Love Me Or Leave Me

‘I don’t drink or do drugs, love, I’m only looking for a bit of spare change.’

I turn sharply round to see a homeless guy just at my feet, huddled under a sleeping bag and shivering, even though it’s a warm, balmy evening.

‘Even just a few coins would help,’ he adds, eyeing up my handbag.

Instinctively, I open the bag to fumble round the bottom of my purse for a few coins … and that’s when my eye falls on it.

My engagement ring. The one that Frank flew me especially to New York to buy, just so we could always say it came from Tiffany’s. I take a good look down at it. Three tiny neat little diamonds. And much as I loved it, I know I can never look at it again as long as I live.

In an instant, I whip it off my finger and without a second thought, hand it over to the homeless guy.

Will we both be okay, do you think? I wordlessly ask him as our hands momentarily lock.

I don’t know, he seems to say, looking lifelessly back up at me.

Two minutes later and I’m in the back of the taxi, speeding out towards the airport. And for the first time in my entire life, I don’t have a single clue what tomorrow may bring.

Chapter Two

London, the present.

‘Miss Townsend? Miss Chloe Townsend?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I smile brightly back. But then I’m a firm believer that when nervous, just look and act confident and effervescent on the outside, and sooner or later, the rest of the world will eventually believe the lie.

‘Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels,’ he nods back, giving me a firm, businesslike handshake. Strong, confident grip.

‘Good to meet you and thanks so much for coming along today, especially at short notice. Here, grab a seat.’

I do as he says, but then Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels is someone you just automatically do what you’re told around. Even guests who’ve paid handsomely for the privilege, I’d hazard a guess.

‘Okay if I call you Chloe? Sorry, but as you probably know, I’m not so big on formality.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

Not so big on formality? I think. Ha! Rob McFayden is famous for coming to work in jeans and trainers; almost like he was in such a rush to get there, he ended up sprinting. Rumour has it he’s frequently acted as impromptu doorman/receptionist and even barman on the rare occasions when he feels things aren’t being done snappily enough in his hotel chain. Received myth is that, at a wedding in his Parisian hotel, he once jumped in and acted as a sous-chef for the night, on account of they were one man short in the kitchen.

Yup, an unpredictable man, by all accounts.

‘Great,’ he nods curtly back at me. The mighty Rob McFayden doesn’t even bother to sit behind his desk either, I notice, like would-be-employers usually do in interviews. Instead, he just rolls up his sleeves and perches casually on the edge of it, as if he’s already decided this meeting will take no longer than three minutes, so the application of his bum to the seat is just a waste of time.

‘So, I have your CV here, Chloe, and my HR team tell me it’s all looking pretty good. Well,’ he throws in briskly, ‘obviously it’s a glowing CV, otherwise, you’d hardly have got through my door in the first place.’

‘Well, emm … thank you,’ I smile tautly, although I’m not actually certain he meant it as a compliment.

Suddenly, the nervy tension between us is shattered as his phone rings. He whips it out of his pocket, checks the number then rolls his eyes.

‘Sorry, but do you mind if I take this? It’s my Locations Manager in Italy and it’s more than likely an emergency.’ Then with a wry smile, he adds, ‘It inevitably is.’

‘Of course not,’ I smile overly brightly to compensate for sheer antsiness. ‘Please, go right ahead.’

He takes the call, giving me the chance, for the first time, to really get a half-decent look at the guy. A lot younger than I’d have thought, is my initial impression. Early forties at most, salt and pepper slightly greying hair, long, skinny build. Well travelled, lean, all angles. One of those ectomorph body types you’d almost automatically take a dislike to, on account of they can probably eat all they like and never gain a single gram. Well, either that, or the man lives off fags.

Then with a quick, businesslike, ‘well, let’s set up a meeting with the architect and I’ll see you in Milan on Thursday. We’ll pick this up then,’ he’s off the phone.

‘Apologies for that,’ he says, though not looking at me, instead totally focused on the CV in front of him, eyes darting busily up and down the page. ‘So I see you’ve been working at the Bloomsbury Square Hotel here in London for the past couple of years.’

