About the Book

  The crumbling marble angel is Vega’s most ambitious restoration project yet, but she thinks she can manage it, if she could just find somewhere to house the statue while she works. Her father, Vince, has the solution: the abandoned Seafarers’ Hotel, which sits alone at the end of a winding coastal road, offers both the space and the quiet Vega craves.

  The hotel also holds other surprises, however. The chandeliers are home to dive-bombing canaries, the ballroom occasionally hosts a troupe of tango-dancing farmers, and one of the bedrooms is occupied by an inept handyman who might be even more broken than Vega.

  As Vega restores the fragile angel to its former glory, can she also find a way to pick up the pieces of her life and begin anew?

  CONTENTS

  COVER PAGE

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  For Thomas

  The abandoned hotel comes into view. Derelict, windswept. A two-storey pink monstrosity on a desolate coastal road in winter.

  The taxi driver turns the radio off.

  I wipe the window to get a clearer view, but there’s nothing else here. A rough sea, a snow-covered shoreline. And the hotel.

  A couple of hours ago we passed a petrol station with broken windows and rusted pumps. No buildings after that, until now.

  I’m not surprised; I expected it to look like this. Another one of Vince’s projects. He likes adopting lost causes. I should know.

  I almost ask the driver to turn the radio back on. I want to listen to country songs and news reports on the recent whale stranding. I want to keep going because I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out of the taxi. Not here. Not in this place.

  There’s too much of everything. Too much sea, too much sky.

  ‘This is it, Vega.’ The driver slows the car and nods towards the hotel.

  I study him. Neat haircut, ironed shirt, overweight. I can smell his aftershave: a mix of mint and liquorice.

  My sense of smell has intensified since the heart operation, as if my body in its not-so-infinite wisdom has decided that I need better navigation skills. But there are other skills I would rather have. Like being able to get out of a taxi without feeling as if I’m going to die, for instance.

  ‘People say it’s not the destination but the journey that matters,’ the driver adds. ‘But in my business it’s the other way around.’

  He chuckles. It’s obvious he’s used the line before, and it makes me like him. Staying true to a bad joke shows commitment and I value commitment. I bet he’s committed to his wife. I bet he goes to the pub and tells everyone how lucky he is being married to her.

  I hope he’s just as committed to helping me with my suitcases, because I don’t know if I’ll be able to make the trip to the front door twice.

  I start plaiting my unkempt hair to distract myself from the fact that I’m about to get outside, but I give up.

  Mark used to think my long hair was my best feature. I have no idea what he’d say now.

  We come to a halt in front of the hotel.

  The place is in even worse shape than I imagined. The dirty paint is peeling. The light fixtures near the entrance are broken. A grimy neon sign is propped carelessly near the entrance steps, its pale letters reading: The Seafarers’ Hotel.

  Two windows are boarded up on the first floor. It looks like it’s been that way for decades. Vince has really outdone himself.

  I scan the distance to the front door. Thirty steps, thirty-five maybe.

  The driver breaks the silence. ‘I hope you’ve got a plan, Vega,’ he says. ‘You need a plan to stay in a place like this, a young lady like you.’

  He’s being kind. Thirty-eight is hardly young.

  ‘I have a plan,’ I say.

  A plan not to die, a plan to restore a marble angel, a plan to forget about Mark.

  The driver gets out and walks to the back of the car. I hear the boot open.

  I allow myself one last moment inside. As soon as I open the door, it will happen. The pressure on my chest will build. It will feel as if I’m having another heart attack.

  Dr Murphy assures me it’s just anxiety. He also says that it makes no sense being afraid of what’s outside when terrible things happen inside all the time. He has obviously never trained as a therapist.

  I hear the boot close, and then a polite cough from the driver. This is it—I can’t wait any longer. I push the door open and am met by a freezing wind. My heart begins to pound, and the smell of the ocean burns my nostrils like a salty revolt.

