No Room at the Little Cornish Inn Read online

  Also by Nancy Barone

  New Hope for the Little Cornish Farmhouse

  NO ROOM AT THE LITTLE CORNISH INN

  Nancy Barone

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Nancy Barone, 2020

  The moral right of Nancy Barone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E ISBN: 9781838938048

  PB ISBN: 9781800245969

  Cover design © Cherie Chapman

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  To Lidia with love

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: O’er Hill and Dale

  Chapter 2: No Room at The Old Bell Inn

  Chapter 3: Desperate Measures

  Chapter 4: Room 122

  Chapter 5: Reviews and Déjà-Vus

  Chapter 6: Flowers from Judas

  Chapter 7: The Manager Who Stole Christmas

  Chapter 8: Up Close and Personal

  Chapter 9: The Dream Job

  Chapter 10: It’s a Wonderful Life

  Chapter 11: Drowning Unsinkable Sorrows

  Chapter 12: Snow Angels

  Chapter 13: A New Life by the Sea

  Chapter 14: An Early Christmas Gift

  Chapter 15: Ding Dong Merrily on High

  Chapter 16: The Night Before Christmas

  Chapter 17: Merry Cornish Christmas

  Chapter 18: The Christmas Confession

  Chapter 19: A Not So Merry Christmas

  Chapter 20: The Ghost of Christmas Past

  Chapter 21: The Ghost of Christmas Present

  Chapter 22: The Ghost of Christmas Future

  Chapter 23: Cornish Homes by the Sea

  Chapter 24: Say Goodbye to Christmas

  Chapter 25: The Christmas Nightmare

  Chapter 26: Mud and Joy

  Chapter 27: Christmas is For Forgiving

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  O’er Hill and Dale

  ‘Mummy, why do you have to work over the Christmas holidays?’ Danny, my almost eight-year-old son, wants to know as we speed down the M3 towards Cornwall instead of Birmingham. ‘Can’t we go see Nana and Grandpa like we planned?’

  The answer, my friend, is, unlike the famous song, not blowing in the wind, but actually blasting from my mobile phone in the form of the infamous and ominous ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ tune. It’s the ringtone I’ve assigned to the HR manager at Johnson Hotels Head Office, Susan Hearst – better known as Susan the Sacker.

  I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s called since we left London, so I’m entitled to ignore her at least this once. I can always use the excuse that Cornwall has an iffy signal. Even the county border sign I’ve just sped past advises to – and I’m quoting here – remove my face from my phone because I won’t get a decent signal anyway.

  I was hoping to have a lovely Christmas with my family and some old friends. Some good food, stops at the local bakery, time for reading a quality book by the fire. All the things that I don’t have time for in London and was really looking forward to this year. And thanks to her, none of it is going to happen.

  Because, at the eleventh hour, she gave me an assignment without any alternative, implying that I could be up for promotion as manager if I sort out the Old Bell Inn in Cornwall. It has lost a star due to a cartload of bad reviews and recent cancellations, creating a big black splotch on the pristine reputation of Johnson Hotels who, in turn, are considering closing it.

  I’m supposed to go in incognito, observe, find out what the problems are and report back. But if I don’t, it is, as Susan so politely put it, my ass out on the street. And if working during the holidays isn’t bad enough, the 24th of December, only three weeks away, is Danny’s eighth birthday.

  My little boy shouldn’t have to spend his big day watching his mum work. He should be having a ginormous party with his friends and family in Birmingham. My parents are crushed we can’t be there this year, but they won’t show it so as not to make me feel bad. However, every now and then, they ask me to move back and work in their coach company. Taking care of Danny there would be a breeze, surrounded by my people. Aunt Milly alone would kill to have him to herself. So why do I keep saying ‘Thanks, but no thanks’? Why is it so important to me to be independent, when being independent is making me so miserable?

  I shouldn’t be here at all. I’m not a hotel inspector. I’m simply an assistant manager slash single mum, trying to make a living. Which Susan the Sacker, on a daily basis, seems to enjoy making impossible. When am I going to find the guts to stand up to her and make her stop treating me like the fifth wheel? I may not shout at everyone like she does, and yes, I do fraternise with my staff, but I get the job done. All I have to do is ask.

  But Susan? Just know this: when I came home from my only sick leave in years, all my things – including Danny’s first scan – had been tossed into the bin: my Hello Kitty writing Post-its, pads, photos, my York Minster pen, my Women – half the population, all the brains mug, my yearly supply of Skittles and Reese’s Pieces, my Canada mouse pad, and even my battery charger. All gone, and my desk completely rearranged at a forty-five-degree angle so she can see what I’m doing from her own office desk. Because, oh how lucky can I be, I work at the flagship hotel adjacent to Head Office, where we are watched like guinea pigs.

  She monitors my toilet breaks, how many times I go for a cup of coffee, and even what I eat. I can’t count the number of times I’ve returned from the printer room and found my doughnut on the floor while she hides behind her computer screen with a smirk. I swear this is beyond harassment. And this year will be the sixth time she has turned me down for a promotion. I would understand if I was a slacker, but I work very very hard for my crust of bread.

