The Second Chance Hotel

Of course, that was always the problem. She never wanted the whole domestic life, not really. She’d told him enough times. The problem with people was, they heard what they wanted to hear sometimes, no matter what’s actually said. It was up to him now, to move on too. Once the pit of what felt like battery acid stopped swirling in his stomach. He needed to let go, but the anger was all he had to fuel him right now. That, and sodding Peppa Pig.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled for it, desperate to answer it before it rang off. They often rang on withheld numbers from the employment agencies he was registered with, which wasn’t exactly helpful if you needed to call them back. Not that he could, given his lack of phone credit. The money he had left was in case of emergencies only, for ringing the school, the social workers.

‘Hello?’

***

Thirty minutes later, and he was pulling his van up outside Martha’s place. A light sheen of sweat sticking his clothing to his back, he squirmed in his seat and looked around at the park. He could see no signs of life, and other than the tatty car with all its baggage, nothing looked any different. Walking around the other side to the reception hut, he saw the broken door that Martha had called him about. Inspecting the hinges, he felt relieved that there was no sign of forced entry. The lock was intact, not smashed off. No tool marks. Whoever had come through the doors had a key.

Grateful that Orla was at nursery, he stepped over the threshold, noticing that the patio doors at the back were wide open. Other than the door, there wasn’t any damage. The place was empty, and he shook his head. The old manager really had stripped the place. Whoever was taking over had their work cut out. He was just heading back out of the door to inspect the car when he spotted movement out of the patio doors. He backed up against the wall and shimmied along as quickly and quietly as he could, listening for the footsteps getting closer and closer. There were no voices, no communication. Was it just one person? They didn’t seem to be in a rush.

He looked around him on the dusty floor for some sort of weapon, but other than dust bunnies and junk mail piles, he was out of luck. Someone was coming in, right now. He pushed himself flat against the wall, his whole body coiled behind the patio doors. The footsteps got closer and louder, and then a leg came through the door. WHAM!

Cillian wasted no time at all, springing on the intruder in a flying frog-like leap, just as a mature woman wearing a murderous expression and what looked like a butcher’s apron came running through the front doors whooping at the top of her lungs with a large cricket bat clasped in her raised arms.

‘Martha, run!’ Cillian shouted at the bat brandisher, his leap descending till he collided with the shape, knocking them both to the ground and hearing the person beneath him grunt loudly in pain. Martha ran all right, but not to the door. She sprinted over to the counter nearby, and bringing the wooden bat down hard on the surface, she screamed, ‘Eat dirt, pussbag! I’ve called the rozzers!’

‘Get off!’ a voice screamed, and Cillian and Martha both whirled around, looking for the source.

‘It’s me, down here! Can you get off me? Your knee is jammed in my ribs!’ A female voice. A rather startled female voice.

Cillian looked down and saw an irate brunette staring back up at him. A brunette with huge brown eyes, that were now glaring at him in shock. She was blinking rapidly, and he was just admiring how long her lashes were, when he realised she was trying with all her might to shove him off her.

‘Oh sh— sorry!’ He scrabbled to his feet, or tried to, but they were a tangle of clothes and limbs, and it took a second or two to get separated from each other. He caught a flash of pale midriff as her top rode up, and he shook away the distraction from his thoughts. Dark lashes, hot body. Nice one, Cill, first sniff of a woman in months and you slam her to the floor like a prop forward. Finally managing to stand, he held out his hand to her. Lying there on the floor, her hair windswept and clothes thick with dust, Cillian thought her the cutest burglar he had ever seen. She eyed him, but finally pursed her lips and put her hand in his.

‘We thought you were an intruder,’ he said by way of explanation, his Irish tones fuelling the echoes in the room. It also amplified her indignant huff back at him.

