We chat a little and her eyebrows shoot up when shediscovers my passion. ‘You’re awriter? That’s amazing.’
‘Well... not really. I haven’t beenpublished.’
‘But you’ve written a wholebook.’ She shrugs. ‘Thatmakes you an author in my eyes.’
I smile at her, feeling a glow inside.
‘I love reading,’ she says.
‘What sort of stuff do you like?’
‘Oh, everything. Thrillers, romances, police procedurals.The back of cereal boxes. My boyfriend Stan’s always joking that I like mybooks more than I like him. He knows I’ve always got to read some of my book atbedtime, otherwise I can’t get to sleep.’
‘He sounds lovely.’
She smiles. ‘He is. I really lucked out when I met Stan inthe pub. He’s forty-one. Twenty-two years older than me. But he gets me. Youknow?’
I nod. ‘Age is just a number.’
‘Exactly. Can I read it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your book?’
‘It’s not good enough.’
She folds her arms. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
She seems perfectly serious, so I say, ‘How about I let youread the book I’m writing at the moment – when it’s finished?’
‘Okay. Great. I’ll give you my honest opinion, mind. Nobullshit.’
I laugh. ‘Fine by me.’
She sticks up her thumb with a grin and heads off to collectthe trolley, and I flatten the little feeling of excitement that had risen upinside me just for a second. It’s all pie-in-the-sky. If I can’t evenfinishthe damn thing, there’ll be no book for her to read anyway...
The bedrooms I’ll be cleaning are amazing.
After Katrina shows me the double rooms, all decorated in sophisticatedcolour schemes, we arrive at a door with a brass plaque on it, reading ‘TheBirtwhistle’ in curly script.
Katrina pushes open the door. ‘And this,’ she says in aslightly hushed tone, ‘is the hotel’s only guest suite. Isn’t it amazing?’
I look around me in surprise. The doubles are fresh andmodern, but this elegant room with its high ceiling feels like we’vetime-travelled back to the 1920s whenart decofirst became fashionable,and I gaze in awe at the gleaming mahogany wall panels and the huge bed withits statement soft cream headboard curved above it like a fan. Light from two goldurn lamps with black shades cast a golden glow over the room. And the en suite bathroom,a study in black and white tiled elegance, takes my breath away.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I murmur.
Katrina nods. ‘The famous romance author, Calinda Birtwhistle,stayed in this very room when she left her philandering husband and embarked ona secret affair with a poet.’
‘Really? How romantic. Not the philandering bit, obviously.But an affair with a poet?’
‘I know. Apparently, she wroteLove on a Distant Shoresitting at this desk right here. At the beginning of the last century.’ Shestrokes the piece of furniture with an air of reverence. ‘That’s why the ownerof the hotel decided to name it The Birtwhistle.’
‘I remember the hotel being closed for ages while it wasbeing refurbished.’
‘I wasn’t even born then,’ murmurs Katrina. ‘I’m nineteen. Iwas a Noughties baby.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ I joke. ‘That I’m ancient attwenty-five?’
