She threw him a dubious look. ‘How can snow affect a phone signal?’
Gene only shrugged.
‘Where’s the media centre?’ she asked impatiently, walking to the open door of the bar and peering in, seeing the place was empty save Mrs Mair in her curlers and white pinny wiping down tables and singing along to Elvis’s ‘Blue Christmas’ on the radio.
‘Media centre?’ echoed Gene, desperately trying to remember what Beatrice had coached him to say in this situation.
Nina drew her sunglasses off and fixed him with a stare. She needed to check in with Mitch, right now. Only he could change her reservations and get her back to civilisation. This tiny backwater village was not in the least bit promising as a talent scouting location. From what she’d seen so far everyone was obsessed with fixing people up and solving the village’s population problem. The whole washed-out tartan vibe of the inn told her everything she needed to know about whether there was a thriving arts culture here.
Where were the lifestyle practitioners, the poets, and the decadent, over-educated designers? Where was all the evidence of a thriving, vibrant underground scene? She glanced at the deer antlers hanging on the wall above Gene’s head. They were festooned in silver decorations for Christmas. This place was eccentric, but in all the wrong ways. There must be a city nearby somewhere?
Gene pressed bravely on. ‘Mutt, I mean Murray, is almost finished with the media centre. You can use it later today, I imagine. There’s everything you’ll need. A computer, a new printer, that sort of thing…’ Gene tailed off, seeing how unimpressed Nina was with his answer.
She took a stoic breath and exhaled in a slow blow.
Gene quickly added, ‘I’ll bring some tea and shortbread up to your room in a wee minute.’
‘Right, thanks,’ she said with the thinnest of smiles. ‘But hold the shortbread.’ Turning for the elevators she found that, of course, there were none, so she started for the stairs. ‘I’ll take an iced bubble tea, with Boba pearls if you have them,’ she threw back to Gene, who froze, wide-eyed and blinking.
‘Bubbletea?’
‘Yes. You know? Tea with tapioca pearls or…’
‘Uh, I’ve breakfast tea? Or Earl Grey? I could try to get some bubbles into them, maybe, if I whisk the milk?’
Nina’s face set like flint. She held it together. ‘Breakfast tea is fine, thank you.’
She’d read in Mitch’s paperwork that the Princess and the Pea was supposed to offer a destination dining experience, not that she had any appetite whatsoever, but some of her New York home comforts would be nice.
She thought of the creamery near the office where she’d grab her ten-dollar zero-fat Vietnamese iced coffee every morning and her matcha bubble tea every evening as she left work. She clamped her lips to stop herself sighing. So far there was nothing familiar about this place. There was no gloss, no buzz, no haste, and zero comfort.
Gene shuffled away through the bar to the kitchens, hoping to avoid the woman’s glassy gaze and planning to ask Mrs Mair to get on her phone and Google ‘bubble tea’, while Nina began her climb to bed.
It would be seven o’clock in New York. The caterers would be arriving at Luke’s place soon to set up the oysters and champagne surprise she’d shelled out for. She wondered if it was possible to sleep for twenty-four hours and skip Christmas entirely. ‘Only one way to find out,’ she told herself as she climbed the creaking stairs.
Chapter Seven
Kitty Knows Best
The noon train rumbled into Port Willow beneath a lowering grey sky, just as the snow turned heavy again.
‘They’re lucky,’ said Kitty Wake, peering out the window of the Princess room and along the single row of cottages that made up the entirety of Port Willow Bay.
‘Who?’ replied Beatrice, shaking the cover onto the duvet and wondering why turning over the guests’ rooms today had been such an effort. They were running late, what with the news crew staying far longer than they’d anticipated. Kirstie had wanted to know all about the competition winners who had bagged the highly sought-after month-long break in Beatrice’s ‘couple’s retreat’ giveaway. There had been thousands of entries from across the world, she’d been delighted to report. All the entrants had to do was tell Beatrice why they thought they should win, and out of all the entries, one in particular had shone out, instantly convincing Beatrice she’d picked a very special couple indeed. The winners, who would be celebrating their silver wedding anniversary later in the year, would be arriving on Hogmanay, she’d told Kirstie excitedly. She was determined to transform the inn into a place for lovers and romantics, no matter how long they had been together.
Kirstie had, admittedly, been less interested in this than in hearing Seth spilling the tea on the local dating scene. Seth had enjoyed every second of his interview. He was at this moment stopping to knock on every door along the waterfront, letting the locals know to tune in at six to watch him on telly.
Kitty was still looking out at the view along the street to her right towards the station. ‘This lot, arrivin’ intae the village. They won’t believe their luck. Scotland in the snow, and tomorrow Christmas Day.’
Beatrice uncapped her water bottle and drank, coming to join Kitty by the window, taking a moment to get her breath back. She could do with a nap. It must be all the Christmas preparations to blame, and helping Gene re-set the breakfast room after waving off this morning’s departing guests, then all the excitement of the news crew. It had taken it out of her.
Looking out at the wintery view across the bay to the far shore with its grey-walled castle, Beatrice remarked, as she often had recently, how it was even prettier than the summer views – and they took some beating.
Kitty was right; the new intake of crafting customers heading towards the inn for the holidays were very lucky indeed.
‘This is my first white Christmas since I was a kid,’ Beatrice said, awed by the sight and taking another swig of water.
There had been a gleaming blanket of snow over the higher hills for weeks now, and atop the dizziest peaks only a few miles inland – as well as over the water on Skye – there lay a permanent cap of white, even in the height of summer, but seeing it falling here by the water’s edge since late yesterday evening had felt somehow miraculous.
