‘He was, but her in-laws are over from Australia. She’s got enough on her plate. And it’s the least I can do.’
I frowned, my feet slotting into place in my shoes, toe-heel, toe-heel, at the same time as her words clunked into place in my head. ‘You’re going to go up? But the hotel is fully booked.’
‘I know. It’s not ideal. But he’s my dad as well.’ What with Mum having the hotel to run, as well as being a widowed single mother, Auntie Cath had taken on the majority of caring for Grandad when Nanna passed away. Mum always felt guilty about it, even though Auntie Cath never resented her for it as far as I was aware.
‘I’ll leave after dinner,’ she continued, ‘so that I don’t get caught in traffic on the way up. That way I can get some sleep at the bungalow, then pick him up first thing in the morning and drive him down to London to stay with Cath. I’ll be back here by the evening at the latest. You’ll be able to manage the place for me, won’t you?’
I didn’t answer straight away. I couldn’t. My body flicked into automatic pilot as we left the flat and began the epic descent down the stairwell, and I may as well have been spiralling down into my own personal neurosis. The familiar groove of the banister dug into my palm as I tried desperately to look at the situation objectively, not tinged with panic.
Since I’d come home I’d helped out in the hotel because it was a given that was what I did when I was here, and I didn’t have another job. I’m not sure we’d even officially discussed it. After a week or two of moping, I’d got myself dressed and asked Mum what needed doing and that had been it; I’d been back on the rota. But that had just been helping out with the usual tasks I always had: some waitressing, a bit of meet and greet on reception and housekeeping. Acting as manager – even if just for twenty-four hours – was a whole other level.
This hotel was going to be full to capacity tomorrow with demanding guests – expecting a wonderful, luxurious, stress-free Christmas – and I didn’t fancy being in charge of that. I mean, look what happened when I tried to buy a Christmas decoration. Or run my own life.
‘Mum, I don’t think this is a good idea.’ I finally plucked up the courage to speak over the clip-clopping chorus of our shoes.
‘I don’t have a better one unfortunately.’
‘Why can’t I go instead?’
We arrived at the bottom and she stopped, turning to face me. ‘How?’
‘I’ll drive.’
Mum took a deep breath, pinching her bottom lip for a moment before she shook her head. ‘You’re not insured on my car. And you haven’t driven since you moved to London. Trying to do a four-hour trip in bad weather conditions wouldn’t be sensible, Beth. It wouldn’t be safe. I’d be so worried about you.’
I screwed my nose up. This was an irritatingly good point. I wouldn’t be much help if I ended up in hospital too.
‘What about the hotel though? This place is your pride and joy and Christmas is the crowning glory of your year. Aren’t you worried something will go wrong without you here?’
‘Of course, I’m worried. But, firstly, I’ll only be away for a day. Secondly, I know you are here and more than capable. And thirdly…this place is not my pride and joy.’ She reached out for my hand and gave it a little squeeze. I felt it in my chest, right around my heart. She cleared her throat and let go again to check her silver bracelet watch. ‘I have to go open the bar. You can watch over reception for a couple of hours, then start setting up the dining room for dinner. Lydia gave us some extras she had for us to make table centrepieces with; you can sort that out for me, can’t you?’
‘Sure.’ I forced a smile and tried to sound confident because I knew that’s what she wanted from me. She raised me to be a strong, independent young woman. How hard could it be?
Chapter Three
‘Argh, you piece of Christmas crap.’ I threw the holly leaf down after pulling its prickly edge out of my thumb. It was afauxholly leaf. What kind of sadist put sharp bits on a pretend plant?
I was trying to figure out how it was that I’d spent years visiting Lydia in her florist’s and had absorbed precisely zero knowledge of flower arranging, when my stomach gave an enormous growl. I never had made myself that sandwich earlier. No wonder I couldn’t concentrate on the fiddly little leaves; between the constant background buzz of anxiety about Grandad, my mum’s imminent departure leaving me in charge – oh God – and my blood sugar level crashing, I had the attention span of a toddler. If I was going to get these centrepieces sorted, I needed to fuel myself back up.
I strode over to the dining rooms double doors and pulled down the deadbolt on one side, so I could slip through to the bar, with the intention of grabbing myself a bag of peanuts. Inside, the burble of many one-to-one conversations joined together over the gentle clink of glasses. Mum was serving someone at the far end of the bar. I lifted the hatch and ducked under the swaths of thick garland fastened to the shelving above the bar with red velvet bows. It’s possible I was starting to get paranoid about aggressive Christmas decorations.
I’d made it safely through the foliage when a guest approached me at the bar, with two empty glasses and a face that made me freeze in place. It took a while for my brain to catch up, but it got there just as he set the glasses on the bar in between us and looked up at me.
It was the grumpy-backpack guy. Rain-dishevelled, nice-smelling guy.
I saw the question slide across his face and the recognition that very shortly followed. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
‘Small world.’ I forced a smile and my body began to thaw out from its shock, no doubt warmed by the sight of him.
My goodness, he scrubbed upreallywell.
That afternoon his charms had been obscured beneath the soggy hair, grumpy attitude and rucksack the size of Ben Nevis. Now there was really no question: he was hot.
How annoying.
That one solitary curl I’d seen earlier was now joined by all its brothers and sisters, dry and clean; lounging around on the top of his head without a care for the massacre that had occurred at the back and on the sides where his gorgeous dark blond hair was cropped much closer. I gave it an eight out of ten on the glorious mess scale. Still dishevelled, but in a rolled-out-of-bed way, rather than a run-over-by-a-fleeing-woman way.
The collar of his chequered shirt highlighted the firm angle of his jaw and why that characteristic seemed to jump out at me I didn’t know. What did a strong, square jaw signify to my female heterosexual biology exactly? That he would be able to take a punch well in a human version of the rutting season? That he was less likely to cut himself shaving and was therefore a better long-term prospect for a mate?
