Page 51 of Too Busy for Love

‘Then you can share the good news if you like. HQ are absolutely delighted with the series and have commissioned another one for next year. I’ve just got off the phone with Mr Mancini’s PA and we have verbally agreed to come back here to film it, so that’s something for us all to look forward to. I hope you’ll come again, Beatrice.’

‘If I’m free, I’d love to,’ I tell him before breaking the news in Spanish to a cautiously pleased Rosa. ‘Now, if nobody needs me for a bit, I thought I might go for a swim. The pool has been calling me for weeks.’

‘Go. Enjoy,’ Gus says with a smile. ‘You’ve earned it. We’ll probably come and join you later.’

As I power through the deliciously cool water, my mind turns to my own departure in a couple of days’ time. I’ve contemplated phoning the agency several times, but I’ve really enjoyed myself here and another Casterbridge job would show prospective employers that they rated me. It’s a gamble: if Casterbridge come through then I’ve won. If not then Ludlow beckons whilethe agency look for something else, and that’s a definite lose. After a few more lengths, a third option starts to crystallise. If I can find somewhere other than my parents’ hotel to hide out in, that would allow me to let Casterbridge go to the wire. If they haven’t offered me anything by the time I leave, I could potentially call the agency on Monday, and then it becomes a straight race between them. Gus has promised me a glowing reference either way, so I’ve got something other than Hotel Dufour to show prospective employers.

My first thought was to head up to Glasgow to see Jock. However, I read and re-read our text exchanges and, although he’s interested in what I’m doing, there’s not the slightest hint that he might be missing me, so I ruled it out in the end. Even if Jock does feel the same, it doesn’t solve all the other issues about long-distance relationships. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that my future glittering career is unlikely to be waiting for me in Glasgow. What I need is somewhere not too expensive, preferably within easy reach of London, to spend a week or two while I line up the next job.

By the time I’ve finished my swim, I reckon I’ve come up with just the place. After drying myself off, I head to my room, fish out my laptop and begin the search for Airbnbs in Margate. It’s not a part of England I’ve ever visited, but it’s obviously a reasonably popular destination if the number of properties that appear is anything to go by. An hour later, having checked that there is a direct train service to London, I’ve booked myself in to a one-bedroom flat within walking distance of the station. Abby’s hotel is still sharing space with Jock in my dreams, and I’m determined to see it in the flesh before she lets it crumble to dust. I know it’s fanciful but I’ve dreamed about it almost every night since she showed me the pictures. The dreams either start in the lobby, which has been restored to its former glory, or at the railway station. The station is heavily romanticised, withenormous locomotives hissing clouds of steam and platforms full of bell boys helping the first-class passengers unload their trunks, wheeling them on trolleys out to the waiting taxicabs as seagulls swoop overhead, filling the skies with their haunting cries.

The hotel is ablaze with lights as we approach, and the curved glass either side of the front door sparkles as the headlights sweep across it. In the lobby, the centrepiece is a gorgeous dark mahogany reception counter with geometric golden patterns on the front and rows of heavy keys on ornate keyrings hanging behind it. The eras do muddle themselves up a bit here; modern touches such as a computer and telephone switchboard somehow occupy the same space as elegant ladies, dripping with jewellery and wrapped in the kind of fur stoles that were incredibly popular in the 1920s but would be severely frowned upon today. They’re smoking cigarettes in long holders and their free hands are casually draped on the sleeves of the gentlemen with them, who are wearing white bow ties under starched wing collars, with white waistcoats and dark tails. Everyone is sipping champagne from delicate coupe glasses. From the lobby, my mind’s eye follows the guests into the large ornate dining room, where a string quartet is playing classical music that’s barely audible over the hum of chatter and the clink of silver cutlery on bone china. Once again, the eras muddle as staff hurry in and out of the modern stainless-steel kitchen, bringing beautifully presented plates of food to the appreciative diners. The kitchen itself is presided over by none other than Jock, of course, resplendent in his immaculate and crisply starched chef’s whites, with a tall chef’s hat completing the look.

