Page 61 of Taste

I adored Mark Quinton something stupid. I loved his smile, his ridiculous ideas, his over-the-top flair, the stupid suits that clung to his hips and his hair that was now cut into a refreshingly trendy wavy mop. Who would have thought?

Finn Christensen was still a fool; there was never a doubt in my mind. But I was learning slowly to be someone who more comfortable with life. Someone who could get away with not necessarily following the path in front of them.

Of course, the hotel shenanigans were a thing of the past. We got away with it for a while, running around like children, giggling and flirting and being stupid. Then Mr Klutz had called us both in for a meeting—thank God it was just the two of us and him ranting about responsibilities and role models for the industry. He’d read us the riot act and assured we would both be out on our backsides if he heard another rumour about sexual activities in the basement corridors.

We strenuously denied any wrongdoing—turns out we should have just owned up since Mr Klutz had been sent an unbelievably detailed ledger of our recent trysts in quiet corners at our place of employment. We were apparently the stars of plenty of material in the security firms’ vaults, and I dreaded what an internet search for ‘Hotel Hook-up’ would reveal if I ever dared to Google it. That was just one of many contributions we’d made to the history of the Clouds Hotel chain, and still made me laugh, because I’d never in a million years thought I would be the one getting called in and reprimanded for having sex at work.

“Did you speak to Mabs?” Mark asked as we joined the M1 heading north. The lanes were thick with traffic, holidaymakers escaping the sticky London heat for the cool air by the sea, perhaps a well-deserved weekend in Skegness. I wished we were going anywhere but north. I longed for the comfort of a few days with Mark’s mum, a gorgeous lady who had taken me in like a long-lost son. She loved me to bits and told me every single day. She said she had a routine now. Wake up, text Mark, text Michelle, text Finn, then grab herself a cuppa and start her day. Her texts always made me smile. Today, I had no smiles, just the memory of a mother who was still alive yet had never reached out to me.

“Want to talk about it?” Mark asked, and I realised I hadn’t answered his first question.

“I was thinking about your mum…and mine.”

“My mum loves you. Don’t ever worry about not having a mum, because you’ve got mine. Always happy to share.”

“Not the same.”

“I know. But you can’t let this ruin you. Last-chance saloon, darling.”

My parents still resided in the same shoddy farmhouse I’d once called home. That was another thing I’d been too scared to look up, but Detective Mark had taken it on, with impeccable results. A few well-placed phone calls to the people who would know had given me all the answers I’d dreaded hearing. I’d been secretly hoping for closure. No such luck. Not that I wished for their death or destruction anymore. I’d spent too long being angry at myself for walking away, cutting contact. I’d done all I could to ensure they had no way of finding me, yet it wouldn’t have taken much to locate hotel manager Finn Christensen. I was a poor villain because the old me popped up everywhere, like an unwanted ghost. Fintan Hornchurch was alive and well. I’d never managed to kill him off, despite my childish attempts at his murder.

“I brought your sleeping tablets, in case you want to pass out for a few hours. Not much to see on this road anyway, until we hit Sheffield. Once we do, you might have to help me with the map.”

“Nah, I want to spend time with you, not sleep off your attempts to drug my sorry arse.”

“Your arse is never sorry.” He glanced over at me and smiled. “Can you set that sat nav thingy on my phone? Just in case I forget where to turn off.”

“I’ll be awake. I’ll tell you.”

I wasn’t in the mood for talking. I just wanted to sit here and let the world swish by without having to remember where I was going.

“I was thinking,” he said, turning off the radio so I could hear him better. “When we get there, if they’re home, there are things I’d like to say.”

“I don’t want you to speak. I just want them to see me, that I’m alive and well and successful and loved. I want them to see what they missed out on. Not that I think they’ll see it like that. They’ll be terrified the people on the farm up the road will see us, or God forbid, we stopped in the village and someone recognised me. I bet they told everyone I died or moved to America or something.”

“Well, they’ll have to tell everyone you didn’t. You got an education and a good job, and now you’re back home with your partner to visit for a cup of tea, catch up on the local gossip. You’re visiting your parents.”

“It’s been almost twenty years.” I couldn’t even remember my mother’s face. Was I taller than my dad? Was my room still there? Had they burned all my belongings and pretended I’d never existed? Would they slam the door in my face? Or even worse, hurl abuse at me and throw a fist in my face? I had no illusions of a grand homecoming here. But I understood I had to do this. I needed closure. I needed to draw a line in the sand and move on. I needed to forgive myself for not doing more when there was nothing I could have done to prevent what had happened and make it to this point sooner, where I had the love of my life with me and things were good.

Well, they would be. I had to be sure of that.

“If your parents throw any abuse at you, I want to be allowed to say stop. I want them to know what a strong and successful man you are. That you are a much-loved and respected manager, a colleague and a friend to many. I want to tell them you have awards on your office wall.”

“Eh, those are mostly your awards. Restaurateur of the Year. Clouds Food and Beverage Manager of the Year. One day, there will be Michelin stars on that wall too. Well, if Ben doesn’t chop his hand off first.”

“Ben’s lucky to still have all them fingers.”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t concentrate on his chatter. Couldn’t think straight.

“Oh, I meant to tell you, the woman with the nut allergies came back in the other day. Sat down and ordered the hazelnut soufflé as a starter. All good, loved it. Clean plate. Ate the lot. Then Adam luckily spotted her and called an ambulance. Poor Kevin, the new waiter, almost had a fit. She carries an EpiPen and has a medical bracelet—her excuse was she didn’t think there would be real hazelnuts in the soufflé. It’s the third time she’s pulled that stunt on us, and the paramedics were horrified.”

“Oh, God. Was she all right?”

“She was fine. The paramedics called the police. Turns out she does this all the time for attention. We need to have her on our watch list so we can know her on sight.”

“Humans. Crazy, the lot of them.”

“Yep. Someone had these bouquets of flowers delivered for all the female waiting staff on Tuesday. None for the males. We were still trying to figure out who sent them.”

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