  I walk to the back of the car, relieved to see him waiting, holding my suitcases. He didn’t forget.

  He has closed the boot and put my sleeping bag and the box of food on it for me.

  ‘Are you all right with that?’ he asks.

  I nod even though the weight of the box pulls at the scar on my chest as I pick it up. ‘Thank you,’ I mumble.

  Then he leads me up the path, puffing as he pulls the heavy cases through the snow. Neither of us is exactly an outstanding specimen of the human race.

  In an attempt to ignore the barren coastline and the sound of the crashing waves, I study the contents of the box that Evelyn packed for me this morning before I left her apartment. Lots of healthy stuff. Typical Evelyn. Two tins of lentils, tomatoes on the vine, a bag of what smells like mandarins and a large bunch of sad-looking carrots. And then there is hummus, of course, and some kind of wholemeal bread, and I’m sure there’s more of the same underneath. In our twelve years of friendship, she has stubbornly insisted on the connection between food and the soul.

  My eyes fixed on the wilted carrot tops, I count the steps, wondering if I’ll ever be able to leave this place again.

  Twenty-two steps, twenty-three. The driver is already at the entrance.

  I shift the weight of the box and fumble in my leather jacket for the key that Vince handed to me last night. He did it with a note of ceremony, as if it was for a castle and not a crumbling old hotel.

  Twenty-four steps, twenty-five, almost there.

  Then, without warning, the front door is thrown open and a man appears, stark naked.

  His caveman black hair and beard would summon up images of fending off wild animals and lighting fires with flints if it wasn’t for the crown on his head, knitted out of what appears to be some kind of metallic yarn, although I am no expert when it comes to handicrafts.

  He acknowledges us with a brief nod, before running across the road and onto the snow-covered beach. A moment later he’s thrown himself into the dark waves with a loud howl.

  ‘What?’ I say. My heart thuds violently.

  The driver turns to me. ‘I think he’s a Viking,’ he says. ‘People who swim in winter. That’s what they call them, Vikings.’ He says the word with admiration, as if hurling himself into the icy water is something he’s secretly longing to do.

  I don’t respond. For someone who just moments ago insisted I need a plan, he doesn’t seem terribly concerned about leaving me in a remote place with a naked crown-wearing madman.

  I feel another painful tug in my scar as I run up the steps. Pushing past the driver, I consider once again how wrong it is to have your heart cut open and stitched back up, and still be expected to pretend that everything is okay.

  The inside is almost as cold as out. I’m met with the stale smell of cigarettes, but the foyer is large and grand, like a ballroom. It opens to the first floor, revealing an impressive domed skylight. The sky is charcoal. More snow is coming.

  The driver struggles to pull the cases over the doorstep. I put the box on the floor and help him inside. With the door closed behind us, everything feels better, more manageable. I flick the switch and a chandelier casts a dusty light over the worn parquet floor. Apart from the piano at the back by the staircase, the foyer is empty, but the walls are covered in gold-framed paintings. All of them of deer—in forests, in meadows, drinking from lakes on summer nights.

  ‘This place…’ says the driver.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and walk over to the room on our left.

  It’s a spacious sitting room with bay windows, heavy curtains and a view of the sea. Like the foyer it’s nearly empty. There’s a stepladder in the corner, a transistor radio on the windowsill and a worn blue sofa with two embroidered cushions featuring the dubious mottos ‘Don’t Count on Tomorrow’ and ‘Behind a Calm Sea Is a Storm’. Beside the sofa is a low table hosting a selection of porcelain deer but it’s the wallpaper that stands out: gold pineapples and blue hummingbirds scattered on a delicate yellow. The corners are peeling; this weather is not kind to wallpaper.

  I remind myself that the truck will be coming soon. I need to find a room where I can work.

  The driver clears his throat. He’s waiting for me to pay.

