A sense of acceptance settles in my core. It’s time.
CHAPTERTHREE
SASHA
19thNovember
Wringing my hands beneath the privacy of my father’s old maple desk, I glance around the office that’s now mine, trying to view it as Harry, our accountant, might.
A huge landscape oil painting of Velvet Strand hangs as centrepiece on the back wall. It’s an original. For a fleeting second I wonder how much it’s worth. Things are getting bad when I’m considering selling my father’s treasured collection.
Mind you, he wasn’t the only one with a soft spot for that particular beach.
Huge sash windows overlook the expansive grounds of the estate, intense greens meet the vivid cobalt afternoon sky. Yet, no matter how much winter sun streams outside the glass, I can’t bring myself to feel bright.
Harry clears his throat and pulls some papers from his briefcase, rustling them noisily on his lap. ‘Did you think any more about what we discussed last month, Miss Sexton?’
He’s alluding to his suggestion of selling the estate, or even parts of it initially.
I’ve done nothing but think about it – anytime I have a free second to myself, that is.
‘Call me Sasha, please.’ Harry’s been the estate’s accountant for twenty years. He knew my parents well. That’s why it’s even harder to hear him say I should consider selling.
Even though his tone has never so much as hinted at being judgemental, I can’t help feel he’s disappointed at the terrible job I’m doing running the place. Or maybe it’s just me who’s disappointed and I’m projecting. Whatever.
He sighs before continuing. ‘How would you feel about selling the cabins? That would potentially raise enough revenue to pay off most of the castle’s outstanding debts.’
The word ‘most’ lingers in the air between us. We both know if even another millimetre of dry rot is found, this place is finished. And it’s a real possibility.
If I sold the cabins, I’d still likely be a few hundred thousand short. And I need cash to keep the business afloat, pay the staff, keep the fridges stocked and the lights on.
The cabins were my mother’s pride and joy. They were her forte. She designed every inch of them. Selling them would be like selling a part of her memory. But if it meant I could hang on to the castle, find some way to increase the revenue…resuscitate a bit of life into the place.
‘You don’t have to decide now, Sasha. But as things are, the way this estate is being run is not sustainable. It hasn’t been for a long time. Something has to give.’ His eyes fall to the paperwork in front of him. ‘What about starting with the cabin that’s not in use?’
My palm instinctively covers my stomach as hot bile blazes through my oesophagus, burning a path to the back of my throat. I haven’t been in that cabin since that night. Nor has anyone else. And I’m not ready to deal with that yet, even if it has been ten years.
‘Is there anywhere else I can cut back?’
Harry offers me a sympathetic smile. ‘The staff wages alone equate to over half a million, annually. You know how much the electricity costs, and that’s without the extravagant display of Christmas lights.’ He arches an eyebrow at me. ‘The general maintenance is substantial. The bookings have only dwindled since…’ he winces before correcting himself, ‘over the last ten years. If you want to emerge with enough to secure a modest future for yourself and your sisters, it might be wise to considering selling everything. If another single block of dry rot is discovered, it will ruin you. It might be better to quit while you’re ahead. Marginally, that is. Unless you have another plan? Something I don’t know about?’
Harry places the paperwork on the desk between us, gently nudging it towards me before helping himself to a cup of tea from a tray, Tilly, one of my favourite young waitresses, dropped in ten minutes earlier.
The truth is, I don’t have a plan. I can’t make any staff cutbacks. Each and every one of them, myself included, does the work of two people. The few times I tried to skimp on ordering food, we were unseasonably busy and ran out. It’s so hard to make money in the hospitality industry, especially when bookings are as unpredictable as the Irish weather.
The lavish sheets, guest treats and sublime menu can’t be forsaken if I’m to keep charging hundreds of euro for a standard double room per night.
Silence descends on us as I silently wrack my brain for a miraculous solution.
Truth is, there isn’t one.
Harry’s been warning me for years that the estate isn’t making a profit. I blamed Brexit, Covid and everything in between, but maybe it was simply poor management?
I just don’t have a head for business. I’ve been spreading myself so thinly trying to keep everything going the way Mam and Dad had, and trying to raise Victoria to the best of my ability. I don’t think I’ve been particularly good at either.
‘If you see Santa on your travels, tell him I’m looking for him. I have a Christmas wish.’ It’s a joke of course. A feeble one. I need more than a wish; I need a fucking Christmas miracle. I pick up the remaining china cup and pour steaming hot liquid into it from the pot, just to do something with my clammy hands.
‘Get December over and then make a decision.’ Harry clears his throat. ‘You’ve done brilliantly, Sasha. It wasn’t easy being left such a responsibility at such a young age. You’ve managed to keep your staff in employment for ten years. Your sister is growing into a marvellous young lady. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Selling up might offer you a sense of freedom you never realised you missed.’