‘So you thought you’d crush me to death?’ The woman was rubbing her ribcage, and Cillian felt a pang of guilt. Maybe he had overreacted, but Martha had been so sure that there was trouble.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ Martha asked the woman now, bat still firmly gripped in her charcoal-streaked hands. The two women locked eyes, sizing each other up. Cillian watched them both, waiting for the first strike to come. It would kick off in three, two—

‘Hello, I’m sorry I startled you earlier.’ It seemed the cute burglar had other ideas. ‘I’m April Statham.’ She held out a hand out, but it was to Cillian. He went to shake it, tactfully brushing off the spider web that was hanging from her fingertips. She blushed, and Cillian felt a faint bloom of warmth in his chest. She met his eyes before she spoke again. ‘I’m the new owner.’

Yes! a little voice inside his head said. Cillian opened his mouth to welcome her, maybe even ask her what the plans for the place were, but Martha was in like Flynn with her questioning.

‘Yooouuuu?’ She dragged the word out as her voice got higher and higher. By the end, dogs were heard barking outside. ‘You bought this place? Just you?’ April nodded patiently, looking from one to the other with a tight expression plastered across her features. ‘With what, brass buttons?’

‘I don’t really think that this is any of your business to be honest, but—’

‘Well, whose business is it then? As a resident, I have rights, I’ll have you know! It’s not right, picking on a vulnerable woman alone!’ Cillian and April both looked at her, not a drop of sweat dripping from her brow, her clothing and hair still immaculate, apron streaked with what Cillian could now see was paint, in different shades of pinks and reds. She looked a little like Leatherface, still swinging the hefty bat in her hands. In comparison, looking at dusty, dishevelled April and her rather haunted expression, Cillian was pretty sure it wasn’t going to end well.

‘Resident?’ April echoed, looking bewildered. ‘Resident of what?’

Cillian heard the gulp of air Martha took in, and he intervened before she got back into full flow.

‘Er yes, a resident. The old manager had an arrangement with Martha. She lives here year-round, rents chalet 1, across the way.’ He pointed in the vague area of Martha’s chalet, not trusting the women enough to take his eyes off them. ‘I thought you would have known that.’

April sighed heavily. ‘No, I didn’t, but it’s not the first time I’ve been duped. So do you have a rent book?’

Martha’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. ‘Yes, of course I have, and I pay in advance. Will that be a problem?’

April brushed her hair back from her face, and Cillian noticed that she had a spider crawling down her elbow. He leaned in a little, brushing it off with his arm. April jolted at the side of him, but didn’t move. She was still looking at Martha.

‘That’s fine,’ she said eventually. ‘I can sort out the paperwork and everything once I’m settled in.’ Looking around her at the derelict office, which didn’t have a scrap of paper, let alone a phone or a computer, her words tailed off. ‘It might er … take me a minute.’

Martha made a high-pitched ‘huh’ sound in her throat.

‘Thank you for coming, Cillian, I do appreciate it. Miss Statham? It is miss, isn’t it?’

April thought for a moment, before nodding. Cillian found himself releasing the breath he was holding captive in his lungs. He thought for a second his face had been injured in the kerfuffle, but then he realised he was grinning. He dropped his face back down into neutral before anyone noticed.

‘Miss Statham, I shall be ready with my rent book whenever you want to call on me.’ She went to leave, but paused as she eyed the broken front door. ‘If you are truly the owner, I would recommend hiring young Cillian here. He worked here before the old manager Tim ground the place down. He knows his way around.’ She looked around her, and Cillian noticed the way her whole body sagged as though defeated somehow. ‘It would be something to see this place nice again.’ She was nearly out of the room, when she turned. ‘Don’t forget, Cillian, this isn’t just any live-in position. You deserve to be paid well too. I shall be checking, Miss Statham.’ Giving Cillian a sideways look, she left. The two of them were left alone and Cillian felt obliged to fill the silence.

‘I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, I really am. Martha called, told me that there was an intruder.’ Nothing. April was still staring at the space that Martha had just left. ‘Are you okay?’

She turned to him, and he could see she was there, but her mind was very much elsewhere. He pulled one of his last remaining business cards out of his back pocket.

‘I am looking for work as it goes, so if you do need anything, let me know.’

She looked at the card, then back at him.

‘You really worked here before? As what?’

