The Big Dreams Beach Hotel. Michele Gorman

bottles encrusted in wax. ‘That’s okay,’ I tell him. ‘He’s my transition manager. There’s no need for that.’

      But he’s lighting the candle and smiling. ‘Love doesn’t need,’ the waiter says, flicking his lighter. ‘Love wants.’

      Rory shrugs at me. Now he looks gorgeous, all glowy in the light. ‘Transition manager sounds like politically correct speak for a one-night stand you’d use to get over a bad breakup.’ Then he sees my face. ‘I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. I’m not suggesting a one-night stand.’

      ‘That’s okay.’ He’s got no way of knowing how close to the bone his remark was. ‘I mean, not okay, obviously, given that we’re working together, but I know what you meant.’

      ‘Right. We’re colleagues.’

      ‘Right,’ I say.

      ‘If you don’t mind me asking …’

      I brace myself.

      ‘What happened with Peter?’

      Relieved to be back on safe ground, talking about something other than one-night stands with my hot colleague, I tell him what I know about our resident.

      I have to start with the most obvious thing, given what’s prompted Rory’s question. Peter is narcoleptic. He’s not got it as bad as some poor souls who drop off left, right and centre. Still, he has to sleep a lot, and sometimes he gets sleep attacks. When that happens, his body switches off like a light.

      Naturally, that makes it hard for him to hold down a regular job. It makes it hard to do most things. Aside from needing so much sleep, having a sleep attack while crossing the road or doing the washing up or going down stairs could be dangerous. Even if he doesn’t knock his head or crack a rib falling, it’s not ideal if he nods off while he’s in town. He could be mugged or worse.

      Which makes Barry his bodyguard as much as the second man in his act, I tell Rory. You should see the dog spring into action whenever Peter gets a sleep attack. Well, as much as a basset hound can spring into anything. Normally a jovial hound, he won’t let any strangers near Peter while he’s asleep. He seems to know friend from foe, though, so if we need to put a coat or something under Peter’s head, Barry is fine with that.

      Rory stops my story. ‘Barry is a dog?’

      ‘Yes, a basset hound. What did you think he was?’

      ‘Well, Peter and Barry. I assumed they were a couple.’ His eyes seek mine in the candlelight. ‘Rosie, this is a problem. The owners are already going to be cross about the sitting tenants, and now you’re telling me we’ve got dogs living there too?’

      ‘Only one. I don’t see what the big deal is. Anyway, Peter was quite famous for his act and he was making a nice living by the time he started getting symptoms. At first he assumed he was sleepy all the time because he was working too hard or needed iron or something. But even when he had quiet periods he was napping a lot. It took years before the doctors diagnosed him, because apparently the condition isn’t understood very well.’

      ‘I’ve never heard of anyone with it,’ Rory says. ‘It sounds awful.’

      ‘It is awful. I’ve known Peter for three years now, though, and I’ve never seen it stop him. He works as much as he can, but his income’s not steady. The council had to step in to help with housing or he’d have ended up homeless. That’s how he came to the hotel. Sometimes he gets pretty down about it all.’

      Rory asks a few questions but mostly he just listens to me ramble on, till our pasta plates have been cleared and we shrug into our coats against the brisk sea air that always seems to blow through Scarborough.

      ‘Thanks for taking pity on me,’ Rory says as he holds the restaurant door open. ‘I really enjoyed myself.’

      ‘Me too. Sorry if I talked your ear off. I don’t get out much.’

      He laughs. ‘It’s okay. I liked it. See you tomorrow, Rosie.’

      I can’t help smiling as I make my way home. It’s nice to know that I’m not so out of practice with real life that I can’t carry on a regular conversation away from the hotel. I’ve been grateful to be cocooned back in my home town, but maybe I should be having more of a life here. My school friends have moved away – we were all desperate to leave – and despite our age difference, Miracle, Peter and Lill have become good friends, but after tonight I get the feeling that that might not be enough. I really enjoyed talking to Chuck.

      I mean Rory. Not Chuck. I enjoyed talking to Rory tonight.

       Chapter 5

      That was a simple slip of the tongue. It’s understandable, when I’m working with Rory in kind of the same way as I did with Chuck. They both parachuted into my job without warning, though that’s where the similarities end.

      Because, by the time I’d known Chuck for a month, I was already a goner.

      He wasn’t kidding when he’d said he wanted me to organise the whole Christmas party for his company. But that didn’t mean me taking control. Chuck was the one very much in control, and not only of the party planning.

      We slipped into a routine – he stopping by on his way home from work, me staring at the revolving doors from 6p.m. onwards and Digby taking the piss every few minutes.

      ‘Just so you know, you’re getting really boring,’ he said, when the guests he’d just checked in started for the lift. ‘It’s been over a month, Rosie. The guy comes in every day with some question about the party, which we all know is just a bogus excuse to talk to you. And yet you’re still watching the door like a teenage girl afraid her date’s not going to show up for the big barn dance.’

      ‘Did you have barn dances where you come from?’ I said. ‘Like in Footloose? Did you have to meet in secret so the preacher wouldn’t try to stop them?’ It was easy to imagine Digby in a checked shirt with a piece of straw hanging out of his mouth.

      ‘My point is that you need to start playing hard to get or he’s going to get as bored with you as I am. I know we’re not in our parents’ generation and everyone is equal, but keeping up an air of mystery never hurts.’

      ‘You were the one who told me to be sure I’ve got make-up on for when he stops in,’ I shot back. ‘Which is it, Digby? Am I supposed to be nonchalant or making an effort?’ I couldn’t believe I was taking advice about romance from a bloke whose entire little black book would fit on the back of an envelope.

      ‘You’re supposed to look nonchalant while making an effort. Rosie, you really should read more women’s magazines.’

      ‘Like you do?’

      ‘They’re for research. Know thine enemy.’ His voice dropped. ‘Speaking of Prince Charming …’

      Chuck had his gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was wet and I could see through his white dress shirt where he hadn’t dried himself properly. I had to stop myself imagining that process. ‘How’d it go today?’ he asked me. ‘Have you got a few minutes?’

      ‘You’re safe, Andi’s left,’ Digby said. ‘She’s hanging upside down in a cave somewhere. Go. I’ll cover.’

      It didn’t seem possible, but Andi had been grumpier than usual ever since she had to assign me to work on the party. Not that I was shirking my usual front-desk duties.

      Nobody stamped the joy out of life like our boss.

      Chuck smiled his thanks at Digby before following me to the events office. Everyone always bunked off by six, so I knew we’d be alone there. Not that we had anything secret to say.

      When he touched my arm an electric jolt went through me. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said.