to let you take over the place and show him how it should be done, is he? And neither are Barney or Jason. You said yourself Barney’s secretly hoping everything has to be closed down so you can sel the land and he and Sondra can make a fortune out of their share and live in the lap of luxury. You can’t save the Wil ow, Cleo, if they don’t want it saved.’
It was a perfectly good point and one Trish had been making for the past month, ever since Cleo had become acutely aware just how badly her family’s business was doing.
Terrorism meant tourism was down al around the world, but the Wil ow’s problem could not be laid solely at this door.
The first inkling of doom had struck Cleo when she’d come home for Christmas, having spent the seven months since she’d left col ege working nights on reception in a big hotel in Bristol.
She found shift work hard to get used to but felt she’d learned a lot - both about the business and about a handsome French guy named Laurent with whom she’d had a brief but fun fling. Now she wanted to show them al at home just how much she’d learned, although she didn’t plan on sharing Laurent’s native kissing techniques.
The Wil ow had only been half ful for Christmas, the first time this had ever happened. Even an expensive advert in a national newspaper had failed to bring in guests. For the big Christmas Day lunch, they’d had to close off part of the dining room to take the barren look off the place.
Jason, Barney, her mother and her father al acted as if this was some blip on the radar, a chance happening. But Cleo knew that it wasn’t. It was the beginning of the decline.
People wanted more from hotels than the faded grandeur they got in the Wil ow. They wanted silver tea services, elegant old furniture, the sense of gracious living that came from a beautiful old hotel - and hot water al day, a swimming pool and a beauty salon. What could the much-loved Wil ow offer them?
‘Mind you, Donegal wouldn’t be hot enough,’ Trish went on thoughtful y. ‘If I were you, I’d get on the first plane out of here, go somewhere warm and gorgeous, and find a luxury hotel where I can come to stay and you can comp me a room. The Caribbean would be nice,’ she added, ‘sandy beaches, me on a lounger waving my hand in the air so some ebony god of a man with thighs like The Rock can smile at me and help move my sunshade.’ Trish sighed at the thought of it al . ‘Finished fantasising?’ enquired Cleo.
She opened one of her magazines. ‘You see, this is my plan. If we did up the hotel ourselves, it wouldn’t cost so much.’ She found the page that had captivated her in the newsagent’s: a home not unlike the Wil ow in decor, but with lots of fabulous paint effects on the wal s and an incredible trompe-l’ceil arched door in a wal leading into a tropical garden. With something like that in their dining room, the hotel would look wonderful.
Trish sighed. ‘Cleo, those houses look like that because they have a fleet of paint experts each with a Masters in fine art working round the clock to transform a dingy hal way into a Garden of Eden with just seventeen tins of paint. If normal people like us do it, it would look like those paintings done by chimpanzees.’
‘It can’t be that hard,’ Cleo muttered.
Trish narrowed her eyes. ‘Yeah, right, Leonardo. Get real.
Your family think you’re a kid who knows nothing. That’s what being the youngest is al about. You should face facts and get out of there and get on with your life. Like I have,’
she added defiantly.
Trish had moved to Dublin at the age of eighteen when she went to col ege. And she claimed that the secret to getting on with your family was not actual y having to live with them.
She’d lived away ever since. Cleo used to envy Trish for her independence in those days, but now she wasn’t so sure. She’d been wildly keen to go to Bristol and experience a bit of the world, and yet, when she did,
It was a perfectly good point and one Trish had been making for the past month, ever since Cleo had become acutely aware just how badly her family’s business was doing.
Terrorism meant tourism was down al around the world, but the Wil ow’s problem could not be laid solely at this door.
The first inkling of doom had struck Cleo when she’d come home for Christmas, having spent the seven months since she’d left col ege working nights on reception in a big hotel in Bristol.
She found shift work hard to get used to but felt she’d learned a lot - both about the business and about a handsome French guy named Laurent with whom she’d had a brief but fun fling. Now she wanted to show them al at home just how much she’d learned, although she didn’t plan on sharing Laurent’s native kissing techniques.
The Wil ow had only been half ful for Christmas, the first time this had ever happened. Even an expensive advert in a national newspaper had failed to bring in guests. For the big Christmas Day lunch, they’d had to close off part of the dining room to take the barren look off the place.
Jason, Barney, her mother and her father al acted as if this was some blip on the radar, a chance happening. But Cleo knew that it wasn’t. It was the beginning of the decline.
People wanted more from hotels than the faded grandeur they got in the Wil ow. They wanted silver tea services, elegant old furniture, the sense of gracious living that came from a beautiful old hotel - and hot water al day, a swimming pool and a beauty salon. What could the much-loved Wil ow offer them?
‘Mind you, Donegal wouldn’t be hot enough,’ Trish went on thoughtful y. ‘If I were you, I’d get on the first plane out of here, go somewhere warm and gorgeous, and find a luxury hotel where I can come to stay and you can comp me a room. The Caribbean would be nice,’ she added, ‘sandy beaches, me on a lounger waving my hand in the air so some ebony god of a man with thighs like The Rock can smile at me and help move my sunshade.’ Trish sighed at the thought of it al . ‘Finished fantasising?’ enquired Cleo.
She opened one of her magazines. ‘You see, this is my plan. If we did up the hotel ourselves, it wouldn’t cost so much.’ She found the page that had captivated her in the newsagent’s: a home not unlike the Wil ow in decor, but with lots of fabulous paint effects on the wal s and an incredible trompe-l’ceil arched door in a wal leading into a tropical garden. With something like that in their dining room, the hotel would look wonderful.
Trish sighed. ‘Cleo, those houses look like that because they have a fleet of paint experts each with a Masters in fine art working round the clock to transform a dingy hal way into a Garden of Eden with just seventeen tins of paint. If normal people like us do it, it would look like those paintings done by chimpanzees.’
‘It can’t be that hard,’ Cleo muttered.
Trish narrowed her eyes. ‘Yeah, right, Leonardo. Get real.
Your family think you’re a kid who knows nothing. That’s what being the youngest is al about. You should face facts and get out of there and get on with your life. Like I have,’
she added defiantly.
Trish had moved to Dublin at the age of eighteen when she went to col ege. And she claimed that the secret to getting on with your family was not actual y having to live with them.
She’d lived away ever since. Cleo used to envy Trish for her independence in those days, but now she wasn’t so sure. She’d been wildly keen to go to Bristol and experience a bit of the world, and yet, when she did,
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