The Northern Lights Lodge. Julie Caplin

were long and the role involved everything from marketing, budgeting, premises management through to managing the staff. Not to mention that a good manager was on show the whole time, making themselves accessible and approachable to guests and staff alike. Should he mention his quiet misgivings to his boss? He paused and scooped a stone and launched it skimming across the sea. It bounced three times, shall I, shan’t I, shall I?

      On the fourth bob the stone sank making his decision. Nice guys finish last.

      ‘The jury’s out,’ he said, his words terse. It was the truth.

      ‘Do you think she’s got what it takes?’ pressed Quentin.

      No, was the word that came to mind but instead Alex wrinkled his nose, grateful Quentin couldn’t see him. ‘I don’t know … yet.’

      ‘Come on,’ groaned Quentin. ‘Don’t fob me off. You’re a good judge of character. Quit pussy footing around. First impressions.’

      Alex sighed, he owed Quentin so much. His boss had taken a risk, giving Alex his first big hotel to manage despite Alex being the youngest, most inexperienced candidate. And now these days they were practically, no they were family. He picked up another stone and chucked it across the surface of the sea. ‘There are quite a few issues. I need to see how she tackles them.’ Except, he thought to himself, Lucy had been holed up in the office going through paperwork for the last couple of days. If Alex was manager, he’d have prioritised making those small quick win changes that guests ‒ the guys that paid their wages ‒ actually noticed. Put more staff on at breakfast, so that guests could get out of the hotel more quickly in the mornings, make sure the bedrooms were serviced by lunchtime, have the fires in the communal areas lit by the time guests returned in the afternoons and offer one complimentary drink to guests on arrival to encourage them to visit the bar in the evenings.

      ‘So if you were manager what would you do? Top line.’ Relieved by the change of tack, Alex screwed up his face in thought.

      The wind caught his hair, whipping it into his eyes as he turned his head to survey the building sprawling across the top of the hill behind him. The place could be fabulous. ‘Staffing is a problem. No one is managing the rotas. Everything is last minute. I’d sort that out. I’d also make an inventory of exactly what needs to be done in the hotel, because the place is looking very tired. And I’d have started on that list yesterday. I guess the bottom line is, the new manager isn’t cutting it yet.’

      ‘Have you seen the latest TripAdvisor reviews?’ asked Quentin, changing the subject again as he was wont to do.

      ‘No.’ Alex didn’t need to, he could gauge things from the guest’s reactions. They weren’t exactly raving about the place.

      ‘Not great. Not awful but blah … we don’t do blah. At least if they were shite, you have something to work with. Mediocrity is worse. When do you think you can pull together a detailed report on the place? I’m beginning to regret buying it.’

      ‘It’s not a done deal yet, is it?’

      ‘No but we’re getting close. Pedersen is a tricky bastard and I can pull the deal but …what do you think? It’s got potential hasn’t it? I thought Iceland would extend the portfolio in a new direction.’

      ‘It’s got great potential. It needs managing properly,’ said Alex. ‘Why don’t you wait until I’ve done some more digging?’ he suggested even though skulking about the hotel and poking into things when no one else was around was not something he enjoyed. He hated this undercover crap, but on this occasion it had to be done. He knew that directly asking questions often sent staff into defensive mode, covering things up, so you couldn’t get a real picture and more importantly, if anyone found out that the Oliver Group were interested in buying the lodge, it would stimulate a lot of speculation among competitors, many of whom might want to get in on the action and no doubt push the price sky-high. ‘I’ll send my report over in the next couple of weeks. I still need to find out more about what goes on in housekeeping.’

      ‘Not a lot judging from the reviews. I should have got you on the job,’ said Quentin.

      ‘That would have been difficult as you don’t own the place yet and besides, I’ve got a nice five-star hotel waiting for me in Paris. How’s it coming along? Any progress.’

      ‘None, and that’s giving me a shitting ulcer. Those wanking bureaucrats. Won’t cut through the red tape. There’s still some doubt about the age of the skeleton. All work has stopped. It’s going to be at least four months before we can get the floor down there re-laid and dried out enough to open the hotel.’

      ‘Well at least I’ll get to see the northern lights while I’m here.’

      ‘I’ll want you back here to oversee things. Don’t get too settled there.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      ‘Good.’ And with that Quentin terminated the call.

      Alex stared back at the building perched on the edge of the small cliff over the seashore. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but maybe one day he could come to a place like this. It was outside his usual type of hotel but there was a certain rustic charm and otherworldly magic to the place that intrigued him. Although working in Paris had been a challenge and never a dull moment, he realised that the new hotel would be more of the same. Smooth sophistication. Nothing too unexpected. No adventure. It was a long way from where he’d started, as a barman in his family owned hotel, a small but highly prestigious former castle on the outskirts of Edinburgh which one day would be his. When that day came it was his dream to create a hotel that would rival the famous Gleneagles. Until he took over from his mother, at a time considerably distant from now, he was garnering the best possible experience he could.

      With a sudden start, as if the reminder came with a physical, punch he realised that he’d missed the sharp, freshness of the open air, the wheeling cries of seagulls overhead, of being outdoors all hours of the day and through it all, whatever the hour, the scent of the sea air. Home, even after years in France, Switzerland and Italy, was still the Leith shore in Edinburgh, where his abiding memory was the sound of the waves whispering in his ear. Sitting here on a damp rock in Iceland, the familiar song of the sea brought back a sense of community and home. He’d missed this, the rhythm of the waves, the blustery wind and the wide expanse of sky. Being in a city, he’d missed the hills and the rocky crag behind him now was a welcome reminder of Arthur’s Seat. It was surprising how much he didn’t miss Paris and how quickly this magnificent scenery and the rustic lodge was starting to feel more like home … Which was all totally ridiculous because he had a great job waiting for him in one of the best cities of the world. Coming somewhere like this would be a backward step. Not something that he would ever consider.

       Chapter 7

      Hekla appeared in the office, carrying two mugs of coffee. Lucy, who had spent the last four days attempting to turn her desk from chaos into order and failing miserably, looked up gratefully.

      ‘We need to get a coffee machine in here,’ declared Lucy looking at the drips of coffee running down the mugs where it had slopped over the sides during the trip back from the kitchen on the other side of the hotel.

      ‘Great idea,’ said Hekla, almost bouncing on the spot. ‘Why don’t I take you to Hvolsvöllur, some time? One of those machines that makes hot chocolate and tea too.’

      She took a quick slurp of coffee and pulled a face. ‘Hot coffee would be so much nicer, although Erik might not give me cookies.’ She dug in her cardigan pocket and pulled out a napkin wrapped bundle. ‘Loganberry and walnut. Still warm …’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘They were.’ She looked around the office and winced.

      ‘I know, I know, it’s a mess,’ said Lucy wearily, wanting to bash her head on the top of the desk at the sheer amount of neglected paperwork. The previous manager, who had lasted six weeks, had been a proponent of piling