‘There’s a certain notoriety to it, given that it’s the setting for such a bestselling book,’ added Eden. ‘Albeit just the setting in a vague way.Any resemblance to real people, etc., is purely coincidental—’
Everyone laughed.
Rory’s book had been a success but she had – with Savannah’s help - learned how to control the narrative.
‘I did it for so long,’ Savannah said. ‘Told one story and lived another. You decide what you want to say and say it. Don’t let this book destroy our family.’
Meg looked at Eden. ‘You knew about Sonya buying the hotel, didn’t you?’
‘I just knew because Aunt Sonya was talking to me about the whole planning situation and what we’d have to do and – you know it’s doable. It’ll take money but we could come up with some investors. Diarmuid’s great at that sort of thing. Sleeping partners, not ones you sleep with,’ she said to her father and then winked.
‘None of your cheek, madam,’ he said.
‘Only teasing, Pops, darling,’ she said.
‘So the Sorrento could live again,’ Rory said.
Steve’s voice was heard over all others. ‘Photograph, everyone. Can we get the whole family together for the first one and then the five girls.’
For a moment, Chloe looked unsure.
‘Is it all right, me being in the photo?’ she asked Meg, who was helping her down from the bouncy castle.
‘You’re stuck with us, darling,’ said Meg, linking her arm through Chloe’s. ‘Too late to back out now. And wait till I tell you Sonya’s news about the hotel …’
17
A Year Later
The locals loved the fact that the Sorrento was open again. It wasn’t quite the grand hotel it had been, but a more relaxed version where people could have light meals at lunchtime and, in the evenings, a set meal in the dining room was available with organic foods, choices of vegetarian, vegan or fish.
Sonya Robicheaux ran the place with her sister-in-law, Meg.
Lorelei from La Maison Beauty Salon popped in all the time for the morning yoga classes that Meg ran in the barn. The women who’d wondered how Meg stayed so lean and fit understood it more as they watched their Amazonian yoga instructor bend gracefully and lean into an asana as if she’d been born a yogi.
Stu was heavily involved in the garden. Apparently, he’d got really into gardening when he’d been in the rehab place and he said there was such joy to be had in feeling life in the earth.
Of course, some of his old drinking pals thought this was stone mad but each to his own. Stu had given up gambling, but then so had Ferdie, and Ferdie had been sitting in bookies studying the form since he’d been about ten. They went to their twelve-step meetings, took one day at a time and avoided the same side of the street as the bookies’.
Ferdie had a green beanie hat he wore now and he helped Stu with the Sorrento’s gardens so that the endless weddings that people wanted there were supplied with more and more corners of verdant beauty for the happy couples to be photographed in.
Rory and her partner, Chantal, had just been married in the hotel and their daughter, Lily, had been a flower baby, helped along by her big cousins, Clary, Minnie and Daisy. Lorelei’s son, Artie, had been her best man.
The whole huge Robicheaux family had been there: cousins, aunties, dogs, the sisters, all five of them, and a host of publishing people who’d planned to stay for an appropriate amount of time and then decamp back to the city had ended up having to be poured into a mini-bus at the end of the night screaming about how they wanted just one more Gimlet and a bit more ABBA …
Rory’s book had won big awards as it was, apparently, a ‘searing emotional journey …’ or was it a ‘searching emotional journey …’ Nobody could remember.
But the newspapers said it had been translated into loads of languages and there was a small but steady fan trail of twenty-somethings who made the pilgrimage to the Sorrento to have coffee where Rory Robicheaux grew up.
She was writing something for Netflix now, apparently. All about sex, someone in the pub had said.
‘Sex?’ said the pink-haired lady, who had acquired a fluffy beige teacup chihuahua called Muffin, who sat in her handbag on the seat while she ate her lunch on the terrace.
‘Ah well, probably not,’ said the landlord, who didn’t want any elderly ladies having heart attacks on the premises.
‘Loads of sex,’ whispered his wife, who was in a book club with the pink-haired lady and knew her very well.
‘Goodie gum drops!’ The elderly lady clapped her hands.