It’s at this point that the dream turns sour. The first hint of trouble comes when a scream goes up from the guests as the dining room wall begins to collapse, revealing an enormous digger with Abby at the controls. She’s impervious to theircries as she scoops them up, tables and all, into the bucket of the digger before swinging it round and dumping them unceremoniously on a rubbish pile. The digger roars furiously, black smoke belching from its exhaust as she punches hole after hole in the wall, leaving a trail of smashed furniture, musical instruments and rubble in her wake. This is the scene that usually wakes me up in a cold sweat.

I know the dream is pure fantasy; everything Abby told James and me by the pool makes total sense. If there was any chance of the building surviving as a hotel, it would have done so. And yet, for some reason, I can’t let it fade into obscurity without at least visiting to pay my respects. Is it wrong to believe that buildings have a soul? Something within them that carries traces of their history? I watched a programme on TV ages ago about place memories and how they might trigger some people to see ghosts, and it resonated with me. Every hotel I’ve worked in, including Hotel Dufour, has had its own unique personality that extends beyond the people working and staying there.

So I’ll make the pilgrimage to bid this beautiful old lady goodbye while I’m sorting out my next job. I know it’s irrational, but I don’t have anything else to do and its certainly more appealing than spending any time in Ludlow.

20

My pilgrimage is not off to a promising start, as Margate station couldn’t be further from the romantic vision in my dream if it tried. The weather isn’t helping, to be fair. After weeks of warm Mallorcan sunshine, the UK has decided to welcome me home in typical style, with grey skies, drizzle and a surprisingly chilly breeze coming off the sea. The station is largely deserted; a couple of mangy-looking seagulls are fighting over the remains of a packet of crisps that someone has left on a bench and, further up the platform, a teenage boy in a hoodie is trying to impress his female companion by performing stunts on his skateboard. If the bored expression on the girl’s face is anything to go by, it’s not working.

As I follow the directions on my phone, my case bumping along behind me on the uneven pavement, my impressions of Margate don’t really improve. It feels shabby in that way that only a British seaside resort can manage, and I’m starting to agree with James’s dismissive assessment that it’s a dump as I follow the instructions to release the key to my lodgings from the key box on the wall of a dilapidated-looking terraced townhouse. Thankfully, things improve dramatically once I getinside my flat, which is airy and nicely decorated. The owners have evidently decided on a nautical theme, as there are seaside trinkets dotted around the place, but it’s just the right side of tacky. The rooms are generously proportioned, with high ceilings adding to the feeling of space. Part of the living room has been partitioned off to make the small galley kitchen, but it’s still big enough to comfortably house a big squishy leather sofa, coffee table and wall-mounted TV, plus a small dining table with two chairs. The bedroom is dominated by a king-size bed, but I’m pleased to see there’s also a wardrobe and chest of drawers. The bathroom is a little dark and poky as there’s no window in there, but it’s perfectly adequate for my needs.

Having unpacked and made a shopping list, I decide to take another look at the town that’s going to be my home for the next week or two. It’s a strange mix. It doesn’t take me long to find the main beach, and I’m amused to see a few hardy souls swimming in the sea, despite the weather. The beach itself is wide and sandy, with a road separating it from the amusement arcades, fish and chip restaurants and souvenir shops that are practically compulsory in this type of place. At the eastern end of the beach sits the Turner art gallery, but what I find more interesting is the range of shops and restaurants I encounter as I continue past it and walk further into the town. There’s a definite bohemian feel as I explore; at one point, I stare in bewilderment at a tiny restaurant. The menu is inviting and I’m tempted to book a table until I notice that it only opens one day a week, in the evening. How anyone can make a successful business with a model like that is beyond my comprehension, but it’s evidently possible in Margate. In London, and everywhere else I’ve been in the UK, the rents are so high that businesses will open seven days a week for as many hours as they’re permitted to make the most of every drop of potential revenue but, as I walk the streets of Margate, I discover that they’re much more casual about things like thathere. Some of the shops that should be open have signs on them saying things likeBack at 4.30or even, in one case,Back on Wednesday.

