Chapter Eleven Let Me Out . . .
What a whirlwind. I’m officially hot (well according to one middle-aged plumber) and I’ve managed to upset those around me as a result. I could decide to keep my head down, and in fact that might be safer for all concerned. These thoughts are running through my mind as I sit in the office getting ready for the weekend. I determine to host this book-club retreat professionally but otherwise keep myself to myself. I picture myself as an elegant and respected hostess.
The only flaw in this plan is that I’m quite flattered. Me, hot. It doesn’t matter who pays the compliment, I’d defy anyone not to have a spring in their step after hearing that. I don’t want to retreat back into my shell — when I stop to notice, I realize I’ve started to enjoy myself.
I do so want this weekend to be good, for everyone to have fun, to tell other people and for it to lead to lots more business. Patty and I are heading there this Friday evening so that I can check things out before Charlie and the guests arrive on Saturday. I have time to do something to make it extra special. I’ve already written welcome cards, had a little gift pack made and sent out the directions. It all looks great, but I’m wondering whether there is some icing missing from the cake.
A search around the internet and I have what I’m looking for: the hotel is apparently haunted. A tour of the cellars will be a perfect way to start the reading. I’m on fire now, so I book myself a wee treat at the spa — a hot stone massage. Well, you might as well give it a go — she who dares and all that.
I must remember to shave my legs before I venture into the spa. For a brief second I am lost in thought trying to remember the last time I did that. I think it may have been nearly a year ago.
When I get home that evening I smear a whole tube of extra-strong hair-removing cream on my legs and leave it on for slightly longer than the packet advised. I shower it off and still look like Chewbacca. I’ll be making a case under the Trades Description Act tomorrow.
After that I try to master the art of waxing. ‘Simple, easy to use strips’ — no they’re not. Heat wax up, smother over leg and rip it off? It mentions nothing about how you get it off the towels and carpet when it drips everywhere. Who would do this regularly? And I know they don’t stop at their legs. Having cried out in pain trying to rip one strip off, I cannot imagine who decided this would be a good thing to apply to your privates. I cringe even thinking about it.
In the end I decide to go back to the old-fashioned method and take an industrial-strength razor with me to wield when I get to the hotel — my legs are already crying out for their human rights. The razor isn’t a girly pink one but a Macho Glide, the type I used to steal from Alan (light-bulb moment: that might be the last time I shaved them). Men don’t realize how lucky they are not having to do this, apart from Olympic cyclists, bodybuilders and drag queens, of course.
* * *
It’s a long drive up to the Eden Valley in Cumbria, so Patty has come equipped with the contents of Willy Wonka’s factory.
‘We’ll have diabetes by the time we get there with that lot,’ I say.
‘Rubbish,’ replies Patty. ‘Here, have a gobstopper.’
After a sing-along to an eighties radio channel, we hit a signal blackspot and no amount of twiddling with the knob helps to restore sound.
‘What shall we do now?’ asks Patty like a needy child.
‘We could play a game,’ I suggest. ‘When I was a kid, we used to try and make words out of the last three letters on a car registration.’
‘Sounds a bit dull.’
‘Well you come up with something better then,’ I tell her.
‘OK, keep your knickers on, we’ll give it a go,’ says Patty scanning the cars around us.
‘Here you go — XPT — make a word out of that.’
We both sit silently for a moment.
‘Got one,’ exclaims Patty. ‘Sexy-Pants.’
‘That’s not one word,’ I say.
‘I hyphenated it,’ she tells me. ‘Anyway, you do better.’
‘Exasperated,’ I sigh.
At which point we leave the signal blackspot and Patty starts a duet with Billy Idol.
* * *
We turn off the M6, go through Kirkby Stephen and before long we turn into the long driveway of Langton Castle. I tingle with anticipation as the building comes into view. It is stunning. I have a feeling that this is going to be a very good weekend.
We check in and are shown our rooms. The whole place looks perfect. They’ve taken care with the décor using contemporary colours and fabrics which complement the age of the building without being simply chintz. We drop Patty off first and then I get to my room. The concierge opens the door on to a suite with a huge four-poster bed — they obviously want to impress the organizers.
‘My room is FABULOUS,’ declares Patty as she bursts into mine. ‘Much bigger than this. I could get an entire rugby squad in there.’
It’s a big relief that the hotel is so wonderful because the March weather is awful: dark and stormy, yet perfect for a ghost story, I suppose. If the sky could summon up some thunder and lightning when people have safely arrived, that would be perfect.
Patty and I have a calm evening of good food and warming wine. I check a few details with the manager and we both retire to our bedrooms.
