the regular function rooms they’d get at any five-star hotel, let’s give them so much more. We really have scope to go the extra mile here, so let’s do exactly that.’
‘Go on,’ he says, folding his arms and looking interested now.
‘Well, given the emotional intensity of what our guests will be facing, I’d suggest a relaxation room or maybe even a quiet room, for calm reflection. Equally, I’d love to see a games room where more boisterous guests could let off a bit of steam. And the gardens around the Hope Street area are all so quiet and serene, so let’s really make a feature of that. We could possibly have a beautiful meditation area outdoors, as well as a water feature.’
‘A water feature?’
‘The sound of flowing water is really soothing outdoors,’ I tell him confidently.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘And we could also have some decking and a barbecue area, maybe for a final goodbye lunch, when all business has been conducted and before we send our guests on their way.’
‘Good, good,’ Rob is nodding away at me now and for a brief, shining moment, I think this might just swing things my way. ‘But just for the moment, I’d like to get back to your CV,’ he says, suddenly changing tack and referring back down to it, inspecting it closely.
Shite. Or maybe not.
‘So it seems you worked at the Merrion Hotel for over seven years?’ he asks, scrutinizing the CV forensically.
‘Emm … yes, that’s right.’
‘Ah, but hang on here a second,’ he says, suddenly spotting something that seems to jar with him. ‘According to this, you left the Merrion three years ago, but didn’t start work here in London months afterwards. Now for a CV like yours, that’s quite a lengthy gap. So, I guess my next question is, why?’
‘Well, you see,’ I begin and for the first time, my voice is now starting to sound just that bit smaller than it has up to now. ‘I had come to a point in my career where I felt working abroad would really benefit me on a number of levels.’
But predictably, he’s zoned straight into this and won’t let up.
‘Yeah, but why the long gap? Pretty long time for someone who’d just finished up at the Merrion. Surely if you were planning to work abroad, you’d have locked a new job in place before jumping ship, as it were?’
He’s looking at me unflinchingly now. Slate grey eyes, unblinking; the CV in front of him his sole focus.
‘The reason being,’ I begin nervously, taking a deep breath, and locking eyes with him, then diving into my over-rehearsed answer. ‘It just took me some time to find a post that was the right fit for me. As you can see, I’d gained invaluable experience at the Merrion and was anxious to expand my CV even further. I wanted to cover all managerial aspects of the job and if possible, branch out from a Functions Manager’s role.’
Can’t we just drop this and move on?
‘Yeaaaah, 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.’
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