Vintage Babes (49 page)

My worries about Steve feeling manoeuvred into us spending even more time together had been dissipated. After Lynn, Justin and Beth had left yesterday, I had been quick to suggest that if ‘the treat’ didn’t appeal we could concoct a reason for opting out.

‘We could claim some kind of a crisis at
The Siren,’
I had said.

Steve had shrugged. ‘I guess, though I rather fancy living it up at Garth House. But you don’t?’

‘No, I do.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘No problem.’

‘Then let’s go for it.’

But there was a problem, one I had not anticipated. While Steve fitted much of my criteria for the perfect on-call escort – he looked and acted the part, was believed by some to be my red-hot lover and had even repaired the loo – I was aware of myself doing what I had deemed to be forbidden, attaching strings. I was becoming fond of him. Too fond. Ever since we’d kissed, I had found myself fantasising about him
as
my red-hot lover. It must stop and it would stop, I vowed. After this weekend our relationship would revert to a purely working relationship. There would be no more scratch dinners, a veto on socialising. Steve had said he had no interest in a serious entanglement. As for me – falling for my boss at my age was inviting trouble. Trouble as in heartache.

Reaching the high mahogany counter, I looked over it to see a girl with a shock of frizzy ginger hair and round owl glasses staring at a computer screen. I waited, but still she stared. She must have heard the click of my high heels across the marble floor. She had to be aware of my presence. I coughed. No response. I coughed again, twice.

The receptionist scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, I do apologise, but when I concentrate –’ she blinked behind the owl glasses ‘– I become deaf and blind to everything else. I’m not too slick on typing and I was checking a letter the manager’s given me to write, but I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long, madam. It’s a dreadful thing to do, so discourteous, and I feel really bad –’

‘My name is Carol Webb and I have a room booked for tonight, dinner, bed and breakfast,’ I said, breaking into the effusive apology.

The girl sat down, tip-tapped jerkily at the computer keys, consulted the screen and nodded. ‘Your room is The Clark Gable Room on the third floor, madam. All our bedrooms are named after film actors.’

‘Film actors who’ve won Oscars, and that’s because one of the owners of the hotel is a film buff called Oscar,’ I added.

‘Is that so?’ She looked at me in wonderment, though I was only repeating information I had read in the Garth House glossy brochure. ‘I had no idea.’ There was a pause when she frowned, as if going through a mental checklist of the questions she was supposed to ask. ‘What time would you like to eat, madam? Our restaurant is busy this evening and you need to make a reservation.’

‘Eight o’clock?’ I suggested.

Once again, the computer was consulted and more keys tapped. ‘That’s fine.’

‘A table at eight for two,’ I said, feeling a need for confirmation.

‘Two?’

‘Yes. Mr Steven Lingard is also booked in for the night and we’ll be dining together.’

‘He is? You will?’ The receptionist – a badge pinned to her jacket identified her as Poppy – returned her attention to the computer screen. She tapped for a while, then nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I see that now. And I remember. You were fortunate to get a room at such short notice. The hotel is full tonight, due to an association of French travel agents who’re holding a conference here. There’s no need to reserve a table for breakfast, but would you like a newspaper in the morning?’

‘No thanks. I assume Mr Lingard hasn’t arrived yet?’

‘Don’t think so. I mean –’ she checked the computer screen ‘– no.’ A frizz of ginger hair was hooked behind one ear. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you and Mr Lingard the people from
The Dursleigh Siren
? The people who saved Mr Ernest from certain death?’

I smiled. ‘That’s something of an exaggeration, but, yes, we are.’

‘I thought so. I was on duty when Mr Ernest and the other gentleman came in to make your reservation. Mr Ernest asked so many questions, about the history of the building and the original family who owned it, about the wine cellar and where our produce is bought, that he got me quite flustered. You see, this is only my third week here, so I didn’t know. But the manager was able to help. To some degree.’ She was reflecting on this, when a thought struck. ‘You need your key.’

‘Please.’

Turning to squint at a framework of cubbyholes which were fixed to the wall behind her, Poppy looked along the top row, one by one, the second, the third and then recommenced her search all over again. Eventually the requisite key, one of the plastic card variety, was located and handed over.

‘You’re on the top floor. The lift is over there, to the left – sorry, I mean the right – of the potted palms. The porter will deliver your luggage, madam,’ she told me, as I reached down to retrieve my case.

‘Thank you.’

The lift was a splendid old-fashioned cage with a concertina door, polished brass handles and a stained glass ceiling. When I reached the third floor, signs indicated my required destination. Setting off along a wide, thick-carpeted corridor, I passed The Jodie Foster Room, The Tom Hanks Room, The Marlon Brando Room, The Cher Room – trust her to have received an Oscar! – until I came to The Clark Gable Room. I inserted my key, opened the door and went through a square hallway.

I laughed. ‘Luxury with knobs on!’

The Clark Gable Room was a suite of rooms; spacious, airy rooms which overlooked the walled garden at the rear of the hotel and putting green beyond. The hallway led into a sitting room, which was furnished with a floral sofa and chairs, a writing bureau and coffee table. The coffee table carried a decanter of sherry, bottle of red wine and a bowl of fresh fruit. A mini bar with fridge fitted discreetly into a wall unit, which also housed a wide-screen television, DVD player and a modem connection.

