Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley
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cheeks were burning. ‘It’s this way but I hope you’re not expecting too much,’ she said briskly.
She led the way through the catering kitchen and the staffroom at the rear of the pub to the garden. ‘It’s not the Melbourne Ritz.’ She was acutely aware of Patrick’s presence behind her. Something about knowing he was so close and in her private territory made her skin tingle. She wasn’t scared of him; she was scared of no man, and the feeling of being followed was more thrilling than scary. Yet his presence seemed to do something to the air. Goosebumps popped up on the back of her neck and her arms under her sweatshirt.
‘Through here,’ she said, and crossed the small paved area behind the kitchen to a low granite building at right angles to the inn itself. An assortment of garden furniture stood on the patio area, discarded cast-iron and plastic pieces that had seen far better days. The good stuff was all reserved for the customer terrace at the front. Maisie was aware of the fag ends on the flagstones where the staff had been enjoying a sneaky ciggie despite her disapproval. The grassy area outside the granite outbuilding was still green and lush and the tubs had bright red geraniums blooming in them even though it was late October.
‘Unless you can find accommodation elsewhere on Gull Island, the Piggery is your best option, I’m afraid.’
‘The Piggery?’
‘Staff quarters. These buildings once housed pigs and a couple of cows. Nothing posh, but there’s a bedsit, kitchenettes and shower room.’
Maisie opened the door of the Piggery and immediately muttered a rude word under her breath. The young barman had only vacated the place the previous day, and hadn’t been keen on housework, judging by the unsavoury tang and the empty cans rolling around the floor. The bed looked like it had come straight from a Tracey Emin exhibit.
She barred the door, leaving Patrick right behind her. ‘I haven’t had the chance to clear it out yet. I’m sorry.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
She hesitated before walking in and letting him follow her. Maisie cringed. It was even worse than it had appeared on first glance – and sniff.
‘It’s great,’ he said, sitting on the single bed. The mattress sagged under his weight and he bounced on it a couple of times. ‘Seen some action, though.’
She wanted to melt through the floor. Actually, the floor was as minging as the bed. ‘It’s not fine. You can’t stay here.’
Patrick stood up. ‘I can clear it out. Give me a few bin bags, some bleach and scrubbing brush and it’ll be shipshape by opening time tonight. I’ve slept in places that would make your hair curl.’
‘Just because you’ve been in jail, doesn’t mean you have to sleep in a stinking pit. God knows what that boy has been doing.’
‘You could be right. From what I recall, jail was a lot cleaner than this.’
‘Thanks!’ She had to smile at his nerve. He definitely might brighten up a long, dark winter on Gull.
He joined her in the kitchenette. ‘That was a joke, though well disguised. My sense of humour doesn’t always translate.’
She lifted her trainer off the sticky vinyl floor and put out her tongue. ‘Maybe not but this place is the pits. You can’t stay in it until I’ve had it fumigated.’
‘Give me the cleaning kit and I’ll do it. You didn’t know I was going to rock up so soon.’
She ignored him. She was deeply ashamed, not of the mess, which was par for the course with some of the young staff, but of not checking the room first. She wouldn’t have dreamt of showing a new staff member such a hovel, let alone expect them to sleep in it. She ran a tight ship at her last pub. She should have kept a better eye on the staff quarters, but she’d been flat out at the end of the season.
‘Wait here, please.’ Leaving him, she walked back outside, pushed open the door of the neighbouring studio and swore. The place reeked of unwashed clothes and lager. Maisie didn’t even want to cross the threshold. She was surprised her parents hadn’t realised, although it didn’t take long for a place to get rank if left. Both rooms needed a deep clean and she’d be the one rolling up her sleeves later.
‘Any better?’
She almost bumped slap bang into Patrick’s chest. Which wouldn’t have been unpleasant. In fact, it would have been pretty awesome. In contrast to the rooms, up close, he smelled of some kind of woody body spray.
‘I thought I told you to stay put?’ she said, half joking.
‘I thought the air was fresher out here.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mr McKinnon?’
He held out his hands. ‘Enjoying watching you getting worked up over nothing? Not really. Either of these places is fine if you’ll only let me help you sort them out. Or I can find somewhere else to kip. I’ve still got my tent. I can camp out here or Javid might let me stay on site and use his facilities.’
‘No! I’ll be the laughing stock.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘People will say I can’t look after my own staff. Just because you can clean the place up doesn’t mean you ought to. I’ll get a cleaner in later and until then …’ Maisie was floundering. She wasn’t even sure herself why it had become so important to her to sort out a decent place for Patrick to stay. Maybe it was because she was trying so hard to prove to both of them that she was determined to be professional in their working relationship. She knew what people would say when they heard she’d taken on an attractive single Aussie who she knew next to nothing about.
She knew what her parents would think, let alone her neighbours. She could see and hear them now. Archie Pendower, Phyllis and Una and Jess Godrevy … oh shit, Jess, her best mate, was going to put two and two together and make at least a hundred and four. Maisie felt her cheeks growing warm and hated herself. The only way this arrangement was going to work was if it was kept strictly professional despite any previous encounters.
She closed the door to the second studio then opened it again. ‘It needs to air, before it has a proper clean,’ she said, and before Patrick could give her any backchat, she bulldozed on. ‘Look, I need to draw up a contract and check out the references you gave me. Obviously, with the time difference I don’t expect to hear from Judy or the other referees you mentioned until morning. However, if you wanted to help out in the bar tomorrow night, to see how we roll here, then that might be a good idea.’
Patrick beamed. ‘Great idea.’
‘Until then, can you keep yourself out of trouble? You’re welcome to make use of the pub kitchen to make some lunch and you can have some peace and quiet in the bistro upstairs. You can bed down up there overnight if I don’t get a chance to clean the cottages.’
Patrick saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Maisie pretended not to be amused. ‘Just “boss” will be fine. Come on inside, and I’ll break the er … good news to Mum and Dad.’
Y ou’ve really gone and done it now, Paddy boy.
Later that afternoon, Patrick closed his laptop in the upstairs bistro and gave himself time to reflect on the crazy, impulsive decision that had led to him signing up for six months at the Driftwood Inn. He’d emailed Judy at the Fingle and the owner of the restaurant where he’d worked previously to warn them he would be staying in the UK over the winter and to expect his new employer to take up references.
He crossed to the window and took in the magnificent view over the channel towards Petroc. With its white sand, flowers and low-lying islands set in a turquoise sea,