Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ but what you’re saying still doesn’t quite make sense,’ he says, lightly tossing my CV aside, almost like he’s lost interest in it now. ‘You see, I know the Merrion, know it well; I’ve stayed there. Functions Manager in a hotel like that is a terrific gig anyone your age would kill for. Yet you left to go to London, and then took a lower grade job at a significantly reduced salary. Which strikes me as an incredibly odd thing to do, for someone with all your experience. It seems like a backward career move. Particularly for a manager as highly thought of in the industry as you are. And yes, Chloe, before you ask, please know I’ve done my homework on you before you even got this meeting.’

      I don’t say anything, just sit there, ramrod tense; bolt upright in my good work suit from Reiss, too-tight shoes and borrowed handbag, stomach clenched tight, frozen.

      I probably blink. And all that’s running through my mind on a loop is the one thought. I thought I was doing okay. I actually thought I was handling this. And then one probing question about my past, and I’m suddenly pole-axed.

       For the love of God, Rob McFayden, please don’t ask me any more … don’t delve into it … just LEAVE it …

      No such bleeding luck though. He’s like a dog with a bone trying to ferret it out of me now.

      ‘So,’ he persists, ‘maybe you’d like to elaborate a bit? I guess what I want to know is, what exactly happened to you three years ago to make you leave?’

      But my mouth’s completely dried up. I lean forward and take a sip of water from the glass in front of me, aware that he’s watching me intently, waiting.

      Bum-clenchingly awkward silence now and all I can think is, answer him, you eejit, you want this job, this is your dream job! So just look him in the eye and tell him the truth.

      Can’t though. Just not possible. I think back to the searing pain, so sharp that even thinking back to it now, from a safe distance of years, I can still recall every detail on an almost cellular level.

      Then I remember those first few dismal weeks in London, staying with an old college pal who I must have driven demented with the depressive state of me. I remember what a bloody struggle it was to get any kind of gig in the hotel industry at all back then, but how I just knew that hard work and lots of it would somehow pull me through. The only antidote that would have any kind of an effect on me.

      And so yes, I accepted a lower grade job on a reduced salary and you know what, Rob McFayden? I was more than delighted to. Frankly, I’d have done anything that came my way; scrubbed pots and pans, scoured toilet floors if they’d asked me to. I worked and slaved behind my desk, doing every spare hour of overtime that came my way. I became the best, most devoted Reservations Manager in the Northern hemisphere. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, bank holiday weekends; you name it. I basically volunteered for all the time slots that no one else wanted. I’ve had virtually next to no life here in London, it’s just been a never-ending rota of either working, sleeping or catching up on laundry I allowed to pile up, on account of I was working. Wow, what a whopping big surprise.

      And then miraculously, out of the blue and just when I was at my lowest ebb, I was headhunted for this job. My ideal job. The chance to manage my very own hotel, a tiny boutique one that appealed to a small, niche market. A very particular niche market as it happens, one that just happened to suit me down to the ground. And it seemed like everything I wanted all at once. A better job, a salary more in line with what I was used to, the chance to return home, back to Ireland and best of all, the chance to really prove myself. Because if I could make a hotel like this one work, then boy, I’d be ready for anything.

      I’d lived with humiliation and pain for long enough now. I missed my family and pals. Enough with the punishment, time to move on. No more of this self-imposed exile, I’d had enough. And yes, I’m sure what happened to me was the talk of the town for a while, but it’s in the past now, so why should I let that stop me pursuing what pretty much is a dream job on a decent salary? I may have been deadened on the inside, but one thing was certain: I was as ready to go back as I ever would be.

      I eyeball Rob McFayden, take a deep breath and go for it.

      ‘I had to leave my old job,’ I tell him, ‘for personal reasons that trust me, you don’t need to know about. Besides, a single phone call to the Merrion Hotel will doubtless fill you in on everything you want to know. But if anyone is qualified to run a hotel where broken-hearted people come to put their lives back together and move on, then believe me, I’m your girl.’

       Chapter Three

      A divorce hotel. Where you check in married and check out single. And yes, you did read that right. ‘A safe sanctuary to go to when you suddenly found your whole life was in shreds and you were no longer able to see the wood for the trees,’ just like the blurb said.

      But it was envisaged to be an awful lot more; this was to be somewhere supportive, non-judgmental, healing even. A place where people who’d long ago ceased to love each other could meet in a calm, stress-free environment with trained professionals on hand to help and offer guidance.

      For starters, there’d be a full team of industry professionals on hand to ease the soon-to-be-ex-couple through the process and to make it as fast and efficient as could be. Family lawyers, financial advisors, counsellors, you name it. There’d even be an estate agent on site, just in case jointly held property needed to be valued and subsequently sold. Absolutely everything had been thought of and nothing had been left to chance. This would be a place where two unhappy souls could quickly tie up loose ends and where something that had long been a source of acute pain to both, could gently be eased out of its misery. Kind of like Dignitas, except for the married.

      At least, that was the general idea.

      Of course I thought I was hearing things when I first stumbled across the whole concept. ‘Stone mad lunatics,’ I’d muttered to myself way back then, when I’d read about the opening of the world’s first divorce hotel over in Amsterdam.

      For starters, who in their sane mind would ever want to stay there? Let alone work in the kind of place where not a single guest even wanted to be in the first place? Just wait till you see, this daft idea will end up the laughing stock of the whole industry, I’d thought way back then, doubtless cackling like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz.

      But that was then and this is now, and pretty soon I discovered the bittersweet taste of having to eat my own words. Because how wrong was I?

      The divorce hotel concept is only about two years old now, virtually still a tiny baby in nappies, in hotelier terms. And yet in that relatively short window of time, it has not only met every single one of its financial targets, but managed to astonish the industry as a whole by actually exceeding them. No mean feat, in the middle of the biggest global economic meltdown since the Wall Street crash had everyone out queuing up outside soup kitchens, circa 1929.

      The original divorce hotel which had opened on the outskirts of Amsterdam, was virtually minuscule by industry standards, with a bare twenty-five rooms. And yet occupancy had never once dipped below full since it first began trading. No other word for that in this day and age except un-be-fecking-lievable. So there was nothing for me to do, bar shake my head in astonished admiration, same as everyone else, while wishing like hell I could somehow inveigle myself onto the bandwagon.

      So of course, it was only a matter of time before the СКАЧАТЬ