Heartbreak Hotel (32 page)

‘Why do people pay their hard-earned cash to go to a hotel?’ she said. ‘To step into another world, to be pampered, to live in a bubble. There are certain things they expect nowadays, certain standards, and this place just doesn’t have them. Myrtle House isn’t shabby-chic, it’s just shabby. I nearly brained myself yesterday tripping over a hole in the carpet. And I won’t even start on the bathroom facilities.’ The fire was scorching the back of her legs. Monica moved away and sat on the arm of the sofa, like a teacher addressing a row of schoolchildren. ‘What sort of guests do you want? High end? I work with the rich. Even in the deepest recession, they always survive. In fact, they get richer. And what they want is something money can’t buy, something that you have here in spades – great countryside and the sort of community that doesn’t exist any more. With the right investment this place could be turned around – not just your hotel but the whole town.’ Her voice quickened. ‘I see Knockton as the new Hay-on-Wye. A Destination Town! Get some celebs down here, get some A-list creatives, set up a photo shoot in one of those retro shops, that hilarious gents’ outfitter’s, say, place a piece in the
Sunday Times
property pages extolling its charms, plant a story about an actress raising her own pigs and the punters will follow. I promise.’

Monica paused for breath. A log settled, with a sigh, in the fire.

‘And this is where they’ll stay,’ she said. ‘Your boutique hotel.’

‘Boutique?’ said Buffy faintly.

‘It’s crying out for expansion and I have an idea. Find some investors and buy the Old Court House next door.’

‘What?’ Buffy stared at her.

‘I looked at the details in the estate agent’s window,’ Monica said. ‘It’s a fabulous building, masses of potential. Knock through and expand. Create new bedrooms. Convert the cells into a spa –’

‘The cells?’ said India.

‘– treatment rooms – massage, therapies. Convert the courtroom into a conference centre. For various reasons my clients are looking for venues off the beaten track. Nowadays they need somewhere discreet and secure.’

‘Who are they, the Mafia?’ asked Buffy.

‘And Knockton’s perfect because nobody’s heard of it.’

She shot Buffy a challenging look, picked up her handbag and left the room.

Overnight the temperature dropped. When Penny looked out, the garden was white with frost. An icy draught leaked through the window sashes; she could feel it even through her Hotel Cipriani dressing gown.

The lavatory flushed. Penny darted out, clutching her washbag, but the bathroom door slammed shut. Somebody had beaten her to it. Through the walls she could sense people in their rooms, poised to make a move. It was like being back in her childhood, the whole family sharing one bathroom as people did then, even in Godalming.

‘…
the latest government figures reveal that youth unemployment has now reached one million
,’ said the news on her radio.

How full of hope she had been, just starting out! And how easy to find work straight from school, as a reporter for the
Surrey Gazette
. One took such things for granted then. Not for the first time, Penny was glad she hadn’t had children. A harsh world faced them now, and it was all the fault of their so-called elders and betters. In her youth, bank managers had been avuncular chaps who played golf with one’s father. They were there to reassure and help.

These past few days Penny had found herself dwelling on the past, not something in which she usually indulged. The house was dotted with triggers from her life with Buffy, that was why – a stripy rug they had bought together in Greece; various pictures that had been in his possession before she had met him, including one ghastly daub by Jacquetta. On the mantelpiece was a statue of Osiris she had given Buffy after a freebie to Egypt and which she suspected he had never liked; she had bought it on expenses, ah those were the days! And now it was all gone – the days of high living, the days of living with Buffy. Now he was a gallant old wreck with a drinker’s nose. She had to admire him for launching out on a new venture this late in life – she had done the same thing herself – but today there seemed to be an air of desperation about both their endeavours. What would have happened if they had both just stuck it out together? Would they have sunk into an undemanding companionship? Would that have been a cop-out, or really rather nice? For she had to admit it: she was dreading the drive home to Suffolk and the cold dark cottage that awaited her.

Just then, gazing out of the window, she saw Monica. She was walking down the garden path, wheeling her suitcase. The door in the wall led to the back lane; she must have parked her car there.