‘Bit of everything really. I moved here from Ireland a few years back, picked up some local work. I’m qualified in most things. Here I just did maintenance, bit of renovations here and there, heavy lifting, that sort of thing. The chalet park was a quiet place; the reception used to house the onsite shop, selling the bits the clients wanted, dealing with bookings, check-ins, you know. There used to be a games room too, but over time Tim got lazy, and the owners not being around to check on it, it just got … tired I suppose. When I asked, the money was never there for anything more than a patch-up. When are you reopening?’

One look at his prospective new boss, and Cillian knew she didn’t have a clue. The woman hadn’t even unpacked, let alone launched a revamp.

‘Err … I don’t know, soon, I know that! I need this summer to go well. I’m sort of banking on it.’

March already, Cillian thought to himself. It would take a hell of a lot of work to get this place up and running. Long days, most nights even. Great for money, if it was there, but what about Orla? He could barely work as it was, begging favours from people to get a couple of extra hours of pay, and for what? To live in a shitty flat, barely surviving?

‘I do have a few hours to spare …’ he began, hoping it would be enough, and that he could pull off the juggling single dad act just a bit longer. ‘If you can pay.’

‘When can you start?’ She cut him off, gripping the card in her hands so tight Cillian could see her fingertips turning white. ‘I have a bit of a tight budget, but I can pay you.’ He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. Was this it? Could he actually have a job, one he genuinely liked? He was suddenly very glad indeed that he had answered Martha’s call that morning. He looked across to her chalet, and Martha’s words pinged into his head. April was still talking about hourly rates, and long hours. He cut her off.

‘Which chalet would be mine then?’ he asked, as nonchalantly as possible. It looked like this poor lass was well out of her depth, but needs must, and he and Orla needed this. Besides, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t do the work. He loved being busy. ‘I don’t mind, as long as I have a room for my daughter.’

April was looking at him in a state of confusion now. He could see her as he flicked his head around the park, trying to be calm, cool and collected.

‘Chalet? Daughter?’ She was lost, and he knew it. He walked to her and held out his hand. ‘I’ll take the one next to yours, if you don’t mind. Out of the way a bit there, handy for the equipment shed.’ Another blank, worried look. ‘You didn’t know we have an equipment shed, did you?’ She shook her head at him slowly, and he laughed gently. ‘No problem, I can start today, and you have me till half two. Tomorrow, I can do more. Sound good? We can sort rates and rent out later.’ He pushed his hand out a smidge closer, but she didn’t take it.

‘Cillian,’ she said, an odd look crossing her features. ‘I think I’ve made a big mistake, coming here. I don’t really know what I’m doing.’

Her voice cracked a little, and his heart went out to her. What was she doing here, all on her own? By the look of her car, she had driven here with her whole life packed up. What was she escaping from? His hand twitched with the effort of not reaching out to touch her shoulder. He didn’t want her to freak out completely – he had just body-slammed her after all. She might not be quite ready for a cuddle yet. Not that he would have tried.

‘Don’t fret too much yet. It’s a lot of work, but most things are when they’re really worth it. Let’s just take it a day at a time. That sound good? You got a kettle in those boxes?’ He pointed behind her at the car, and April nodded sheepishly. He grinned in response. ‘First things first then, let’s get the kettle on, eh?’

For the first time that day, Cillian saw April smile. She was quite cute when she did that, little dimples appearing in her pale cheeks. The sun split through the bank of clouds, lighting the grass around them outside emerald-green. The green tint came through the windows, lighting the reception area up and highlighting her curvy body. The whole thing looked like a photo shoot, and he looked away before she caught him gawping. He didn’t have the time for any of that. There was only one lady in his life, and this was all for her. All the hassle, the stress, and worry. Looking around him now though, he couldn’t help but think that maybe Mondays weren’t so bad after all. He couldn’t wait to tell Orla all about it.

Chapter 3

‘Well, that’s that then.’

Martha Rodgers swirled the remnants of tea around her teacup, muttering to herself as she half leaned out of the kitchen window. ‘We’ve had it. No hope.’

