Auntie Lynn. She was so agitated yesterday when she heard about the latest complaint (I had to tell her, no way can I lie or hide things from Aunt Lynn, though I avoided mentioning a lawsuit), that she cleaned the oven. This is unheard of. That is why Mr Armstrong needs sorting. He’s also upsetting me, but we don’t need to go into that. ‘Do you really dare me?’
‘No, no, I take that back. I didn’t mean it, no dare, just don’t!’ Sam knows that I will rise to any dare, that saying the word ‘dare’ to me is like saying the words ‘hot chocolate fudge cake’ to her. Irresistible.
‘That man needs a kick up the butt. Has he any idea how much commission we’re losing on this? It’s all me, me, me with some people.’
She giggles and waves a biscuit in front of my face. ‘Ha ha, instead of you, you, you? You’re just taking this all too seriously, it’s not personal. Have a Hobnob, they’re chocolate ones.’
I do take it seriously. This travel agency on the high street is my Aunt Lynn’s business, and knowing exactly where our clients are going is our USP. We have gone for small, friendly, and special. Boutique. Auntie Lynn was a bit of a hippy (from what I can gather) when she was younger. As in what I call her pre-me era. The time before she took me in and took the place of my mother.
She loved to travel, to explore the world. Live life in a way that most people only manage through reading books.
She thinks the rest of the world is special.
She thinks holidays are special.
We are, she says, selling dreams, so we have a responsibility to stop them turning into nightmares. Our edge is that we care about our customers; we know that we’re selling a holiday that will suit somebody to a tee.
Except it’s all gone wrong with Will Armstrong.
I used to love hearing about how much people enjoyed their holiday in this place, how much it meant to them. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, as though I was somehow responsible. Aunt Lynn and I would share a secret smile as we read the reviews together. And now Mr Armstrong has buggered it up, and it’s pissing me off.
‘It is personal.’ I narrow my eyes and stare at the screen. ‘This place is one of the first that Auntie Lynn visited and fell in love with. He’s screwing up her happy memories as well as our reputation.’
When my aunt set this business up, it was to promote the places she’d been to. Places she loved and wanted to share. Then, as it grew, she made a point of visiting every location. Experiencing for herself what they had to offer, and more often than not she had taken me along with her. She said we were the two musketeers, though I did sometimes wonder if it would have been better for her if she’d been able to add a third.
Anyway, back to Mr Pain-in-the-arse Armstrong. To give in to temptation and hit send on this email, would be to admit that he has got to me. That he has made me forget my professionalism. It would be easier to just find another, much better resort to recommend.
Except it isn’t that simple.
The lovely log cabins with roaring fires, lashings of hot chocolate and deep white snow outside had sent our customers flocking to the Canadian Rockies for a cosy Christmas. Once upon a time, this place had created memories that could never be replaced. And sometimes we all need memories to hold onto the good times.
‘It’s bloody annoying,’ I know I sound a bit like a spoiled child, but I’m peeved, ‘that place was perfect, not commercialised, and everyone who had stayed there thought the same. They all came back starry-eyed, saying how it had been the best ever Christmas. Until Mr Festivity-bypass got his hands on it.’
Last Christmas had been a bit sparse on the old festive spirit, and even the holidaymakers who’d gone for the ski-ing and snowboarding had written terrible reviews about the equipment and facilities. As an outdoor resort it was pretty bad: as a festive resort it was the pits.
‘To be fair,’ Sam always tries to be fair, ‘it has definitely been slipping the last couple of years; last winter somebody said the huskies kept stopping for a pee instead of pulling the sled, and the mistletoe was plastic.’ She does have a point; the sparkle has been wearing off for a while now. ‘Faded plastic.’
Plastic mistletoe has to be the pits, but faded old plastic mistletoe? I ask you, who’s going to pucker up under that?
She shrugs. ‘We can suggest people go to Lapland instead, or to see the Northern Lights, they’re popular. I wouldn’t mind going there myself. Do you want this last biscuit, or not?’
‘Yes, seeing as you’ve had the rest.’ I reach out. ‘Shit.’ I had wanted the last biscuit, but now I don’t, I really don’t. ‘Holy crap. How did that happen?’ Oh God, why did I position the cursor there? Why was my stupid bloody mouse right where I could catch it with my elbow? Why do biscuits even exist?
‘What?’
‘Shit. Bugger. I am sooooooo dead. I hit send!’ I cover my eyes with my hands, and peep through. Sent. Gone for ever. Even if I delete it from my sent box, I will know I did it. Aunt Lynn will kill me. ‘It’s fine, fine.’ Take a deep breath, Sarah. ‘He won’t read it anyway. He usually never reads my emails.’ Only he did yesterday. I nibble on the biscuit frantically, like a demented hamster.
‘You idiot.’ A packet of Oreo’s appears on her desk as if by magic. ‘Emergency supplies, to treat shock.’
‘Oh nooooooo!’
‘I thought you liked . . .’
Her voice tails off, probably because I’m pointing at my screen. This can’t be happening, I need gin, not Oreos. ‘I’ve got a reply!’
‘It will be auto generated, out of office, or something. Nobody types that quick.’
It isn’t.
Apparently, some people can type quickly.
Dear Sarah,
Thank you for your recent correspondence. How nice to hear from you again! (I suspect this is sarcasm.) Unfortunately, in this part of the world there is no sand to bury one’s head in, therefore one has to use snow, which rather freezes the brain and leaves one temporarily incapacitated and thus incapable of carrying out simple tasks such as responding to phone calls.
I am currently reviewing our ‘flaming halls’ and other client requirements, though as far as I am aware ‘growing a pair’ has never featured on any feedback form.
Many thanks for your interest in our resort, and we look forward to welcoming you here in the future.
Regards. Will Armstrong (The Anti-Christmas).
Shooting Star Mountain Resort
‘Well at least he’s got a sense of humour.’
‘Hilarious.’ Dry I think they call it. I’m busy typing as I speak. What a cheek! Welcoming, huh, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
Dear Mr Armstrong,
Many thanks for your prompt response. If you are not currently suffering from brain freeze it would be very helpful if you could spare the time to pick up the phone so we can discuss our requirements.
Our clients have reported a far-from-warm welcome – in fact, it has been coined ‘frosty’ in one instance – and there has been little in the way of flaming recently, in fireplaces or halls. The only feature in your brochure that you seem to provide, is snow. Maybe a new, more specific, feedback form would be in order?
‘You can’t send that!’ Sam is back peering over my shoulder, dropping crumbs down my cleavage.