‘Emm … yes,’ I answer brightly.

‘And you’re Reservations Manager there …’ he says absently, still scrutinizing the CV closely.

‘That’s right!’

‘In other words, Chloe,’ he says, pointedly using my name, ‘you’ve basically spent the last two years looking after high maintenance guests, unhappy that they weren’t allocated a panoramic view and dealing with complaints that the en-suite’s not big enough. That sort of thing, yeah?’

I bristle a bit at this, mainly because my job involves a helluva lot more than just basic housekeeping.

‘Well, of course, that’s some of what my work entails, yes,’ I answer him, ‘but the job isn’t just about troubleshooting staffing issues and rotas, but ironing out countless unforeseen guest-related issues on virtually an hour-by-hour basis.’

And don’t even get me started on the guests that needed to be ‘handled’, in much the same way that you’d handle nitroglycerine, I’m about to tell him. But no such luck; he’s already moved on.

‘But before that, I see you were Functions Manager at the Merrion Hotel over in Dublin,’ he says, impatiently tapping a biro off the CV. ‘Now that’s good, that’s more like it. In fact, that’s the main reason I wanted to meet you personally this morning. Having an in-depth knowledge of the Irish hotel system would be hugely helpful for this particular job. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I thought that might be of interest, alright. Plus as you know, the Merrion is part of the Leading Hotels of the World group, so it was fantastic to gain first-hand experience working in that environment. I loved my time working there,’ I tell him, growing more and more confident now I’m talking about what’s essentially my passion. What I know and love best.

‘Go on,’ he says blankly.

‘You see, I saw my job as so much more than just making a function such as a wedding, run smoothly. I took it as my personal mission to see that every single bride’s dream day was utterly magical in every way that we could possibly make it. After all, every bride deserves her perfect day, doesn’t she?’

Good girl, you did it Chloe! You actually managed to get it out. I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief now. Mainly because it took many, many hours of rehearsing that last bit in front of a mirror at home to finally get the wobble out of my voice, but somehow, I think I pulled it off.

‘Well, I wouldn’t know myself, never having actually been a bride,’ says Rob dryly, looking right at me now. ‘But if you’ve brought any back-up with you, I’d love to see it.’

‘Of course,’ I smile, but then I’ve come fully prepped for this. Out of my briefcase, I whip a full list of every wedding, fiftieth birthday party and corporate black-tie shindig that I’ve ever organized and worked on. Back-up photos, the whole works.

‘As you’ll see here,’ I tell Rob, handing it over, ‘there was absolutely nothing I wasn’t prepared to do for any of our guests, no matter what their budget. I’ve arranged for doves to be released at midnight, just as one couple asked; I’ve even organized themed weddings too, from a Caribbean indoor beach theme, to a couple who wanted the hotel dining room transformed into a scene from Hogwarts.’

‘Hogwarts? Seriously?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

‘Believe me, that was the tip of the iceberg,’ I say. ‘When the happy couple asked for a fleet of owls to fly in carrying emails from well-wishers in their beaks, that was when we ran into difficulty.’

‘I can only imagine,’ he says, shaking his head.

‘But if you ask me, I think you can sum up any manager’s mission statement in a single word. WIT.’

‘Which stands for …?’

‘Whatever it takes,’ I say, really feeling in control now. ‘Whatever a guest wants, I’ll personally jump through hoops to ensure we secure it for them. No matter what.’

‘I see,’ Rob nods at me, then goes back to scanning through the file I’ve just presented him with. Now I worked hard on it and am bloody proud of what’s in there, but I have to say, so far he looks completely unreadable and not at all bowled over and impressed as I was hoping he would be.

‘So you’ve worked on weddings, functions, birthdays, I get it,’ he says again, just that bit unenthused. ‘But you see, this particular hotel I’m planning on opening in Dublin will, as you’ll appreciate, appeal to a quite specific niche market. So, you want to tell me exactly why you think you’d be right for the job of General Manager there?’

I smile brightly, but then, boy am I ready for this.