* * *
When I open my eyes and remember where I am this morning, a surge of happiness flows through me. I now know how cats feel when they do that big stretch. I snuggle down to enjoy the moment and drink it all in: the softest pillows, the firmest mattress, the most luxurious linen; knowing that I don’t have to wash or iron any of it, I could live like this forever. Eventually I have to get up, if only to take full advantage of further luxury — a breakfast beyond Weetabix.
‘Here’s to the magic wand.’ I raise a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to Patty. ‘We wouldn’t be here without it.’
Patty picks up a silver fork. ‘I hereby command this wand to bring me the perfect book-club stud tonight: brains and brawn, handsome and humorous, charming and cheerful.’ She skewers a sausage on to it and waves it in the air just to ensure the spell is cast.
‘So just stay out the way, missus.’ And she chomps off a warning-sized bite.
‘It doesn’t work unless you say whoosh,’ I tell her with a smile.
I’d love Patty to meet someone but I can’t remember anyone like that at the book club... maybe flirty Peter at a push.
The book-club members arrive throughout the day and Charlie calls to tell me he’s in his room at lunchtime. From the joy in his voice, his room is every bit as gorgeous as ours.
We all gather together for drinks at six in the gothic dining room. Everyone’s delight over the accommodation is followed by excitement at the appearance of the hotel manager looking every inch the Victorian undertaker — this is my surprise for them.
‘We’re here to read about a haunting, a woman in white I believe,’ he declares as the book club hangs on his every word. ‘And while you may feel safe when the undead are confined to the pages of a book...’
Dramatic pause.
‘How will you feel when a troubled soul walks among you?’
Nervous laughter all round — this guy should be on the stage.
We’re given a lantern between two and the tour of the hotel vaults begins. Dark and draughty, it sees me clinging on to Caroline and I can see that Patty is doing the same with Peter (she grabbed him rather quickly). I can’t see Charlie anywhere; I hope he’s not going to miss this. Our guide stops by a huge wooden door.
‘Many years ago these vaults were sealed... to hide a terrible crime... Mary Argyll, a young woman betrothed to the old laird but in love with another, was imprisoned here until she denounced that love. Locked up in her long white wedding gown she refused to name her true love and so the laird threw away the key.’
We’re on tenterhooks.
‘Sometimes you can still hear her calling, “Let me out, please let me out”, and rapping on the door of her prison cell. But here she died. Many years later, her body was taken and given a Christian burial, still wearing that fateful white gown. Let’s go and pay our respects to her.’
We turn away from the door and start moving forward — but then it starts, a slow hammering on the door, louder and louder, then a cry, ‘Let me out, please let me out.’
We scream and I dodge behind Caroline, coward that I am. Our guide raises his lantern. ‘Mary, is that you?’
At this point there is a pulse-raising scream and the door bursts open — a bloodied woman in a tattered white wedding dress. We scatter before eventually turning to check out our ghost.
‘Charlie!’
Top marks for effort; he’d arranged this with the manager once he’d heard we were touring the vaults. I wouldn’t have hidden in that room all night. The club members loved it and over dinner as everyone discusses the book, the castle and the ‘definite eerie atmosphere in the vaults’, I relax a little. Our first venture has gone well, even if it does feel as if I’m in an episode of Scooby-Doo. I wonder which character I am.
* * *
On Sunday morning we’re free to relax and enjoy the grounds. The rain has mercifully stopped and the lawns are luminous green as they always are after a spring downpour. Daffodils are starting to bloom and I feel as if the heavens have conspired to make things as perfect as they could be for me. I say a little ‘thank you’ under my breath. I bump into Charlie on the way to the spa and arrange to meet in the car park before we go our separate ways. The massage is a little strange. I hadn’t known what to expect (maybe the stones were used to warm up the room like in a sauna?), but it turns out that in a hot stone massage they actually heat up some pebbles and rub them over your back. Again, I ask myself, who was the first person that thought this might be something people would pay to have done?
Anyway, it’s time to leave this wonderful place so I head to our rendezvous where Charlie is already waiting.
‘Has Patty surfaced yet?’ I ask.
Charlie nods towards the hotel entrance where Patty is giggling and leaning into Peter. He’s jotting something down.
‘Blimey — he’s giving her his number.’
‘Hardly likely, sweetie,’ he assures me.
At that point Patty storms towards us and thrusts the note into Charlie’s hand.
‘First her and now you — apparently I’m a gay pimp too.’
I clasp my mouth to hide the laughter. Charlie gets out his mobile phone and starts scanning Patty’s body up and down making beeping noises as he does it. She bats him away.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I can confirm that there is no gaydar fitted to this vintage model. I repeat, no gaydar.’
Charlie gets pelted with a mint humbug from Patty’s pocket.
‘Didn’t fancy him anyway,’ says Patty.