15. The Desmonds & the Foyles
The Desmonds the Foyles
Idon’t know about you, but I’m the sort of person who gets suspicious when things are going too well. It puts me on my guard. With so many positive reviews, I’ve got to be on the cusp of Superhost. I’ll be higher in the listings, so everyone will notice– and at a good price and with great reviews, that should translate into more bookings. What’s more, there might even be enough cash coming in from the sales of my cakes that will replace my receptionist income. So why am I not delighted?
I think I’m a bit anxious about our next guests. Understandably so, given recent experiences. What will I be dealing with, I wonder anxiously? It feels so personal when guests leave Lavander Cottage in a mess, when they tramp through my garden and crush the flowers. I don’t get those feelings with the garden café. I love every minute. The people come, they eat and drink and enjoy themselves– and then, best of all– they go! It’s so much easier.
I’ve decided to do a trial run every Saturday and Sunday, see if the café takes off. Chloe has offered to put some adverts out on socials and we’ve made a free-standing sign for the bottom of the street. If Laura bloody Watson kicks up a fuss about it, I’ll get Mitzi to put a hex on her. Anyway, she’s been very quiet lately. No doubt, if her guests are like mine, only richer, she’s finding the BB business far more taxing than she’d anticipated. Serves her right.
The café– I’m only just keeping my excitement under control. More baking cakes– more time in the garden? It’s all too much to hope for. Who is this lucky woman?
Mitch and I shared a kiss. Will that turn into something? He is so gorgeous, but so shy. At the end of Mitzi’s event, he sloped off without a proper goodbye, and I was so busy I didn’t even notice. Ah well, I’m sure he’ll understand that it was a crazy day.
Mitzi is flying since the Scones Spirits do. She is inundated with requests from people wanting to join her classes or book in for one of the experiences she advertises; also, she’s been invited to do a couple of corporate away days, presenting meditation practice and yoga for health. You get very well paid for those. She’s been splashing the cash on some very annoying drums, bells and a fire pit. The first time she experimented with it, the amount of smoke and stink it gave off caused one of the neighbours to phone and ask if they needed to call the fire brigade. Carl and Mitzi were in hysterics. When they weren’t looking, I threw my peppermint tea on it: that soon put it out.
That same night, I was fast asleep when Chloe returned home late from a shift, came into my bedroom and woke me to tell me she’s been promoted to manager in the restaurant where she works.
‘I’m proud of you, love. That’s brilliant.’
‘Oh Mum, I reckon I’ll be good at anything I put my mind to. It just takes hard work. I’ve decided I’m going to apply to Uni– I don’t know where yet. I might stay at home to save the cash, or I might think, Fuck it, and go. I could study Event Management. Run gigs. See stuff for free. Yes. I’ve decided, I’m doing it.’
I didn’t know my daughter had enough qualifications to go to Uni? But apparently, she has enough points from the studying she squeezed into this year.
‘Don’t you remember me doing the Access course at Halifax Academy every Tuesday and Wednesday?’
I’m a terrible mum, because I remember nothing about it. Anyway, all she has to do is have a look round and get the application in to whichever universities that offer the subjects she’s after, get accepted, find accommodation, find finance and open a student account– all within the next four weeks before autumn term begins in October. I am struggling to breathe thinking about it all. She, on the other hand, is completely relaxed.
I never went to university. Only Big Brains Maureen, as we called her at the time, went to Uni, in her twenties– to Manchester, or maybe Bolton? I don’t even know if she finished her degree. She studied Drama, I recall, and possibly Spanish– and Environmental Studies came into it too, somewhere along the line. Anyway, it was one or all of them. It’s a blur of postcards.
My sister never went back to the family farm once she left. I reckon she only saw Mum and Dad three or four times after that, before they died a decade or two later. The ‘Goodbye, I’m going to Uni,’ turned out to be a permanent farewell.
I’m sure Chloe has collapsed into bed and is enjoying a lovely restful night, but for me now any chance of sleep has gone. The doubts and fears draw in. Will Chloe come back and visit me? I’m going to miss her so, everything about her, the mess after she cooks, my phone charger going missing, the tuna pasta leftovers going mouldy in the fridge, the hair blocking the shower, even her stinky pile of washing like a carpet on the floor of her bedroom. I’m ready to go into premature mourning. But Chloe is still very much at home and I think we get on a lot better these days than I did with my parents. In fact, I’m certain of it. We talk, we laugh, we share plans and the plans include one another. If my daughter can go to Uni and thrive, I’ve done a really good job. So why do I feel like I’ve been punched in the tummy and my heart is hurting already?
I distract myself from the thought of her going. I thank the Universe for my family, the garden, the cakes, the cottage, the sleep I desperately need– and even, of course, the guests.
