Chapter 19
19
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m up early for an airport run to get the first batch of guests to catch their flight home. The audience vote on last night’s live final was close, but Flo and Rob just beat Abby and James to the top spot. The two couples have very sweetly agreed to split the winnings between them, although I think the main prize as far as Flo is concerned will be the inevitable swell in the number of her followers. Abby and James don’t appear to be disappointed and have made all the right noises about trying to take their new relationship back into the real world, although I’m not sure how that’s going to work with him being in London and her in Leeds.
The London-bound contestants, including James, Flo and Rob, are busily piling their luggage into the boot of the minibus as I walk out of the house. Indoors, Chris and Tim have already started the laborious task of dismantling all the cameras under the watchful eye of Rosa.
‘Do you mind if I sit up at the front with you?’ James asks as the other guests climb into the back of the bus.
‘Not at all,’ I tell him. I get the impression he wants to chat, so I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t speak until we’re out on the main road.
‘I just wanted to say thank you again for everything that you did,’ he murmurs, obviously not wanting the people in the back to overhear.
‘All part of the job, and I’m glad things worked out so well for you. I hope you and Abby will be happy together.’
‘Mm.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll confess that I’m worried she’ll get home, come to her senses and promptly dump me.’
‘Have more faith in yourself, and in her. You two have been inseparable since your date night. Why would she suddenly want to dump you?’
‘It’s been a bit of a bubble, being in here. She didn’t have work to distract her, well, apart from that brief thing with the hotel. When she gets home and real life hits, things will be very different…’ He tails off.
‘You’re worried she might be Too Busy for Love ?’ I ask.
He obviously recognises my deliberate pun because he gives a weak smile. ‘Something like that. Her life is pretty full on, flitting between her sites in Kent and head office in Leeds, and I do quite a lot of travel with my work as well. When are we going to find time to see each other?’
‘You have to find a way to make time. It doesn’t matter how busy you are, you always have time for things that are important to you. Do you have to be in London for your job?’
‘No. Most of my work is over the phone, so I can pretty much do it from anywhere, as long as there’s internet access and a phone signal.’
‘There you are then. There’s no reason why you can’t work around her schedule. Lots of couples face these kinds of challenges very successfully. I don’t see why you shouldn’t be one of them.’
He doesn’t look convinced and stares morosely out of the windscreen until we’re on the outskirts of Palma, when his phone pings with a message.
‘It’s Abby,’ he tells me excitedly when he’s read it. ‘She wants to know if I’m free next weekend.’
‘Are you?’
‘I am now.’
Having dropped a considerably happier James and the rest of the group at the airport, the irony of my advice comes home to roost as I drive back to the villa. Jock and I were in a bubble much like the contestants on the show but, unlike them, we never gave ourselves the chance to take it into the real world. Although we’re back to exchanging the occasional text message, he’s still taking up way more headspace than a normal friend would. I know it’s irrational to miss him and think about him this much, as he’s evidently settled into his new job in Glasgow and I still feel my ultimate goal is to find another position in London once I’ve pushed Hotel Dufour far enough down my CV. There’s literally no point dwelling on him, as I’ve told myself firmly several times without success. I need to focus on work; Casterbridge Media are very pleased with me and anxious to work with me again, according to Gus, but that hasn’t translated into a solid offer yet.
Now that Villa Madrigal is nearly empty again, there isn’t going to be much for me to do apart from helping Rosa to give all the rooms a thorough clean and act as translator while the production team dismantle their stuff. The house seems weirdly lifeless after the hustle and bustle of the show, and I’m amused to see that even Rosa looks a little lost.
‘I won’t deny that it’s been stressful,’ she tells me when I ask her about it. ‘But it’s also been a lot of fun.’
‘You must have other guests booked in, though?’
‘Yes, but this house, it needs to be full to truly bring it alive. The next guests are a couple from America with their two children. They come every year and I like them, even though we can only talk using Google translate on the computer.’ She sighs. ‘It’s going to be a bit dull compared to this, though.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ Gus asks as he strolls in, making Rosa bristle. I’ve told him several times how territorial Rosa is about her kitchen, but he never takes any notice.
‘Rosa’s just saying how much she’s going to miss us,’ I tell him.
‘Then you can share the good news if you like. HQ are absolutely delighted with the series and have commissioned another one for next year. I’ve just got off the phone with Mr Mancini’s PA and we have verbally agreed to come back here to film it, so that’s something for us all to look forward to. I hope you’ll come again, Beatrice.’
‘If I’m free, I’d love to,’ I tell him before breaking the news in Spanish to a cautiously pleased Rosa. ‘Now, if nobody needs me for a bit, I thought I might go for a swim. The pool has been calling me for weeks.’
