Page 100 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
She forced herself to focus her attention on the television, chuckling with laughter as one of the guys on the comedy show went into one of his famous rants.
His target was people putting their dustbins out and blocking the pavement. “Don’t they ever walk down a street themselves? Don’t they notice that people have to step out in the road, risking getting knocked down by some lunatic driver who thinks a speed limit is just a suggestion?” His conclusion was that offenders should be hanged.
* * *
“Well, that’s it.” Neil saved the night audit and closed down the computer. “Okay?”
Paul nodded. “Looks straightforward enough. Hopefully I won’t have to do it too often.”
“Want any more sandwiches? A coffee?”
“No, thanks. It’s gone midnight. I think I’ll be getting home.”
“Right. Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.”
Some of the guests were still carousing in the ballroom. He smiled to himself as he pulled on his overcoat and stepped out into the night. Pausing at the top of the steps, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
Neil had switched off the Christmas tree lights and the white floodlights that lit the frontage of the hotel. There was just a security light above the door and a single streetlamp in the lane, so most of the car park was in shadow.
A noise to his left. A fox? A badger? No — someone was curled up on the ground beside the bushes, moaning softly. Someone in a red dress, with long blonde hair — almost certainly one of the Turkey-and-Tinsel crowd.
“Are you . . . ?” There really wasn’t much point asking if she was okay — she was lying in a pool of her own vomit. Oh lord, please — not food poisoning! But as he bent over her, the smell of alcohol almost made him throw up himself.
“Come on then, lass. You can’t stay here. You’ll freeze to death.”
She mumbled something incoherent, but let him heave her to her feet. She was young — probably early twenties — and she’d have been quite pretty if she didn’t have mascara smudged down her cheeks and her lipstick smeared. There was a long streak of vomit down her dress, and one side of her hair was caked with it. Delightful.
“Let’s get you inside and clean you up.”
“No, no . . .” She tried to pull away from him as he turned her towards the front doors. She shook her head and stumbled over her own feet. “No’ inside. Don’ wan’ ’em t’see me.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Does.” She looked panicked. “Had a big row. A great big row.” She swung her arm around wildly. “Wiv his ma . . . She don’ like me. Not good enough for ’im.” She started to cry, sobbing between hiccups. “Don’ wan’ ’em t’see me.”
Well, he could understand that, given the state she was in. He tried not to breathe in too deeply. “Okay, we can go in the back way.” His arm around her waist to hold her up, he coaxed her across the car park to the staff entrance, and up the stairs. “What’s your room number?”
“Uh . . . ?”
“Your room number,” he repeated patiently. “Do you remember it?”
She blinked up at him, her eyes clearing for a moment. “Um . . . twenty-eight. Uh — two-o-eight.”
“Right.”
With some difficulty he got her up to the second floor and through the service door to the guest corridor. Keeping his fingers crossed that it was the right room, he opened the door with his pass-key and managed to get her inside. She collapsed on the bed, moaning in misery.
He regarded her with a wry grimace. She needed to get out of that dress and into the shower to get cleaned up. “Look, I need to get someone to come and help you.” He didn’t know if maybe Jess or someone might be up in the staff quarters.
“No . . .” She shook her head, then moaned again. “Don’ wan’ anyone t’see me like this. Been sick.”
“Yes, you have. So you need to get a shower, clean up your hair.”
“No . . .” The young woman had sat up, reaching round awkwardly to try to undo the zip of her dress, but then she gave up and flopped down on the bed again.
“Sheesh!” He shook his head in exasperation. How many times had he put a drunken teammate to bed? And once or twice he’d had been put to bed in the same state himself.
