The Burnout(18)

“No,” I say hastily. “I’m not a celebrity.”

“Are you a VIP, then?”

“No. And really, I don’t need special care.”

“Well, you’ve got the five attention stars now,” she says, peering blankly at the screen. “I don’t think I can get rid of them. So, enjoy! Here’s your key. Room Twenty-eight, seafront side.”

She hands me a heavy wooden key fob, with a Yale key dangling from it. “D’you need help with your luggage? Herbert’s having a doze, bless him. Tell you what, you go up the staircase and I’ll bring your luggage up in the lift. Can you pick your way past the mangle?” She adds, “Only we’ve got a pop-up antiques shop going on. If you’ve got anything to sell, you’re welcome to put it in!”

She looks expectantly at me as though I might say, Yes, I brought a sideboard.

“Um … no,” I say. “I haven’t got any antiques with me.”

“Fair enough.” She taps at her computer as though she’s writing No antiques. “Most of the guests don’t.”

Most of the guests?

“I’m Cassidy, by the way.” She points to her badge, which says Rilston Hotel. Catherine. “I still haven’t got a name badge, so I use this one,” she adds cheerfully. “Starts with the same letter, anyway. See you up at the room, OK? Oh, it’s very easy to find,” she adds as an afterthought. “Up the stairs, take a left along the corridor, through the paneled door, then you need to double back on yourself. You’ll see.”

“OK.” I nod, a bit bewildered. “Thanks.”

“Wait, I haven’t finished!” She laughs merrily. “So then you go down three steps, don’t take the first door you come to—that’s a fake door—take the second door, go right through the library … and it’s on the left.”

I’m lost. Stairs … paneled door … go backward? I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

“Thank you!” I smile. “I’m sure I’ll find it.”

“See you there!”

As Cassidy hustles my suitcase past the mangle, I don’t move for a second. This isn’t quite what I imagined. Especially the mangle.

But never mind. I’m here!

Feeling desperate to see the waves, I hurry up the carpeted, creaky staircase and along an endless corridor hung with faded wallpaper and ancient watercolors, each with its own picture light. The royal-blue carpet is worn in places and wrinkled in others, and every floorboard seems to creak as I walk along. There’s no sign of any life. No sounds except my own footsteps and the creaking floorboards. As I pace along, I find myself thinking of The Shining, which is Keith’s fault. It’s not at all like The Shining, I tell myself firmly. And soon I’ll be looking at my own sea view. Everything’s worth it for that.

After I’ve doubled back, gone up and down stairways, tried various doors, and walked through the library three times, I eventually find Room 28. The door is open, and Cassidy is standing by a double bed covered with a 1970s-style bedspread decorated with orange flowers, matching the curtains, which are drawn shut. The room is massive but has only two other pieces of furniture. There’s a heavy pine wardrobe, varnished to a strange shade of terra-cotta, and a built-in dressing table. There’s vinyl textured wallpaper on the walls. Maybe it was cream once. Now it’s an unappealing yellow-beige.

“So, this is your room!” announces Cassidy. “Deluxe double, seafront, with ensuite. Bathroom’s through the door. Bath and shower.” She hesitates. “Well, don’t use the shower; it plays up.”

I glance through the door to the adjoining bathroom and see an ancient green bathroom suite. There are brown and green tiles covering both the floor and the wall, and every tile has a woodland animal on it. Badgers, foxes, and squirrels all look back at me with beady little eyes, and I turn hastily away.

“Wow.” I swallow. “Those tiles are …”

“Original,” says Cassidy proudly. “Now, your kettle’s here …” She points to an elderly beige kettle on the dressing table, next to which are a cup and saucer and basket of sachets. “You’ve got your tea, coffee, creamer, ketchup—”

“Ketchup?” I repeat stupidly.

“All the guests love ketchup,” says Cassidy blithely. “Funny, isn’t it? And here’s your dressing table.” She tries to open the dressing table drawer, but it sticks—it looks swollen with damp. After a few attempts she gives up.

“You can put your stuff on top,” she says. “Lots of space. If you want to use a hair dryer, we’ve got one at reception specifically for guest use. Just call and ask, no problem at all!” she adds encouragingly. “And have you downloaded our app?”

“App?” I say, still bewildered by the hair-dryer situation. “No.”

“Oh, you must! Simon said I must make sure you have the app installed. If you give me your phone …”

In a slight daze, I hand over my phone. I can’t get my head round this place. They have an app but only one hair dryer?

“Here you go! You’re all set. You’ll be entered in a prize draw now,” she adds with satisfaction. “It’s every month, and the prize is a cream tea, two scones included, raisin or plain.”