Jonathan Lee - High Dive

‘Welcome to the Grand!’ she said.

And he said, ‘It’s nice to be here.’

His face was one of those that looked even better when it was moving. His eyes were greenish-brown.

‘You’ll be checking in?’

‘Yes please.’

‘And do you have a reservation?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Roy Walsh.’

She flicked through the Guest Registration Book and got the pink notepad ready. ‘And did you already put a deposit down, or —’

‘No, no deposit. But I’m happy to pay cash up front.’ He opened a leather wallet and a new-car smell escaped.

There was talk of the weather. His tone was neutral, empty, like the drained voice of a teacher. But unlike Mr Pickford or Mr Easemoth, his expression wasn’t weary, his bearing wasn’t broken. He didn’t come from a world of corduroy and borrowed novels. His back was straight. He looked bracingly awake.

‘Just the one night, right? That’s what it says here.’

A smile began to break on his face. ‘Actually, if it’s not too late, I was hoping to extend to three.’

‘Three nights?’

‘That’s what I was hoping.’

‘Let me see. I think you’re probably in luck.’

Luck, though. He didn’t seem like a person who needed it. Probably he made his own. That was what everyone was supposed to do in life, she’d been told. This despite the fact that the people who told you so never went on to explain how you might make your own luck and were often wearing, at the time when the advice on luck was dispensed, very unfashionable shoes.

She seemed to be on her feet. Sitting down again straight away would make her look like some ditzy freak in an exercise video. ‘Half-board?’

‘Why not.’

‘OK. That’s sixty pounds a night. So, a hundred and eighty overall.’

‘Great.’

‘Would you like to pay for the first night now?’

‘I’ll pay it all.’

‘Up front? You don’t have to.’

‘Might as well. Do you know which number you’ll put me in?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Which number room.’

She took a quick glance at the registration book. ‘629 is vacant. A nice room facing the sea.’

‘629. That’s great, thank you.’

‘Maybe you’d like to see the room first? I can do that for you.’

‘No no, that’ll be grand. That’ll be fine.’

Did he mean it, though? Was he being overly polite? Sixty a night was a lot of money. She had a good feeling about this man Roy Walsh. You could tell straight away whether someone was kind, and he was kind. Kind customers were sometimes too nice to ask for what they really wanted. With this in mind she waved at her father.

‘Have you come far?’ she asked. ‘Was your journey OK?’

‘Oh,’ Roy said. ‘The train was like it always is.’

‘It’s a work trip?’

‘With a bit of pleasure, I hope. Colleague of mine might stop by a couple of times. I assume the room has a desk?’

Before she could say ‘yes’ her father arrived. He shook Roy Walsh’s hand. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said.

‘Dad, maybe someone could show Mr Walsh room 629?’

She said this and a little pantomime of deferrals ensued. He didn’t want to see the room. He said he was in a bit of a rush. Everyone apologised and their words overlapped and she could feel herself beginning to blush.

Her father walked away. She marked Roy Walsh’s name down on the grid. Acronyms were printed next to room numbers. NB (no bath). WF (wooden floors). SB (small bathroom). NL (near lift). The only letters next to 629 were SVB, for sea-view balcony. She’d done what she could for him.

‘This your summer job?’ he said.

‘This? Sort of, yeah.’

‘And sort of no?’

‘Well, this is the never-ending summer.’

‘Ah. I know the feeling.’

‘You do?’

He blinked. ‘My dad used to get me doing DIY every summer, then in the evening playing snooker with him. Those weeks could drag, not being outdoors, though it’s better looking back.’

She opened a fresh pack of registration cards. ‘My dad’s got me helping out here. I haven’t applied to university yet, basic-ally, and Moose — that was my dad and he’s called Moose, unfortunately — it’s a busy time for him. Some important guests are coming in a few weeks. Not that every guest isn’t important, obviously.’

He smiled. ‘Obviously.’

‘Some of the summer staff are staying on.’

‘Do many of them stay the night?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You know, live in. The staff.’

‘A few do, yeah.’

‘You should travel.’

‘Pardon?’

‘See the world,’ he said, smiling again.

She’d been thinking about that. She told him so. Marbella or somewhere, if she got some money saved.

‘Marbella.’ He seemed about to laugh. ‘Good plan. I hear it’s nice there.’

‘Have you been anywhere in Spain?’

‘Me? Never. Every now and then, though. Every now and then it occurs to me to go.’

‘Better weather,’ she said.

‘I suppose that’s a part of it, yeah.’

She thought of telling him about her better-than-expected A-level results. She thought of telling him about not being sure university was for her. She thought about admitting that up until last month she’d thought Oxbridge was an actual place, rather than two places made to mate as if by way of a posh schoolboy prank — the kind of prank she wasn’t sure she had much time for at all. She thought about saying she had friends who would be enjoying Freshers’ Week soon and that university was actually an extended drinking game — probably he’d been, could confirm it — but wasn’t real-world experience actually more important? She blinked twice before explaining all of this and then decided not to explain at all.

Was his accent shifting from sentence to sentence? She couldn’t quite pin it down. In Scotland she’d only been to Edinburgh, and in Wales only to Cardiff. She’d never been to Ireland and had never explored the North. It was grim up there, her mother used to say, but then again Vivienne Finch considered a lot of things to be grim. Life. England. America. Love. People who ate meat or called the wrong things ‘ironic’.

He said, ‘So the VIPs are coming soon, you said? Other than me, I think we established.’

‘Yeah. We’ve had JFK here, in the past. And Napoleon number three also stayed. But nowadays, basically, although I shouldn’t say it, we actually don’t get so many VIPs. It’s a big deal when one comes. I guess more people are going to exotic islands and stuff.’

‘Or Marbella.’

She laughed. ‘Exactly.’

‘No film stars, then?’

‘No. Just Mrs Thatcher. The whole thingy. It’s the Conservative Party Conference thing. Last time she was in Brighton she stayed at the Metropole, so, you know … Then last year they did it in Blackpool.’ It was all public knowledge, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. She wanted him to feel like he was receiving a secret. ‘So, Mr Walsh, if you wouldn’t mind just signing this …’

He looked down at the Guest Registration Card, the pen in his left hand. He signed it slowly. ‘What room will you stick her in, do you think? I hope it’s no better than mine.’ He smiled again.

‘Ha, well. I’m not really meant to say.’

He nodded. His eyes politely died. She gave him an apologetic smile. He picked up his two sports bags from the floor.

As he put the key in his pocket he said, ‘OK. Thank you.’ It was a cold thank-you. An empty OK.

She said, ‘My friend Derek here can —’

No no, he said. No need to bother the bellboy with my luggage. See you later on.

He walked towards the lift but didn’t press the button. Turned left through the double doors, maybe looking for the downstairs loo. Unusual, actually, because people almost always waited to use the en suite in their room. People put privacy first.