‘It’s about my previous job. Writing the reviews. I wasn’t… it wasn’t quite… I mean… have you heard of Nora Sharp?’
Dad looked at me steadily. He let out a little huff and tapped his fingers on the table a few times. ‘We know.’
‘What?’ I sat back, genuinely stunned.
‘We’ve always known.’
‘But…how?And why didn’t you say anything?’
‘We knew you’d tell us when you were ready.’
‘Yes, buthow?’
‘Eleanor, we’ve read everything you’ve written since you could pick up a pencil. We know you. We know your voice. And didn’t you think we’d put two and two together when suddenly a mystery restaurant reviewer appears in town, coincidentally the exact same time you suddenly develop a social life and start eating out all the time?’ He raised his eyebrows, but his face was kind.
‘But then I moved to London.’
‘And could afford to rent a flat in the capital on the income you made from that little blog? Don’t get me wrong, the blog was wonderful. But not big city apartment wonderful.’
‘Didn’t you think it was horrendous?’
His brow creased, adding even more wrinkles. ‘We thought the reviews were balanced and fair. Anyone working in hospitality would agree. We also of course found the memes and the click-bait headlines awful. But we knew they weren’t you. That image wasn’t you, and we believed you would find your way back in due course. You were miserable, and in a perverse way, the more miserable you got, the more we felt sure you would give it up.’
He reached across the table and took my hand. His calloused palm was as familiar to me as the sunlight on the lake, but I could not remember the last time he had wrapped his fingers around mine.
‘We know you, Eleanor. We love you.’
I held on tightly to my father’s hand, even as we cried together. Even when my mum came in to find out why no one had set the tables, we didn’t let go, and so she made us a cup of tea with not one but two biscuits each. Even as Grandma then joined us, chuckling at the early reviews I’d written in Windermere, and how I’d called out their arch-rivals, the snooty, overpriced establishment a mile down the road, for ‘ironically’ serving Heinz tomato soup still in the tin, as that justified charging eight pounds for it.
I had a weird family. We didn’t do big heart-to-hearts or emotional outbursts. We rarely said, ‘I love you,’ and barely ever showed it. But here, sat at the table where I’d chopped ten zillion onions and cracked a squillion eggs, I remembered again the reason why people kept coming back to this strange little B & B year after year. Why they put up with the rigid rules and archaic systems. It was because absolutely everyone was welcome here. Welcomed, and accepted, and treated with dignity and uncommon kindness. No matter who they were, or what they might have done.
Right down to the newest member of staff.
For a fleeting moment, I made a mental note to never lose sight of that when running Damson Farm Retreats. Until I remembered that I didn’t do that any more. I would mention it next time I spoke to Becky. She might find it useful.
‘Right. We’re twelve minutes late starting the linen. Eleanor, if you don’t mind?’ Mum said, whipping away my mug and plate.
I didn’t mind, at all.
Well. Only a tiny bit.
* * *
I booked the rest of the week off. My parents, of course, insisted I pay for my room if I wasn’t there to work, but then later on both Mum and Dad refunded me the money separately, on top of the basic wages they’d been paying me.
I was there to work, but that week it wouldn’t be for the Tufted Duck. For four days I wrote, deleted, rewrote, cut and pasted and deleted most of it again. I had moments where I nearly cracked under the pressure, and others where the words flowed like the Maddon river. Eventually, what emerged was the article of my life. It wouldn’t make or break me – no words would have the power to do that to me again. But it did at least express the most honest apology that I could offer, and I hoped a stark warning and a useful insight to others who may have been temporarily dazzled by the bright lights of fame and fortune, as well as my lessons learnt on the crushing impact of living a lie, rather than facing up to being true to yourself, however tough that might be.
I sent it to Miles, with a clear stipulation that my fee would go to the Ferrington Bridge Fund. I would not be filming any YouTube videos or commenting on social media. He replied within an hour to inform me that it would be the main feature in the Saturday supplement.
He also asked if I would write a follow-up on the Ferrington Feud. I said that I would think about it, which I did, for most of that night and several more that followed. Wondering if I would ever be brave enough to turn up in Ferrington with a notepad, my phone set to record.
Then, one week exactly after the article was published, the Tufted Duck had a new booking.
‘A walk-in?’ I asked Mum, incredulous. The Tufted Duck had no room for walk-ins at the best of times, let alone mid-June.
‘Can you handle it? I need to… do something else.’
‘You want me to stop cleaning this room, and handle a walk-in? But Dad’s on check-in today.’ I was talking to an empty doorway, she’d disappeared as quickly as she arrived.