‘Firstly,’ I tell him, taking care to meet the slate grey eyes boring into me now, ‘because you see, I’m from Dublin. I know the city upside down and particularly the area around Hope Street, where the hotel will be situated. I’ve devoted my entire career to working in boutique hotels and have so many ideas I’d love to share with you.’

‘Such as?’ he says, and I could be mistaken, but swear I pick up just the tiniest spark of interest now. So I really go for it.

‘As you say, this will be very much a niche hotel, so let’s really appeal to that niche. As well as all the regular function rooms they’d get at any five-star hotel, let’s give them so much more. We really have scope to go the extra mile here, so let’s do exactly that.’

‘Go on,’ he says, folding his arms and looking interested now.

‘Well, given the emotional intensity of what our guests will be facing, I’d suggest a relaxation room or maybe even a quiet room, for calm reflection. Equally, I’d love to see a games room where more boisterous guests could let off a bit of steam. And the gardens around the Hope Street area are all so quiet and serene, so let’s really make a feature of that. We could possibly have a beautiful meditation area outdoors, as well as a water feature.’

‘A water feature?’

‘The sound of flowing water is really soothing outdoors,’ I tell him confidently.

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘And we could also have some decking and a barbecue area, maybe for a final goodbye lunch, when all business has been conducted and before we send our guests on their way.’

‘Good, good,’ Rob is nodding away at me now and for a brief, shining moment, I think this might just swing things my way. ‘But just for the moment, I’d like to get back to your CV,’ he says, suddenly changing tack and referring back down to it, inspecting it closely.

Shite. Or maybe not.

‘So it seems you worked at the Merrion Hotel for over seven years?’ he asks, scrutinizing the CV forensically.

‘Emm … yes, that’s right.’

‘Ah, but hang on here a second,’ he says, suddenly spotting something that seems to jar with him. ‘According to this, you left the Merrion three years ago, but didn’t start work here in London months afterwards. Now for a CV like yours, that’s quite a lengthy gap. So, I guess my next question is, why?’

‘Well, you see,’ I begin and for the first time, my voice is now starting to sound just that bit smaller than it has up to now. ‘I had come to a point in my career where I felt working abroad would really benefit me on a number of levels.’

But predictably, he’s zoned straight into this and won’t let up.

‘Yeah, but why the long gap? Pretty long time for someone who’d just finished up at the Merrion. Surely if you were planning to work abroad, you’d have locked a new job in place before jumping ship, as it were?’

He’s looking at me unflinchingly now. Slate grey eyes, unblinking; the CV in front of him his sole focus.

‘The reason being,’ I begin nervously, taking a deep breath, and locking eyes with him, then diving into my over-rehearsed answer. ‘It just took me some time to find a post that was the right fit for me. As you can see, I’d gained invaluable experience at the Merrion and was anxious to expand my CV even further. I wanted to cover all managerial aspects of the job and if possible, branch out from a Functions Manager’s role.’

Can’t we just drop this and move on?

‘Yeaaaah, but what you’re saying still doesn’t quite make sense,’ he says, lightly tossing my CV aside, almost like he’s lost interest in it now. ‘You see, I know the Merrion, know it well; I’ve stayed there. Functions Manager in a hotel like that is a terrific gig anyone your age would kill for. Yet you left to go to London, and then took a lower grade job at a significantly reduced salary. Which strikes me as an incredibly odd thing to do, for someone with all your experience. It seems like a backward career move. Particularly for a manager as highly thought of in the industry as you are. And yes, Chloe, before you ask, please know I’ve done my homework on you before you even got this meeting.’

I don’t say anything, just sit there, ramrod tense; bolt upright in my good work suit from Reiss, too-tight shoes and borrowed handbag, stomach clenched tight, frozen.

I probably blink. And all that’s running through my mind on a loop is the one thought. I thought I was doing okay. I actually thought I was handling this. And then one probing question about my past, and I’m suddenly pole-axed.

For the love of God, Rob McFayden, please don’t ask me any more … don’t delve into it … just LEAVE it …

No such bleeding luck though. He’s like a dog with a bone trying to ferret it out of me now.