I’ve decided to delay my visit to Abby’s hotel until tomorrow, when the weather forecast is for sunshine so, after stocking up on food and essentials, I head back to the flat to unpack it all and spend the rest of the day exploring. The more I unearth, the more fascinated I am. Down one street, I find an unassuming entrance to something called the Shell Grotto. Curious to find out more, I buy a ticket and go down the stairs, only to find myself in the most incredible set of rooms and passageways, all covered from floor to ceiling with seashells. The guidebook informs me that there are over four million of them in here, but nobody knows who built it or what for. After a happy half hour exploring the subterranean chambers, it’s disconcerting to climb the staircase again and find myself back on the same very ordinary street.

By the time I’ve had a wander around the Turner Contemporary, Margate’s charms are definitely starting to make an impression on me and I’m in good spirits as I head back to the flat. My phone pings with a message, and I’m very surprised to see that it’s from my mother.

What is the plan now the show has finished? Are you still in Mallorca/coming home/doing something else?

I type out a swift reply while I’m cooking my evening meal:

I’m currently in Margate.

Her response is immediate.

What’s in Margate?

I consider how to answer that question for a while. I’m obviously not going to tell them that I’ve come on a bizarre quest to visit a derelict building that’s been haunting my dreams while also avoiding them. They’ll only convince themselves I’m having some kind of breakdown, not that I suspect they’d do very much even if I was. In the end, I type:

It’s a surprisingly interesting place, actually. Love to you both xx

No reply comes. Their interest in the world outside Ludlow has always been limited, so I’m not surprised. As I dish up my simple supper of pasta carbonara and salad, it occurs to me that this is the first meal I’ve had to cook for myself since before I started at Hotel Dufour. Rosa and Jock would probably find lots of things wrong with it, but I’m rather pleased with myself. I pour a glass of wine from the bottle of inexpensive Merlot that James wouldn’t approve of either and settle down in front of a quiz show on the TV. After I’ve had a look at the hotel tomorrow, I’ll update my CV and have a chat with the agency. Gus is certain that Casterbridge Media will be in touch very soon, but I can’t afford to wait around for them any more.

When I open the curtains the next morning, I’m pleased to see the weather is exactly as forecast. Although the ground is still wet and there are puddles galore, the sky is bright blue with only the occasional fluffy white cloud. However, there’s still a brisk breeze coming off the sea, so I wrap my coat around me beforeheading out in search of Abby’s hotel. This time, I’m heading west, away from the town centre, but I’ve only been walking for a quarter of an hour or so before I spot the unmistakeable profile of the building I’m looking for.

Although Abby’s pictures gave the impression that the hotel was well situated, the reality is even better. Directly in front of the hotel is a road that rather grandly calls itself the Royal Esplanade, but in front of that there is nothing but grass, then the beach and sea. It’s a stunning vista. Unfortunately, the building itself, when I get closer, is looking decidedly squalid. The ground-floor windows have been boarded up and the local graffiti artists have taken full advantage of this new canvas for their work. Weeds are poking up abundantly through the broken concrete at the front, and the gorgeous curved glass and magnificent front door are barely visible through the thick steel meshed security gates that have been bolted over them. Some of the upper windows, which haven’t been boarded up, are already broken, and tattered curtains are flapping in the breeze behind them. If water is getting inside, which it must be doing, it will only hasten the demise of the building, and, for a moment, I wonder whether the broken windows were Abby’s doing to help nature along. I don’t think she’s the type of person who would do that though. I hope not, anyway.

As I walk round to the side, there is another heavy steel mesh gate blocking access to what must be the car park. I press my face up against it but all I can see is more broken tarmac with weeds poking through, some abandoned plastic crates that would have had beer bottles in them once, and the remains of a sign with the logo of the budget hotel chain on it.

I retrace my steps to the front of the building and cross the road so I can get a better view of it as a whole. Despite the peeling white paint and graffiti, it’s still easy to see the beauty underneath.

‘Tragic, isn’t it?’ a voice says next to me, making me jump. I turn to find myself face to face with a man who must be ninety if he’s a day. ‘I spent some of the happiest years of my life here, and now look at it,’ he continues. ‘Are you from the development company?’

‘Umm, not exactly,’ I tell him. How to explain who I am without sounding like a lunatic? ‘A friend told me about it, and I’m into art deco, so I wanted to come and have a look.’

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