The Hawkshead Hostage (3 page)

‘It’s a whole little world,’ said Simmy, thinking there was a sort of magic to hotel life. The core of permanent staff on one hand and the constantly shifting procession of guests on the other. ‘I presume there’s a gardener and kitchen hands and waiters as well.’

‘Pretty much. The dining room staff are mostly foreign, same as the cleaners.’

‘And you’re always full, right? Twenty-five people to look after, day and night. Very weird, when you think about it.’

‘Hospitality,’ said Melanie. ‘One of the oldest professions.’

Simmy thought again of her father. ‘I suppose so. If my dad was here, he’d talk about pilgrimages and ancient customs, or Victorian dosshouses with four to a bed.’

Melanie laughed. ‘He would, too. Now come on. I’m meant to be working. Before all this nonsense with the
lost kid blew up, I was trying to track down a missing pillowcase. I mean – people steal towels, but you don’t often lose a
pillowcase
.’

‘Makes a useful extra bag, I suppose.’

‘Right,’ said Melanie inattentively. ‘There’s Dan, look. Now, make sure you give me proper credit for putting you in touch with him. I need to keep on his right side.’ She indicated a figure still too far off to hear what they were saying.

Simmy gave her a surprised look. ‘You sound scared of him, same as you are of Penny.’

‘No, I’m not a bit scared of him. But Dan’s the real power here. Does just what he likes and nobody dares challenge him. It pays to stay on the right side of him.’ Again, she flushed, as she’d done that morning. ‘But he’s perfectly nice.’ It sounded defensive to Simmy.

She watched the man approaching them. He walked with a loose easy gait, unselfconscious and unhurried. Aged about thirty-five, she guessed, with dark colouring. His hair had been cut carefully, to capitalise on its thickness and slight wave. In another age, he might have been mistaken for Clark Gable without the moustache and with an additional three inches of height. ‘He should grow a moustache,’ she murmured to Melanie. ‘Then he’d be perfect.’

Melanie snickered, quickly putting a hand over her mouth. ‘Shut up – he’ll hear you.’

And that, Simmy suspected, would be a very bad thing.

Men who worked in hotels ought to be handsome, as a general rule. It endeared them to the guests and made complaints less frequent. Dan fitted the bill in a way, but the veneer of insincerity was almost palpable. ‘I’m Persimmon Brown,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I came to talk to you about flowers. I gather Melanie told you about me.’

‘Oh, right. Pleased to meet you. Dan Yates.’ He smiled at a point some inches from her left ear and added, ‘Thank you, Melanie. I think I can take it from here.’

‘I’m sure you can,’ said the girl, using her uncanny skill at conveying insolence, scepticism or plain disapproval in words that nobody could find objectionable.

‘Let’s go to my office, then. Follow me.’ He set off briskly in the direction of the converted stables, Simmy following like a schoolgirl. Power politics of some kind, she judged. She could easily have walked by his side. She had never worked in an environment where such games were played;
all she knew of them came from TV sitcoms and stories told by her former husband. She was aware that there were plenty of people in the outside world who enjoyed throwing their weight around, using tricks like this. And yet Melanie had said he was ‘okay’, so she should probably give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was basically insecure or merely amusing himself by toying with her to make life more interesting. Perhaps he had no idea what he was doing and just wanted them to get on as quickly as possible.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘They gave me the tack room.’ He opened the door into a small boxy addition to the main stable block. An earlier door into the horses’ living quarters had apparently been sealed off, and the resulting new wall used for a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves. Simmy looked around, trying to work out the details of the conversion, with a faint idea of describing it all to her father at some point. He took considerable interest in such things.

‘Sit down,’ Dan Yates invited. ‘And tell me what you think of Melanie’s ideas.’

‘Well … I’m not sure how much she’s discussed with you. We should probably start from scratch, to be sure it’s all clear.’

‘Quite right. As it happens, the manager and I had been thinking we needed something decorative, something distinctive, but subtle – to improve the atmosphere. It’s all about perception, you see. We want people to remember us as having just that extra hint of luxury. The food is our main appeal at the moment, and the views.’

‘Right,’ said Simmy. ‘I see.’

‘Yes, but we need another
dimension
. We’re acutely
aware of the history here. There have been serious failures in the past. There’s a fragility, a vulnerability, to the whole industry these days. We want to consolidate what we have, build on it slowly, without making too many mistakes.’

Simmy nodded. So far, she did at least understand the words he used. He hadn’t said ‘iterative’ or ‘quantum’ or ‘logistics’, which was a relief, if only because she might have laughed at the wrong moment if he had.

‘So we would like you to supply enough flowers for displays in the main ground-floor rooms and in the solar upstairs. That would be four positions. We’d like scented blooms, nothing too flamboyant. Perhaps you could share any ideas you have at this point?’