‘So,’ he persists, ‘maybe you’d like to elaborate a bit? I guess what I want to know is, what exactly happened to you three years ago to make you leave?’

But my mouth’s completely dried up. I lean forward and take a sip of water from the glass in front of me, aware that he’s watching me intently, waiting.

Bum-clenchingly awkward silence now and all I can think is, answer him, you eejit, you want this job, this is your dream job! So just look him in the eye and tell him the truth.

Can’t though. Just not possible. I think back to the searing pain, so sharp that even thinking back to it now, from a safe distance of years, I can still recall every detail on an almost cellular level.

Then I remember those first few dismal weeks in London, staying with an old college pal who I must have driven demented with the depressive state of me. I remember what a bloody struggle it was to get any kind of gig in the hotel industry at all back then, but how I just knew that hard work and lots of it would somehow pull me through. The only antidote that would have any kind of an effect on me.

And so yes, I accepted a lower grade job on a reduced salary and you know what, Rob McFayden? I was more than delighted to. Frankly, I’d have done anything that came my way; scrubbed pots and pans, scoured toilet floors if they’d asked me to. I worked and slaved behind my desk, doing every spare hour of overtime that came my way. I became the best, most devoted Reservations Manager in the Northern hemisphere. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, bank holiday weekends; you name it. I basically volunteered for all the time slots that no one else wanted. I’ve had virtually next to no life here in London, it’s just been a never-ending rota of either working, sleeping or catching up on laundry I allowed to pile up, on account of I was working. Wow, what a whopping big surprise.

And then miraculously, out of the blue and just when I was at my lowest ebb, I was headhunted for this job. My ideal job. The chance to manage my very own hotel, a tiny boutique one that appealed to a small, niche market. A very particular niche market as it happens, one that just happened to suit me down to the ground. And it seemed like everything I wanted all at once. A better job, a salary more in line with what I was used to, the chance to return home, back to Ireland and best of all, the chance to really prove myself. Because if I could make a hotel like this one work, then boy, I’d be ready for anything.

I’d lived with humiliation and pain for long enough now. I missed my family and pals. Enough with the punishment, time to move on. No more of this self-imposed exile, I’d had enough. And yes, I’m sure what happened to me was the talk of the town for a while, but it’s in the past now, so why should I let that stop me pursuing what pretty much is a dream job on a decent salary? I may have been deadened on the inside, but one thing was certain: I was as ready to go back as I ever would be.

I eyeball Rob McFayden, take a deep breath and go for it.

‘I had to leave my old job,’ I tell him, ‘for personal reasons that trust me, you don’t need to know about. Besides, a single phone call to the Merrion Hotel will doubtless fill you in on everything you want to know. But if anyone is qualified to run a hotel where broken-hearted people come to put their lives back together and move on, then believe me, I’m your girl.’

Chapter Three

A divorce hotel. Where you check in married and check out single. And yes, you did read that right. ‘A safe sanctuary to go to when you suddenly found your whole life was in shreds and you were no longer able to see the wood for the trees,’ just like the blurb said.

But it was envisaged to be an awful lot more; this was to be somewhere supportive, non-judgmental, healing even. A place where people who’d long ago ceased to love each other could meet in a calm, stress-free environment with trained professionals on hand to help and offer guidance.

For starters, there’d be a full team of industry professionals on hand to ease the soon-to-be-ex-couple through the process and to make it as fast and efficient as could be. Family lawyers, financial advisors, counsellors, you name it. There’d even be an estate agent on site, just in case jointly held property needed to be valued and subsequently sold. Absolutely everything had been thought of and nothing had been left to chance. This would be a place where two unhappy souls could quickly tie up loose ends and where something that had long been a source of acute pain to both, could gently be eased out of its misery. Kind of like Dignitas, except for the married.

At least, that was the general idea.

Of course I thought I was hearing things when I first stumbled across the whole concept. ‘Stone mad lunatics,’ I’d muttered to myself way back then, when I’d read about the opening of the world’s first divorce hotel over in Amsterdam.

