The California Club (46 page)

Once I'm on the road, the strange sense of calmness returns to me. I think it's the surrealness of driving on near-empty roads at night – I can't see further than the tarmac lit by my headlamps – I could be anywhere. For nearly two hours there's no voices, no music, just the hum of the engine.

Then comes the Coronado Bay Bridge, suspending me high in the darkness between two sets of sparkling city lights. I get tingles and I have to concentrate to steady my breathing. I'm nearly there.

Gold lightbulbs trail an outline of the hotel's turrets, luring me closer. There's a space for me right beside the bungalow. The key is in my hand. I approach the pergola-gate. And then I stop. I can't do it. I can't stop wanting. If he's not there, I don't know if I can take it. And if he is and he doesn't want me … As long as I stand here it could still happen. I'm staying here.

For five full minutes I stand perfectly still, paralyzed by my fears.

Then I swallow and force out a breath.

You can take it.
I tell myself.
You're stronger than you think. Whatever happens, you will survive.

I reach out and slowly insert the key in the slot. The light flicks to green and there's a click as the latch is released. I pull open the gate and move towards the front door. Again the key. Green light. Go. I gently push down the handle and enter.

There's one low lamp on and the TV is playing its welcome music. No obvious signs of life. No jackets on chairbacks, no scuffed-off shoes, no minibar empties or room service trollies. I slide my hand along the pine of the dining room table and walk into the lounge area. I was expecting soft powder-puff pinks but the décor is more sunny country cottage in feel. All of the bright floral sofa cushions are plumped and indent-free so I move slowly into the first bedroom, almost as if I'm trying to leave no trace myself. Two quilted beds. Unscrumpled. I try the next. The master bedroom. Empty. The bathroom. Empty. The walk-in wardrobe – what am I doing? I'm going to be checking the cutlery drawer next. He's not here. I catch the sinking feeling before it hits my knees, hauling it up over my head and then casting it aside. It's just me and it's okay.

Returning to the lounge I fold back the louvered panels of the patio door and step out on to the decking.

There's a cool breeze from the sea but it feels good. Reviving. I walk down

into the neat garden area and find myself drawn to the canvas hammock. There's a fleecy blanket draped over it, and I use it to cocoon myself into place. Normally I'd cry now. Or pace wildly. But I think of Kate Morgan and how the waiting and disappointment led to her death. Then I think of Marilyn. You could say she too died for love. How many cautionary tales do I need?

I wonder what those women would do if they got a second chance, a new beginning? I know what I want. The B&B – something I can put my heart and soul into. Some way I can welcome new people into my life. Somewhere for old friends to gather.

But there's still the problem of the money. Not something that most of the guests at this Beach House would be caught saying. ?? a night. Still, if there were six of you sharing …

Suddenly I sit bolt upright, which, let me tell you, in a hammock is no mean feat. Six sharing – six rooms at the B&B. What if I took the idea of adopting a tiger and applied it to the B&B – six sponsors, one room each. I could go to my clients, they're all pretty wealthy, give them a choice of room, consult them on the design, make them feel it's their own. But how would we tie the looks together? We'd need a theme… Ideas start rushing through my brain so fast they create a mental twister. I throw myself out of the hammock and scramble up the stairs. Paper! Pen! There's got to be – I yank at the drawers and find headed notepaper. I can't write fast enough for my thoughts – six rooms, one for each of my friends, one for me … I said I wanted a memory with each of them to last a lifetime. Now I've had the adventures, here's my chance to immortalize them:

Room 1: Elliot/Yosemite. I'd create a mountain hideaway with a log bed and real fire with heaped cushions and woven rugs (but definitely no bearskins) and a blue-black ceiling studded with twinkles so that it would be like sleeping under the stars at night. I'd do the bathroom with Native American tiling as a tribute to the Ahwahneechee and instead of room service we'd offer special bedroom picnics.

I grab the next sheet of paper.

Room 2. Elise. Well, she was part of the experience and there's nothing wrong with a bit of spiritual enlightenment. I could go for gold shrines and hues of Buddhist orange… No, I know – pure white: white floors, walls, bedspreads … with tranquility candles and fresh orchids and in the bathroom a Jacuzzi surrounded by inspirational thoughts like
Learn to listen – opportunity sometimes knocks very softly
stenciled in silver on the walls.

