So this is the first chapter of the cosy murder mystery I mentioned the other day featuring Muriel Button and her niece Jane. I actually managed to finish this one which was quite an achievement for me! Re-reading it, it could do with some serious editing but this month is just about sharing my writing so the editing can wait for another day.
Ten days until Christmas. Normally I’d be giddy with excitement, planning treats and presents for us all. But there’s not much to get excited about this year, not after David lost his job and we’ll be lucky to have a stuffed pigeon for Christmas lunch. My attempts at economising were not going down well – the mince pies I’d picked up from Aldi had practically been thrown back in my face. The girls seem to think that anything less than Waitrose is slumming it. I don’t think they realise quite how bad the money situation has got – Lizzie texted me a long present list that contained the word ‘Apple’ several times…
At work this morning, the head asked me why I wasn’t going on the staff Christmas meal. I said, ‘Because I don’t want to spend £45, that I don’t actually have, to eat a mediocre three-course meal (that features raspberry coulis on both pudding and starter), stick to soft drinks all night because the venue is out in the middle of frigging nowhere so I’ll have to drive, and, worst of all, have to talk to tossers like you in my own free time.’ Well, that’s what I would have liked to have said. Instead I just mumbled something about a clash with David’s schedule.
I thought mulling over money troubles was going to be as bad as my day got but Mum rang just as I got in from work. Aunt Muriel is dead. I can’t believe it. She was only seventy. I hadn’t seen her for a few years, not since she and Mum fell out on their trip to Italy. Mum wasn’t happy when Aunt Muriel spent the week shagging their gondolier, leaving Mum to explore the wonders of Venice on her own. Muriel wouldn’t shut up on the flight back. ‘Just one Lorenzo, give it to me. Delicious manhood from Italy…’
Muriel pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth after that. I’m not even sure where she was living but, apparently, she died in South America and has been buried there. I know she was married to some guy from Columbia back in the ‘70s, so had she gone to see him? Mum was in bits on the phone, she feels guilty now for all the hussy/trollop/floozy comments she made whenever Muriel’s name was mentioned.
So, obviously, I’m incredibly sad over Muriel dying and I’ve gone through half a box of Kleenex but…Mum said Muriel’s left me a hotel! A HOTEL! In the Cotswolds somewhere. I didn’t even know she owned a hotel. Why would Muriel leave me a hotel? We were really close when I was small but I hadn’t really seen much of her since I got married to David and had the girls.
I should go and have a look at it. Maybe I could go one day after work. Although, thinking about it – do I need to work now? I own a hotel! Wonder how much money it makes? It’s called Stone Grange near the village of Frostleigh Green. I tried Googling it but it doesn’t have a website. What hotel doesn’t have a website? Looks like the village is in the back of beyond though. Maybe I should take a sickie and drive down there?
After a sleepless night worrying about the hotel – Will I have to run it? I don’t know anything about running a hotel. Oh my god. What if I have to tell people what to do? How do I tell a chef what to do? Are they waiting to hear from me? Maybe I can just sell it – I finally got up at 6am, peeling myself off the sheets in a cold sweat.
David is over the moon about it. I think he sees it as a chance to reinvent himself. From former IT wage-slave to an empire-building entrepreneur, living in the countryside, hobnobbing with Liz Hurley and Zara Philips. He swanned downstairs dressed in a tweed jacket that’s been at the back of his wardrobe for at least fifteen years. The jacket may have lasted fifteen years unscathed, but the same couldn’t be said for David’s figure: his stomach was bulging out through a six-inch gap where the buttons wouldn’t meet. I could just imagine the Hello magazine article he was composing in his head as he stared into his Yorkshire Tea, an inane smile on his face:
David Watkins, dressed head-to-toe in Saville Row, arrives at his office where his PA, Annabel, awaits with his Triple-Venti-Non-fat-Caramel Macchiato and freshly baked almond croissant. David has been named Hotelier of the Year for the third year running. Just what is his secret? David gives a self-assured laugh. ‘Well, it’s about organisation, hard-work and an eye for detail. And it’s important to keep a sense of humour. I think when I’m happy and enjoying the hotel, the customer is happy. As I was saying to Emma Watson and Anna Wintour just the other day, it all comes down to being satisfied.’
Satisfied? Smug and deluded more like. ‘David! David!’ I snapped, interrupting his celebrity laden reverie. ‘Do you think we should visit the hotel today?’
I don’t usually take a sickie but it’s not like anything’s going to be happening for the last week of school. I had volunteered for the staff Christmas choir at the concert tonight but I’m sure they can cope without my dulcet tones. I was struggling to reach the high notes of ‘O Holy Night’ (and the middle notes, to be honest) so it’ll probably sound better without me there anyway. And half the kids mysteriously disappear before the end of term, so I’m sure Louise can survive without my presence in the library.
David practically whipped the cereal spoon out of Gigi’s mouth in his rush to get the girls out of the door.
‘Hang on, I’ve got to ring school,’ I said. ‘What shall I say’s wrong with me?’
‘Diarrhoea. Nobody wants you with that.’
After ringing the office and doing my best impersonation of someone suffering on the toilet (David helpfully making farting noises in the background), we set off. I did actually feel sick with nerves all the way down. Should I just pretend to be a normal customer? I didn’t have the keys or any paperwork to prove I owned the hotel. Thinking about it, I only had Mum’s word for it. Maybe I was being a bit premature. Perhaps I should have waited for something more official before I leapt straight in.
The sat nav managed to find the village of Frostleigh Green which was a caricature of every postcard I’d ever seen of the Cotswolds. Ivy adorned golden cottages surrounded a glorious green, ducks bobbing on the small pond. It just needed a vicar on a bicycle and Miss Marple carrying a wicker basket to be complete.
It was a beautiful winter’s morning; there was a sharp chill in the air and the sun was glinting off the hoar frost on the hedgerows.
‘If you didn’t have chronic squits, you could really appreciate this,’ said David.
‘If I didn’t have a chronic fear of what I might find, I could really appreciate this. Not sure what would be worse. A huge, country house hotel or a small bed and breakfast. Surely we wouldn’t be able to manage a big hotel? But would a B&B make any money?’
‘Stop thinking about it. Just wait and see.’
To be continued…
BARBED WORDS 