*
The Desmonds and the Foyles are lovely, I can tell. They send polite messages– even if there are too many of them. How far to the local canal? Is it true there’s a small cinema? Is it correct there’s a local artisan food market every Saturday? What do we do about towels? Soap? Milk? Is there a fridge? Dishwasher? Stove? That does it, they’re so posh. Who has a stove? There’s a four-ring electric hob, love, and a microwave that you can pronounce mi-cro-wa-vee, if it makes you feel better. They are an upmarket brand of guest, I decide. I have prepared the two double beds, the feather pillows, the best bedding, oat milk as well as the dairy, and a sourdough loaf from the artisan market. All that should, I hope, do the trick. I can’t be losing my Superhost chances now.
It’s been a hectic morning prepping for their arrival. I’m up ridiculously early baking, cleaning the cottage top to bottom, third lot of laundry in and out, dishwasher filled and emptied twice. I could do with a supermarket shop but I wait to welcome them as they wanted an earlier than normal arrival. They’re forty-five minutes later than they said, which is irritating as I need to get to the post office. When they do arrive, they are pretty much exactly as I imagined. Both couples turn up purring in their own up-to-the-minute four-by-four electric cars. I had already pulled out the long extension for charging them up. I’ll have to mention an extra charge for the electricity. It’s so expensive these days, and they look like they can afford it.
The men are good-looking blokes with glasses, and their wives are yoga-type yummy mummies, both blonde, skinny and taller than average. They are super-relaxed, in their Fair Isle jumpers and designer shearling gilets, with expensive sloppy socks and immaculate walking boots that have never seen a cowpat or dog poo. I’m glad once they’re in the cottage, where they seem happy enough. I give them the welcome book to read and point out the wifi code, thinking, Please let that be it. I’m feeling low on interaction, wanting to chill and sit with my ‘Chloe might be leaving’ emotions.
I make it to the post office to send a couple of birthday cards, pick up the papers whilst I’m there and promise myself a rest. Back home, I run a deep luxurious bubble bath and have a pamper session with face-pack, hair mask and moisturiser. I then put on comfy loungewear– a fluffy pink velour two-set. I assemble a big cup of tea, a cheese savoury mix sandwich on brown, today’s Daily Mail and, like a gift, the sun runs through the garden and onto the double seat in front of the patio door. Grabbing a cushion and a throw, I take everything outside and set myself up. I lay the throw onto the seat, place the cushion in corner position, take a couple of bites of the sandwich, a good slurp of tea, wriggle out of my crocs and put my feet up, breathing a big sigh of pleasure.
The sun hits my face and it’s as if the weekend has finally, finally arrived. I open up the paper to the centre where there’s a ‘lottery-winner disaster relationship’ special. I know it’s mean, but it’s interesting to contemplate, should I ever win the lottery, exactly what I’d be dealing with. This, of course, is on the understanding that I might be in a relationship again. I’m not exactly being bowled over by attention from Mitch since the kiss. In fact, he’s not been in touch at all. Oh well. He’s shy, he’s just biding his time, it’s only been a few days. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Janet. Once Chloe goes, you’re going to be a hermit, a lonely singleton with only your cakes for comfort.
I stop and tell myself to relax... The sun is recharging my tired bones, the lottery stories are satisfyingly scandalous, the tea is delicious, the sandwich perfection.
‘Excuse me.’
I almost blank it out. Almost. Then I reluctantly close the paper and fix a polite smile to my face.
‘Hello? Everything OK?’
‘Well, actually, so sorry to disturb you,’ says one of the men from the cottage, ‘but there seems to be some sort of leak coming from under the kitchen sink. It’s quite a pool.’
‘Oh dear.’ I leap up and go into Lavander Cottage where, no question, the lino is awash with a thin layer of water. Oh Gawd.
‘We only turned on the tap to make a pot of tea,’ whines one of the blondes.
‘It’s nothing we’ve done,’ whines the other. ‘It must have already been faulty.’
‘Ever so sorry to bother you,’ the other man puts in.
‘I see.’ I’m baffled. ‘I cleaned the cottage this morning and there was no leak then. I’m really sorry to have this happen. Let me fetch some towels to mop it up and I’ll try to get hold of someone who should be able to help. Excuse me, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
I rush into the house and dig out the scratchy old towels from the back of the airing cupboard. It turns out I’ve got more scratchy old towels than actually any nice towels. It’s quite a pile. I haven’t time to overthink this. I know it’s pushing things, but what choice do I have? I call Mitch. He doesn’t answer. I’m now mortified. He’s so not into you. He sends a text. Thank God, this day couldn’t get any worse.
On a job.
Sorry. People stopping in cottage kitchen and floor flooding. What do I do?
He calls me. Asks, ‘What colour is the water?’
‘I just think it’s normal water.’
‘Right, go in, pull off the kickboard and videocall me.’
I throw every towel I own onto the kitchen floor, then with enormous effort lever off the kickboard from below the sink unit. I now lie full length in a pile of damp towels, my lovely newly washed hair resting in slimy water, whilst I videocall Mitch.
‘Show me the floor, right, run your hands up the pipes, that’s it... Now, can you feel water on any of them?’
My pink velour top is now black from the accumulated dust under the sink, and my lovely clean hands, all freshly moisturised, are scraping along an old slimy pipe.
