I smiled. “It’s great to see you again.”
“I’m mortified about it. Especially as I should know about rip tides. After all I’ve lived by the sea long enough but.” She patted Bessie. “When I saw her heading out to sea, I lost all sanity. Thank goodness for the amazing lifeboat crew. Are you stopping for a drink?”
A bottle sat on the table, surrounded by a triangle of glasses, empty but for shallow pools of red.
Did I want to drink this early and on an empty stomach too? I shook my head. “I best not. I’ve left Jason at home.”
“Have the one,” Laura urged as she bent over to drag a chair from the neighbouring table. It juddered against the pavement. She patted the seat. “It’s my round.”
I hesitated. Just one should be fine, even if I hadn’t eaten yet. It would be lovely to stay for a chat with Laura and her friends.
“I’ll get...” I clamped my mouth shut. My tenner wouldn’t stretch to four people and especially not wine.
“No, you won’t.” She picked up the empty bottle. “This will be my thank you for what you did to help me. I’ll leave you with Sarah and Erin.”
As she disappeared with Bessie, the sound of music and laughter escaped from the pub, muted as the door clanked shut behind them. Sarah and Erin asked about the B&B and talked about their jobs – one owned an art shop and the other worked at Berrinton Library – until Laura reappeared with Bessie but no drinks.
“He’s bringing them out. Do you read, Katie?” She’d caught the tail-end of our conversation. “If so, we all go to this book group. You might enjoy it.”
The bar man brought out two bottles of red wine and an empty glass for me. It wasn’t my drink of choice, but I could manage a small one – or even this large one – thanks to Laura upturning the bottle so the wine glugged into my glass. I took a sip. Not bad. The women were good company, talking about books, the local scenery and people. Before I knew it, I’d finished my drink. My head felt hazy while sound took on a strange resonance, as if my hearing had distorted.
Amused, I watched a man who appeared to have three eyes. His toad-like chin wobbled when he laughed, his cheeks etched by a road map of purple lines which warped like a stripey shirt on TV. Best of all, he had no idea his beer threatened to slosh over his pint glass. I gave it ten seconds. At thirty, I got bored and turned back to find Laura pouring more wine.
“No more,” I pleaded when it reached half full. She stopped at three-quarters. I’d take a bit more care to sip this one.
My phone beeped and I glanced at the text which swam across the screen. Jason. ‘Where are you?’
Should I ignore him? But I couldn’t remember why I would. Our disagreement had drifted into the mist of time, fogged by delicious wine. I shrugged. It couldn’t have been anything important. Poor Jason, stuck at home while I had fun.
Beside me froggy man spilled his drink – I knew he would! – swiping his hand up his sodden chin to slurp the dregs back into his mouth.
Half-watching him, I typed. ‘At the harbour. Just met Laura.’. As the man smeared his hand down his trouser leg, I noticed my phone had autocorrected my text to “Ate the harbouring.Just met Laureate.’ I giggled. Again, my phone beeped. ‘Your dinner is here. Will put it in the oven.’
I’d forgotten I hadn’t eaten. I knocked back the last of my wine and stood up, alarmed to find myself swaying.
“I’ve got to go.” My voice sounded thick and blurred. Not mine. Red wine and I didn’t go well together. Or, perhaps we went too well! “It’s been ni-sh meeting you all again,” I slurred. “Do shout about the book club.”
I didn’t stagger home. Instead, I meandered – like a stream bending along the road – I liked that one. A tinkling stream! That made me want the loo. I giggled to myself and a passing couple looked round and shrugged. Maybe I should pretend to be on my mobile, or else they might think I was mad talking to myself. I pulled my new mobile from the pocket of my jeans, but it shot through my fingers, crashing onto the cobbles. Oh no! I caressed the crack which branched like a tree across the screen. Poor little mobile, not even a week old. But what a pretty fracture.
I told Jason about my mobile when I stumbled into the lounge. He needed to know how it had suffered.
“Look, my poor little mobile. It’s got an owwie.” I leaned against the wall. “Do you want to kiss it better?”