Room 3. Helen. Surfs Up! Blue walls with a glittering wave motif, surfboard as a bedhead, fish tank running the length of the bath and a tube of complimentary sunblock on the sink. As the pièce de la résistance, I'd swap the wrought iron table and chairs currently on the balcony for a free-standing hammock, like the one I was just cocooned in!

This is too exciting. I want to squeal and ring my mum but there's still three to go.

Room 4. Zoë: this would have to be the suite, done up in full 1930s Hollywood glamour – pinks and silvers and fanned art deco mirrors. Ruched satin on the wall heading the bed, carpet you sink knee deep into, movie star portraits in the bathroom and vintage perfume bottles on the dresser. DVD player with a stack of black & white classics. Glass of champagne on arrival and maybe even a personalized mini Oscar statuette as a memento on departure? (And the award for our Best Guest goes to …)

Room 5. Sasha. Obviously animal print but to avoid looking too Hooker on Safari I'd do the walls in an enlarged print – hand-painted leopard rosettes the size of my hand on two and then big broad tiger stripes on the opposing walls. That would give it a more contemporary feel. I'd frame a huge blown-up photograph of our favorite liger and drape muslin around the four-poster like Sasha had at Shambala. And instead of leaving a single chocolate on the pillow I'd put a whole Lion Bar! Then it hits me – what if half the profits from the room went to adopting Ryan? My feet do a little tap-dance under the table.

One more – my room. I think of all my travels. What would best represent that? I know – the Road Trip Room! Set a kingsize mattress in an old Cadillac and you're away! Imagine having a real milometer on the bed?! The minibar would be stocked with Dr Pepper and Doritos and Red Vines and all the classic junk food you eat while cruising. I could even do the bathroom as a retro gas station with old Americana tin signs and a showerhead on the end of the gas pump! The Madonnas would be proud of me!

I take a deep breath and a fresh sheet of paper.

And the name of the place … I'm shaking as I write: THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA!

'Bloody brilliant!' I hoot out loud.

In response I hear a skidding-squeak followed by a splash. I look over at the sink in the kitchen area. Not a drip.

Strange.

Then I notice the music center and stack of CDs in the corner. I feel like dancing! Fantastic – they've got Pink!

'Get This Party Started!'
I sing along, and then swing round to find a man staring at me. He's wearing just a towel and a bewildered look. And he's very wet.

I leap back.

'Elliot! Where did you come from?'

'Bathroom,' he states the obvious.

'But!' I look behind me – I already looked in there.

‘There's two,' he replies groggily. 'I must have fallen asleep in the tub – what time is it?

'Four am,' I tell him, trying not to stare at the trickles of water working their way down his bare chest.

'No wonder the water was so cold,' he shudders. ‘I must have been in there hours!' He rubs his arms, then pulls a face. 'Which also would explain why I have the skin of a seventy-two-year-old man.'

I stifle a smile.

'Where are the others?'

‘They'll be here tomorrow,' I tell him. Tonight it's just me.'

My last four words create a strange tension in the room.

Daring myself to break it, I say: 'We heard about Elise …'

'Isn't it great?' He looks genuinely happy. ‘That was a truly fortuitous sequence of events!'

'Was it?'

'Well, not all of it, obviously.' He looks regretful. 'I came back for you and you were gone.'

I shrug carelessly. 'So what happened?' I need to know.

Elliot sighs, seemingly taking a moment to decide where to begin. 'She told me at the Madonna Inn that she'd met this great minister and she wanted me to meet him before I went back to Yosemite.’

‘So you were visiting her, not me?'

'Not at all. I came to see you, to apologize and—' he stops.

'Yes?'

'Let me just explain about Elise first, so you understand.'

I nod for him to continue, holding myself in check.

'I don't know if Helen told you but our original plan was actually to get hitched out here.'

I shake my head. I did not know that. Or maybe I just didn’t want to know. There were a few clues…

'That's why it was pressing down on my head so much. Helen had already helped us sort the paperwork so we were all legal and ready to go.'

