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.”
Cassidy hands me back my phone, and I see that I’ve already received three new text messages from Rilston Hotel.
We see you have arrived at the Rilston. Welcome! We hope you enjoy your stay!
Success! You have been entered in our Cream Tea prize draw!!
A reminder that breakfast is served from 7–10 every morning.
“What else can I tell you?” Cassidy seems to be musing. “Breakfast is at eight.… If you’d like a croissant, let us know in advance—”
“Hang on.” I frown, puzzled. “The app says breakfast is at seven.”
“Does it?” Cassidy rolls her eyes good-humoredly. “Honest to God, that app’s always wrong. Let me see?” She peers at my screen, then nods. “Yeah, don’t take any notice of that.”
I look around again, noticing the yellow light coming from the single pendant lamp, the worn patch of carpet by the bed, the trouser press in the corner. It’s not the most inspiring room in the world.
But I’m not here for the room, I remind myself. I’m here for the sea view.
“Anyway.” I force an upbeat tone. “Is it possible to open the curtains?”
“Of course!” Cassidy approaches the window, smiles at me, then with a flourish pulls back first one curtain, then the other. “There you go!”
Whaa-aaat?
I stare at the view, rigid, too shocked to make a sound. The windows are boarded up. Fully boarded. All I can see are planks of wood. I traveled six hours for planks of wood?
“That’s … not a sea view,” I manage at last.
“No, it’s scaffolding,” explains Cassidy. “Didn’t you see it when you arrived? Oh no, you came the other way!” She bursts into laughter. “No wonder you look surprised! You’re expecting a sea view, then I pull the curtains back and you see scaffolding!” She seems highly amused. “Wait till I tell Herbert!”
I’m starting to tremble all over. I think I might lose it in a minute. I’ve been focusing on this sea view as the answer to everything. I’ve imagined how it will heal and mend me. The sky. The gulls. The soothing rhythm of the waves. And now I can’t have it?
“The thing is, my mum—I mean, PA,” I correct, “my PA booked a sea-view room. Sea view,” I emphasize. “And this isn’t a sea view.”
“Seafront,” Cassidy corrects me helpfully. “Not sea view. You are on the seafront side, you just can’t see the sea.” She peers at me, slowly realizing that all is not well. “So, were you expecting a sea view?”
“Yes!” I sound a bit more shrill than I intended. “Yes! I was!”
“Right. Got you.” Cassidy chews the side of her mouth, then gets out her phone. “Bear with me a moment.…” She dials a number and lowers her voice a smidge. “Simon? I’ve got your VIP guest here. The healthy kale lady? Turns out she wanted to see the sea from her room. She’s a bit stressed out. So I was wondering, shall I try and take down some of the scaffolding?” She listens a bit longer, then her face clears. “Oh, right. Of course! I clean forgot! Yes, I’ll do it straightaway. Bye, Simon … I’m such an idiot!” she exclaims as she rings off, clapping a hand humorously to her forehead. “There was a whole thing I was supposed to tell you!” She scrolls through her emails, then draws breath and starts reading aloud in a formal voice. “ ‘We do apologize for the restricted view at the current time. As recompense, we would like to offer you daytime use of a beach lodge, free of charge, as a means of enjoying the unique and beautiful view of Rilston Bay.’ ”
“Beach lodge?” I stare at her warily. “I thought the beach lodges were uninhabitable?”
“Well, you couldn’t sleep in one anymore,” she says, making a face. “But they’re perfectly safe, so we offer them to selected guests as a daytime facility. You can sit in them, stay out of the weather, enjoy the view, whatever you like. ‘Only eight lodges are available for this exclusive offer,’ ” she adds importantly, returning to the script, “ ‘which is offered to a limited number of guests at the discretion of the hotel.’ ”
“Right.” I digest this. “How many guests are staying at the hotel at the moment?”
“Currently, our numbers are quite small,” Cassidy says, looking cagey.
“How many exactly?”
“Well, it’s just yourself and the Bergens,” she admits. “Lovely Swiss couple, but they’re not interested in the beach; they only play golf. So the only person using a lodge would be … well, actually …” She shrugs. “It would be just you.”