Chapter Seven
Jo stood on the station platform at Marland and looked up at the arrivals board.
The London train was due at any moment. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her quilted jacket and watched with interest as people began to gather belongings and got ready to board the train, which completed its journey in Glasgow.
She was meeting her friend, Bob Puddicombe, who had booked a stay at Boomerville and Jo was anxious that everything ran as smoothly as possible, for he was an important person in her life.
As a media agent in London, Bob specialised in the representation of celebrity chefs and Jo had made his acquaintance when Zach, her youngest son, had signed to his agency.
It had been odd for Jo to make a connection so fast, for she had few close friends and finding Bob had been like a lottery win.
Jo trusted Bob completely and knew that Zach, who could be wild unless tamed, was in safe hands.
From a child, Zach had always been a wizard in the kitchen and had grown up drop-dead gorgeous to boot.
The young man, known as The Gypsy Chef, was making waves on the hospitality scene and having inherited his father’s Romany looks, enjoyed a successful cookery series on television.
He’d won a reality TV show, Jungle Rock, which had sent his profile soaring and his cookbook, Foraging with the Gypsy Chef, looked certain to top the charts at Christmas.
Zach was one of Bob’s most successful clients and Jo knew that the success of her precious son was down to Bob’s meticulous professionalism.
Jo walked along the platform beside a length of track that snaked past a commercial depot where goods carriages lined the sidings, beneath hoardings advertising holidays in Westmarland.
As she looked into the distance, searching for the train, Jo imagined Bob to be sitting in a first-class compartment, meditating throughout the journey, for Bob was of a spiritual leaning and lived his life according to the words of his idol, the Dalai Lama.
The station manager announced that the London train was approaching and Jo hurried back to the main platform. As the wheels slowed and the mighty engine cruised into Marland, the brakes sighed and the train stopped.
Jo caught sight of Bob, who waved as he stepped down onto the platform. He placed his Louis Vuitton messenger bag around his shoulder, grabbed the matching cases and beamed as Jo ran towards him.
‘You made it!’ she exclaimed and hugged him.
‘Finally.’ Bob smiled and returned the embrace.
‘The car is just outside, let me take a case.’ Jo reached out.
But Bob would have none of it and insisted on carrying his own luggage. ‘I don’t want you to break a nail, darling,’ he said.
They bustled through the crowd and came out of the station, where Jo’s shining black Range Rover was parked. ‘Nice wheels,’ Bob said as he jumped in and Jo started the engine.
Bunty was asleep on the back seat and looked up when she heard Bob’s voice. Giddy with excitement, she threw herself onto his lap and began to lick his face.
‘Oh my, the little princess is growing,’ Bob said as he held his head high in an effort to avoid the puppy’s probing tongue. ‘Wait ’till you see what Uncle Bob has brought for you.’ He stilled the squirming body with gentle stokes and turned to Jo. ‘Harrods’ doggy department is cleaned out.’
‘I hope you haven’t been spoiling her.’
‘That’s why I’m the dog-father, it’s as close as I’ll ever get to babies.’ Bob planted a kiss on Bunty’s soft fur. ‘Now, sweetie, do tell. What’s the gossip and who’s shagging who?’
As Bob listened to Jo and the miles sped by, he thought of the opening party a few weeks ago when he’d been shown the programme for the forthcoming activities.
He’d made a promise that he’d be back to try some of the classes.
Jo had turned a fading old hotel into a retreat for the future and Bob was looking forward to his stay, confident that time away from the hustle and bustle of London would realign his chakras and set him up for the busy season ahead.
He put his faith in prayer and meditation and liked to interact with his yin and yang to maintain the harmony and balance of his demanding life.
‘I can’t wait to try a session with the Shaman,’ Bob said and reached for the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist. He stroked the smooth surface and closed his eyes. ‘Au, Nama Shiva,’ Bob whispered.
Jo glanced at her friend and smiled. When he opened his eyes, she continued to tell him all about Boomerville and everything that had happened since the hotel re-opened its doors. ‘We’ve some very interesting guests,’ she said, ‘I think you’re going to enjoy your stay.’
‘Darling, I can’t wait to meet everyone.’ The car slowed and came to a stop by the front door of Boomerville. Bob hopped out and, placing Bunty onto the ground, reached into his bag. ‘Here we are, princess,’ he said, ‘try this on for size.’
* * *
Hattie was in reception and heard a commotion at the front door.
She glanced at her watch. Jo was due back from the station with Bob Puddicombe, who would need to be checked in and shown around the hotel.
Dragging herself away from a plate of scones and jam, she dabbed crumbs from her mouth and went into the hallway.
