Page 61 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“They’ll just want someone smart, with intelligence — you’d soon pick it up. Why don’t you pop up and speak to Mike, the manager?” Debbie urged. “At least it’s worth a try.”
“Well... I suppose so.” She shrugged with a wry smile. “He can only say no.”
Chapter Twelve
The Carleton had probably seen better days, but it was still clinging bravely to some of its former elegance. The reception hall was quite spacious. The wooden floor was slightly scuffed, but the chandeliers swinging from the ceiling were sparkling clean. To one side there was a carpeted lounge area with a small bar that served drinks and snacks.
Its best feature was undoubtedly its view of the bay, spread like a wide swathe of blue silk out to the distant horizon. The sky was the same vivid blue, with just a few cotton-wool puffs of white cloud like peaceful grazing sheep.
A young girl maybe a few years older than Bez was sitting at a computer behind the reception desk. She looked up with a trained smile as Vicky approached.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Could I see Mr Slade, please?”
The receptionist picked up the phone. “Who shall I say?”
“My name’s Victoria Marston. I don’t have an appointment — but if it isn’t convenient at the moment I could make one.”
“Okay.” The girl exchanged a brief conversation with the person on the other end of the phone, then turned back to Vicky. “He’ll be out in a few minutes, if you’d like to take a seat.”
“Thank you.”
She chose not to sit down — instead she strolled across to gaze out at the sea. She never seemed to tire of it — that feeling that beyond the horizon it went on for ever, lapping the distant shores of Africa and Australia and Antarctica, home to whales and penguins and giant squid.
A couple of seagulls were soaring in the high blue sky, swooping down to the waves to snatch up an unwary fish. She watched them for a few moments, smiling to herself. Theylooked so joyful and free — no taxes, no mortgages to worry about.
A door behind the reception desk opened, and the manager came out. “Miss Marston? I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Will you come through?”
“Thank you.”
He beckoned her past the reception desk and into a lobby at the back. Here the hand of time had taken its toll — the carpet was almost threadbare, the once-cream paint on the walls dulled to a yellowish tinge, with brown fingermarks around the door frames and light switches.
His office, with its spectacular view of a whitewashed wall and a row of overflowing bins, was just sad. Barely big enough for a desk, a couple of chairs, a metal filing cabinet and a set of bookshelves rammed with lever-arch files, it probably never got even a glimpse of the sun.
Mike Slade looked to be in his fifties, but he was still quite a good-looking man. His hair was neatly trimmed and touched with grey, as was his beard, and his eyes were grey and gentle behind his glasses.
He smiled uncertainly. “I’m sorry — did we have an appointment?”
“No.” She felt a little sorry for him. “I just popped in on the chance you might have a moment to see me.”
“Of course, of course.” He took off his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief and put them back on again. “Well, sit down, my dear, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.” She guessed that the offer was as much to make him feel comfortable as her.
He leaned out of the door to call to the receptionist. “Kerry, could you fetch me two teas, please?”
“Okay, Mike.”
“Now.” He moved round behind his desk and sat down, smiling again. “What can I do for you?”
Vicky smiled back — she found herself liking him. He was a bit like her stepfather — kindly, but always slightly harassed, as if afraid he’d forgotten something important. “I heard you may need a temporary assistant manager soon, to cover for maternity leave.”
His pale eyes lit up at once. “Oh, yes — oh, yes, indeed. Indeed we do. And you’re looking for a job, Miss... ah...”
“Marston.”
“Marston, Marston.” A line creased between his brows. “Any relation to... ?”