Martha’s chalet was at the opposite end of the horseshoe of chalets that formed the backbone of the place. It was directly opposite the reception hut, so she had been camped out there most mornings of late, breaking her fast closely with fresh tea, hot buttered toast and jam … and a little light spying. Things were changing, and Martha wasn’t one for change. Especially not now, when everything was just settling down again. The old owners had been good, sure, but they weren’t exactly hands-on. It seemed like the longer they left between visits, the less they cared to return. The live-in manager Tim had always been a touch lax in his duties, and Martha had seen a marked decline in both the standards and the customers coming to holiday there.

Eventually, the tide had turned a little too much, and the owners had sold up and got rid of the manager. Martha had tried to find out who had bought the place, but the estate agents and solicitors were both depressingly tight-lipped about the whole thing. She’d expected to have to fight to stay there, but with no one to oversee, she was just … forgotten about. Her rent was paid till the end of the year, but after that, who knew what?

All she’d known before her foray into being a rather brutal batter was that it was a cash buyer, and no plans for the park or the land had been announced. She’d hated that. It had robbed her of sleep and peaceful thoughts ever since. The unknown worried her. She’d finally settled somewhere again, since her Charlie had passed, but now she felt powerless, at the whim of others. She had felt like this once before, many years ago now, but the heartache and the feeling of being trapped had never left her. She felt it just as acutely, and the pain was just as fresh. Not this time. She could feel herself bristle at the very thought. No one would ever tell her what to do again.

Bat safety stashed away in its hiding place, Martha carried a cup of Irish’d-up tea and her toast plate through to the second bedroom in the chalet, the one she used as her work room. After the morning she’d had, she felt rather out of sorts, unsure about her future and what the hell she was going to do with the new owner. Truth was, she could have probably bought the place herself, but who’d want to take that on? This April woman had obviously read too many ‘I changed my life forever’ pieces in the women’s magazines and lost her marbles. It was probably a midlife crisis, given her worried and rather sweaty demeanour.

Some people had more bloody money than sense. She should have just bought herself a potter’s wheel and saved herself a boatload of stress and expense. Martha had rather hoped someone with a bit of get up and go would have taken it on, seen the history and simplicity of the place for what it was. What it meant then, and now. If a place could talk … She would love to be able to have that conversation. Either way, the park wouldn’t do well under Miss Statham.

Her car was barely in one piece, let alone her! What would they do now, with her at the helm? Martha couldn’t bear it if the park got worse. The season was opening soon, and things were looking grim. For the first time in her life, she was glad her parents had passed on. That they didn’t have to bear witness to the park’s shabby state, as she did. It would have broken their hearts, given that their summers and family time were intrinsically linked to this patch of beautiful Cornish coastline. Lizard Point was home to them. It was family, and love, and enjoying the holidays that they had saved so hard all year for.

Chapter 4

April stretched her arms wide, sleep slowly leaving her body as her brain whirred and clicked back into life. She smiled to herself as she felt the sun on her face, heard the birds singing to each other in the trees. Bliss, she thought to herself, turning over to feel …

Bang. She hit the deck, having rolled off the sofa in the sitting room of her chalet. The WORST chalet out of them all, bar none. Tim’s old bachelor pad. She’d only spoken to Tim on the phone, but if she had the previous manager in front of her right now, she’d have more than a few choice words to share with him. It looked like a cross between a meth lab and the bottom of a budgie birdcage. It was rank, and when she had opened the bedroom door late the night before, exhausted after a long and frantic first day, she had gagged and promptly closed it again. If she’d had the energy, she would have boarded the door up for good, or petrol-bombed the lot.

She’d brought all her bags and boxes in from the car, and they all sat around her now. She’d have slept in one of the other chalet, had she not felt the need to protect her meagre life possessions. Standing up in the Jungle Book themed short shorts and tank top she had managed to grab out of one of the suitcases last night, she flicked on the kettle, washing up one of the two mugs from yesterday. Cillian had been true to his word, helping her sort the reception hut out and cleaning it up as best they could. He’d been quiet but chirpier than earlier, and she had been grateful for the help, as awkward as it was.

