Chapter 11
11
I was first put to work in the hotel the day after my thirteenth birthday. Mum and Dad had researched it carefully to make sure they weren’t falling foul of any laws and, to be fair, I didn’t mind. I started as a pot washer, but I graduated to preparing the rooms for the arrival of guests over the summer holidays. I loved it, and I took a great deal of pride in my work. They also paid me fairly and monitored my hours to make sure that I wasn’t working more than I should be. As I grew, they gave me more responsibility and I was a regular behind the check-in desk by the time I went away to university. It’s therefore no surprise that I’m expected to pitch in now that I’m back; in fact, I’m delighted to have something to do. What is a surprise is that Mum is studiously avoiding giving me anything that might bring me into contact with actual guests.
‘It’s for your own good,’ she told me firmly when I asked about it. ‘I’d hate for a guest to recognise you and say something nasty. We got away with it once; best not to tempt fate.’
What this means is that I’m back at the bottom of the heap, cleaning rooms and preparing them for guests, sorting out laundry and stuff like that. Although I don’t mind the work, it does mean that I have quite a lot of downtime in the evenings. Normally, I’d be helping to serve dinner, but that’s obviously forbidden, so I’ve largely spent them in my room, sending my CV to various agencies, transferring the pictures from the camera to my phone, scrolling through them and fighting the temptation to message Jock. I did get in touch with a couple of my old school friends who still live locally and we talked about organising a night out, but Mum practically hit the ceiling when I mentioned it to her. I may be an adult, but I’m well and truly grounded while I’m here. Mum’s made it perfectly clear that one of the conditions of me staying is that I remain completely out of sight.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Dad when my phone rings on Thursday afternoon. The caller ID tells me it’s one of the agencies I’ve registered with and I nearly drop it in my haste to answer.
‘Beatrice Fairhead,’ I say in my most professional voice. Dad raises his eyebrows, obviously curious, so I slip out of the kitchen and head for my room.
‘Beatrice, it’s Alice from Baxter Associates. Is now a good time?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘Great. I’ve put your CV in front of a number of potential employers, but it seems that finding you a position is proving rather more difficult than I predicted when we spoke at the beginning of the week.’
This is not the news I was hoping for, and my spirits instantly plummet again.
‘Oh? How come?’ I ask. She told me there were loads of vacancies on Tuesday, so I’ll be quite annoyed if it turns out she was leading me on.
‘Your CV is impressive, there’s no doubt about that, but everyone I’ve sent it to is understandably nervous about employing someone with an association to Hotel Dufour. It’s a small world, Beatrice, and they all know about what was going on there.’
‘But you explained to them that I wasn’t a part of it, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did, but they’re risk-averse. You know as well as I do that reputation counts for everything in this industry. However, the good news is that I do have an idea, if you’re prepared to think outside the box a little.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I rang a friend of mine at an agency that specialises in providing hospitality on film sets, and she’s got something she thinks might be perfect for you.’
Mum has joined Dad in the kitchen when I walk back in a little while later. They’re trying to act nonchalant but it’s obvious that they’re desperate to find out who was on the phone.
‘I’ve got an interview,’ I tell them.
‘Of course you have, darling,’ Mum gushes. ‘You’re so pretty and charming and clever. Is it one of the big London hotels?’
‘The Dorchester,’ Dad interrupts. ‘No, the Savoy. Although, having said that, I could see you at Claridge’s. I watched the TV series about that; it’s right up your street.’
‘It’s not a hotel. It’s a film set, actually.’
‘A film set ?’ Mum looks horrified. ‘What would a film set want with someone like you? You don’t know anything about films.’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I reply testily. ‘I’ve got a call with someone called Sandra from an agency that deals with this kind of thing, so I expect she’ll tell me more. Alice wouldn’t have put me forward if she didn’t think I was suitable, would she?’
‘I don’t trust these agents,’ Mum counters. ‘Only out for what they can get, that’s what they are. What does it matter to them if the job is suitable, as long as they pocket their commission. You should tell this woman you’re not interested. Stick to what you know.’
