthouse?’
See, that’s what he wanted. Not the penthouse per se, just to be the most important person staying in the hotel.
And the thing was, she could move him there.
But the Ranganthans were here, milling around impatiently in front of the desk, and even though it was her fault that they didn
’t have a reservation for tonight, she could fit them in, in the penthouse and the connecting room on the lower floor.
If she moved the people who’d been booked into the connecting bedroom to another. She could actually move them into Mr O’Doherty’s room. Which meant that the mezzanine was still available.
‘We’re fully booked tonight,’ she said. ‘But juggling things around, there is another room I could free up. It’s bigger and has a roof-garden. However, the décor is similar to your current room. Very old-timey.’ She couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. He’d stayed here in the past: he knew what their look was. ‘Why don’t you view it? If that’s to your liking, we can you move there. You’ll take a look? Well, that’s …’ in exaggerated fashion, she cooed into the phone ‘… peeeeeeachy. Vihaan will be with you shortly.’
‘Gimme five. I just took a shower.’
She put the phone down, ready to devote herself to the Ranganthans – and her heart banged hard when she found Patience standing behind her. Had she overheard her sarcasm?
‘Mr Ranganthan, Mrs Ranganthan.’ She hurried to greet them all. ‘Izna, Hiyya and –’ What was the youngest one called? ‘Karishnya!’
The by-now-familiar routine: latex gloves in the bin, cotton buds, concealer, mouthwash, comb, clips, hairspray, finish. She took a breath, stepped out into the corridor – face to face with Patience. The shock wiped her clean and blank.
‘Cara?’ Patience asked. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Aaah …’ She shouldn’t have to feel guilty: it wasn’t illegal to use a bathroom.
‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘Henry’s office. We’d like to talk with you.’
‘… Now?’
‘Right now.’
Every explanation deserted Cara. It was as if her brain had shut down. But she’d better come up with something …
‘Ah.’ Henry’s round face wore an expression of concern. ‘Shut the door and sit down.’
On trembling legs, she took a chair.
‘So,’ Henry said, ‘quite apart from the Ranganthan debacle, we’ve been concerned. It’s been noticed that you’re spending a lot of time downstairs. In a bathroom.’
‘I … em.’
‘Time when you should be at the front desk,’ Patience clarified. ‘Are you ill?’
Before Cara could answer, Henry said, ‘Because if you’re ill, Cara, ill enough to impact your work, you should see a doctor.’
God, no. ‘I’m not ill. Not like that.’
‘Have you a drinking problem?’ Henry asked.
‘No!’
‘Drugs? Cara. We value you. You’re an exceptional member of staff. If you’re in some sort of trouble, we want to help.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If you won’t trust us,’ Henry said gently, ‘how can we help you?’
‘I don’t need help. Honestly. It was just … I was only … But I’ll do better.’
She would.
‘Can you explain what happened over the Ranganthan booking?’ Patience asked.
Shame flooded her. ‘They emailed that they wanted to come a day earlier. There was availability. I replied and told them so. But I didn’t amend the room grid. I’m so sorry.’
‘You’ve never messed up like this before,’ Patience said. ‘And this is a biggie. Taken in conjunction with your frequent absences downstairs, we’re understandably worried.’
‘I don’t know how I missed it.’ Cara felt close to tears. ‘But I promise it won’t happen again.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
Johnny drove the car through the gates of Gulban Manor and – oh, Jesus Christ: this was worse than he had feared. Way, way worse. Only now did he see how gullible he’d been – he’d let himself be fooled by the old photo-from-a-flattering-angle trick: basically Gulban Manor had a nice front door.
His heart was pumping out neat adrenalin: based on a photo of that Regency-style door, fourteen people were driving one hundred and fifty kilometres, to celebrate Jessie’s fiftieth birthday.
‘This?’ Saoirse, seated behind him, sounded surprised.
His panic was so bad, his heart felt trapped in his throat.
In his defence, it really was a very handsome door, a leaded fanlight curving elegantly above it, set in a portico of slender columns.
The house itself might once have been a small period gatehouse. Directly on either side of the entrance were graceful sash windows, but from there on, the look was pure seventies suburbia.
For one mad, mindless moment, he sincerely thought about doing a U-turn and driving out of there – heading for anywhere and doing it fast. Instead, he meekly parked the car. Sliding his eyes sideways, he saw that Jessie was coolly taking it all in. ‘Jessie, babes.’ His voice was low and urgent. ‘If this is a disaster, I’ll make it up to you.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ She sounded uncharacteristically quiet.
God, no. She was giving him the I’m-not-angry-I’m-disappointed treatment. Feeling sick, he got out, Jessie, Saoirse and Ferdia trailing after him.