On the opposite wall, double doors opened into a cream-carpeted bedroom which contained a four-poster with crimson silk flounces and was pinned with photographs of Clark Gable looking ‘Gone With The Wind’ handsome. Towelling bath robes, ‘a gift for our guests’, hung behind the door which gave way to the bathroom. Tiled in white with a lavish gold trim, the bathroom included twin washbasins and a pond-sized Jacuzzi.

As I waited for my suitcase, I began to explore – looking inside the fridge to discover more complimentary drinks, opening the bureau to find a supply of best-seller paperbacks and stainless steel pens – all stickered ‘please take away’. Next I tested the four-poster, which felt seductively cosy and had, I saw, a silver coronet embroidered on the crimson duvet. In the bathroom, I admired the array of top-of-the-range soaps, shampoos and body lotions.

Exploring done, I inspected myself in the bedroom’s mirrored wardrobes. Dressed in a pale green trouser suit with a navy shirt, I decided I made a suitable Garth House guest. Classy and sophisticated. Pretty, too. Today was not a gargoyle day. For dinner I would be wearing a stylish lilac and white patterned dress with a boat-shaped neck and swirling skirt. The dress was new, bought courtesy of my ‘stopped smoking’ fund from one of Dursleigh’s dress shops that morning. In a fit of excess, I had also purchased a lilac evening bag and high heels. Everything was in my suitcase which, surely, must now be on its way?

Stupido! I thought suddenly. I should’ve asked the receptionist for the name of Steve’s room or told her to inform me when he arrived. I had lifted the receiver to press out the Front Desk number, when there was the sound of activity outside my door. At long last, the porter had turned up.

Replacing the phone, I reached for my handbag and found my purse. I ought to tip the man, but how much should I give? Working in such a top-notch hotel, he must be used to receiving generous tips. Was two pounds sufficient or should I make that three? I’ve never felt confident about tipping.

‘What are you doing here?’ a male voice enquired, and I wrenched myself from my gratuity agonies to see Steve coming through the door, a travel bag held in his hand.

I gazed at him in surprise. ‘Hi. I’m here because this is my room. The Clark Gable Room.’

‘But I was told it was mine,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been given the key.’

‘I have a key, too.’

He put down his bag. ‘Looks like someone’s screwed up.’

‘The receptionist said that when Ernest and Dad came to fix the reservation Ernest bombarded her with questions and made her flustered, so maybe she made a mistake.’

‘Thought they wanted only one room? Could be, she doesn’t come over as the brain of Britain.’

‘Anything but,’ I agreed, though it did occur to me that, in his eagerness to match-make, my father could have covertly arranged for us to cohabit. The swine!

Steve frowned. ‘So what do we do? The manager was at the desk just now and he was telling me how the hotel is full. Seems there’s not a free room available tonight.’

‘The receptionist said that to me, too.’

‘Shame –’ Steve glanced around ‘– this appears to be quite some place.’

‘It is. There’s a Jacuzzi you could train dolphins in and the four-poster is fit for a king.’

‘The good life,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘I may not be able to spend the night here, but I can still enjoy a damn good dinner. And later head home, leaving my car and taking a taxi, because I dare say I’ll have succumbed to a drink or two.’

‘Then return for breakfast and to collect your car in the morning, after, maybe, a session at the health club?’ I said. ‘No. My house is much nearer, less than ten minutes away, so it makes more sense for me to go home and you to stay here.’

He shook his head. ‘Why should you miss out?’

‘Why should you? We could ask if it’s possible to exchange tonight’s reservation for another night and two rooms,’ I suggested.

‘The manager said the hotel was fully booked at the weekends from now until virtually the end of the summer. No, Carol, you’re staying. You were here first and ladies first, and all that.’

‘But you were the one who took the battering from William, who suffered the bruises. You’re the real hero,’ I protested, then stopped.

Someone had knocked on the door and Steve, who was nearer, went to open it.

‘One suitcase, sir,’ the porter told him.

Slipping his hand into his trouser pocket, he gave him a number of coins. ‘Thanks.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the porter said, sounding delighted.

‘I owe you for that,’ I told him, when the man had gone.

‘Like hell. And I’m not taking any more argument. Whatever you say, you infuriating woman, you –’ stretching out his arms, Steve walked towards me, as if intending to take hold and jokily shake me ‘– are going to spend the night here.’

I stepped back. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said. I didn’t want him to touch me – in case I was inspired to do something foolish, like wrapping my arms around him and pulling him close. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘Then how’s about we have a complimentary drink before I get changed for dinner?’

Steve grinned. ‘You’re full of bright ideas.’

I indicated the decanter and red wine on the coffee table. ‘There’s this or –’ Crossing to open the fridge, I displayed a selection of fruit juices, beers and a bottle of white wine, ‘– this.’

‘I’ll have a beer and would you like me to open the white wine for you?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’m already dressed for dinner,’ Steve said, when we were sat on the sofa with our drinks and a bowl of cashew nuts. ‘I was hot and sweaty from running up and down the touch line and cheering Paul on –’