‘The problem is that nobody in the hotel industry will touch me at the moment. They all know about Hotel Dufour and don’t want to be tainted by association.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Mum scoffs.
‘Is it?’ I accuse. ‘You’re doing just the same thing, keeping me as far away from the guests as possible because you don’t want your precious reputation to be dented.’
‘We’re just looking out for you! You know how cruel people can be, and that woman you arrived with nearly recognised you.’
Thankfully, my phone rings again before this conversation can go any further.
‘Beatrice, this is Sandra from The Appleford Agency. Is now a good time?’
‘Absolutely,’ I tell her as I slip out of the kitchen once more.
‘So, I’ve received your CV and Alice has explained your, erm, predicament. As it happens, I do have a vacancy that might suit you, but I need to ask you a couple of questions before I put your name forward. The position I’m thinking about is a two-month contract. Is that likely to be an issue?’
‘I was hoping for something permanent,’ I tell her, trying to hide my disappointment.
‘Pretty much all the positions we deal with are fixed-term contracts,’ she explains. ‘Film work is very project based but, if you do well, there’s no reason why we wouldn’t be able to put you forward for other contracts when this one finishes. And each one will push Hotel Dufour further from the top of your CV, think of it that way.’
‘Can you tell me more about the position?’
‘Absolutely. The company is called Casterbridge Media, and they’re looking for someone to take care of the contestants in a new reality show they’re shooting in Mallorca. It says on your CV that you’re fluent in Spanish. I don’t mean to sound sceptical, but some people are prone to exaggeration on their CVs, and this is a key skill for the role.’
‘It’s not exaggerated. I am fluent.’
‘Good. The contestants and crew will all be English, but you’ll need to act as interpreter where needed.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘Good. I’ll send them your CV and let you know.’
‘Thank you, Sandra.’
Having had time to come to terms with the concept, Mum and Dad are now almost more excited than me about the potential job. I’d like to hope that this is because they’re genuinely pleased for me, but I suspect it’s mainly because it means I’ll move out again. I did explain that it was only for two months, but I think they’ve chosen not to hear that bit. Nevertheless, it’s fair to say that we were all delighted when Sandra called back the next day to say that the production company wanted to set up an online interview at eleven o’clock on Monday morning.
By half past ten, I’m as ready as I can be. I’ve put my hair up, dressed in the suit Mum warily allowed me to go out and buy, and applied just enough make-up to give the impression (I hope) that I care about my appearance without being vain. I connect to the meeting using the link Sandra has sent and wait anxiously for my interviewer to join. When he does, five minutes after the meeting was supposed to have begun, I’m a little surprised to be confronted by a man who doesn’t look a day older than me. I don’t know why, but I expected someone closer to my parents’ age.
‘Hello, Beatrice,’ he says, smiling widely to reveal suspiciously even teeth. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. My previous call overran. I’m Gus, by the way, and I’m one of the producers at Casterbridge Media.’
‘Nice to meet you, Gus,’ I reply.
‘Tell me what you know about the role.’
‘Not a huge amount, I’m afraid. I know it’s a reality TV show and that it’s set in Mallorca. That’s all they told me.’
‘Let me fill in the blanks for you then. The show is called Too Busy for Love , and the premise is that we take a load of people whose lives are so jam-packed that they don’t have time for dating, put them in a sumptuous villa for six weeks and try to pair them up. Think of a cross between First Dates Hotel and Love Island .’
‘Sounds interesting,’ I tell him. ‘What would you need from me?’
‘So, we have local people to cook, clean the house and so on, but your role would be best described as guest liaison cum supervisor. You’d be responsible for making sure dietary and other requirements are fully catered for, dealing with the local contractors and generally ensuring that the house runs smoothly. Sandra tells me your background is hospitality?’
He’s either not read my CV or he has no idea about Hotel Dufour, I realise.
‘That’s right,’ I tell him. ‘My most recent role was managing a hotel in London, so I’m well versed in all the duties you’ve mentioned. Hopefully, Sandra also mentioned that I’m fluent in Spanish?’
