The Big Dreams Beach Hotel. Michele Gorman

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      ‘Believe me, Mum, so do I.’

      ‘I should set up for the bingo,’ I tell Rory later. The usual crowd will be here at five on the dot.

      ‘Do you mind if I pop out to the shop for a sandwich?’

      ‘You can’t still be hungry after that lunch?’ Chef made shepherd’s pie today. Rory must have a very high metabolism if he can pack away two helpings plus a sandwich and still stay so slim.

      ‘It’s for when I get hungry later.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘I don’t like going to restaurants on my own.’

      ‘You’re not saying you’ll be eating a packaged sandwich in your sad little room for dinner?’

      ‘I’m afraid so. I did notice a curry house not far away, though, so I might try a takeaway from there one night. Mix it up. Oh, please don’t worry about me,’ he says, noticing the expression on my face. ‘I’ve lived out of a suitcase for years. I’m always on assignment. It’s part of the job.’

      I check my phone. ‘The bingo only goes on till seven. If you can wait till then, I’ll go get a bite to eat with you. If you want. I was going to go to the Tesco anyway after work. You’ll save me having to cook.’

      ‘A pity dinner? Am I that sad?’ he asks.

      ‘Yes, you are. I’m only doing this out of some misplaced sense of duty.’

      He laughs. ‘And I’m sad enough to take you up on that. Is there anything I can do to help with the bingo?’

      ‘Actually, there is, since you asked.’

      An hour later, shouts are going up all over the dining room. ‘Got one!’ To the amusement of several dozen pensioners, we’re all watching Rory race between the tables.

      ‘Only another hour and ten minutes, Rory!’ I tell him when he’s finished his round.

      The Colonel can’t remember when the hotel’s bingo tradition started, but his sister came up with its unique rewards system. She hated to see anybody lose, so instead of waiting for bingo, the players get a little foil-wrapped chocolate ball each time they get a number. That way everybody wins. Except, maybe, for Rory, who’s got to run through the restaurant awarding balls.

      That sounds like a fair trade for a dinner companion, right?

      Though if Peter doesn’t slow down his calling, Rory will be too tired to eat. ‘Two little ducks!’ he cries. ‘That’s twenty-two. Twenty-two.’

      ‘That’s me!’ Miracle shouts. ‘Come give me something sweet, sugar!’

      Rory trots to Miracle’s table to give her a chocolate.

      ‘I’ll take some sugar too,’ Janey says, laughing as she puckers up her perfectly lined lips. ‘Isn’t he delicious?’ The rest of the women at the table agree, as do some of the others who aren’t too near-sighted or deaf. Janey makes a grab for Rory but misses.

      I should probably remind Miracle and Janey not to sexually harass our transition manager. Honestly, with the way they’ve been going on, you’d think they’d never seen a man before. Peter has been here for years and nobody ever makes a fuss over him.

      Well, it’s not really a fair comparison, since Peter’s never going to turn a woman’s head on looks alone. ‘Knock at my door!’ he calls out. ‘That’s twenty–’

      Peter’s head falls forward. Luckily he gets his arms underneath in time to cushion his chin.

      Everyone waits patiently for him to finish calling the number.

      But I’ve forgotten that Rory is new around here. He rushes to Peter’s side. ‘Help him!’

      ‘It’s all right, petal,’ Miracle says. ‘He won’t be a minute.’

      Sure enough, a few seconds later, Peter’s head pops back up. He swipes his hair back into place and looks at his electronic board. ‘Knock at my door, twenty-four!’

      ‘Peter, are you all right?’ Rory asks.

      ‘Right as rain, ta very much. You’ve got a few to do.’ He points to the hands raised for chocolate balls, as if he hasn’t just face-planted into the table top.

      I’ll have to explain about Peter over dinner.

      I might have been the one who suggested it, but I’m nervous as Rory and I walk together to the Italian later. Not because it’s a date. But it is the first time in three years that I’ve eaten out in a restaurant with anyone who wasn’t one of my parents. What if we sit there with nothing to say to each other, chomping on breadsticks and hoping the linguini doesn’t take too long to cook? I might have completely lost the ability to carry on a conversation like normal human beings do. What seemed like a nice gesture might be excruciating for us both. Welcome to Scarborough, Rory, where you’d rather eat Boots sandwiches in your room.

      ‘This is nice,’ Rory says of the restaurant. It’s over-the-top Italo-cheesy, but I love its cosiness. ‘Do you come here a lot?’

      ‘A bit.’ I don’t tell him that I don’t like sitting by myself in restaurants either. They do me a nice Alfredo takeaway, though, when I don’t feel like cooking.

      The waiter hands me the paper menu. Busted. ‘Ah no, ta, could we have a table, please?’

      He makes comedy shock eyebrows at me. ‘Si, Signorina, this way, please. Welcome, Signore, we have a very romantic table.’

      ‘Sorry about that. They’re not used to seeing me with a bloke. They make assumptions. Not that there’s anything to assume.’

      Rory studies my face, but doesn’t say anything.

      ‘I’ll shut up now.’ You see? I’d be better off just eating all the breadsticks and keeping quiet.

      ‘Everyone seemed to love the bingo,’ he says. ‘Is it the same people every time?’

      ‘Pretty much, yeah, except when someone’s ill.’ Or dies, I don’t say out loud. It tends to be an older crowd. We haven’t lost one in months, and I don’t want to tempt fate. ‘We’re not flash like the other places you’ve probably worked, but we do know our clientele. We’re part of the community. I think that’s important. It’s too risky to depend on outsiders for your whole business, don’t you think? Unless you’re someone like the Four Seasons or Mandarin Oriental.’

      ‘They don’t run bingo nights for OAPs,’ Rory says. Then he shakes his head. ‘It’s probably not standard hotel behaviour, you know.’

      ‘You’re going to have a lot of work to do with us, I’m afraid. Bingo is just the tip of the iceberg.’

      ‘And Caribbean Night,’ he adds.

      ‘And Caribbean Night, and the Colonel’s casino, and Lill’s karaoke, the car-boot sale we do with the local church.’ I’m ticking off on my fingers. ‘The monthly book club. The pot-luck supper. Paula’s Pooches grooming.’

      ‘You СКАЧАТЬ