Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll

of us too. There was even a piece about us in a trade magazine, naming me as General Manager and giving a bit of a blurb about our mission statement. I went a bit jelly-legged reading it, with pride, yes, but mainly because all I could think was, Frank will see this. And then he’ll know, won’t he? He’ll know I’m back here, less than a five-minute walk from where he works.

      I get a quick, momentary stab of insecurity combined with nervousness like I’ve never known. Sudden flashbacks keep coming back to me just at the thought of Frank, and I half wonder if he’ll get in contact to wish me luck maybe? I’m just trying to figure out if I find that either terrifying or hopeful, when I’m quickly hauled out of it by yet another last minute snag at the hotel that needs troubleshooting.

      Because there’s still so much to be done before we officially open our doors, there’s barely time to give thought to much else. Every morning, I’m at the desk in my cosy little basement office at the hotel by 7.30 a.m. and the whole day seems to go by in a complete blur. Meetings with accountants, interior designers, not to mention Ferndale’s Human Resources manager who’s over from the UK to headhunt and interview prospective staff. Believe me, it doesn’t end. And I’m absolutely loving every minute and although I crawl back to my parents’ house every night bone-tired from exhaustion, I can honestly say this is the most optimistic and forward-looking I’ve felt in a long, long time. In fact, ever since I first got that phone call to tell me I had this job, something is slowly starting to shift inside of me. Almost like all this hard work is slowly starting to erode the rock of pain that was locked away inside me. Which can’t be a bad thing, right?

      Anyway, it’s just coming up to lunchtime one day, when I’m dashing out of one meeting to get back to my desk and catch up on emails. I’m padding my way down the softly carpeted back stairs, leading into the rabbit warren of tiny basement offices that’s a bit like the nerve centre of the whole operation, when suddenly I notice a dramatic shift in the atmosphere round here. Hard to describe, but it’s almost like the health inspectors or else some contrary restaurant critic has unexpectedly dropped in on us unannounced, for an early spot check.

      ‘You okay?’ I ask Chris Smyth, my assistant manager and general right-hand woman round here. Now Chris is normally the personification of long blonde coolness; she’s worked for Ferndale for years, was seconded over from the UK weeks ago and I’ve yet to see the girl anything other than composed, efficient and bursting with energy. Whenever things get on top of me, she’s that rational voice of calmness in my ear that says, ‘It’s fine. You can do this. Just take it all one step at a time.’ Even at half seven in the morning, when the rest of us are still struggling to look alert on six hours’ sleep, she’s one of those people who are perpetually bright-eyed, alert and generally an all-round ray of sunshine.

      But not now.

      ‘Chloe, you’re needed upstairs, quick,’ the poor girl almost hyperventilates at me. ‘He’s here! Actually here. Now. One of his spot checks. And I had no idea we were even to expect him … I mean, nobody rang me from the UK to warn me, or anything, and the place isn’t nearly ready! So what are we going to do? The decorators are still working in the bar area and it’s a total mess … and then there’s the garden that still isn’t landscaped fully … and don’t get me started on all the snags we’re still dealing with …’

      ‘Shh, shh, Chris,’ I tell her as soothingly as I can, while half looking round my desk for a brown paper bag I can get the girl to breathe into. ‘For starters, who exactly has just landed in on us anyway?’

      Either President Michael D. Higgins, from the way she’s going on, or possibly one of U2 with the full entourage? And then it dawns on me.

      ‘Chris, by any chance are you trying to tell me that Rob McFayden is here? Upstairs? Right this minute?’

      ‘Waiting for you at Reception,’ she nods breathlessly. Almost with ‘and sooner you than me’ tattooed across her forehead.

      I gulp and try very hard just to breathe. This is okay, I tell myself, this is fine. I haven’t actually seen him since the day he first interviewed me, but of course I’ve been in almost daily contact with him over the phone. He has a habit of calling me at the oddest times and from the most unexpected corners of the globe, checking in on our progress. Hard not to get the impression that he still isn’t quite there yet when it comes to fully trusting me, but there you go.

      He was in Dubai, I know, last week. Paris before that. Then Rome the week before. Last time we talked, he said something about Milan. The guy must just live out of a suitcase and survive on plasticky airline food and little else. And all his calls are brisk, businesslike and generally all over in under four minutes.

      Of course, I’ve been keeping Rob McFayden fully updated. And okay yeah, so maybe I have painted a slightly more positive picture than I should have. Maybe I have, ahem, glossed over the cracks a little more than I should have done, but come on. Who doesn’t, when their boss calls demanding updates?

      Everything’s coming together beautifully, I’ve been calmly telling him. We’re as close to being on track and on target as it’s possible to be at this point. After all, someone as busy as Rob McFayden doesn’t need to be bothered with details about light fittings in the bedrooms and a bit of mud out in the back garden, I figured.

      But did I really, honestly think he wouldn’t land in on us to see how the place is coming together for himself? Course not. Just assumed I might get a bit of advance warning first, that’s all.

      Taking a deep breath, I squeeze Chris’s arm, say ‘Wish me luck!’ as brightly as I can, then trip up the main staircase that leads from the basement maze of offices up to Reception.

      Do NOT let nerves get the better of you, I tell myself sternly, clipping along as fast as tight shoes will allow. He hired you because somewhere deep down he must believe in you, so all you have to do is just believe in yourself. You CAN do this. And yes, agreed, the hotel is currently a work-in-progress and of course, Rob McFayden could find holes to pick with a thousand things if he really wanted to. But after all, we’re all working flat out here, aren’t we? How can it be humanly possible for us to do much more?

      I reach the top of the back stairs and sure enough, there he is, the man himself. Tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair, dressed like he just rolled out of bed in his own personal ‘uniform’ of a Gap t-shirt, jeans, trainers and a light blue sweater. Like it’s permanently dress-down Friday round here.

      Don’t get me wrong, I like my uniform, but the sight of Rob McFayden looking so Sunday morning casual instantly makes me feel like a right prissy frump, in my Ferndale Hotels navy blue suit, with name badge neatly pinned to it. Tall and authoritative, he’s chatting easily on his mobile with his full back to me. He hears the clickety-clack of my work high heels though, as I briskly walk along the marble tiled floor behind him, and turns round to face me.

      I mouth ‘Hi!’ and give a quick, nervous little wave, thinking, Do not, under any circumstances allow yourself to be intimidated. Just walk tall, act confident and sooner or later, the whole world will believe the lie.

      After all, it’s the first time I’ve seen him since the day he interviewed me, feck it, I’m entitled to be a bit antsy.

      ‘Just gimme one sec,’ he mimes back at me, with a quick half-wink and a ‘winding up’ gesture, as if to say he’s trying his best to end the call.

      Right. So obviously I’m expected to hang on then, and try and not look like I’m earwigging. Which is awkward, to say the least, given the conversation he happens to be having.

      ‘Yes, darling,’ he’s saying in a low voice down the phone. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then that’s absolutely fine by me. You’re the boss!’

      Ahem. Well, you’re certainly not onto the bank manager, I think, eyes darting down and pretending to busy myself with much pointless tapping at the computer behind Reception. Tell you one thing though, whatever woman he’s talking to right now, she certainly knows how to keep the likes of Rob McFayden well and truly under her thumb.

      ‘Now