  ‘I can’t wait to tell my missus about this place,’ he says, handing me an invoice. ‘She thinks I’m driving around the city. And you say your dad owns it?’

  I look at the invoice. I have just enough money to pay him. ‘Vince. My adoptive dad, yes,’ I reply and take out my wallet.

  ‘An Italian restaurant. Here?’ The driver smiles. ‘T hey won’t know what’s hit them.’

  They? I think. Who? The seagulls? Vince’s ravioli won’t hit anyone.

  ‘And it’s a hotel for sailors?’ the driver continues.

  ‘Was,’ I say. ‘It’s been shut for decades.’

  ‘Strange place to have a hotel,’ he says.

  He’s not wrong about that.

  ‘Do sailors like deer?’ He nods towards the paintings.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say, as I hand him the money.

  ‘It’s been nice meeting you,’ he says. ‘Funny, you strike me as a sailor of sorts.’

  I almost laugh but stop myself. It would come out crazy and I might scare him.

  ‘Thanks for helping me with the cases,’ I say.

  As the taxi leaves, I’m struck by how bad an idea this is. The place is falling apart and it’s freezing. I won’t be able to restore the angel if the heaters don’t work. Marble restoration demands climate control. And the naked man? How could Vince not tell me? He promised I would have the place to myself.

  I’m desperate to call the driver back. But it’s not like I have another option. I can’t afford to rent a workshop in the city.

  I imagine Evelyn saying, Vega, hard times are to show us what we’re made of. Take the bull by the horns, you know?

  Evelyn is infuriatingly optimistic. She would be appalled by the cushions in the sitting room.

  Okay, Evelyn, I think. You win.

  I pick up the box of food and head to the back of the foyer, towards what looks like a kitchen.

  Compared to the foyer the kitchen is small. Some of the cupboard doors are missing, revealing grubby shelf liners and a sad collection of pots and pans.

  A faded bus timetable is pinned to the fridge by a magnet. The bus stops at the Seafarers’ Hotel every morning at 7 a.m. It’s hard to believe. It can’t be a very lucrative route.

  I shove the heavy box onto the kitchen bench and, without warning, two green canaries dive from the top cupboard. With high-pitched screeches they head for the foyer and settle on the chandelier in a flutter of clinks and dips and sways.

  I try to steady my breathing. In and out, slowly. I’m not going to die.

  What is Vince thinking? Canaries? Couldn’t he have warned me? Does he want me to have another heart attack, hundreds of kilometres from the city?

  I leave the box to sort later. There’s no risk of the food going off in this cold and I need to find a workspace before the angel arrives.

  I head up to the first floor, even though I doubt the floorboards will cope with a statue this big.

  From the upstairs landing I look down on the foyer. The canaries are gone. If it wasn’t for the swaying chandelier, I wouldn’t be sure I’d seen them at all.

  The first floor is just as dilapidated as downstairs. Four rooms open off the hallway. Not much of a hotel. The wall lamps are covered in dust and the runner is so worn it’s impossible to tell what colour it once was.

  It looks like someone has recently started to paint a wall but gave up halfway. The white paint has coagulated in the can, and there’s no saving the bristles on the brush tossed on the floor.

  The room to my right is full of bed frames, a graveyard of rusted coils and bent legs. An old chest of drawers stands at the back wall and from the picture railing hangs a sea-green evening gown, the silk stained with age. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s doing here.

  There’s no sign of Naked Man in the next room either. No bed, no personal items. Only a cupboard in the corner and two chandeliers lying on the floor in a tangle of crystal and ornamental gold. The room faces the back of the hotel and from the window I can see an endless snow-covered heath. There are no houses in sight.

  My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket.

  It’s a text from Mark. Squirrel, please don’t avoid my calls. We need to talk.

  Me avoiding him? How easy it is for him to rewrite history.