'And you were going to get married without any of us there?' I still can't believe it.

'No, it was always going to be at the end of the second week – a kind of grand finale to the trip – but I started to have doubts, as you know, and meanwhile Martha was encouraging Elise to confront her past.'

I can't help but smile at this: good ole Martha.

‘She held off contacting Andrew until that very last day and then persuaded him to stick around to meet me because she wanted his blessing. I came to see you, she pounced – ' Elliot winces. 'But as soon as I saw them together … there was no mistaking it, it was meant to be.'

'And you told her that?

'Yup.'

'What did she say?'

'She just broke down and cried – hard to believe, I know,' Elliot shrugs. 'Elise never cries.'

'No, I believe you,' I say under my breath.

'She was at it for a good hour. I guess she'd been keeping in a lot. Once she knew she was free from me and there were no recriminations they couldn't wait another second to be together. It was just approaching midnight and it seemed kind of romantic, I suppose – they decided to get married right there and then.'

'In front of you?'

'She said they would never have got back together if it hadn't been for me and she asked me to give her away.'

'You're kidding?’

‘No! And you know what? It actually it felt good – knowing she was going to a good home and, er,' Elliot gives a wry smile, 'being certain that she was gone.'

I raise an eyebrow.

'She was a piece of work, wasn't she?' he asks.

'Yes she was,' I understate.

Elliot suddenly looks serious. 'When I found you'd gone, I felt like I'd lost you. Really lost you. I tried to imagine how I'd feel if I never saw you again because right then I felt I didn't deserve to. But I couldn't bear it.' His voice quavers and he hangs his head.

'Why didn't you come to the fundraiser?' If he wanted to see me so much …

'Honestly? I couldn't face seeing you with Joel.'

'Really?'

Elliot nods, looking thwarted. 'I can't explain the effect that guy has on me. It's like Superman and Kryptonite – I just become this cowed, weak onlooker when he's around. And the more foolishly I behave, the brighter he glows.'

'But deep down you're Superman?' I tease.

'Okay, bad analogy,' Elliot cringes. 'If anything I should be the green thing – I mean it, I've never experienced jealousy like that! I felt sick to my stomach every time he touched you.' Elliot swallows hard, as if the memory alone is making him nauseous. 'I was desperate to see you, to explain everything, but I couldn't risk messing up again like I did at the Madonna Inn.'

Now it's as if Elliot experiences a chill. 'Where is he, by the way?' His eyes are scanning for a giveaway trace of Joel.

'Gone,' I say simply.

'Gone gone?'

I nod.

Elliot begins with a smile that almost instantly becomes a grin. 'I don't mean to look so happy!' he apologizes, looking like he might do a back flip then twirl me round like a cheerleader's baton to celebrate. Instead he takes a tentative step towards me and though he doesn't actually brush the table, all my scribbled pages flurry to the floor. Almost as if a ghost swept them there.

'What's all this?' As he bends down to gather them up his towel separates at the thigh.

Why is every bit of him so irresistible to me? I want to go to him but I know I have to hold back a little longer.

'My future!' I hold my head high.

‘The Hotel California …' he reads. ‘Hey, I like it!'

I babble my plan to him, nineteen to the dozen. He looks impressed, nodding, and with his face brightening throughout the descriptions of what I'd do to the rooms.

'Are you still looking for a partner?' he asks when I'm done.

'Maybe.'

'Would you consider me?'

'Depends what you'd have to offer.'

'$60,000 for starters. If we need more we can remortgage and split the payments – equal partners.'

‘That's just money,' I shrug. I want more.

'I could set up a great website for the hotel with 360-degree room tours and an interactive reservation system—'

‘That's just technology,' I cut in.

Elliot gets a little twinkle in his eyes: 'I'd do all the late night check-ins?

‘Better …' I concede.

'And every Saturday night I'd create a different martini for you and serve it on the terrace at sunset.'

'Even in the rain?' I ask.

'Even in the rain,' he confirms. 'In fact rainwater may become a featured ingredient, along with a seaweed twist!'

I chuckle approval, remembering my snowflake margarita, then steal some extra oxygen as he steps closer, his damp skin raised with goosebumps, his soapy-clean smell surrounding me.