‘She did, which was a big plus point. Do you mind me asking why you left your previous position?’
‘I’m looking for a new challenge,’ I say, pleased with my deflection. I haven’t lied, I’ve just not told him everything.
‘And you have a driving licence?’
‘Yes.’ Again, not a lie, even if I haven’t driven in years. I may hardly know Gus, but he seems nice, and I’m actually quite keen to get this job, even though it’s out of my comfort zone.
‘Great. If we offer you the post, you’ll be the first person travelling out, so we’ll arrange for a hire car to be waiting for you at the airport. The crew will follow a couple of days after you, and then the cast at the end. We’ve rented accommodation nearby for the crew, but you’ll need to stay in the main house with the cast in case they need you in the middle of the night. You’ll be on call 24/7.’
‘That’s fine; I’m used to that. Are you able to give me any indication of the start date?’
‘It’s soon. I don’t know if Sandra told you that we had someone lined up for this role, but he dropped us in it at the last minute. Better offer, apparently. We’d need you to fly out on Thursday. Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all.’
The rest of the interview runs pretty smoothly. Gus doesn’t throw me any curve-ball questions, and he seems to be pretty happy with the answers I’m giving him. As well as the duties already described, one of my roles will be to control the housekeeping cost, so we talk about that for a while. Basically, while the budget is fairly generous, the guests won’t be eating caviar and drinking champagne all day every day. The salary is a little less than I was getting at Hotel Dufour, but there are fewer people to look after so I’m not really surprised. It all seems eminently doable and, after an hour or so, Gus starts to wrap up.
‘Look,’ he tells me. ‘I think you’re a good fit and we don’t have any other candidates, so I’m not going to mess you about. The job’s yours if you want it. Do you?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘Great. I’ll get Sandra to organise the paperwork, and we’ll be in touch with all the details later today. I look forward to meeting you in person. Oh, and you’ll also get an email from my colleague Dom, which will give you the list of everything we need you to do before we get there. Have you got any questions before we wrap up?’
‘I don’t think so at the moment, but would it be a good idea if I took your phone number just in case anything unexpected comes up?’
‘Such as?’ He looks suddenly rattled. ‘You’re not going to drop out on us as well, are you?’
‘No!’ I tell him emphatically. ‘But if I get there and there’s a problem with the house or something, I expect you’d want to know, wouldn’t you?’
‘If you get there and there’s a problem with the house, I expect you to fix it,’ he says with a smile. ‘However, I will make sure the email Dom sends has our contact details on it in case of emergencies. Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Fabulous. See you in Mallorca!’
Mum and Dad are both waiting expectantly in the kitchen.
‘How did you get on?’ Mum asks.
‘Good. I got the job. I fly to Mallorca on Thursday.’
‘So soon?’ Dad is trying to look like he’s upset but doing a spectacularly poor job of it.
‘They had another candidate, but he dropped out, apparently.’
‘You aren’t going to be on camera, are you?’ Mum asks warily.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Why?’
‘It’s just… well, you know.’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Your history ,’ she says theatrically. ‘What if someone recognises you and calls the TV company?’
I’ve had enough. ‘Mum. You really need to get over this. I’m not Britney Spears shaving her head; I’m a complete nobody who did nothing wrong and I’m sure everyone has forgotten about me. Even if I do appear on camera, nobody is going to recognise me or care.’
‘You can’t know that. I just have your best interests at heart. Perhaps you should call them and make sure you won’t appear.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I shout. ‘I’m not a criminal. Stop treating me like one.’
There’s a deathly silence for a few seconds, before my mother bursts into tears and rushes from the room. Dad pushes back his chair wearily and starts to follow her.
‘I know you and your mother don’t always see eye to eye,’ he tells me heavily, ‘but she does love you, and sometimes I think you forget that.’
I can feel furious tears pricking my own eyes, but I know Dad will always side with Mum over me, so there’s no point in trying to tell him how she makes me feel. Instead, I turn and flee back to my bedroom.
Thursday cannot come soon enough.