The Burnout(17)

Wait. Is this the porter?

In slight alarm, I hurry to meet him. He looks about 103. His face is deeply lined, he’s puffing hard, and he’s so decrepit he can barely even walk—it’s more of a totter. My gaze takes in a badge on his coat, which reads: Rilston Hotel. Herbert. Oh God.

“Are you OK?” I say anxiously.

“Ms. Worth?” he greets me in a hoarse, wispy voice, barely audible over the gulls. “Welcome to the Rilston. My name is Herbert.” There’s a pause—during which he seems almost to go to sleep on his feet—then he comes to. “I’m here to help you with your bags.”

He’s planning to help me?

“Would you like a rest?” I say in concern. “Can I get you … a chair? Some brandy?”

“No, no, thank you,” he says in his whisper of a voice. “Let’s just get these bags for you.” He starts to move past me, and in slight horror I hurry back to my luggage. No way is he picking up my heavy suitcase. He’d keel over.

“Why don’t I take the case and the bags?” I suggest, grabbing their handles. “And the hoop. Maybe you could take … the foam roller?”

The foam roller weighs nothing. He’ll be fine.

Herbert peers at it silently, then nods, tucks it under his arm, and turns back down the lane. After a few yards he stumbles. I grab his arm to steady him, and we both pause.

“Are you all right, Herbert?” I ask, and he seems to consider the question.

“Do you mind if I rest on your arm for a moment?” he replies at last. “Just for a moment.”

“Of course,” I say hastily. “Absolutely.”

I move all my luggage to one arm and extend the other to him, and we proceed together down the hill without any further conversation. As the hotel comes into sight, Herbert’s weight gets heavier and heavier on my arm, till I can hardly stagger forward. His head is drooping. His eyes are closed. He’s completely silent. Has he fallen asleep? This is surreal. Not only am I carrying my bags, I’m carrying the porter too.

But never mind! As the familiar white frontage of the Rilston comes into view, I feel a swoop of joy. I remember it all—the pillars and the gravel and the rockery on the front lawn. Soon I’ll be in that familiar grand lobby. Soon I’ll be in my room, overlooking the sea. Soon I’ll be on the beach. I can’t wait.

“Herbert!” I exclaim, to wake him back to life. “We’re here!”

Herbert’s eyes jolt open and he stands up straight. He totters forward and opens one of the big glass doors. “Welcome to the Rilston,” he says again.

“Thank you!” I beam at him, somehow manhandle all my stuff into the lobby—then stop dead.

Oh my God.

What—

What’s happened to this place?

“Welcome to the Rilston!” A pretty receptionist greets me from behind the old-fashioned mahogany reception desk with a vivacious smile. But I can’t quite smile back. I’m too shocked by the sight before me.

This lobby used to be a paradise of old-fashioned luxury. Velvet sofas, chintz armchairs, and staff everywhere. Porters in livery, the concierge in a suit, waiters bringing drinks to people, and—I recall—that lady in the pastel-blue suit who was always wandering around, asking everyone if they were quite comfortable. I can see her now, with her pearls and her pleasant smile. “Are you quite comfortable? Can I offer you another drink?” There were always flowers on a big central table, chandeliers glittering, men in smart jackets ordering double gin and tonics. Whereas now …

I turn around, taking it all in. The blue patterned carpet is the same, but the central table has disappeared. The chandelier above me looks dusty and as though half its bulbs have gone. The flowers, the velvet sofas, the armchairs—all gone. Instead, there’s an assortment of old furniture around the place. Dining chairs, a wardrobe, a mangle. The mangle has a price tag on it, I notice, and there’s an ancient grand piano with a label on it: Free to good home. There are no bustling staff and certainly no lady in a pastel-blue suit. There’s just Herbert, who has collapsed onto a nearby chair and is white as a sheet, and the receptionist, who has her hair in an intricate braid, wears glittery eyeshadow, and looks about twenty-three.

“You all right, Herbert?” she cries brightly as she taps at her computer. “Herbert gets funny turns when he has to carry luggage,” she adds confidingly to me as I approach the reception desk. “But he does love doing it.”

“Oh, right,” I say, disconcerted. “Sorry. I did help him. I carried most of it.”

“Everyone does.” She beams at me and then taps at her keyboard again while I look at a wall-mounted plaque reading BEST LUXURY HOTEL 1973. “So!” At last she looks up. “You’re the lady who wants the kale, aren’t you? Sasha Worth. It says here, On a health break. We have a section for notes on the guests, you see,” she adds importantly. “So that we can help you with your stay. Simon, our manager, said he spoke to your PA?”

“Er, yes,” I say awkwardly. “That’s right. My PA, Erin.”

“Simon’s put five attention stars against your name!” Her eyes widen. “That’s the most in our system! That means treat guest with special care! Are you a celebrity?”

Oh God. What on earth did Mum say?