For starters, who in their sane mind would ever want to stay there? Let alone work in the kind of place where not a single guest even wanted to be in the first place? Just wait till you see, this daft idea will end up the laughing stock of the whole industry, I’d thought way back then, doubtless cackling like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz.

But that was then and this is now, and pretty soon I discovered the bittersweet taste of having to eat my own words. Because how wrong was I?

The divorce hotel concept is only about two years old now, virtually still a tiny baby in nappies, in hotelier terms. And yet in that relatively short window of time, it has not only met every single one of its financial targets, but managed to astonish the industry as a whole by actually exceeding them. No mean feat, in the middle of the biggest global economic meltdown since the Wall Street crash had everyone out queuing up outside soup kitchens, circa 1929.

The original divorce hotel which had opened on the outskirts of Amsterdam, was virtually minuscule by industry standards, with a bare twenty-five rooms. And yet occupancy had never once dipped below full since it first began trading. No other word for that in this day and age except un-be-fecking-lievable. So there was nothing for me to do, bar shake my head in astonished admiration, same as everyone else, while wishing like hell I could somehow inveigle myself onto the bandwagon.

So of course, it was only a matter of time before the up and coming Rob McFayden, with his finger ever on the pulse, got in on the act. A rival hotel group had already pitched to unveil a divorce hotel in London, so he began to look a little further afield. And thought, why not open one in a thriving, cosmopolitan city like Dublin? Which, thank you Ryanair, is easy to access, no matter what corner of Europe you happen to be in. A country famous for its hospitality and charm. And more importantly, as Rob told me at my initial interview, with a calculating glint in his eye, where he could negotiate a lease on a building for approximately a third of what he’d probably end up paying in central London.

I read that you can always remember exactly where and when you were whenever a life-changing phone call comes. But in my case I happened to be in Asda, buying loo rolls and a tin of Whiskas for a stray tabby cat that comes in to visit me whenever the mood takes her.

My mobile rang suddenly. Ferndale Hotels. I remember getting instant heart palpitation, shortness of breath, the works.

‘Miss Townsend? Chloe Townsend?’ came a crisp, efficient voice down the phone.

‘Emm … speaking,’ I stammered nervously as an irritating automated machine wailed ‘Unidentified item in the baggage area.’

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Rob McFayden would like to offer you a contract as General Manager and we very much look forward to welcoming you to the Ferndale Hotel team.’

I think they must have heard my whoops of joy all the way to the back of the deli counter. Finally, finally, finally my life was turning around. And given what I’d been through, could there ever have been a job more tailor-made to suit me? Rob McFayden, I knew, was taking a huge chance on giving me the GM’s job and over my dead body was I about to let anyone down. To make a hotel like this work anywhere on the planet would be a dream come true, but to make it work in Dublin, on my home turf meant so much more.

But, as was painstakingly outlined to me during my initial orientation training, there were many hard and fast rules to be observed. Rule one, though, was particularly hard for me to get my head round, seeing as how it was in flagrant contradiction of every other hotel on the face of the planet, where as long as a guest a) had cash enough to pay their bill and b) didn’t look like they were physically going to trash the room and nick all the light fittings, then, as far as management were concerned, everyone was welcome.

But not at a divorce hotel, it seemed. Here, it was like the Alice in Wonderland of standard practice, where received wisdom was turned upside down. Strict protocol here was that only a couple who were on ‘cordial terms’ could be allowed to come and stay in the first place. And how could you possibly hope to do that, if you’d two exes still at the stage of wanting to hurl furniture across the room at each other?

Another hard and fast rule was that all couples had to be interviewed, either separately or together, just so that, as General Manager, I could be certain that this was the right place, at the right time for them. After all, no divorce hotel was to be confused with a marriage guidance counsellor’s office. This procedure was all about neat and final closure, not accusations and recriminations and rows and bitterness and who got the lawnmower/flat screen telly/leather sofa from IKEA.

Rule three was discretion. Utter and total discretion from all staff, at all times, about what went on within the four walls. And of all people, I understood all too well the acute need for fat gobs to be swiftly silenced, when you were going through something so private and acutely painful. Are you kidding me? I could probably teach a course in it by now.