‘Yes, I think so, I’m not sure... yes, I think so, on this one– can you see it?’ I vainly attempt to show him the pipes on my phone, giving him I’m sure an up-the-nostril worst view possible of me ever, when it’s obvious it’s really too dark for him to see anything.
‘Not really,’ he replies. ‘I’m up to my elbows in crap here or I’d come over. Put some more towels down, Janet, and just check it’s not coming out of the pipe when you turn the tap on?’
He sounds irritable and up against it in the way you get when you’re struggling to manage things. I turn the tap on, check again, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference to the water that’s accumulated.
‘It’s not making any difference.’
‘Double check.’
I’m back on the floor, feeling around the pipes, rolling around on the ground to really reach under the sink in the dust and slime.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘OK, that’s good. Stick some towels down, and leave the kicker-board off. I’ll get over there tomorrow. Got to go.’
‘Thanks.’ And he’s rung off. I can’t say it was the friendliest call.
As I’m lying there, all crumpled, damp and defeated, my hopes for Mitch collapse. I could weep. Why does my life have zero romance in it? I roll over and realise that the Desmonds and the Foyles, the quartet of immaculate lovelies, are all standing there looking at me prostrate on the floor. With a complete lack of any kind of dignity, I wobble my way back up to a standing position. I’m damp everywhere, dripping wet in some places, with dirty hands, filthy pink velour loungewear, grubby matted hair. I suddenly hate having people in Lavander Cottage, observing me on a down day, putting pressure on me that I don’t need and can barely cope with. I give in, I can’t find the energy to pretend this is all fine.
‘I’m so sorry that this has happened, and I don’t know what is going on. I think it might be better to cancel your stay and find somewhere else, because I can’t solve this today. I’m unable to get anyone out to see to this until tomorrow.’
The foursome look at each other stunned and disbelieving. I reckon it might be the first time something like this has ever happened to them. Their luck, charm, inheritance and good looks have no doubt smoothed a glorious life, only for them to be washed up on the shores of a Janet Jackson crisis. Their expectations of a perfect existence where nothing bad ever happens has just gone banjo.
‘Oh, we don’t want to cancel,’ says one of the chaps. ‘It’s only a bit of water, and the towels have soaked it up. We’re fine, aren’t we, everyone?’
‘Yes, yes, of course– it’s only a bit of water.’
They’re lovely. They’re kind, they’re the nicest people imaginable. I hate them at this moment. Please just go away and let me collapse somewhere in a small heap of anger, humiliation and frustration.
‘Only if you’re sure?’ I say weakly.
‘Of course, and we’re so sorry to put you to all this trouble. You poor thing.’
Poor thing? Aaarrrggghhh!
‘We’re going out now anyway, aren’t we?’
They collect their immaculate rucksacks and their empty water bottles, which they clearly daren’t now fill up with water, and head towards the door.
One of the blokes turns to me with a sympathetic expression and says, ‘Don’t worry, Ms Jackson, we won’t be booking any breakfast.’
I force a smile, go ahead out of the door and let them close up. I wave them off and then go into the house through the patio door and lock myself in the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror and flinch. What a state I am in. Right now, I cannot acknowledge what I’m feeling: I’m too scared of the implications. Then I berate myself. It’s time to own up. To come clean with myself and work out what to do.
The fact is, deep in my heart, I don’t want people staying in the cottage any more. Gulp. I’ve put it out there. It’s too stressful. From dodgy drunken carers who trash the place, eco witchy squatters who have to be smoked out, grumpy walkers, crazy kids that smash you in the head with a pool ball. It’s problem after problem after problem. There are too many people, it’s so difficult to manage. They’re either on their deathbed or they’re your boss who overstays his welcome and you lose your job that you had for years which was easy and which you enjoyed, all because of the bloody cottage. Or it’s your shitbag neighbour who gives you a One Star review, or the bastard celebrity getting a free stopover who repays your generosity by popping out a poo on your brand-new rug. There have to be easier ways of earning a living.
I give myself a moment or two to calm down before asking myself: Am I out of my mind? Superhost is tantalisingly close to happening. It would be madness to give it all up now. I’m tired, I know, and a bit emotional. But the fact remains: I really don’t want to do this any more. The feeling of relief in owning up to the truth is overwhelming. I’ve no idea how I’m going to do it, but I don’t care. I just know that the Desmonds and the Foyles are the last paying guests at Lavander Cottage.
Right now, in my grimy dishevelled state, I need to start the day all over again, and turn the shower to hot max. Out of nowhere, once I’m under the water, I feel a swell of emotion, and a few tears plop unceremoniously on to the shower tray. I suck it up for a few seconds, and then my shoulders drop, and in a wave of surrender I finally and completely give in and cry myself a waterfall of my own. Oh God. What a day. All the leaks.
*** Three Stars
Pleasant enough. Close to canal.
Prepare yourself. Sometimes you don’t want to have to face people, and guests are always in your face.
I’ll soon find out.
Worth repeating; befriend the Trades. Or spend hours on those videos teaching yourself.