“Have you got in this state to pay me back?” Jason spat.
“Nooooo.” I stuck two fingers up at him. “I’ve just had one-two. Oh, that reminds me, I need the loo. One-two, I need the loo.” I cackled and stumbled upstairs.
♦
When I made it downstairs the next morning, I found my congealed spaghetti carbonara in the oven. Until that point, I thought I’d done well to get up without a hangover, but the smell of rancid food made my stomach heave and bile rise in my throat. I clicked on the kettle. Only black coffee would do.
Jason came into the kitchen without a ‘hello’. He tied his apron strings round his back – the picture on the front showing him holding a sausage cigar had started to peel away – and opened the fridge door to pull the packs of sausages and bacon out.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “I had no idea red wine would affect me like that.”
“You went out to pay me back. Tit for tat.”
“If that had been the case, I would have stayed out and rolled in at midnight like you did.”
Yet again, we spent a breakfast service in silence other than to hiss orders at each other or toss the odd barbed remark. My face curdled on contact with his, but I made sure to plaster a smile as I entered the breakfast room. ‘Delicious breakfast?’ ‘Yes, I am lucky to be married to a great cook like him.’ Luckily, with Jason not speaking to me, he couldn’t boast about all the compliments.
If I was honest with myself, it unnerved me how Jason and I had changed recently. In our previous jobs we’d spent much of the week apart, but we’d made the most of our free time taking leisurely walks in the countryside, visiting relatives and friends or simply getting a takeaway with a bottle of wine. Each hour together felt precious. Because it was.
Now, forced into a 24/7 relationship, we weren’t as close or comfortable in each other’s company as we’d assumed. Like those ‘open all hours’ convenience stores, we’d become tired and in need of a refresh. But didn’t that describe every B&Ber in high season? Shona and Kim had arguments too and they loved each other. Shona had even become the devoted nurse maid since Kim had come home, refusing to let her get up, let alone make a cup of tea.
It was early days for Jason and me. We just needed to give ourselves time to get used to this new life.
“Are you planning on doing any work this morning?” Jason thrust two plates into my hands. “Or do I need to do everything myself?”
♦
By five o’clock we had two of our three couples checked-in. I’d texted the missing couple that morning to confirm their arrival time, but they hadn’t responded. It was my turn to do the check-in. Knowing my luck, they’d arrive seconds before our final arrival time.
Occasionally people complained about our latest check-in time being eight o’clock, but we worked seven days a week from early morning through to the last arrivals. That’s unless there was an issue, when we had to be on hand day and night. In the first month, we’d allowed two guests to arrive after midnight, due to terrible traffic. But after realising how exhausted we’d become if this happened too often, I started to monitor traffic issues on Google. It meant we could be lenient if there had been an accident, but refuse an eleven o’clock arrival to people who’d simply chosen to leave London at six pm. After all, there were manned 24-hour receptions at hotels in the area that were better suited to late arrivals.
By seven pm, I became worried. Our missing guests hadn’t answered my earlier text message and phone call. We’d waited up before for someone who’d chosen not to tell us they’d decided not to come. Like these guests, they’d ignored us too. I
tried the number again, but the phone rang until it went through to an answering service. Instead, I texted to remind the guests of our latest check-in time. By eight fifteen pm, I decided they must be ‘no shows’ and went to charge their card but, as I typed in the details, the doorbell rang.
Two lads stood at the door, reeking of alcohol, each clutching a carrier bag. The taller lad’s shirt hung down on one side, masking his hand which I assumed he’d tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He reminded me of Shaggy – the cartoon character from Scooby Doo rather than the pop star – with his lank hair curling around his ear lobes and tufts sprouting from his chin. Cream-tipped spots stained his cheeks, two threatening to erupt any moment.
“Donovan. For our booking.”
I didn’t reprimand them about being late. But they’d been drinking, so how had they got here?
“Where’s your car?”
“We’ve come by train.”
