Page 72 of The Haunted Hotel
“How the hell have you all survived working for free for over a year?”
I shrug. “It’s inconvenient, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. We don’t have to pay rent or utilities, and we get fed. John the Maid was discharged from the army on medical grounds so he has a pension he lives off. Dilys and Aggie both have savings and have always lived frugally anyway.”
“And you two?” he says. “Because, given your age and how long you’ve worked here, I can’t imagine either of you have savings worth a damn.”
“My parents help me out when I need it,” Rosie offers.
“So does my mum,” I say. “She bought me some new clothes and underwear for my birthday and Christmas, and she pays for a basic phone package for me. I don’t need much else. I do miss being able to buy wool for my knitting though.”
“That’s probably too much information, babe,” Rosie suggests. “Although, judging from the sounds coming from the conservatory last night, I expect he’s already seen said underwear.”
From the heat in my cheeks, I’m guessing it’s safe to say I’m several shades past fire engine red right now.
“You’re missing the point,” Morgan interrupts. “I mean, not about Ellis’s underwear—which is very nice, by the way—but you worked. You should have been paid regardless.”
“There wasn’t enough money,” I reply. “We all met together as a group and decided we’d give up our wages and support each other while we tried to save the hotel. Please don’t be mad at your grandfather. He didn’t know we weren’t being paid. That was the only thing we kept from him.”
Morgan sighs and drops his head into his hands.
“Is there any hope?” Rosie asks. My heart sinks when Morgan looks up and slowly shakes his head.
“Even if we could get a lawyer and delay the auditor to work out terms with all the creditors, there’s just no income to cover it. Everything has been paid with credit, on accounts that are now dried up. There’s not enough left to even continue at the level you have been, let alone begin to pay off the debts.”
“But,” Rosie says, “you own a hotel empire. Can’t you?—”
“Rosie!” I say sharply. “It’s not Morgan’s responsibility to pay off the hotel’s debts.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” Morgan admits. “This is multiple decades of mismanagement coming home to roost and very little left in the way of any actual wealth. The family was almost bankrupt by the time I was born. Frankly, I’m stunned you’ve managed to keep this place going for as long as you have.”
“But can’t you?—”
“I’m sorry, Rosie.” Morgan shakes his head. “I know you want me to be some kind of saviour. Yes, my brother and I inherited a high-end hotel chain from my stepfather, but all the decisions on acquisitions are decided by the board, and there’s no way they’d invest in this place. Not when there are mountains of debt and no discernible profitability in the near future. Even if by some miracle I managed to convince them, they’d gut the whole place, strip it of everything that makes it special, and turn it into another bland carbon copy of all the other hotels.”
“But—”
“Before you go ahead and ask another extremely personal and intrusive question because I can see you’re going to, yes, I do have my own money. But I could pour every last cent I have into this hotel and it wouldn’t be enough.” His eyes are filled with sadness as he looks at us both. “I’m sorry. There’s just nothing I can do.”
I feel like I’m choking on a hot, hard ball of misery burning at the back of my throat, and my eyes sting from the tears threatening to spill.
“I thought we’d have more time,” I whisper painfully.
“Ellis.” He pushes to his feet and comes to me, one hand lifted, but pauses when his phone starts ringing in his pocket. Swearing under his breath, he pulls it free and connects the call, and whoever’s on the other end is so loud that I can hear their greeting clearly in the small, cramped office.
“Warren,” Morgan replies, his eyes linked with mine, “this isn’t a good time.”
“No kidding,” says his brother. “I need you back in New York straight away.”
Morgan scowls. “What?”
“The board has called an emergency meeting and your presence is required… in person.”
“What? Why?”
“No idea. They didn’t say,” his brother answers. “Play time’s over. I’ve had your assistant check everything on your end. The roads are clear enough, so we’ve got a car coming to pick you up in an hour. Your flight is at six p.m. from Manchester. Don’t miss it.”
Morgan hangs up the phone, his gaze still on me, his expression a myriad of emotions I’m too tired to try and identify.
“Ellis,” he whispers.