Page 13 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

Mike put down the phone and propped his elbows on his desk, dropping his head into his hands. He had been expecting this news since Forsythe’s visit, but that didn’t make it any easier to take.

Two days. Why had he even bothered to visit? The speed of the decision suggested that it had been a foregone conclusion. At least they’d had the decency to ring him instead of just sending an email.

Regrettably, Lytcott Capital Management don’t see a future for the Carleton in their portfolio .

. . blah blah blah . . . Thank you for your loyalty and hard work over the past thirty years .

. . blah blah blah . . . Hoping to find a buyer .

. . blah blah blah . . . If there’s no interest, it will go to auction in a month.

So that was it. He had little hope that a buyer would be found. The old place would be closed down and demolished to make way for a block of holiday apartments or another caravan park.

With a small sigh, he picked up the phone again and clicked on Lisa’s number. She was the first one to tell, then he’d have to call a staff meeting. He’d speak to Chef as soon as he came on.

* * *

Shelley stared at Jess. “A staff meeting? Now?”

“In half an hour, in the ballroom.”

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t know.” Jess shook her head. “It could be something to do with that bloke who came the other day — Mr Forsythe.”

Shelley furrowed her brow. “Who was he? Someone from the golf league?”

“I’ve no idea.” Jess shrugged. “He only spoke to Mike. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yes . . .”

She was horribly afraid that she could guess. Though that sleazy guy had been suspended from the golf league’s committee, maybe they had decided that after the trouble it had caused, they didn’t want to have anything to do with the Carleton anymore.

If they’d cancelled the contracts for their tournaments and their Stay’n’Play packages, that would be a massive blow. And would people blame her for it? She knew Lisa didn’t, but some of the other staff might.

Dammit, she’d just stay up here, finish the rooms on this corridor. This whole floor was empty, and would likely stay empty until the Turkey-and-Tinsel groups began to arrive in another couple of weeks.

They were coach parties of mostly pensioners, many of whom came every year to kick off their Christmas. They spent their time gossiping in the lounge, going on shopping trips to Exeter or excursions to Newquay Zoo or the Eden Project.

She’d find out soon enough what was going on.

Room 306 had probably never been so clean. She’d scrubbed the bathroom to within an inch of its life, cleaned the windows, even got down on her hands and knees to sweep out every awkward corner of the floor.

She was polishing the dressing table, bringing it up to a gleaming shine, when Tracey put her head round the door.

“Are you coming down to the staff meeting? It’s nearly time.”

“Oh . . . I . . . Do I really need to be there?” There was a small smudge on the dressing table mirror. She rubbed at it fiercely. “I’m trying to crack on with the rooms on this corridor.”

“The rooms can wait,” Tracey insisted. “Come on. Mike wants everyone there.”

“Okay.” Reluctantly she put down the polishing cloth. “What’s it about?”

“Mike will tell you.”

Shelley could tell from Tracey’s expression that it wasn’t going to be good news. Her heart was heavy as she followed her supervisor along the corridor and down the stairs.

The staff were gathered in the ballroom, apart from a few who were off duty this afternoon. Chairs had been set out in a semi-circle. Mike was sitting in front of them, looking nervous.

Shelley took a seat at the end of the row, folding her hands in her lap to stop herself fidgeting with them.

“Hello, everyone,” Mike began, a slight quaver in his voice. “Thank you for coming. I have some news which I need to share with all of you. And I’m afraid it isn’t very good news.”

He took off his glasses, polished them on his handkerchief, and put them back on again.

“As most of you know, we — that is, the hotel group which we’re part of — has been taken over several times over the years by various investment funds. Well, it’s been taken over again, by another investment fund.”

There was a murmuring around the room, some people enquiring what an investment fund was.

“A couple of days ago we had a visit from a representative of the fund. A Mr Forsythe. Some of you may have seen him around the place.”

Nods, more murmurs.

“This morning I had a . . . long telephone conversation with him. He told me that the fund has assessed the hotel and decided that it isn’t making sufficient profit to warrant the cost of much-needed repairs and renovations.

So, after careful consideration . . .” There was an uncharacteristic note of sarcasm in his voice.

“. . . he has decided to recommend that the hotel be sold off.”

The ripple of murmurs spread again.

“It’s to be sold at auction next month. And if it isn’t sold as a going concern . . .” He paused, evidently struggling to speak. “It will be closed down.”

“What?”

“No! They can’t do that!”

The protests rose, angry, distressed.

Mike shook his head. “I’m afraid they can. They’re only interested in whether we’re making enough profit, and we’ve been on the edge for years. I wish I could be more optimistic, but . . .”

Shelley felt her heart bounce to her throat and then sink like lead to her feet. The Carleton had been her home for three years — the best home she’d ever had. If it closed . . .

Several people were already in tears, and not just the women. They were a small staff group, and very close, like family. And everyone loved this place. It had stood here above Sturcombe Bay for so long, had seen families grow up here, couples come back year after year for sentimental reasons.

And now it was probably going to close.

Why had she let her guard down? Why had she let herself begin to trust that she had finally found a safe haven? Hadn’t life taught her the hard way for as long as she could remember that nowhere was safe, nowhere was forever?

So, in maybe no more than a few weeks, she’d be packing up her rucksack again and moving on. Maybe she’d go sooner, just pack up and slip away, avoid all the goodbyes. She hated goodbyes.