  So why don’t I do anything about it? Because I have everything to lose and she holds the dagger by the handle. Anything I claim will not be believed unless I can substantiate it. Besides, what am I going to say to the people on the top floor? Excuse me, but your Head of HR has just binned my Krispy Kreme?

  Rumour has it no men are allowed anywhere near her home, where she lives with her divorced sister who joined the Single and Furious Club. Apparently, they have a ground-to-air missile they use to fight off blokes. You’d think that, softened by her sister’s plight, Susan would give a single mum like me a break. But no.

  So here I am, on the M3, ass and all, because she couldn’t bully anyone else into doing it. I have absolutely no choice. But perhaps, just perhaps, if I can get this mess sorted, I’ll finally crack that promotion and get her off my back.

  I turn and ruffle Danny’s blond hair. ‘It’ll be fun, darling
, you’ll see.’

  So I’ve been telling him, my poor kid. He needs a break more than I do. I wish I could give him so much more. Like a real, complete family, as opposed to the two of us. Mum and Dad are always trying to pair me off with sons of their friends whenever I’m up there, probably in the hope that I’ll move back. And when they’re not doing that, they’re asking me if Mark has phoned recently, and when was the last time he saw his (my) son, etc. etc. And the answer is usually, ‘A couple of years ago.’

  I’m on my own, and it’s fine. Sometimes, I’ll admit, during my weaker moments, I start thinking that I should find someone new, and that maybe I should just take my parents up on their offer, enjoy the free babysitting and all that.

  Because, seriously speaking, I have had enough of London, our tiny flat and our even tinier finances and would like nothing better than to settle down in a quaint little village like – I check my map again – Little Kettering. And maybe even forget the hotel career altogether to return to my love before Danny, i.e. pottery throwing. I used to have my own stall in Covent Garden, just fresh out of art school and way into my pregnant and abandoned state.

  You should see those particular pieces. They’re all lopsided because I couldn’t stop crying, let alone stop my hands from shaking. I’d get up in the middle of the night, suddenly wired and worried, ease my huge belly behind the pottery wheel, and let my imagination run wild, conjuring up images of Mark. Headless Mark. Eyes-gouged-out Mark. Legless Mark, and yes! Mark Minus His Implement. It was the only thing that would make me giggle uncontrollably. Until I cried just as uncontrollably. For nights on end. I never want to go back to feeling like that again.

  And once Danny was born and I was on my own, it rapidly became clear to me that I needed a stable income in order to take care of my son.

  So I sold my pottery wheel and my kiln, and applied for this job. And I haven’t thrown any pottery since. I don’t even know if I’m still capable. I used to be quite good, actually, specialising in beach themes.

  And now I can almost see my future self, with my own little shop and a makeshift sign reading, Come in, we’re open. Prospective buyers or even passers-by could come in all the way to the back and watch. Scratch that – they’d better buy, otherwise we don’t eat.

  I try to calculate how many vases I’d have to sell to keep Danny and myself living in a dignified manner but give it up as the scenery has piqued my interest. Multi-coloured, quilt-patched hills gently kneel towards the sea, almost in respect of the beauty surrounding it. Oh, how I long to make a life change and move here!

  Would Danny settle in a place so small, where everyone knows everyone else? Back in London, it seems his life revolves solely around the people in his school and myself. He looks happy enough, but the confidence he still seems to be lacking, and which makes me worry every now and then, is it due to the fact that his father isn’t around? Does he crave a complete family, or am I enough? And what about when he gets older? Will he not be needing a father figure? Will his stability depend on it? Will he resent me?

  Maybe I should have left him with my parents for these holidays. Contact with his grandfather, the only man in our lives, would have been more beneficial. But I blame myself. I just can’t let him out of my sight. I know I am too protective, and that I should maybe step back, just a little, every now and then.

  Call me paranoid, but I am so terrified that if I’m not always super-alert, something horrible will happen to him. You read about nothing else in the news: parents take their eyes off their children for one moment, and that’s it. Tragedy strikes. I’m one parent on double-shifts. All he has is me, so no, I can’t take my eyes off him for one moment.

  My mobile plays ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ once again and I salivate like Pavlov’s puppy; only I’ve absolutely no appetite, because her bell means trouble. Four hours down the highway, and the screeching harridan still has this effect on me.

  I’d love to tell her what I think of her attitude, but my unpaid bills currently sharing the glove compartment with my Adele CDs – alongside that letter that I haven’t had the courage to open – tell a story of their own.

  So I hit the speakerphone button, trying to sound confident. Project my voice and all that.

  ‘Hello, Susan.’

  ‘Rosie, are you there yet?’

  ‘Twenty more miles, Susan,’ I lie. Surely she’ll give me the time necessary to check in and have a short break?

  ‘Right. Remember you are incognito. No one must know you work for the company. Not housekeeping, not accounts, nor anyone else. Do you understand me?’

