‘Don’t go there,’ I warned him. ‘This is bad enough already, but you start bad-mouthing my mother, it’s going to turn ugly.’
‘Why? What are you going to do about it?’ He stood up straight, taking up a significant amount of space in his big, dark coat and looking down his nose at me. ‘Your mother acts like the caring, fair-minded employer but when it comes down to it, she looks out for herself and her own first.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘My wife was going to start working here before you came back, and your mum just handed the job over to you. We needed that extra income. What do you need? Nothing – because you’ve got this place to crawl back to whenever you’ve finished play-acting being a grown-up.’
I wrapped my arms back around myself the same way I had outside, but it didn’t help stave off the shivers. I had no idea if what he was telling me was true; it could’ve just been more lies. I doubted my mum would’ve withdrawn an offer of work, just to allow me to step in. But even if it was true, I hadn’t asked her to do that for me. He’d been so high and mighty, looking down on me, and here he was lying andstealing. ‘I think it’s time you left.’
‘You’re firing me? You can’t fire me.’ He curled his lip.
‘I just have.’
‘Just ’cause your mummy’s not here, it doesn’t mean you’re in charge.’
‘Of course it does. It’s all that wonderful nepotism you keep banging on about.’
He glared at me across the kitchen island and I slipped my hand into my pocket, making sure my phone was in there.
‘You’re making a mistake and you’ll regret it.’
It almost made me laugh. It was history repeating itself. Did all men go through these motions when they got caught with their pants on fire? Denial. Righteous indignation. Warnings of regret. Peter must’ve taken the same class in how to belittle and patronise women.
‘No.Youmade the mistake, which you are now regretting.’
He studied me, his jaw set, and then scrubbed a hand down his face and swore. ‘Really? Two days before Christmas? You heartless bitch.’
I flinched once at the word and then once again as he strode out the back door and slammed it behind him.
The kitchen stared back at me, empty and alien; littered with apparatus and equipment that I usually just passed by without a second thought. Now I was aware that I had no clue about what most of it was, or did, or how to use it. What had I done?
I was still shaking; the soggy material of my blouse and tights icy. I needed to get changed. I needed something else as well: a stiff drink or a cigarette or something. A comforting word from my mum, although I’m not sure she would’ve wanted to comfort me under the circumstances. There was a hotel full of guests and no chef.
No. I had done the right thing. She couldn’t possibly have wanted me to keep him on when he’d stolen from her. Maybe she’d even want to press charges? Should I be calling the police and reporting it?
But I couldn’t face that. The damage had been done; there was no need to drag it out any further. If Mum felt differently when she got back, she could deal with it but that was enough unpleasantness for me.
I’d had enough.
My feet stung; cold toes jarred by the heavy impact as I took every other step up to the flat at twice my normal speed. I needed get changed and make a call to my mum to tell her what had happened. As soon as I was through the door, I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my tights and took off my blouse, wrapping myself up in the fleecy throw from the back of the sofa.
When I tried to call my mum it rang twice and then cut off suddenly, like she’d switched it to silent or its battery had died. I hoped that wasn’t something else I needed to worry about.
Maybe retreating to my lonely tower hadn’t been the best idea after all. I perched on the edge of our sofa, squinting at our Christmas tree. There was this nagging feeling that I should be doing something about ‘the incident’ but what was there to do if I wasn’t going to call the police? The weirdest thing was that it didn’t feel real. Like, because I hadn’t told anyone about it, officially it hadn’t happened. Maybe I was in shock?
I drew the soft blanket closer around me and slid off the edge of the sofa, wrapping my arms around my bent legs and resting my head against the seat of my father’s armchair. The cracked leather was cool against my cheek. What if I just stayed here? What was the worst that would happen?
The guests would wonder where their meals were and go elsewhere to find sustenance. They might get pissed off enough to leave, demanding refunds beforehand, but they couldn’t get a refund if there was no one there to give it to them. Would they resort to stealing furniture as recompense? Unlikely. Most hotel guests were tempted by towels – the odd one by cutlery – but they would draw the line at sofas and paintings surely?
A vision of Julius Mundey throwing a chair at the locked china cabinet and Olive and Matilda, the spinster sisters, doing runs to their vintage VW Beetle from the bar with bottles of Scotch filled my head.
I laughed. It sounded insane in the quiet of my flat. A garbled, choking noise.
My phone chimed with a text message and I peered down at the screen askance, keeping my cheek firmly against Dad’s chair.
Mum: Sorry, Beth, I’ve lost my phone charger and walking out to the shops to get some food. Just have enough battery for this. Will try to call from Grandad’s landline when I get back. The snow was probably a blessing in disguise as he’s still very sore. He says he’s okay to go to Cath’s though, once the snow clears. Hope all is okay. I’m sure you’re doing a grand job,
so grateful to have you there. Xxx
