Read Online Always and Forever by Cathy Kelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Kelly
Ads: Link
you were both worn out.
Cleo and her brothers had never been sent to a creche or nursery. The hotel had been their nursery. There had always been someone around to keep an eye on them, and from when she was little Cleo had loved helping clean bedrooms as long as she had her own yel ow duster and her own squirty bottle. She wondered if she’d have children some day and would they play in the hotel while she worked, learning how to make a bed properly and watching the chef rustling up twenty-four cooked breakfasts as easily as making a cup of tea.
It had been a fun way to grow up. Her children would play in the hotel, she decided. She’d want them to enjoy their birthright the way she had. Of course, that was years and years off, and she’d need a man first. That wasn’t the sort of thing that could happen quickly. No way was she settling for any guy. She wanted the one. The right one. Perfect. Tal , natural y,
so she wouldn’t have to look down on him. Smal men loved her for some reason, but she could never bear to go out with anyone shorter than herself.
Laurent had been tal and olive-skinned, with the most amazing grey eyes. And his accent … when he said, ‘You are so sexy, Clee-oh,’ in that luscious Provencal drawl, Cleo had felt herself melt.
By the time she got home, Cleo’s hair was wool y from the damp of the evening. Hat - she had to buy a new hat to replace the one she’d lost on a night out with Trish. A vibrant young businesswoman needed decent hair. And she was a vibrant young businesswoman, the sort of one who could have her pick of handsome tal men with fabulous accents. Who’d manage to drag their eyes from her bosom to actual eye-level.
With this cheering thought in mind, she walked in the front door and did what Mrs O’Flaherty, her favourite course lecturer, used to tel the students to do: imagine they were guests arriving at the hotel and see what it felt like. Cleo stood and tried to see the hotel with a dispassionate eye.
The flowers that had only one day left in them yesterday stil stood on the big hal table and it was obvious that nobody had got round to changing the water. Murky and green like water from a gloomy pond, it gave the hal the aroma of bad eggs. The cushions on the two big armchairs in front of the fireplace stil bore the imprints of whoever had last sat in them, and a newspaper was rol ed up and squashed in a corner of one. Worse stil , the door to the conservatory hal way was swinging open, admitting both a stiff breeze from the garden and the smel of eau-de-cabbage from the kitchens.
Cleo didn’t have to exert her imagination to figure out what any self-respecting guest’s reaction would be if they’d travel ed in the cold evening to the Wil ow, hoping for warmth and welcome, to be greeted by al this. The place was only missing Bela Lugosi with extra sharp incisors to complete the atmosphere. Before she’d gone to col ege, before she’d spent work experience summers in other hotels, Cleo had thought that their hotel was the finest around. Creaking water pipes, quaint hot water bottles for guests’ bedrooms in winter and beautiful rugs with papery thin edges were part of an old hotel’s attractions. Its charm had also come from the love and warmth her parents had put into it, charm that meant more than any new furnishings or thick carpets. Harry Malin’s warmth was as much a part of the Wil ow’s success as the sense of faded elegance in a world of monotone, identikit hotel chains. But the balance between her father’s warmth and the state of the house had shifted.
Now she saw the Wil ow with new eyes. The hotel was tired, a dump. It badly needed a total revamp.
‘Hel o!’ yel ed Cleo into the empty hal .
Tamara, the hotel’s part-time receptionist, poked her head out from behind a tiny gap in the office door, the door that was supposed never to be shut. Smal and very blonde, like her elder sister, Sondra, Cleo’s sister-in-law, Tamara had the air of
Cleo and her brothers had never been sent to a creche or nursery. The hotel had been their nursery. There had always been someone around to keep an eye on them, and from when she was little Cleo had loved helping clean bedrooms as long as she had her own yel ow duster and her own squirty bottle. She wondered if she’d have children some day and would they play in the hotel while she worked, learning how to make a bed properly and watching the chef rustling up twenty-four cooked breakfasts as easily as making a cup of tea.
It had been a fun way to grow up. Her children would play in the hotel, she decided. She’d want them to enjoy their birthright the way she had. Of course, that was years and years off, and she’d need a man first. That wasn’t the sort of thing that could happen quickly. No way was she settling for any guy. She wanted the one. The right one. Perfect. Tal , natural y,
so she wouldn’t have to look down on him. Smal men loved her for some reason, but she could never bear to go out with anyone shorter than herself.
Laurent had been tal and olive-skinned, with the most amazing grey eyes. And his accent … when he said, ‘You are so sexy, Clee-oh,’ in that luscious Provencal drawl, Cleo had felt herself melt.
By the time she got home, Cleo’s hair was wool y from the damp of the evening. Hat - she had to buy a new hat to replace the one she’d lost on a night out with Trish. A vibrant young businesswoman needed decent hair. And she was a vibrant young businesswoman, the sort of one who could have her pick of handsome tal men with fabulous accents. Who’d manage to drag their eyes from her bosom to actual eye-level.
With this cheering thought in mind, she walked in the front door and did what Mrs O’Flaherty, her favourite course lecturer, used to tel the students to do: imagine they were guests arriving at the hotel and see what it felt like. Cleo stood and tried to see the hotel with a dispassionate eye.
The flowers that had only one day left in them yesterday stil stood on the big hal table and it was obvious that nobody had got round to changing the water. Murky and green like water from a gloomy pond, it gave the hal the aroma of bad eggs. The cushions on the two big armchairs in front of the fireplace stil bore the imprints of whoever had last sat in them, and a newspaper was rol ed up and squashed in a corner of one. Worse stil , the door to the conservatory hal way was swinging open, admitting both a stiff breeze from the garden and the smel of eau-de-cabbage from the kitchens.
Cleo didn’t have to exert her imagination to figure out what any self-respecting guest’s reaction would be if they’d travel ed in the cold evening to the Wil ow, hoping for warmth and welcome, to be greeted by al this. The place was only missing Bela Lugosi with extra sharp incisors to complete the atmosphere. Before she’d gone to col ege, before she’d spent work experience summers in other hotels, Cleo had thought that their hotel was the finest around. Creaking water pipes, quaint hot water bottles for guests’ bedrooms in winter and beautiful rugs with papery thin edges were part of an old hotel’s attractions. Its charm had also come from the love and warmth her parents had put into it, charm that meant more than any new furnishings or thick carpets. Harry Malin’s warmth was as much a part of the Wil ow’s success as the sense of faded elegance in a world of monotone, identikit hotel chains. But the balance between her father’s warmth and the state of the house had shifted.
Now she saw the Wil ow with new eyes. The hotel was tired, a dump. It badly needed a total revamp.
‘Hel o!’ yel ed Cleo into the empty hal .
Tamara, the hotel’s part-time receptionist, poked her head out from behind a tiny gap in the office door, the door that was supposed never to be shut. Smal and very blonde, like her elder sister, Sondra, Cleo’s sister-in-law, Tamara had the air of
Similar Books