Penny left her room and ran down the stairs. From the kitchen came the smell of frying bacon. The cold air hit her as she opened the back door and strode down the path. And now she was in the back lane where Monica’s car stood in a cloud of exhaust smoke, its engine running.

Monica was scraping frost off the windscreen. When Penny called her name she jumped and swung round.

‘What are you doing here?’ She stared at Penny in her dressing gown and slippers.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to London,’ Monica said. ‘I’ve told Voda.’

‘But why?’

‘They need me at work,’ said Monica.

‘Do they?’

Monica turned away and attacked the windscreen with her scraper. Penny tapped the shoulder of her overcoat.

‘Can we sit in the car? It’s freezing.’

Monica shot her a puzzled look. She nodded, however, and opened the passenger door. They sat side by side, the engine still running.

‘Don’t leave,’ said Penny.

‘I told you. There’s a crisis at the office.’

Penny gazed at the frosted windscreen. Monica’s side, the driver’s side, was scraped clean. It reminded her of the specs worn by a girl at school who was blind in one eye – one lens clouded, the other clear.

‘I’ve seen you looking at Buffy,’ Penny said. ‘The way you look at him.’

Monica sat very still. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Penny took a breath. ‘I recognise that look, you see, because I was like that once.’

Monica’s gloved hands lay in her lap. There was something touching about her gloves – powder-blue knitted ones, the sort a child would wear.

‘He’s not such a bad old thing, you know,’ said Penny. ‘If you wanted, I could give you a reference. In fact, sometimes I wish I hadn’t run off with somebody else.’

‘Nothing’s happened between us.’ Monica stiffened. ‘Or has he told you something?’

‘No.’ Penny shook her head. ‘I know he likes you, though.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘I can see it in his face,’ said Penny. ‘Take my word for it. You see, he used to look at
me
like that.’

‘I’m sure he did,’ said Monica sharply. ‘And all the others.’

There was a silence. ‘You can’t expect him not to have had a life,’ said Penny. ‘You have, I have. We all have.’

‘Not as much as him.’

‘Are you jealous of me?’ Penny blurted out. ‘Look, feel me, I’m just a normal person.’ She slipped her hand into Monica’s gloved one and held it tight. ‘Just normal flesh and blood.’ Monica didn’t reply. Penny tried again: ‘He and I weren’t at it hammer and tongs, if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, we had our moments but it was more a companionable thing. Know what our first date was? Buying an orthopaedic mattress for his back –’ She stopped. Monica’s hand lay inert in hers. ‘Listen, Monica,
I
used to feel like that. I used to torture myself, thinking of all the women he’d slept with. I used to think, were they better at it than me? Did they do things I didn’t know how to do? Did he find them more exciting? Maybe he thought the same about me but I didn’t know, I never asked.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘It wasn’t just the sex. I envied them for knowing him when he was younger and slimmer and livelier. I mean, he and Popsi even rode a
motorbike
together, of all things; she knew a completely unknown Buffy – a racy, slim
man on a motorbike
! I envied her that so much I felt sick.’ Penny’s voice rose. Now she had started she couldn’t stop, even though her bladder was bursting. ‘And how could he love someone with such a stupid name? I asked him once and he said it was because Popsi hated her real name.
What was it?
I asked. And he said
Penelope
. That’s my name! He’d even slept with my
name
before!’ She burst into hysterical laughter. ‘And then I met her, and she was just a jolly middle-aged woman with lipstick on her teeth, and I met Jacquetta and some of the others and I realised they were just normal women like me, like you and me sitting here. And he’d loved them just as I’d loved all sorts of men, and what was really upsetting me was remembering the past, and our youth, and how we would never be those people again, any of us.’

She paused for breath. Monica, too, was breathing heavily. Despite the heater, smoke came out of their mouths.

‘He doesn’t fancy me and I don’t fancy him,’ said Monica in a flat voice. ‘And even if he does, and I did, I can’t face it. I can’t face being hurt. This man I knew, he was married but I loved him so much I thought I was going mad. He stole my best years, he stole the children I never had, and I can’t do that again and that’s that.’

‘Don’t blame Buffy for something that happened to you. He’s had his knocks but he’s up for it, I can tell. Why don’t you just go for it?’

Monica swung round to face her. ‘Why don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘With Harold?’