The whole place looked unloved, but April could see the potential deep down, just as she did when she’d read that listing online. It was such a beautiful spot, perfect for family holidays, and her new life. She’d dreamed of living by the coast since she was a girl, and now here she was, where she had first felt safe as a child. Fair enough, she was single, hormonal, flat broke, hiding from all her friends and family, and currently living on a couch, but still. Chin hairs and stocky hips aside, she was the new owner of the Shady Pines, and she was going to make it work or bloody well die trying.

Which was all good talk: I am woman hear me roar! The problem was, before she could actually put her war paint on and get to work on her dream new life, she had to deal with her old one. Which meant turning her phone back on and dealing with the fallout of her moonlight flit. At thirty-five, she knew that she should be feeling rather more adult than she was currently feeling, but that was half the point of her leaving in the first place. People seemed to think her lack of fertility and loss of husband meant that she was a barren, useless husk that would be found crying and sweating in a muumuu in IKEA because she had no significant other to lug the stuff home and put it together. Her friends were all treating her differently.

Angela, one of her old work colleagues, had unfriended her on social media before sharing her baby news, then re-added her once the hubbub had died down. Did she think April was too stupid to scroll down? Did she not realise that her pregnant bump and resulting tiny human would give it away? In all honesty, being ignored or pandered to when she didn’t need or want it just made her feel like a failure, a child even. It made her awkward around children.

The last time she was accosted in a coffee shop back home by an old friend and their new baby, she had felt so on show, she had ended up gabbling and patting the baby on the top of the head, as though she was a French bulldog or something. The mother and father were decidedly unimpressed, leaving April to run to the nearest shop door, mortified at her own actions, and crying at their reactions. Didn’t they realise that avoiding the issue was just giving it oxygen to breathe instead?

The truth was, April had never been overly bothered about having children. Not till the moment she was told that she couldn’t have them. When she was in her twenties and pictured her future, she always imagined herself by the beach, living her life, happy. Meeting Duncan at work was something she’d never expected, and so the picture had changed. When the children didn’t come, the picture fell apart altogether. Now she was here, by herself, and whether she felt the need to defend her life choices or not, she would have to. Single, childless women of a certain age were treated as anomalies back in her old social circle, and she was glad to be away from it.

Picking herself up off the floor, she headed to the bathroom. It wasn’t too bad in here after her earlier scrub fest. All the chalets were in good condition; they just needed a bit of a makeover, a deep clean that would make Kim and Aggie get a sweat on, and some home comforts. The skip that was Tim’s chalet was one of the worst things about the place, and given that it was her home, she could put up with it. There was of course the odd collapsing door and rotten window frame, but Cillian seemed to be on the ball with everything, so she was trying to keep her panic levels low key. Martha, the resident she had seemingly inherited along with the park and a pile of problems, was obviously not impressed with her being the new owner. At one point, April thought that Martha might actually nobble her with the bat, but she had been decidedly quiet that afternoon.

She’d been surprised to find herself agreeing to Cillian’s live-in position. She hadn’t envisaged many people in the beginning, and now she had a grumpy octogenarian with a violent streak and a family living next to her. The thought of Cillian’s daughter coming to live here made April feel a little odd. She couldn’t imagine having a kid around, although she knew she was being stupidly naive. Holiday parks meant families, grandchildren, school trips. There was no avoiding seeing the tiny human portion of the population, no matter how she tried. Who could? They were everywhere, like flies around manure or bees around honey. The fact that she compared children to insects flying around a turd wasn’t lost on her, and she was glad she was alone and couldn’t blurt it out to anyone.

Why did the fact she couldn’t have children make her this way? Some days, she wanted to scream at all the pregnant women moaning about their aches and pains. She often saw fraught parents shouting at a crying child on the street back home, or in the supermarket, the mother looking hollow-eyed and miserable, the child crying and shuddering with emotion. Didn’t they realise how good they had it? Would she have been that person?