A moving object, resembling a Christmas tree bauble with four legs, pounced across the threshold and pounded down the corridor.
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Hattie said and shook her head. Bunty was dressed in a pretty new coat festooned with flashing lights and around her neck was a heavily jewelled collar. ‘That outfit won’t last five minutes on the fells.’
‘Lovely to see you again, darling.’ Bob wrapped Hattie in a hug. ‘Is Mr Caribbean here?’ Bob raised his eyebrows.
‘Nope, winter in Westmarland isn’t his cup of tea, far too cold for him.’
Jo unzipped her jacket as she followed, then took Bob’s arm. ‘Let’s get our guest settled in,’ she said and turned to Hattie. ‘Judging by the amount of jam on your chin, I take it that we’re in time for afternoon tea?’
‘Aye, I’ll get some organised.’ Hattie stuck out her tongue to lick at the jam. ‘You’ve had a long journey. Can I get you a livener with your scones?’
‘As long as it has bubbles,’ Bob said.
‘I’ll catch up with you shortly,’ Jo gave Bob a peck on the cheek, ‘I need to check the kitchen. Hattie will look after you.’
Hattie led Bob into the Red Room where a fire roared in the grate.
It was a chilly afternoon and he rubbed his hands together at the welcome sight.
A group of guests looked up and Sir Henry waved his cane in greeting.
‘I say,’ he said and turned from Hugo and Lucinda, ‘another new face in our midst, pull up a pew, old boy.’ He indicated that Bob join them.
‘I’d like you all to meet Bob Puddicombe.’ Hattie plumped a cushion and Bob sat down beside Lucinda.
Hugo, who was mellow after a session with the Shaman and a hearty lunch, stretched out his arms and sat up. ‘Are you one of the Portobello Puddicombes?’ he asked and leaned forward to study Bob’s face.
Hattie could see that Bob hadn’t a clue what Hugo was blabbering about and waited for Hugo to explain.
‘Fine family, the Puddicombes, all daughters, of course.’ Hugo raised a heavily whiskered eyebrow.
‘Great gals with thunder thighs that could grip a thoroughbred for hours.’ He looked at Bob and smiled.
‘Petunia Puddicombe was the most accomplished female rider the hunt ever had and any friend of Petunia is a friend of ours.’
Hattie shook her head. Hugo was waffling as usual and she could see that Bob was mystified. He’d obviously never heard of the Portobello Puddicombes, nor any woman called Petunia.
‘This is Lucinda Brown, an artist,’ Hattie said to Bob.
Bob reached out to shake hands with Sir Henry and Hugo and turned to Lucinda who’d tilted her head to one side and lowered heavily mascaraed lashes over eyes that studied his every move. Lucinda smiled and raised her hand in greeting, chunky bangles clanging along her scrawny arm.
‘I was one of the first guests to arrive,’ Lucinda said. ‘I’ll be taking art classes soon, you must book one.’
‘I’m happy to make your acquaintance,’ Bob said and took Lucinda’s hand. The skin was icy and felt as dry as old leather.
‘You have interesting bone structure.’ Lucinda made a circle with her finger. ‘I’d like to paint you.’
Hattie looked on. She was interested to see what Bob made of his fellow guests and as she watched his anxious face, called out to a waiter, ‘Better make it two bottles.’ She skilfully opened the champagne and poured everyone a glass.
Hugo’s hand was perilously close to the edge of her skirt; as she leaned over, she flicked a linen napkin sharply across his fingers and then, with a deft shake, smoothed it over his knee.
‘Cheers!’ Everyone raised a glass. ‘Here’s to a happy stay.’
‘I can’t wait to begin my classes,’ Hattie heard Bob say as she placed the bottle in an ice bucket and tidied the table, placing coasters under glasses. Lucinda picked up a plate of scones and held them out.
‘Not for me.’ Bob looked at the scones. ‘I don’t want to spoil my dinner.’
‘Or your figure.’ Lucinda put the plate down.
Bob drained his glass and held it out for a refill. Hattie could see that Lucinda had edged too close as bangles rattled and her hand came to rest on Bob’s knee.
‘I like a well-turned-out man,’ Lucinda said and traced the herringbone pattern on Bob’s trousers. ‘Firm legs as well as a fine face, perfect for life classes; you must let me paint you and perhaps we could have some time with the Shaman, just you and I?’
Hattie sensed Bob’s distress and leaned in to rescue him. ‘The Shaman is very busy at the moment. Bob will want to settle in and make himself familiar with Boomerville before he begins any sessions.’
‘By jingo, the little fella is lively today,’ Sir Henry suddenly announced.