‘Go. Enjoy,’ Gus says with a smile. ‘You’ve earned it. We’ll probably come and join you later.’
As I power through the deliciously cool water, my mind turns to my own departure in a couple of days’ time. I’ve contemplated phoning the agency several times, but I’ve really enjoyed myself here and another Casterbridge job would show prospective employers that they rated me. It’s a gamble: if Casterbridge come through then I’ve won. If not then Ludlow beckons while the agency look for something else, and that’s a definite lose. After a few more lengths, a third option starts to crystallise. If I can find somewhere other than my parents’ hotel to hide out in, that would allow me to let Casterbridge go to the wire. If they haven’t offered me anything by the time I leave, I could potentially call the agency on Monday, and then it becomes a straight race between them. Gus has promised me a glowing reference either way, so I’ve got something other than Hotel Dufour to show prospective employers.
My first thought was to head up to Glasgow to see Jock. However, I read and re-read our text exchanges and, although he’s interested in what I’m doing, there’s not the slightest hint that he might be missing me, so I ruled it out in the end. Even if Jock does feel the same, it doesn’t solve all the other issues about long-distance relationships. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that my future glittering career is unlikely to be waiting for me in Glasgow. What I need is somewhere not too expensive, preferably within easy reach of London, to spend a week or two while I line up the next job.
By the time I’ve finished my swim, I reckon I’ve come up with just the place. After drying myself off, I head to my room, fish out my laptop and begin the search for Airbnbs in Margate. It’s not a part of England I’ve ever visited, but it’s obviously a reasonably popular destination if the number of properties that appear is anything to go by. An hour later, having checked that there is a direct train service to London, I’ve booked myself in to a one-bedroom flat within walking distance of the station. Abby’s hotel is still sharing space with Jock in my dreams, and I’m determined to see it in the flesh before she lets it crumble to dust. I know it’s fanciful but I’ve dreamed about it almost every night since she showed me the pictures. The dreams either start in the lobby, which has been restored to its former glory, or at the railway station. The station is heavily romanticised, with enormous locomotives hissing clouds of steam and platforms full of bell boys helping the first-class passengers unload their trunks, wheeling them on trolleys out to the waiting taxicabs as seagulls swoop overhead, filling the skies with their haunting cries.
The hotel is ablaze with lights as we approach, and the curved glass either side of the front door sparkles as the headlights sweep across it. In the lobby, the centrepiece is a gorgeous dark mahogany reception counter with geometric golden patterns on the front and rows of heavy keys on ornate keyrings hanging behind it. The eras do muddle themselves up a bit here; modern touches such as a computer and telephone switchboard somehow occupy the same space as elegant ladies, dripping with jewellery and wrapped in the kind of fur stoles that were incredibly popular in the 1920s but would be severely frowned upon today. They’re smoking cigarettes in long holders and their free hands are casually draped on the sleeves of the gentlemen with them, who are wearing white bow ties under starched wing collars, with white waistcoats and dark tails. Everyone is sipping champagne from delicate coupe glasses. From the lobby, my mind’s eye follows the guests into the large ornate dining room, where a string quartet is playing classical music that’s barely audible over the hum of chatter and the clink of silver cutlery on bone china. Once again, the eras muddle as staff hurry in and out of the modern stainless-steel kitchen, bringing beautifully presented plates of food to the appreciative diners. The kitchen itself is presided over by none other than Jock, of course, resplendent in his immaculate and crisply starched chef’s whites, with a tall chef’s hat completing the look.
It’s at this point that the dream turns sour. The first hint of trouble comes when a scream goes up from the guests as the dining room wall begins to collapse, revealing an enormous digger with Abby at the controls. She’s impervious to their cries as she scoops them up, tables and all, into the bucket of the digger before swinging it round and dumping them unceremoniously on a rubbish pile. The digger roars furiously, black smoke belching from its exhaust as she punches hole after hole in the wall, leaving a trail of smashed furniture, musical instruments and rubble in her wake. This is the scene that usually wakes me up in a cold sweat.
I know the dream is pure fantasy; everything Abby told James and me by the pool makes total sense. If there was any chance of the building surviving as a hotel, it would have done so. And yet, for some reason, I can’t let it fade into obscurity without at least visiting to pay my respects. Is it wrong to believe that buildings have a soul? Something within them that carries traces of their history? I watched a programme on TV ages ago about place memories and how they might trigger some people to see ghosts, and it resonated with me. Every hotel I’ve worked in, including Hotel Dufour, has had its own unique personality that extends beyond the people working and staying there.
So I’ll make the pilgrimage to bid this beautiful old lady goodbye while I’m sorting out my next job. I know it’s irrational, but I don’t have anything else to do and its certainly more appealing than spending any time in Ludlow.