‘Every hour is happy hour in the Cabana Bar!’ yells an older man with a Seychelles flag tattooed across the top of his arm, an arm that’s bulky enough to fit such a thing, I might add. Why is everyone so athletic around here? Aren’t island holidays all about putting your feet up? I suppose they have to counter their happy hour excesses somehow. ‘Here’s to another day at the Last Chance Resort! Aren’t we truly lucky to call this place home?’
‘Well said, Khalil!’ they chorus, and cheers ring out as they clink glasses. Before I can demur, Mrs Bastille insists on me joining in with a drink. She moves around the bar, throwing ingredients into a blender and blitzing it to smithereens. She theatrically pours the mix into glasses and thrusts it in my direction. ‘Ah, but I’m carrying a coconut.’ I do feel decidedly like Baby inDirty Dancing, where I am clearly the odd one out.
Mrs Bastille nods and pours the cocktail into my coconut. I mean, it’s kind of genius.
‘Ooh – uh, thanks.’
A cluster of ladies with identical white-blonde bobs sit around a table bickering over a card game, one accusing the other of cheating. Ah, I recognise these three ladies from the juddery Instagram reel I saw way back when my life wasn’t a shambles, but soon would be. ‘Well, it’s not my fault you’re wearing mirrored shades! Only an imbecile would do that.’
‘Are you calling me an imbecile?’
‘Do you see anyone else wearing mirrored shades?’
‘Cheater!’
‘Imbecile!’
‘Lucy, are you going to sit by and watch while she calls me an imbecile?’
‘Cheater isn’t exactly a compliment either, you know.’
Lucy shakes her head. ‘Sit by? I’m patiently waiting for my turn to play yet you insist on dragging out your game. I’m sure it’s a delay tactic because you know I’ll soon separate you from your money. That’s not fair either.’
‘Separate you from your money? Card shark, eh? Someone’s got tickets on herself!’
Mirrored shades pipes up. ‘Well, I for one won’t be separated from my money, how about that? I won’t bet on a game with you if that’s your attitude.’
‘How is that fair? I’m allowed to manifest the outcome, surely?’
‘Ladies, ladies,’ Mariola cajoles. ‘We’ve got a bingo game happening at Club Tropicana. Why don’t you head over there? You all have the chance to separate the resort from its money. And there are plenty of fabulous prizes to be had.’
Consoled, the women confer and soon depart with their cocktails.
‘Disaster averted,’ I say, impressed by Mariola’s ability to smooth any small crisis that comes her way.
‘Everyone loves bingo.’ She shrugs as if it’s nothing, but I get the feeling that Mariola has her finger on the pulse around here. While her job title might be head of staff relations, she seems to have a gift for dealing with guests.
A seventy-something man with a deep tan and a shock of white hair lurches over. ‘Welcome to the Hotel California.’ At that he lets out a barrelling laugh and takes a slug of a blue cocktail.
The Hotel California? How did the song go? Something about checking in and then… not being able to leave? Life on the island does seem rather quirky.
Mariola gestures to the newcomer. ‘This is Brian, an expat who holidayed at the Last Chance Resort in its halcyon days and soon moved here fulltime?—’
‘Back when I was a young whippersnapper, I came here for the surfing, now it’s more for the people. What can I say? This place has always had some strange hold over me.’ He sweeps a long, lingering gaze over to Mrs Bastille. Unrequited love? Mrs Bastille pays no mind to the yearning in his eyes; she’s too busy swaying to the beat of the music.
‘Brian’s the resident stirrer, so don’t let him ruffle you, because that’s exactly what he wants.’ Mariola waves a finger at him in mock consternation. ‘We best be off, there’s a lot to show Harper before she starts work at the Barefoot Bookshop tomorrow.’
‘Don’t forget what I said, Harper!’ Brian calls after me. ‘HOTEL CALIFORNIA!’ At that he breaks into song, warbling away, and soon the rest of the crew join in, including Mrs Bastille, who dances under the bright sunlight, her floral dress billowing in the breeze.
We amble off back where we came from. When we’re out of earshot I say, ‘Umm, manager of the bookshop? What’s that about?’
15
Mariola gazes up at me, apologetic. ‘Sorry I blurted it like that. I didn’t want Mrs Bastille to worry. As bookworms, they’ve all been concerned about the future of the Barefoot Bookshop. I figured it was easier to assure them that it’s sorted.’
‘OK.’ Manager though? I haven’t managed a bookshop before and worry I’ll be out of my depth. There’s a screech from the Cabana Bar. I turn to see Mrs Bastille on Brian’s shoulders. Maybe she isn’t as unaware as I’d first thought. Her face lights up at the attention.
‘Mariola, are they just drunkenly eccentric, or is there something in the water here?’
