The California Club (7 page)

'Who?' Sasha blushes.

'That guy,' I point back but he's gone.

Sasha shrugs and studies the floor.

Curious. Why would she try and deny the encounter? Before I can probe further, Helen sweeps us through to the Crown Room to enjoy Victorian Afternoon Tea served by waitresses in bustles and buns.

It’s an impressive venue: the ceiling is like an upturned ark with its curved wooden beams and the giant-bulbed chandeliers are shaped into the form of crowns.

‘Interesting motif…’

‘Coronado, coronation…’ Helen explains the origin as she pads across the richly-patterned carpet.

‘Ahhh!’ I nod. This place certainly does have a regal air. We learn that Edward, Prince of Wales has visited and numerous presidents from Roosevelt to Clinton. Not to mention Hollywood Royalty from back in the day – Judy Garland, Katherine Hepburn and Gregory Peck…

‘All that class,’ I sigh.

‘And now they let in any old riff-raff,’ Elise sneers at a woman in low-rise jeans and a cropped top yapping loudly on her cellphone.

‘I think it’s nice that it’s open to the public,’ Helen counters. ‘I mean, it’s more than a hotel, it’s a historic landmark.’ She stops beside the floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight filtering through the green palm fronds of the front lawn. ‘This is our table…’

Within minutes of settling we're presented with the best-dressed cake stand I've ever seen – three layers, each with a distinct personality: at the top sit the dainty-girlie-frilly items, all frosted icing and sugared pastels, then comes a succulent fruit topped selection, and at the bottom the rich browns of the chocolate, coffee and nut offerings.

'Helen, you've excelled yourself!' Elliot admires her handiwork.

I look at the anticipatory rapture on everyone's faces and think how B&Bs really talk up their breakfasts – quite logically of course – but what if our attraction was a legendary teatime? That would be a lovely bonus at check-in, you'd feel indulged the second you were through the door.

'Lara, are you going to try something?' Helen nudges me. 'I did the mini donuts specially for you.'

My life is one big quest for the perfect donut. I like them light and fluffy with a slightly crispy shell, as opposed to those solid doughy cushions that are so common.

'Perfection!' I gasp. 'Just a hint of jam and it's the quality stuff with pips and everything!'

Helen grins proudly, grabs an éclair and takes a giant bite.

I can't quite believe my eyes. In the old days, if a raisin got wedged in her teeth she'd consider that her treat for the month. I wonder if there's some new culinary equivalent of wine-tasting – take a bite, roll the food around the palette and then spit it out. But no, she swallows. And takes another bite.

'Mmm, and you've got to try these,' Helen raves, plucking one of the flaky pastries oozing custard. 'I know it looks messy but I tried adding a little almond paste to the filling and it's worked out really well.'

'I love these chocolate-dipped Florentines!' Sasha enthuses.

'I have two every morning for breakfast!' Helen smiles. 'Aren't they divine?'

I look at Zoë. She nods at me as if to say:
You ask
. So I do.

'Helen …' I try to sound casual, not wanting to make a big thing of it. 'Since when did you start eating your own creations?'

She laughs gaily. 'I don't know, one day I just got this
appetite
!'

'I don't get it – you're eating all these treats and you're looking slimmer than ever. What's your secret?' Zoë wants to know.

'Please don't tell me you've found true love, I'll have to kill myself,' I whimper.

'As a matter of fact I have met someone!' Helen beams.

'Traitor!' I joke but inside I'm crushed. Is there anything left of the old Helen? I mean, it's one thing to get a makeover but deliberately withholding earth-shattering gossip (I still can't believe she knew about Elliot's engagement first!) and now finding love! It’s quite outrageous.

'His name is Reuben,' she sighs, looking elated.

'When do we get to meet him?' Elliot enquires.

'Soon,' she says, mysteriously.

'How did all this happen?'

'You really want to know?'

'Yes!' we insist.

Helen takes a second to look at each of us, almost as if she's assessing whether we're really ready for her reply.

‘Well …?' Sasha eggs her on.

She takes a breath and whispers: 'The California Club!'

'The what?' We all lean forward, eager to learn more.

'Miss Hill,' a waiter interrupts, 'the mother of the bride wants to thank you for being so creative with the replacement cake, have you got a minute?'

The second Helen is out of earshot we begin our speculation.