I sighed. Why had they booked parking? If I’d known, I could have used the parking pass rather than find the only space on the brow of Moreton Hill.
“Come through. I’ll check you in and then take you to your room.”
They flicked hesitant glances at each other. “Can we make this quick? We came back cos of your text, but we’ve left our drinks in the pub.”
Now wasn’t the time to tell me they’d been in Torringham for hours, while I waited for them to arrive. “You have to check-in and pay before you get your keys.” I pushed the form in front of them. “Put your details, names and address. Then read the bit about loss of keys and times. We charge for damage.”
Until now, all our young guests had been lovely and well-mannered, so these lads’ ages weren’t an issue, but something about them unsettled me. It wasn’t so much their drinking, as most of our guests enjoyed a drink at night. Or even their thoughtlessness about the arrival time and parking, as many older guests could be the same. But it didn’t bode well, especially when they stood rifling through their wallets as if struggling to find the payment amount.
“We usually pay when we leave.” The taller one snapped his wallet shut as if it was his choice.
“The booking information clearly states payment on arrival. If you want to go elsewhere, fine, but we charge your first night regardless.”
“How about we pay tomorrow?” The other lad swept his fringe aside to display pink-rimmed eyelids and bloodshot eyes.
It was eight thirty and my temper was shortening by the second. “How about you stay elsewhere?”
Incredible how they’d found the money for drink but not for their board. It was best they didn’t stay. They weren’t the type of guest we wanted. I could guarantee the card they’d booked with would fail if I processed it, no doubt insufficient funds. I headed towards the door.
“No wait!” The taller one held out a bank card. Not a type I’d seen before. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know we had to pay today but there’s enough on here.”
I gave them the payment receipt, explained about breakfast times and handed them the keys. Their one question related to the latest time they could come in.
“You’ve got a key,” I said. “Just make sure you don’t wake our other guests and you shut the front door.”
When I took them up to the small double they’d booked, the taller one hit his head on the door frame but laughed it off and fell onto the double bed, bagsying it for himself. Their beers seemingly forgotten I left them to it and headed back to the lounge, to be blasted by the sound of gunfire as I opened the door. Jason lay across the sofa, arm behind his head, legs outstretched across the armrest. He kept a tight grip on the remote control, most likely to prevent me taking it.
“I’ve just told those lads to keep the noise down,” I said. “And here’s you with the volume up full.”
“Speak up!” Jason kept his eyes on the TV. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
I sighed. It was going to be one of those nights.
Chapter 16
A strange noise woke me. The doorbell or had I dreamed it? In the darkness, I patted the bedside table to find my mobile phone. Its harsh brightness made me squint. Four o’clock. I groaned and slumped back onto the pillow, my tired eyes flickering shut. The sound of the doorbell pierced the sleeping guesthouse. No doubting it this time. Heart pounding, I shot out of bed and dragged on my jeans in the half-light of the mobile phone. Had something happened to Emily? Why else would someone be calling at this time? I debated whether to wake Jason but decided against it. I couldn’t risk the caller going for a hat-trick, especially with a houseful of guests. Slipping my arms through a cardigan to conceal my pyjama top, I padded down the stairs into the hallway.
The shorter of the two lads who’d arrived the night before stood at the door. Behind him a car idled, its hazard lights flashing, the nearby street lamp casting a glow across its bonnet. I couldn’t see anyone in the car. Had he driven it in his state? His crumpled shirt hung loose and a dark stain ran from below his crotch to the thigh of his shiny trousers. Hopefully, just a spilled drink.
“Do you know the time?” I hissed. If guests had slept through the doorbell, I didn’t want to wake them by shouting, even though I could have wrung his neck.
A large man stepped from the shadows making me jump. The hallway light reflected on his bald head and his neck spilled over the collar of his shirt. My eyes were drawn to his thick fingers gripping the lad’s shoulder. My heart thumped. What on earth was going on? I glanced back into the guesthouse. Should I call Jason? A car drove past, the sound of tyres on tarmac scouring the night. Its headlights lit up the car blocking the front of our driveway, a taxi by the look of the door plate.