Penny’s heart jumped. She picked at the towelling of her bathrobe. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’ve seen that look. I can recognise it too, you know.’

The heater hummed in the silence. ‘I really must go to the loo,’ said Penny. ‘I’m bursting.’

Monica smiled. ‘I’m glad I met you.’ She kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good luck with that bathroom.’

Penny got out. As she walked towards the house she heard the car drive off.

Buffy had a terrible night. Insomnia, palpitations. His back ached; his loose tooth throbbed. He was falling to pieces; he had been for years but in the black depths of the night he felt himself in a state of total disintegration. Even the dog, propelled onto the floor by his tossing and turning, had deserted him and whined to be let out of the room. Buffy was utterly alone in his rotting house. Of course it was full of people but soon they would be gone. Weak with self-pity, he thought:
I come first with nobody
.

Monica lay sleeping on the floor above. In two days she would disappear from his life forever. Her speech the previous evening had thrown him into confusion. That cool, businesslike tone was final proof, if proof were needed, that she felt nothing for him but contempt. And yet her radical plan showed that she had put some thought into his situation. Why on earth had she bothered? Was it just her professional instincts rising to the challenge, or did she really care what happened to him and his establishment? She had looked agitated but that might have just been the alcohol. How handsome she was, though, standing there in her navy-blue trouser suit, metaphorically cracking the whip!

Buffy woke with a jerk. It was a blazingly beautiful day, though freezing cold. At this time of year the garden lay in shadow; only the top branches of the yew tree caught the sunshine. The faint sound of laughter came from downstairs where the morning’s class – puddings and desserts – had already begun.

Having no desire to meet anyone, he let himself out of the house and walked across the road to the Coffee Cup. Amy, bringing him a croissant, said: ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a bit rough.’

‘You said that to me on
Miss Marple
.’

‘Yes, but then I could do something about it.’

Buffy nodded. ‘You and your trusty Polyfilla.’

Amy laughed. She was in love. Everybody seemed to be in love. Andy whistled on his rounds, like the postman Buffy had seen the day he arrived in Knockton; he’d got it together with the girl at the Camper Van Centre. Rosemary and Douggie had rekindled their marriage under his roof. India and Voda had fallen for each other. Even Des and Bella had jumped into the sack. Buffy himself was sort of responsible for these romances. But what about his own happy ending? Morosely, he tore off a piece of croissant and dunked it in his coffee.

It was then that he decided to go for a walk. He would drive up to the hills and stride along Offa’s Dyke. That’s what people did in this part of the world. They returned to Myrtle House, their cheeks flushed, saying
My goodness, that blew away the cobwebs!
It was ridiculous that in all these months he had scarcely taken the dog further than the recreation ground. Bugger his bunions. Maybe the wind would blow away the cobwebs and reveal the truth as he stood on the summit of somewhere-or-other, three counties spread below him.

Buffy drove two miles up the road, parked at the footpath sign and let out the dog. Yapping hysterically, Fig disappeared into some gorse bushes. A rabbit shot out. Buffy, bundled up in his overcoat, made his way along the path. The sun shone on the frosty, skeletal hedgerows to either side. Ahead of him, sheep were scattered like boulders across the hillside. Idly he wondered where Voda’s cottage was; in all these months he had never been invited there; maybe she thought they saw enough of each other at Myrtle House. Nor had India issued an invitation. Nyange, however, had stayed the night with the two of them and would now be on her way back to London. Buffy felt a familiar lurch of exclusion.
I come first with nobody
. He himself was a boulder, people washing up around him and then, at low tide, ebbing away and leaving him alone. Had Bridie felt like this? She had always seemed so cheerful, so generous and accommodating, but had panic gripped her in the depths of the night?

‘Lovely day!’ A grey-haired couple strode past, hand in hand. The man, repulsively, wore shorts.
Shoot them!
said Monica.
Pick them off one by one!

Panting heavily, Buffy leaned against a gate. His back ached; his metatarsal throbbed. He was far too unfit for such exertions. But the view was spectacular, hills rising higher and higher into the milky distance, light shining on the uplands. There was no wind, just silence. Silence so vast he could feel it pressing against him.