‘Well … I did have a few thoughts about your reception area and the lounge. I haven’t seen the other places. That big bay window in the lounge – an arrangement just to one side of it, with a lot of greens, would have the effect of bringing the view right into the room. For the reception, I thought lilies and foliage in the blue or mauve spectrum, with some scent, as you say. Nothing that would intimidate or distract, but be welcoming, like coming into someone’s house.’

‘Perfect,’ he approved with a wide smile.

Again, Simmy found herself wishing he had a moustache. His upper lip looked weak and naked without one. She liked facial hair, reminding her as it did of a grandfather who had sported a full beard. She had loved to play with it as a child, and ever after associated beards with warmth and humour and manly strength. Her father had taken to going unshaven at times, but never allowed it to develop as nature ordained.

‘Is this just for the summer season?’ she asked.

‘Initially, perhaps. We’ll see how it goes, shall we? We are open all the year round, except for the middle of January. We close for two weeks then and give the whole staff a well-earned holiday. Now, then, we need to discuss money. What do you think?’

She took a breath. Her price lists didn’t extend to such a large and regular commission, and every time during the day that she’d tried to work it out, the answer came out different. ‘Are you thinking two visits a week? Perhaps Mondays and Fridays? I don’t think it could be less than that. Some flowers do fade and droop after three or four days, although there are lots that would last a week if the water was topped up and the temperature wasn’t too hot.’

‘Twice a week is fine.’

‘Well, to cover my travel and time spent here as well as all materials, I would want five hundred pounds a week.’ She waited for the explosion at such an outrageous demand. If they paid that, she would find herself able to afford all sorts of things she’d been depriving herself of.

‘No problem,’ he said, so quickly that she knew she could have gone higher. After all, they charged their guests a hundred and fifty a night. Anyone staying a whole week was already more than paying for the flowers. ‘Now, let’s give you a guided tour.’

Again, he trotted ahead of her, skirting around the side of the main building and in through the front entrance. They paused on the spot where Simmy had already mentally planned her welcoming exhibit, and then progressed to the lounge where a scattering of guests were on sofas drinking tea. Simmy recognised
only one of them – the tall man with the straw hat and a rather appealing beard. ‘Afternoon, Mr Ferguson,’ Dan addressed him with a smile. ‘Had a good day?’

The man nodded coolly and turned a page of his newspaper. Dan showed no sign of offence, but returned to his quiet discussion with Simmy. Again a subtle scent was decided upon, with colours in a very discreet and muted palette. The dining room was inspected, and a position next to the sideboard selected as the best place for flowers. These could be more dramatically cheerful, encouraging diners to take a risk with their fish.

The solar was a fabulous upstairs space, full of light and height. ‘Tall spiky things,’ said Simmy. ‘Fanned out in the shape of a rising sun. Oranges and yellows.’ She was transported by the opportunity the job was creating for her. ‘Which I’d vary, of course. It would never be the same two weeks running. But still along that sort of line.’

‘Excellent,’ said Dan Yates. ‘That’s all good, then. Can you start this week?’

‘Friday?’

He pouted teasingly. ‘Is tomorrow too soon, then?’

‘Well, yes, it is, really. I need to order everything, and …’ she stopped, fully aware that if she put the order in that evening the flowers would arrive next morning, with nothing to stop her from coming back and arranging them in the middle of the day. Was it not a deplorable laziness that made her pause? ‘I suppose it would be possible. Will you supply the pots, or should I?’

‘We’ve got a whole lot in a pantry at the back. I’ll show you.’

‘Good.’

‘The thing is, we’ve got people coming on Wednesday, who we’d rather like to impress. Americans. A little bird has whispered that they might be rather useful to us, with reviews and all that. Even if you just did the foyer and the solar, that would be a big help. Then come back on Friday for the full monty.’

They were descending the stairs, emerging into the corridor that Simmy had found nearly an hour earlier. Standing there, waiting for the stairs to be clear, was the couple who had reacted badly to the sounds of the hunt for Gentian. It occurred to Simmy that they might occupy a ground-floor room, perhaps accessed through one of the doors at the end of the corridor? She gave herself a mental shake. Too much contact with Ben Harkness, she chided. Always trying to read clues and make deductions, was Ben. She had hoped the habit wasn’t catching, but apparently it was. There was no imaginable relevance to the location of guest rooms.

‘Hello there,’ said Dan heartily. ‘Mr and Mrs Lillywhite,’ he introduced them to Simmy. ‘This lady is going to be supplying us with flowers,’ he explained.

The woman smiled tightly, and the man merely inclined his head. ‘The lost child is restored then,’ he said. ‘No more panic.’

‘There was never any panic, sir,’ said Dan. ‘But her mother was understandably alarmed. I’m sorry if you found it disturbing.’

‘It was right outside our window,’ the man went on, the rumble of discontent hard to ignore.