“Sorry to wake you but this man’s friend did a bunk, leaving him asleep in the back of my taxi.” Like the lads, he had a London accent. “This one reckons his friend has the cash to pay.”
“He’s inside,” the lad said. “He took the keys to the room. I could get the money if you let me in.”
I pushed him back. While he hadn’t been the one to run off without paying for the taxi, I didn’t want to do anything that might disturb our other guests. “You’re going nowhere and keep your voice down.”
“I’ll be a few minutes,” I told the taxi driver. Jabbing my finger towards the lad, I added, “You better hope you haven’t woken my guests. Stay here while I speak to your friend.”
It wasn’t a case of going straight upstairs. Being in a guesthouse, the doors were locked for all but the day room. I closed the front door on them and headed to the cupboard where we secreted the breakfast room key in a box accessed by a code. As I inserted the key into the breakfast room door, I fumbled and it clattered onto the laminate flooring. I tried again – this time keeping a tight grip – grimacing as the door creaked open. The light from the street lamp filtered inside, so I could make out the tables and chairs, albeit in shades of grey. I padded through to the kitchen to unhook the spare set of guest room keys and tiptoed upstairs to the second floor. The creak of the floorboards echoed through the landing and I winced, certain I would be fielding a mass of complaints from exhausted guests the next morning.
Not wanting to make more noise, I didn’t knock but carefully opened the lads’ door to be hit by the stench of stale alcohol and sweat. Flicking on the light, I gazed in distaste at the fully clothed lad, stretched star-like on his back across the covers. I hooked my pyjama top over my nose and headed over. The sharp tang of spirits oozed from him. I prodded his scrawny arm but he didn’t respond, so I tapped his face. He gave a loud snore and his foul breath moistened my hand. Yuk! I wiped the back of my hand on the corner of the pillow but, unable to rid the feeling of it being tainted I looked round for the box of tissues we usually kept in the room. That’s when I spotted the wallet jutting from his pocket and plucked it out, not caring if I woke him, although I had a feeling nothing would rouse him from his drunken stupor. Apart from the card he’d used earlier, a railcard and a driving licence in the name of Carl Donovan, the wallet was empty
.
I took it outside, where I handed it to the taxi driver. “I can’t wake his friend.”
“I could!” The lad’s voice ricocheted off the walls.
“What and wake my guests?” I snarled. Above us, a window had been left ajar. Great! That would be Alan and Sharon, a youngish couple with perfect hearing, unlike hearing-aid users Joan and Norman whose neighbouring windows were firmly closed. Like buttered toast my luck never landed the right way.
I dropped my voice to a whisper, “Unless he knows his mate’s pin it won’t be much use.”
“It’s the police then,” the man said.
“I might know it.” The lad went to snatch the wallet. “He usually writes it in biro on the leather. Look under the light and it’ll be there. Two numbers on either side.”
The taxi driver hauled him off to his car where I could make out their faces under the interior light. The man held the card in the air and a walkie-talkie to his mouth, it’s tinny sound faint in the air. Why on earth hadn’t I listened to my instincts and refused to let the lads stay? Yawning, I leaned against the building, the ripple of the render cool on my back. Lucky Jason. I envied him his ability to sleep through a storm. If only I could crawl into bed, roll myself into the duvet and drift away. I jerked upright, shocked at how close I’d come to nodding off.
The taxi driver and lad were getting out of the car. I went over to them, wanting to keep them and their noise away from the guesthouse.
“His card won’t work,” the taxi driver said. “Apparently, it’s a prepayment card and his mate must have spent all the money.”
“What now?”
The driver looked at me and shrugged. “One for the police, I’m afraid.”
Appalled, I gazed at him. The police here twice in as many weeks? Not only that but they’d wake the guests, especially as they’d have to go inside to fetch the other lad. No doubt, he wouldn’t go quietly either. I shuddered. This could end up costing us a fortune in ill-feelings and bad reviews. All because of two idiots.
Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse Page 13
