Page 12 of Too Busy for Love

‘Once a hotel manager, always a hotel manager,’ he calls after me, and I can hear the laughter in his voice.

‘Oh, hello, Miss Fairhead,’ Ramon says in his heavily accented voice, looking at me curiously. ‘You look different today.’

‘I’m off duty, Ramon,’ I tell him. ‘The hotel is closed.’

‘Closed? Why?’

‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

‘What for I watch the news? Always the same old thing.’

‘OK, well if you had seen it, you would know that we’ve been closed down by the police because it appears Madame was running this place as a brothel,’ I tell him blandly.

‘What is a brothel?’

I sigh. I shouldn’t be surprised really; it’s hardly the sort of word they would teach you in English class.

‘It’s a place where men pay money to have sex with women,’ I explain.

‘Oh,’ he says, and his face falls. ‘That is a bad business. A very bad business.’

‘It is. So the police have taken Madame into custody and closed us down. We’re not going to need fresh laundry today, I’m afraid.’

‘I understand. I will come back tomorrow.’

‘We won’t want any laundry tomorrow either, Ramon. We’re closed for the foreseeable future.’

‘Oh.’

He stands there, obviously unsure what to do.

‘Look, if the situation changes, we’ll let you know, OK?’

He sighs and turns away, dragging the laundry cart back to his van. I’m sure I hear him mutter ‘a very bad business’ once more as I close the door.

Jock is still staring at the CCTV feed when I join him again.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Did you see anyone else out there while you were talking to Ramon?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I was just wondering if the paparazzi had lost interest.’

‘I expect so. There are probably new, more exciting scandals to cover, like a celebrity accidentally showing a bit of body fat. What’s that phrase about today’s news being tomorrow’s fish and chip paper?’

‘I guess you’re right. What would you like for breakfast then? I can rustle up aPetit Dejeuner à l’Anglaisif you want, orOeufs à la Bénédictineif that’s a bit much. I could probably even manage anomelette au fromage et jambon. That’s a cheese and ham omelette to anyone who isn’t Madame.’

Normally, the idea of a full English breakfast would make me feel decidedly queasy; I’ve never been able to understand how someone could eat that much protein and fat first thing in the morning, and I’m just about to go for the eggs Benedict when I realise that I haven’t actually eaten anything since yesterday lunchtime and I’m starving. I didn’t even get to eat my cupcake.

‘Do you know what?’ I tell him. ‘The full English sounds absolutely perfect.’

‘The good news is that we’re extremely unlikely to starve to death,’ he tells me as he lights the burners and puts some sausages in the oven. ‘Madame likes all the food to be as fresh as possible, but one day’s worth of raw ingredients for fifty odd people will keep us going for ages. Do you want hash browns or fried bread?’

‘I don’t know. Which do you think is better?’

‘The purist would argue that hash browns have no place in a full English, but I have to confess I prefer them to fried bread. You need some sort of carb to soak up the egg yolk though, so choose one.’

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