‘My apologies,’ repeated Dan. ‘I can assure you it won’t happen again. As a gesture, permit me to offer you
a complimentary aperitif before dinner. I’ll give Charles a note now, to be sure it won’t be overlooked.’

Simmy thought that Mr Lillywhite might also benefit from a moustache. He could have bristled it and harumphed at being wrong-footed so effortlessly. As it was, his clean, pink face adopted a gracious expression, and he ushered his compliant wife upstairs ahead of him. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled. ‘Come along, Rosemary.’

Well done!
thought Simmy. All her preconceptions about the need for unwavering sycophancy in the world of hotels had been confirmed. This man had to set aside any thought of his own self-respect, for the greater good of satisfied customers. It was done with dignity, and the slenderest hint that he was, after all, in the right of it. The complaining guest would be left at best with mixed emotions. Free drinkies – hooray! But offered so glibly, so willingly – didn’t that leave a suspicion that he, the guest, was being humoured like a sulky child? The suggestion that his objections had been foolish, excessive, somehow betraying unfortunate origins, would make him uneasy. Especially as, in this case, something about his wife’s chin made the suspicion all the stronger.

Nothing could be further from Simmy’s mother’s plain-speaking to her B&B guests. If they complained, she cross-questioned them as to precisely what they had expected. She might ask them if such a requirement, whatever it might be, had ever in their experience been met. She might even point out that she did her best in the circumstances, but was only human and had never promised a weekend in paradise. The people almost always apologised for their importunate demands.

Dan took her to a gloomy room that must have been the dairy originally. There were slate slabs for keeping milk, butter and cheese cool, a stone floor and very small windows. On a shelf stood at least a dozen assorted containers, from metal buckets to fancy terracotta plant pots with ornate handles. None seemed quite right for the purpose to Simmy. But there were also three large rose bowls with their own pedestals, tucked against the wall. Made of fine-quality china, it seemed odd to find them discarded so carelessly. ‘What are they doing here?’ she asked.

‘The manager had them taken out of harm’s way, a while ago now. He was worried that guests’ children might knock them over. Plus he thought they looked wrong with no flowers in them. And until now, we haven’t found anyone capable of filling them regularly.’ He smiled at her, showing perfect white teeth.

‘Can we risk using them, then?’

‘If you think they’ll do.’

‘They’ll be fine. But there’s only three. What else can we use?’ She scanned the room, assessing the options. ‘That’s interesting.’ She went to a large black vase, tall and narrow, with a gold-etched design down the front that looked like Chinese lettering. ‘It would be good in the lounge.’

‘Isn’t it a bit low?’

‘We’d have to find something to stand it on. Any little table will do.’

‘Okay. Shall we take them in now? Or what?’

She hesitated, wondering how best to organise things. ‘If I can take the black one back with me, I can have at least one display ready in advance. The bowls can stay here until tomorrow, and I’ll do the arrangements
in situ
.’

‘Whatever you say.’ She had the impression that he was tiring of the whole subject of flowers, and eager to see her off. He must have things to do, she realised. The end of the afternoon would see people returning from their day out, dinner to be prepared, plans to be made.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Thank you for spending so much time on this. I won’t let you down.’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he said. ‘I have complete faith in you.’

She parted from Dan Yates thinking it would be interesting to get to know him over the summer. Not only him, but also the rest of the staff. And it would be a bonus to see Melanie more often. With a light step, she returned to her car, and navigated the twisting route back to Windermere. Bonnie would have gone home and locked the street door of the shop, but there were all those flowers to be ordered, and some tidying to do. She was busy, she realised. Very busy.

But there might also be time to more thoroughly explore Hawkshead itself. The fact that very few cars were permitted in the centre of the village had deterred her from ever going there other than to deliver flowers from time to time. Now she might find an hour or so to walk there from the hotel, and even have a drink in one of the cafés. Fridays might be organised accordingly. Arrive at the hotel mid afternoon, and award herself a nice summer evening in the fells of Furness, or the edge of Esthwaite. If she had somebody to go with her, it would be all the nicer, of course – but that was unlikely.

It all meant change, anyway, and that was a good thing. Her gratitude towards Melanie burgeoned as she realised
just what a big thing the girl had done for her. There was, after all, a florist in Coniston and several in Ambleside, any of which might have got the commission instead of her. She would have to do a good job, if only to justify Mel’s recommendation.

Back in the shop she spent twenty minutes ordering a careful selection of flowers, making sketches of the displays she intended to install at the hotel. Ideas thronged her mind, subtle touches that would enhance the impression she hoped to make. The additional work on Friday was even more exciting and she jotted notes for the solar and dining room as well. Only then did she remember that Melanie had said there might be another site upstairs where flowers could be needed. Dan hadn’t mentioned it, but it set her to wondering whether there actually was a large meeting room up there. All the winter events offered by the hotel must need something of the sort. She remembered her curiosity about the Lillywhites’ reason for going upstairs. Perhaps they’d rented the room for some purpose?