'It's got to be a Weight Watchers thing,' Zoë asserts. 'It's just like in the ads when people lead these fabulous zesty lives after they've dropped six stone. Look at her – she's glowing.'

'She wouldn't be allowed chocolate éclairs if it was Weight Watchers,' Sasha observes.

'Maybe it's just all the extra sugar making her hyper,' Elise opines.

'I reckon it's a surf club.' Elliot gets practical. ‘There's more to it than weight loss, she's toned, she's lithe – look at her body.'

Elise raises an eyebrow.

'Not that I was,' flounders Elliot.

‘Could be,' Sasha muses. 'She's got the look, she's right here on the beach…’

'I think it's a dating agency:
The California Club – bringing sun-kissed singles together
!’ I sing.

Hmm. I guess it’s obvious which aspect of her transformation is preying on my mind. There I was coasting along, comfortable with having an absolute nothingness of a love life and suddenly Elliot’s engaged and Helen’s head-over-heels. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt quite so left behind. Something tells me I’ll be sneaking a peek at Sasha’s self-help books tonight.

‘Wait!’ I gasp. ‘It could be therapy! She’s let go of some issue we never knew she had and its freed up her heart to embrace a whole new life!’

'Oh no.' A look of horror flashes across Elise's face. 'What if it's one of those change-your-life cults!'

'What if it's Scientology?' Sasha murmurs.

‘What if we get to meet John Travolta?' Zoë gurgles.

'She's far too level-headed for any cult,’ Elliot tuts.

'A year ago she'd never leave the house without a serum-smoothed ponytail, and now look at her!' Zoë points out.

As we lapse into silent contemplation I give myself a chill. 'You don't think she's got us over here to recruit us, do you?' I ask, unsure of whether that would be a good or a bad thing.

'You can rely on my bullshit detector,' Elise bristles. ‘If I sense a whiff of mind control I'll scream the place down.'

'Whatever it is, she looks pretty good on it!' Elliot says.

'Yeah, I'd give it a try.' Sasha looks wistful.

'I wonder if she can get us temporary membership,' Zoë ponders.

'I don't think we should mention it again till she does,' Elise decides.

'Why not?' Zoë frowns.

'That way we'll know if she's trying to convert us.'

'Ahhh!' we nod, all going along with Elise's paranoia for some inexplicable reason.

'So we'll just keep—'

'Quiet!' Elise shushes Zoë. 'She's coming back!'

We all resume 'mmmmmm-delicious' poses with various pastry props and act as though our conversation got no further than eulogizing the mini lemon meringue pies. Helen surprises all of us by not mentioning The California Club again, although instead of this being a relief, it just fuels our curiosity. But we daren't cross Elise so soon after we vowed silence on the subject and frankly I could I do with little break before the next revelation.

Besides, we’ve just been presented with a giant platter of wedding cake.

What’s that phrase about
eating your feelings?
Got to be worth a try…

I tilt my head at the swathe of sky unraveling for miles in either direction from our vantage point on the beachfront terrace. The wisps of clouds look to me like powdery icing sugar blown across a sheet of blue silk.

'Hellooo!' Zoë whistles as three bare torsos jog by in such strict formation they look like a six-legged Chippendale.

‘The Navy SEALS have their base on the island,' Helen explains. ‘They're here every day.’

‘Welcome, to paradise!' Zoë sighs, then frowns as she points to where the flat bands of sand meet the sea. 'What's going on there?'

We follow her gaze to where a family of five are dodging the lapping waves. Head to toe in black, they seem to be transplanted from another era. I remember Helen saying the hotel had a ghost and I'm about to ask whether these might be visiting spooks when we realize they are in fact an Amish family – Dad and sons sporting braces and straw boaters, the mother and daughters in matching bonnets.

'It looks like a scene from
The Piano
,' Elise gawps.

'Now I've never seen that before!' Even Helen is bemused. 'Come on, I want to show you something.'

'Is this the haunted stairwell?'

'Not yet.'

Helen leads us along the seafront walkway to a private bungalow with its own gated entrance. It has a matching exterior to the hotel – white wooden frame and red roof - yet seems to have more of a cottagey interior.

'We can't go in because it's occupied, but this is the beach house where Marilyn Monroe stayed during filming.'