In the photo, the front door had been a clean creamy colour but in real life it looked as if it had been cured in nicotine. The paint was flaking, the knocker was loose … and a short, solid man, laden with shopping bags, hurtled past him, shouldering it open.
They landed into a gloomy hallway.
The man, a round-faced, apple-cheeked individual, surveyed Johnny and his crew. ‘Are you …?’
‘Hoping to check in,’ Johnny said faintly.
‘Oh. Aye. No bother. I’ll just stick these in the freezer.’ He indicated the overflowing bags. ‘Tomorrow night’s canapés. Can’t have them going bad. Then we really would have a murder on our hands. MICAH!’ he yelled up the stairs, making Johnny jump. ‘MUIRIA! Come down, the first ones are here!’
He turned back to Johnny. ‘Welcome to the Gulban Manor Murder-Mystery Weekend. I’m Clifford McStitt, the proprietor, with my wife Muiria. Here’s Micah now.’
A teenage boy descended the stairs, with the same round, apple-cheeked face as Clifford, obviously his son. ‘Mammy’ll be here in a second,’ he said. ‘She knows about the bookings.’
And here came Mammy, who looked surprisingly similar to her husband. Her hair was even cut in the same pudding-bowl style. The three McStitts could have been triplets.
‘Welcome.’ Her smile was warm and Johnny clung to the small bit of hope this gave him. Maybe it wouldn’t be a total disaster.
‘Johnny Casey. Right. You’re booked into our Empress Suite.’ She turned a few pages in her notebook. ‘For the weekend, you will be Dr Basil Theobald-Montague, once-eminent heart surgeon, now with –’
‘– a stain on my reputation. Yes.’
‘Your wife, Jessie? You are Rosamund Childers, secretary to MP Timothy Narracott-Blatt and a –’
‘Yeah, “thoroughly good sport”.’
Muiria was pleased. ‘You’ve read your potted histories? Good. And you’ve brought suitable clothing? Very good. I’d say you’ll enjoy yourselves. People said it was fun the other time.’
The other time? Only once? Christ on a stick, this was a nightmare.
It was crystal clear now that he should have sprung for fourteen flights to that criminally expensive place in Scotland.
Muiria had turned her attention to Ferdia. ‘My goodness, you’re some hunk, hai. My, my goodness. Who does he look like?’ she asked Micah.
‘Oh, please.’ Ferdia was mortified.
For a couple of excruciating seconds, Micah and Muiria studied him.
‘He has a look of the Poldark lad,’ Muiria declared.
‘Aidan Turner. He does, aye!’
‘And you’re here on your lonesome?’ Muiria asked.
He’d wanted Barty to come but there wasn’t enough room.
‘We were going to put you in the studio apartment,’ Muiria told Ferdia. ‘But looking at you now, I think it’ll be too small.’
What?
‘Are you on your own?’ she asked Saoirse.
‘You are? Micah, take this young lady to the studio apartment and we’ll sort Aidan Turner here out with something more suitable. CLIFFORD!’ she howled, in the direction of the corridor her husband had disappeared down. ‘CLIFFORD!’
Clifford burst through a door at the same time as Johnny heard a car parking outside.
‘Take Mr and Mrs Casey to the Empress Suite and look lively. Another lot have just arrived.’ To Johnny and Jessie she said, ‘When you’ve settled in, come to the drawing room to get your name badge and props.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Johnny said to Jessie. ‘I’ve fucked up on an epic scale.’
The Empress Suite wasn’t a suite. The only thing that was in any way ‘empress-y’ about the room was the curvy headboard on the bed. The rest was bog-standard white melamine.
What made it even more horrifying was that this weekend wasn’t just family. Rionna was coming with her wife, Kaz.
Also on their way from Dublin, expecting a stylish murder-mystery weekend in a luxury country-house hotel, were two of Jessie’s friends and their husbands.
‘It’s clean,’ Jessie said. ‘That’s something.’
‘What if I could get us into the Lough Erne?’ Fired by desperate hope, he reached for his iPad and tapped urgently. ‘That’s five-star! … Oh. No Wi-Fi. I’ll just go down to –’
‘Johnny, stop. We’re staying. Let’s unpack and then we’ll go down.’ She opened the wardrobe and said, ‘What the hell …?’
The wardrobe was full of clothes, probably Clifford’s and Muiria’s.
‘That’s it!’ Johnny said. It was definitely the Lough Erne for them.
‘Mum, Johnny?’ Saoirse’s voice came from outside their room.
‘Just come in,’ Jessie called. Because there was no lock on the door – yet another issue.
‘You have to come and look,’ Saoirse said. ‘I’m crying! It’s the funniest thing ever! My “studio apartment” is a kitchen. I’m literally deceased! A kitchen with a washing-machine. A camp bed where the table should be.’
‘Come on!’ Suddenly energized, Jessie jumped up and grabbed Johnny.