  I imagine him texting from his industrial-style kitchen with its cement walls and restaurant-grade coffee maker. Right now, he’ll be getting ready to leave for work at the insurance company. His leather case will be waiting near the door, his coat ready on the kitchen stool. He’s always loved high-end fashion: Armani shirts, Burberry coats and shoes that cost more than my rent. When I had my own place to rent, that is.

  I pocket the phone and continue down the hallway.

  The windows are boarded up in the next room. But I can make out a pile of old mattresses. The smell of mould is overwhelming. I try not to think of tonight’s sleeping arrangements.

  It all fits, this place, the neglect. Vince has always adopted strays. Not just Suze and me, but all the homeless dogs and cats he took pity on. And not just any cats. It would be Molly with a missing tail, and Tom with three legs. And then there was the dog so scruffy that no amount of brushing made him look neat, and the hamster who wore a bandage on his front leg for so long we all forgot why. Vince kept adding to the brood, often forgetting to tell us. One morning I woke to discover a one-eyed ginger cat leaping out of my cupboard.

  Of course Vince would love this place. And of course he would want to patch it up, the same way he did the animals, or tried with Suze and me.

  As I leave the room, it occurs to me that Naked Man might not be staying here. Maybe he’s an intruder. Maybe Vince doesn’t know.

  But then I enter the last room.

  Bingo, I think, and remember Mark laughing at me once. ‘No one says “bingo” anymore. You’re so old-fashioned, Squirrel.’

  That was when he loved me. That was when my heart was still working.

  But perhaps Mark might agree with my choice of word, because I have found Naked Man’s room.

  The mattress on the floor is covered by a crocheted blanket. Next to it sits a world-globe lamp. It’s old, with a crack running through Africa. A pile of clothes occupies a chair and near the window an ancient TV is propped up on bricks.

  I notice a bookshelf behind the door. It’s filled with objects. Most look like they’ve been washed up by the sea.

  I walk closer.

  Light shifts with the falling snow. It flickers across a rusted toy car, then falls on a pink seashell and a collection of flint stones. There’s a chipped plate and the head of a Lego dragon, and there’s a battered analogue camera and coloured glass, smoothed by the sea.

  He’s been here for a while.

  A stack of children’s books sits on the lower shelf. They’re old, some with spines missing. I pick one up. On its cover is an illustration of a man riding an elephant through the mountains. The book is in Arabic.

  A photo falls out.

  It’s dated last year, and shows two men in uniform, arms flung around each other in playful camaraderie. Behind them is desert and a setting sun. The taller man is raising a Fanta bottle in a toast to the camera. He looks like the adult version of the class clown. A Mickey Mouse pin is fastened to his shirt collar.

  The soldier next to him is Naked Man. He looks younger without the beard, tender somehow. He appears to be in his mid-twenties, at least ten years younger than me.

  I contemplate his dark eyes and protruding ears, and the charming smile that doesn’t quite go with the uniform. Then I hear a voice behind me. ‘Vega?’

  He’s still wearing the crown, and thankfully he’s wrapped a towel around his waist. His chaotic hair is wet and a dog tag hangs around his neck. A strong fragrance of the ocean fills the room. He steps forward to shake my hand with a smile.

  ‘Vince said you were coming. I’m Gunnar.’

  Despite his easy manner his eyes are weary.

  ‘Gunnar?’ I say, aware I’m still holding his photo.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I feel I should have—you know—done something to welcome you. But I didn’t know what you’d like.’

  Not quite sure what to do with the photo, I hand it to him.

  He studies it. ‘This was a good moment,’ he says. ‘It’s one of the few things I’m certain of.’

  He’s strange. He doesn’t even seem concerned that I’ve been going through his things. I’m about to ask what his arrangement with Vince is, when without warning I feel a rush of desire. Maybe it’s the fragrance of seaweed, salt, wet skin. Because it’s certainly not him.

  The moment is mercifully interrupted by the low rumble of a truck. They’re early. I haven’t even put the drop sheets down.

 

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