As Zoë throws herself against the railings, crying 'I want to touch it!' I find myself wondering how I might have lured a celebrity to stay the night at the B&B and then named the room after them. The George Clooney Suite, in an ideal world. Doesn't that sound fetching? But then I experience a stab of regret. Why are ideas presenting themselves to me now when it's too late to implement them?

‘Do you like it, Lara?' Helen asks.

'How many does it sleep?' I reply with a question.

‘At least six, I think…'

'Room enough for all of us!' Elliot decides. 'How much?'

'At this time of year, about $3,000.’

'Please tell me that's for the week.'

'A night.’

‘I've got to find a millionaire,' Zoë scans the horizon.

'Have you been inside?' I ask, dying for a glimpse.

'Of course!' Helen nods.

'Well?' I prompt her.

'Maybe you'll get to see it for yourselves soon …' Helen gives a mischievous twinkle.

Zoë swings round, 'Oh Helen, you haven't! Can we … Are we …?' Zoë splutters, pawing at Helen's sleeve.

'Do you mean a tour? A night?' Elliot tries to get the specifics.

'You'll have to wait and see!'

'Not this too!' Zoë wails. 'Helen, you're killing us with all this suspense!’

Elise gives Zoë a dark look.

'Aren't I wicked?' Helen chirrups, unfazed. 'Come on, let's go back to the main hotel, I'll tell you the hotel ghost story.'

'Do we get to hear the end?' Zoë grumbles.

Helen smiles as she takes her arm. 'Of course!'

‘What are all these metal things sticking out of the ceilings?' I ask as Helen leads us along one of the extra-wide corridors.

'Sprinklers. This building is predominantly made of wood and one of the original owners was terrified at the speed with which a fire would spread so he had gazillions of the things installed. Now they say you'd have more chance of drowning than burning.'

'Speaking of death,' Elise finally finds a subject she feels an affinity with. 'You mentioned a ghost …'

Helen continues for a couple more paces before turning to face us. 'Kate Morgan was just twenty-four when she put a gun to her head and shot herself, right here in the hotel.’

Gosh. That’s quite an opener.

‘She had argued with her husband on the train to San Diego, he got off early, she continued on, waited five days for him to arrive and when he didn't show up at the hotel she took her own life.'

Sasha, Zoë and I sigh. What woman can't relate to the madness-inducing frustrations of the waiting game.

‘Or…’ Helen gets a mischievous look.

‘She was coming here to meet her lover. She signed in under a false name after all. Why would she do that if she was expecting her husband? What if he had found out that she was having an affair, tracked her down and shot her himself.’

‘Oh gosh!’

‘This was 1892, the hotel had only been opened a few years and they would have preferred the tragedy of a suicide over the menace of a murder…’

‘So it’s a bit of a whodunit as well as a ghost story?’

Helen nods. ‘There was also speculation that she was pregnant or had stomach cancer – two other possible motives…’

‘But what about the actual ghost aspect?’ Elliot wants to know.

‘Well, we've had reports of extreme changes in temperature, strange sounds, fragrances, piles of papers being strewn across a room, people tripping on the step where her body was found …'

'She doesn't realize that she's gone.' Sasha looks sad. 'She can't understand why people can't see her, why they just walk through her.'

I lean out on the balcony overlooking the central courtyard. 'Isn't it funny,' I muse. 'To everyone else here this place really is heaven.'

'Yeah, if it wasn't full of Americans it would be great.'

Thank you Elise.

I try to exchange a look with Sasha but her eyes are averted and if I'm not mistaken her bottom lip is trembling.

'Back in a mo!' she swiftly excuses herself.

'We'll be at the terrace bar!' Helen calls after her.

As the others move away, I discreetly drop back then turn to follow Sasha, finally locating her in the Ladies, staring miserably into the sink.

She startles as she catches sight of my reflection and blusters, ‘Do you think these orchids are real? I mean they probably-‘

'Are you okay?' I cut in, concerned at how disturbed she looks. I'm fairly certain it's not just the ghost story unsettling her.

She looks at me for a second and then starts feverishly soaping and frothing her hands like a pin-up version of Lady Macbeth. 'I just feel a bit queasy, I think it was the pecan pie – I'm not very good with caramelized nuts.' Sasha is a terrible liar. She knows it too, so she has another go: 'Or it could be the jet lag, you know I read it can actually cause depression in some people.'