  I slide Danny a glance. He’s not used to hearing this kind of tone. We don’t talk to people like that. But I let my boss do it to me. I grind my teeth in perfect silence, because she can hear a frown on the phone from three counties over. So I respond in perfect, textbook Susanese, just the way she demanded, as if she was our headmistress, from Day One.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. I want an honest and fair preliminary report as soon as you get there. And I don’t mean tonight, but this afternoon. Do you understand?’

  Meaning that, when we get there after a four-and-a-half-hour drive, I won’t even have time for dinner. And that I’ll have to find something for Danny to do. I can see she wants this to be all about the company and absolutely nothing about Danny and his Christmas birthday, poor boy. But not if I can help it.

  Susan knows I have a young son, and that I’ve no choice but to take him with me. The only reason she didn’t veto Danny’s presence was because of the Christmas holidays. Not even she would be that insensitive. And yet, I may still stand corrected.

  ‘Another thing, Rosie.’ She pronounces my name like it’s a swear word. ‘I want you to observe the manager closely. If, and I underline if, he seems dodgy and surly as they say, I want you to report to me and you can get rid of him. You’ll hold the fort until we can send down a replacement.’

  ‘Me? Get rid of him?’ I whisper in horror. ‘I thought I was just looking into the bad publicity. You never mentioned me firing anyone. Or even replacing them, for that matter.’ It looks like she’s bent on ruining not only our Christmas, but some other poor sod’s as well.

  ‘No, you’re not fit to replace him, we all know that. But it’s the holidays and people have a life. Except you, of course.’

  I can’t tell you how charmed I am. I can hear her smiling as she slurps mojitos on the beach. That’s Susan for you. Instead of switching off when on holiday, like the rest of the planet, she likes to ‘stay in touch’. Why doesn’t she just get a life and leave me alone? I’m secretly hoping she’ll meet someone in Spain, get laid and forget I even exist. At least for the holidays. But given her track record, I know I’m hoping in vain.

  ‘Besides, you’ll like Cornwall. I hear it’s very relaxing, especially at Christmas.’

  Relaxing? Possibly for the tourists, but not for me. Because how is firing someone considered relaxing? Of course it is in her twisted little world. But in my twisted little world, I wonder how the hell I got stuck with this task. I have been in this job for years, so I can safely say I know how to run a hotel. It’s the self-confidence thing I need to work on. And I’ve no experience whatsoever in giving feedback, especially to a manager who is already above my position.

  But I’m the loser whose name was drawn and I can’t well refuse, can I? Or can I? Could I actually, right now, turn the car around and go back to London? I quickly weigh the pros and cons of this. If I do, nothing will change, except for the fact that I’ll be jobless. The promotion bubble I’ve been working on for six years will burst once and for all and I’ll end up with absolutely nothing. I will in effect be taking a step back in life.

  But if I go forward, go to Cornwall and do what has been asked of me, maybe, just maybe, things might change for us. For Danny. So if I feel guilty about working over the Christmas holidays, ultimately I’m doing it for his future. He will benefit from it. And if that’s the case, I’m do
ing it. I’m going to Cornwall. But before I can reply to Susan, she rings off. Which is no surprise, because she never says goodbye.

  What The Sacker doesn’t know is that any victim of hers is a pal of mine and I’m already on the guy’s side. Unless he really is surly and rude and the place sucks as much as the reviews state. But if he’s just having a tough time, I’m going to try and help save him and his inn. Because if he gets fired, he’ll never be able to work in this field again.

  The power to crush people’s lives might make Susan’s rotten heart sing, but thankfully, I’m not like that. I was raised like most of the human beings on this planet – with dignity, and a sense of respect for other people. Sometimes I actually feel sorry for her, because she might be feared by all, but she will never be respected, nor loved.

  ‘Your boss is mean, Mum,’ Danny whispers, yanking me out of my reverie.

  I force a laugh for his benefit. ‘Only because she’s very lonely, Danny.’

  ‘Because she’s not married?’ he asks.

  I ruffle his hair, my heart spilling with joy at the mere sight of my boy sitting next to me. I am so so lucky. ‘No, my darling. Because she doesn’t have you.’

  ‘But, Mum, don’t you want a boyfriend, too, like Auntie Liz?’

  Is that what he worries about, my little boy, rather than thinking about having fun and enjoying his life? ‘No, love, I don’t want or need a boyfriend. You are everything Mummy needs to be happy.’

  He grins, happy with the answer. For now.

  ‘Can we listen to some music?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course, love. You choose.’

  Not that there’s much of a choice beyond Adele. Her songs about break-ups have been my best companion over the past few years, ever since Mark dumped me. I suspect that my being up the duff might have had something to do with it.

  For months, I cried and sang her songs, sang her songs and cried. And often at the same time. It was not a pretty sight – nor a pretty sound; I can’t carry a tune to save myself. It had got so bad (not just my singing) that I couldn’t even wear any make-up, and my friends spent their Saturday nights lugging bags of cakes and chocolates over to my place and watching me scoff it all down in one evening, rather than going to the pub. You’d think I’d be huge, but I suspect the misery ate away the excess calories.