Chapter 21
21
I feel energised as I make my way back to my rented flat. I know that my initial response after seeing the building and talking to Reginald was purely emotional. I’m also perfectly aware that emotional responses are not good ways of making business decisions but, if anyone can make a case for reopening The Mermaid as a hotel, it has to be me, surely?
When I get in, instead of updating my CV as I’d intended, I start to make a list of the things I need to put into a potential business plan. The first thing to do is check out the competition and come up with a unique offering that’s going to both fit in with Margate’s bohemian vibe but also stand out from everything else on the market. Getting an idea of the costs to restore the building is beyond me at the moment, but if I can come up with a strong enough concept to tempt Abby, maybe she’ll buy into it and help with that side of things.
It’s late by the time I get to bed, but this time, my recurring dream about the hotel and Jock is not interrupted by Abby with her bulldozer, which I take as encouragement.
The next morning, I present myself at the library the moment it opens and, with the help of the librarian, start searching their digitised archives for any information about The Mermaid. There isn’t much. I find an article from 1929 about its opening, but the picture is very poor quality and I can’t decipher much from it. Reginald’s pictures are much better from that point of view. There are a couple of articles from the Second World War period, when it was used as a temporary soup kitchen and dormitory during the evacuation of Dunkirk, but then nothing until two recent articles. The first confirms that it had been purchased by the BudgetWise Hotel chain, and the second is a mere paragraph stating that it will not be reopening.
Feeling uninspired by the building’s history as a way to make it stand out and succeed, I turn my attention to the competition. This proves much more fruitful. What I discover is that there are loads of privately run bed and breakfast type establishments, but there’s only really one hotel that caters to the market that I think I would want to chase. When I check their online bookings, it shows me no availability for the next three months. That in itself doesn’t mean much – they could be closing for maintenance or something – so I decide to call them and pretend I’m looking for a room for a special anniversary. The receptionist is friendly but explains to me that they’re usually booked months in advance and it’s worth planning further ahead next time.
This is all I need to know to tell me that not only is there a market for the type of hotel I’d want The Mermaid to be but, crucially, the demand is currently outstripping capacity, which means there’s untapped potential. Now all I need is something to differentiate The Mermaid from the competition. I open the notebook I’ve bought to keep all my jottings and thoughts in, turning the pages until I have two blank ones in front of me. I write the words Come for… at the top of the left-hand page and Stay for… at the top of the right. I need a unique selling point to draw customers to us rather than anywhere else, and a reason to make them want to choose Margate over anywhere else for a holiday.
The Stay for… column starts to fill quite quickly, as Margate has a lot to recommend it once you scratch beneath the surface. The Come for… column has just one entry so far but, if I can pull this off, it could be very good for me as well as The Mermaid.
By the end of the week, I’ve collated as much as I can and typed it all up into a proposal to put to Abby. I’ve spent several hours talking with Reginald and getting a feel for how The Mermaid was in his day, not because I want to recreate it exactly as it was, but to capture the spirit of it. My notebook is full of jottings: the ones I like emphasised as I’ve traced over the words repeatedly, but others crossed out as impractical or ludicrously expensive. My mouth is dry and my heart is pumping as I dial the number I found for Abby’s firm on their website.
‘Atkinson Construction, Donna speaking. How may I help?’ Like Abby’s, the voice has a broad northern accent.
‘Hi, I was wondering if it would be possible to speak to Abby.’
‘She’s not in the office at the moment.’ Her tone is brusque. ‘Can I take a message?’
‘My name’s Beatrice,’ I explain. ‘I met her on the set of Too Busy for Love and?—’
I don’t get any further because Donna cuts me off and her tone of voice changes completely. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were a cold caller. I meant what I said about Abby not being in the office, but I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. Would you like her mobile number?’
‘Please.’
She reels off the number and I dial it as soon as we disconnect.
‘Abby Atkinson.’ She sounds distracted.
‘Hi, Abby. This is Beatrice, from Too Busy for Love . Is this a bad time?’
‘Beatrice!’ Her voice is warm. ‘Of course not. How are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you. I’m actually in Margate at the moment.’
‘Really? What are you doing there?’
I need to play this very carefully. ‘I had some free time and I’ve never been here before, so I thought, why not? I passed your building on one of my walks.’
She sighs. ‘Is it too much to hope that it’s fallen down?’
‘Not yet, but I did have an idea for something you could do with it, if you’re interested.’
‘I’m certainly interested if it’ll get my dad off my back. He’s still going on about it, would you believe. I’m currently hiding out at one of our sites in Ashford under the pretext of carrying out an extended inventory check.’
I can’t believe my luck. ‘Do you think you’d be able to take time out from your inventory check to come and visit Margate? I’m sure there must be things you need to look at here.’
‘Let me check my calendar. I’ve got meetings tomorrow morning but I could probably clear my diary after lunch. It’s only fair to warn you that I think I’ve covered all the possibilities where that building is concerned, but it would be nice to see you anyway. Are you going to give me any clues about what you’ve come up with?’
‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘It’s strictly show and tell. It’ll be worth your while, I promise.’ Of course, there’s no way I can predict how she’s going to react to my plan and I am a little disheartened by her initial caution, but I have nothing to lose. If she doesn’t go for it, I can walk away knowing I did my best.
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll drop by after my meetings. I’m not completely sure what time I’m going to finish, so shall I call you when I’m ten minutes away from the building?’
‘Perfect,’ I tell her.
When the call disconnects, I’m feeling elated but also nervous. I spend the rest of the evening going over and over my notes, looking for holes or things I haven’t considered.
By the time I go to bed, I’m as confident in my plan as I can be. Now all I have to do is sell it to Abby.
The weather is on my side at least, I think as I stride towards the building the next day to meet Abby. The sun is out and the chilly breeze has decided to give it a rest, so it’s actually quite warm. As I approach the building, I spot her climbing out of a sleek silver Porsche parked across the road. She looks very different on her home turf; her chestnut hair is tied back and she’s wearing faded jeans and a loose shirt.
‘Hi, Beatrice,’ she says when I reach her, pulling me into a hug. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘And you. Dare I ask how things went with James after you got back?’
She smiles. ‘We’re taking it slowly, but the signs are good. He’s in Birmingham at the moment, some wine fair at the NEC, but I’m taking him home to meet Dad at the weekend.’
‘So you’re going to try the long-distance thing then?’ I ask carefully. If she and James have unearthed some magic ingredient, I’d like to hear it in case there’s something that could help in my situation.
‘We haven’t figured that part out yet,’ she replies breezily. ‘All I’m hoping is that grilling James will give Dad something else to focus on besides his daughter’s misguided redevelopment idea. Thinking of which, tell me what you’ve got planned for this building of mine.’
‘I will, but can I ask you a favour first? Can I have a look inside?’
‘If you like. You’ll need appropriate clothing though.’
‘What kind of appropriate clothing?’ I glance down at my jeans and trainers, which I thought were quite practical.
Abby looks me up and down. ‘I always carry a spare hard hat and hi-vis jacket, so you can borrow those, but ideally you’d have a proper pair of boots on too.’
‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Not to worry. I think we can make an exception this time; just be very careful and look where you’re going.’ She pops the bonnet of the Porsche and fishes out two hats and vests, giving one of each to me. She also pulls out a very scruffy-looking pair of boots, which she slides her dainty feet into after removing her ballet pumps. Then she leans into the cabin and fishes out a bag that seems to be full to the brim with keys. She rootles through for a while, before selecting a bunch attached to a tag with Margate written on it in marker pen. Finally, she extracts a torch from the glovebox.
My breath catches in my throat as Abby unlocks the padlock on the steel mesh gate at the front, which swings open with a metallic squeal. This is the first time I’ve seen the front door and the glass panels on either side properly and, despite the fact that they’re filthy, they still look amazing. I peer in to see if I can spot even the faintest hint of the mosaic, but the lobby floor is now carpeted. Abby unlocks the front door and holds it open for me to step through.
The smell inside is exactly as you’d expect in a building that has been disused for a while. It’s an unpleasant mixture of damp and something acrid that I can’t quite identify.
‘Rats,’ Abby remarks matter-of-factly as I wrinkle my nose. ‘Be careful where you tread.’
It’s very dark in here but, even before Abby flicks on the torch, I can tell that all the period features have long gone. The thin, cheap carpet underfoot is threadbare, the exquisite mouldings on the walls are nowhere to be seen, and ugly doors have been installed where the staircase used to be. It’s poky and uninviting; nothing like the sumptuous reception area that I saw in Reginald’s photos.
The dining room is also depressing. Cheap plastic chairs are stacked upside down on flimsy collapsible tables. There’s a kind of buffet area on one side, with a serving hatch. My trainers stick to the lino floor as we cross it to peer through the hatch into the kitchen. There’s very little equipment in here; everything of value was patently sold off either when the budget chain bought the hotel or when it sold up. There are two large fryers, a stove and a dilapidated oven against one wall, with a sink and commercial dishwasher against the other.
‘Seen enough?’ Abby asks.
‘Is it safe to go upstairs?’
‘Yes. The building is actually very sound, structurally. I thought that was a plus when I bought it, but I’m coming to regret it now.’
We make our way back into the lobby, and Abby pushes open one of the doors to reveal not the sweeping staircase of Reginald’s photos, but a concrete one with steel banisters. It’s obviously been installed to save space and make room for the lift, but I can’t help feeling sad about it. I follow Abby up, being careful where I put my feet, until we reach a corridor.
‘Take your pick,’ she tells me, gesturing at the row of doors. I know which room I want to see, but it takes me a minute to get my bearings and figure out which door probably belongs to it.
‘That one,’ I say to Abby. We walk carefully to the end of the corridor and she pushes open the door.
The room is as tragic as everything else I’ve seen, and the curtain is still fluttering in the breeze from the broken window, but none of that matters. The view from here is magical, and I sigh with pleasure.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Abby asks after a minute or so.
‘Yes. Let’s go somewhere a bit more conducive and have a cup of tea.’
As I follow her downstairs and out of the front door, waiting for her to lock the steel gate securely behind her, I mentally start gearing myself up for the sales pitch of my life.