And then the solution suddenly comes to me.
“Actually …” I turn to Simon, trying to sound convincing. “These are for you! For all the staff. As a … um … present. For all your hard work.”
There’s a slightly flabbergasted silence. The guy from the shop looks puzzled. Simon and Nikolai are peering uncertainly at the box. Nikolai seems particularly flummoxed, as though he’s never seen a cardboard box before.
It’s Simon who regains his cool first.
“Club biscuits!” he exclaims. “Club biscuits! Ms. Worth, you are too good. Too kind. Nikolai, look at this generous present of Club biscuits. Let us open it.”
“No,” I say hastily. “Honestly …”
But it’s too late. The guy in the brown T-shirt dumps the box on a table and tears off the tape, then opens the flaps, revealing a pile of seven-packs, encased in plastic.
“Look at this.” Simon surveys the packs reverently. “Orange Club biscuits. We will distribute these among all our hardworking staff. Cassidy!” He summons her from across the lobby. “Come and see Ms. Worth’s wonderful gift of confectionary! Tonight, we will feast on Club biscuits!”
My face is puce. This is hideous. I should have just taken them.
“You’re … very welcome,” I say feebly. “Enjoy.”
“Club biscuits?” says Cassidy brightly, as she approaches. “Nice!”
“Well.” I swallow. “I just thought you might like them.”
“Ooh, the noni juice!” says Cassidy, as she sees it in my hand. “I tried some of that, thought it was rank. But guess what? Chef Leslie’s made you a special cocktail with it for tonight. It’s called the noni-jito. Clever, isn’t it? It’s got kale in it too,” she adds triumphantly. “Alcohol-free, of course; we know you love your alcohol-free.”
I stare at her, blinking hard. I am not drinking noni juice with kale when everyone else is on champagne.
“Actually …” I hear myself improvising, “a vital part of my health regimen is Kick-Back Night. It’s important to relax your rules every so often. So I’ll probably have champagne tonight, for well-being, and maybe the noni thing tomorrow.”
“Kick-Back Night!” Cassidy’s face gleams. “I love that! We should put that in our wellness regimen too.” She turns to Simon. “Let’s have Kick-Back Night every night. We’ll serve tequila shots and tell the guests it’s for their own well-being! Win–win!”
As though on cue, a girl bearing a tray of champagne flutes arrives in the lobby. I recognize her as Cassidy’s friend Bea from the bakery. The next moment, the front door opens, revealing a pair of men in suits, and at once, Simon bristles with tension.
“Investors!” he hisses at Nikolai and Cassidy. “The investors have started arriving! Cassidy, coats. Nikolai, canapés! Canapés! Good evening!” He hurries forward, smoothing his hand down on his trouser leg. “And welcome to the Rilston Hotel.”
I grab a glass from Bea, shake back my hair, and stride confidently into the dining room. Eligible men, here I come.
The only trouble is, there aren’t any. Unless the term eligible is stretched waaay beyond where I am prepared to stretch it.
It’s nearly an hour later and the dining room is humming with guests. I’ve drunk two glasses of champagne and done the rounds. I’ve chatted. I’ve smiled. And the results have been terrible.
I’ve talked to a property developer with a paunch from Exeter, who has told me four times that his ex-wife got the convertible. （No.） And to his friend with halitosis. （No.） I’ve also met a gay local historian called Bernard, who is here to tell investors about the area, and a woman called Diane, who represents the Garthwick family that own the hotel.
Finn isn’t here. I’m super-aware of that. （I thought that might be him just now, but it’s a guy with dark hair I don’t recognize.）
The Wests aren’t here either, and I find myself hoping that they’re in bed, all loved up again, maybe on position fifteen of the “reconciliation-sex handbook.” （Lucky them.） In fact, I’m the only mug of a guest who has actually showed up, I realize.
“Sasha!” A booming voice greets me, and I turn to see Keith from the train, wearing a bright-blue jacket and holding a garish puppet with a seriously creepy face. “Remember me? Keith? Mr. Poppit?”
Hi!” I say, trying not to look at the puppet. “Lovely to see you again. Are you performing?”
“Doing a set after the speeches,” says Keith, nodding. “Bit of an ‘adult’ theme. Mr. Poppit in the red-light district, nudge, nudge.” He gives me an elaborate wink, and I make a firm resolve to leave straight after the speeches. “So, having a nice time, are you?”
“Great, thanks. I saw Terry the other day,” I add, remembering our conversation on the train. “I was quite shocked at how different he is now.”
“Ah, Terry.” Keith winces. “Yes, he’s in a bit of a state. Poor man, been through a lot, he has. By the surf school, was he?”
“Yes.”
“That’s his haven.” Keith nods. “That’s his safe place. He always goes back there—everyone looks out for him.”
It suddenly occurs to me that Keith might know something relevant about the kayak accident, although I’m not sure how to frame the question.
“I was talking to a fellow guest about that kayak accident,” I begin. “And I remembered that I spoke to the police. It was a big deal, wasn’t it?”
I’m hoping this might trigger a gush of gossip, and sure enough, Keith’s face lights up.
“Now, that was a scandal. If they hadn’t uncovered the truth, think where Terry would have been!” He stares at me with bulgy eyes, and so does the puppet.
“What do you mean, ‘uncovered the truth’？” I ask. “What truth?”
“That it was Pete’s kayak, not Terry’s,” says Keith, as though it’s obvious. “The police thought it was Terry at first. They were investigating him. Could have been his business that shut down.”
“Why would they think it was Terry’s kayak?” I say, confused, and Keith frowns.
“I don’t remember the details now, but there was a reason. Did Terry lend out the kayak? Or had they got mixed up? Anyway, it was looking bad for Terry at one point. He was beside himself, poor man.”
“It could never have been Terry,” I say hotly. “Terry would never lend out a damaged kayak!”
“Well, the police seemed fixed on him, only something changed their minds.… Ah yes!” He’s distracted by an approaching man in a T-shirt and black jeans, holding a microphone. “Sound-check time, is it? No rest for the performers, is there, Mr. Poppit?”
“No rest for the performers!” echoes the puppet, moving its painted mouth, and I hide a shudder.
“Well, good luck,” I reply, backing away, and bump into someone. “Sorry!” I wheel round—then catch my breath. It’s Finn. He’s here. He’s in a well-cut jacket and looks kind of … What’s the word?