Chapter Eight
For her job at the hotel, Sariah was required to wear a crisp white blouse, a gold name badge and a big smile. The Warburn Spa had what head office called a discerning clientele, which, in Sariah’s opinion, translated to ‘entitled stuck-up idiots who think money means more than manners’.
No one would have guessed that the manager of the Warburn Spa had left home at fifteen with barely a GCSE to her name.
She’d started out cleaning holiday cottages and guest houses, then got a job on reception at a small hotel in Newquay before moving to the new hotel in Portheast and working her way up.
Now, each time she pinned on her badge, Sariah experienced a small frisson of satisfaction because this was more than anyone ever thought Sariah Carnie of Redruth would ever amount to.
She was the public face of the Warburn Spa, which meant that by the end of a shift her face ached from smiling, which widened into a rictus when faced with a particularly tricky customer.
That morning, a couple from Cheshire had forgotten to book their spa treatments, but insisted they needed relaxing massages before lunch.
‘I have over eighty thousand followers and I don’t think they would be impressed by your customer service,’ the woman said in a threatening tone.
Mr Cheshire, clearly familiar with this performance, sneaked off to have a quiet vape on the front steps until the deal was done.
Sariah persuaded another (far nicer) couple to move to a later slot, with the promise of a free afternoon tea. ‘My pleasure,’ she said to Ms Cheshire through gritted teeth.
Mostly it was fun at the hotel: the staff were a laugh and some of the guests, too. But there was something jarring about meeting people who thought nothing of spending ￡200 on dinner when Sariah knew some of the junior staff lived off kitchen leftovers and McDonald’s kids’ meals.
Mind you, those high-paying guests didn’t see what went on behind the scenes: the flit of grey mice across the kitchen floor, the hair-matted gunk that lurked in the water pipes beneath the spa, barely kept at bay by industrial-strength unblocker.
‘Yes, madam, all our cleaning products are natural and phosphate free,’ she would recite, turning on that winning smile.
After she’d escorted the Cheshires to the massage suite, Sariah checked in three more couples and then, oh joy, a hen party.
Already, the bride was a little queasy (Pimm’s all the way down from Paddington) and her sister was looking daggers at the maid of honour.
They were booked in for the bottomless Prosecco brunch and Sariah predicted tears – and the mop-up bucket – before 4 p.m.
It wasn’t until lunchtime that Sariah had a chance to look at her phone.
Somehow, since going to yesterday’s meeting at the museum, Alison had talked her into joining a WhatsApp group and it appeared there had been a debrief.
Skimming the morning’s messages, Sariah sighed.
Wasn’t everyone getting a bit carried away?
Alison was planning a media campaign and wanted to find human-interest stories linked to the museum’s collections.
In Sariah’s view, Alison’s time would be better spent sorting out her own life rather than meddling in other people’s.
She had seen the lairy way her partner, Roy, acted in The Lugger and heard about fistfights after last orders. She hoped he was nicer at home.
Jacob was in the group too. He had the same hearty confidence and perfect teeth as some of their guests. But there was no telling how a family’s fortunes could change, because here was Sariah with keys to all the rooms of the Warburn family pile while Jacob was working in Potters Newsagents.
Then there was Della – honestly, hadn’t she heard of fashion? – and of course the town’s biggest weirdo, Evelyn Silver. This group really wasn’t Sariah’s thing at all.
Another message from Alison pinged in: @Sariah Hey, Della thought a museum exhibit caught your eye. Fancy telling me its story for the press release?
Sariah sighed and left her on read. Of course she’d seen Grandma Karensa’s teacup, but what would she say?
‘Yes, I saw a broken cup that’s somehow ended up in the big jumble sale that passes for Portheast Museum.
It reminded me how I lived in fear of it being discovered because then I’d get what for . . .’
Oh, there was a story attached to that cup, but it wasn’t one for sharing.
Unconsciously, Sariah lifted her fingers to her scalp, worried at the tiny patch above her left ear, the bare skin that felt both sore and pleasingly soft.
It was an easily hidden flaw in her otherwise perfectly groomed appearance: hair tied up, the same sweeps of make-up each day to highlight her cheeks, eyes and that winning smile.
Her phone pinged again and this time it was Jacob.
@Sariah Hey, I’ve had a bit of a brainwave re the Save Our Museum campaign. Thought we could create a website, but I don’t know how. Do you? Just need a simple one.
Yes, I bloody well do, she thought.
Sariah worked best when she was fired up by anger and determined to prove people wrong.
It was how she’d made her own way in the world because she hadn’t been to private school or university like Jacob or had the money to go travelling around the world and open up an ice cream parlour on a whim, like Della.
And she was certainly more capable than that oddball Evelyn.
Sariah’s own mother had said, among other put-downs, that she was ‘nothing but trouble’, that she was ‘as thick as two short planks’ and that she ‘ate them out of house and home’.
For a long time, Sariah would retaliate, shouting awful, ugly things at her mother.
But then she learned a different way of coping: she held those painful words inside, turning them over until they became a hot ball of resentment.
It was that heat that kept her going: working double shifts, smiling harder to prove that Sariah Carnie was someone to be reckoned with.
Yes, sure, I can build websites. It’s pretty easy really she typed back.
Even better, Sariah realised that if she was in charge of the website, she could decide what objects appeared on it – and she was going to make sure that cracked teacup was never seen again.
There was only a tiny chance that someone in her family would see it, but it wasn’t one Sariah wanted to take.