trousers and walking boots – and reaches for one of the straps of his rucksack. The man lurches backwards as though stung, knocking into the woman in red who’s standing directly behind him.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ His eyes dart wildly behind his frameless glasses as he searches for somewhere, anywhere, he can stand in the small lobby without touching another person. ‘I’ve just … I’ve just … I’ve got important stuff in here and I … I—’
‘No problem.’ David raises a hand in apology, his lips pulled tightly over his teeth in a half grin, half grimace. ‘If you don’t want me to take your bags that’s no problem at all.’
‘You can take mine.’ The woman in the red cagoule squeezes through the crowd then reverses up against David so her rucksack is almost pressed against him. ‘It’s killing my shoulders.’
The balding older man who was standing next to her raises his left hand in protest, a gold wedding ring glinting on his finger. ‘I told you I’d carry it for you, Mel, but you did insist …’
The woman ignores him and gives David the nod to help her remove her rucksack. He glances over at the husband and nods tightly.
‘Actually, ladies and gents, I’ve got to get back to the dock to collect the other guests. If you’d like me to take your bags to your room, just deposit them here and I’ll bring them up to you when I get back. Anna will show you where you need to go. When you’re settled in do come down to the lounge where there’s a complimentary tot of whisky waiting for you. When the other guests arrive I’ll explain the itinerary for the week.’
He raises his hands in the air as he sidles out of the hotel, sidestepping like a crab. I see a flash of relief on his face when he reaches the front door.
With David gone the guests turn hesitantly in my direction. First to reach the table are the couple. The woman takes charge, nudging herself in front of the man so she can spread her hands wide on the desk.
‘Melanie and Malcolm Ward. And … Katie.’ She takes off her bobble hat then glances at the small, sallow-skinned teen who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. ‘Also Ward,’ she adds.
Unlike the girl in her oversized parka and pink Converse, Melanie and Malcolm are kitted out like serious hikers in branded waterproof jackets with walking poles, well-used walking boots and bulging rucksacks. Malcolm’s clutching a map in a plastic slip. Melanie has mousey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail and a fringe that finishes just above her remarkably thick eyebrows and red-rimmed glasses. She looks lithe and strong, as though she could leap up Rum Cuillin without drawing a breath. Her husband is older: mid to late fifties. His grey hair is receding, showing a large expanse of forehead, speckled with liver spots. His brows have thinned so much at the edges that they appear to end mid-pupil, making him look as though he’s permanently frowning.
I enter their details into the laptop, then reach round to the hooks and hand Melanie a bunch of keys. ‘There you go, you’re in Rooms 7 and 8. They’re at the front of the hotel. If you walk up the stairs to the first floor, the rooms are directly opposite you as you come—’
‘At the front?’ Melanie glances at Malcolm, who sighs heavily.
‘Yes.’ I force a smile but it has no effect on the pained expression on Mrs Ward’s face.
‘So no view of the sea?’
‘No, I’m sorry. We allocate the rooms according to the list the walking tour company sends us and I’m afraid …’ I shrug. ‘W was at the end of—’
‘Seriously?’ Malcolm Ward says. ‘That’s how rooms are allocated? In this day and age? I spent my entire childhood being last for everything because my surname is at the end of the alphabet.’
I glance at Katie, who looks like she’s wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.
‘It took us the best part of two days to get here,’ Melanie says. ‘We’ve come all the way from London. Malcolm was ever so excited about having a sea view. Weren’t you, Malcolm?’
He nods. ‘Gloria at the Hikers’ Friend practically guaranteed it.’
‘But you’ll have an amazing view of the mountains.’ I glance at the closed front door, willing David to walk through. When I first arrived he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he was the face of the hotel and he would be the primary point of call for the guests. I tend to their every need, he said, then added quickly, Well, almost.
Melanie leans into the desk, her pupils small and black behind her glasses. ‘Can’t you change it?’
‘I can’t really. All the rooms have been allocated. We are a very small hotel and we can only accommodate eight—’
‘I’ll swap.’ A woman in her mid to late sixties, with white hair cut short at the sides and as curly as sheep on the top, steps around Melanie. ‘If I’ve got a sea-view room.’
I search her face as she smiles warmly up at me.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I return her smile. ‘What’s your name, please?’
‘Christine Cuttle.’
‘Like the fish?’ Malcolm comments.
‘Yes.’ Christine smiles tightly. She’s probably heard that a thousand times.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cuttle,’ I say. ‘I’ll just check the—’
‘Christine, please.’
‘Okay.’ I glance down at my screen. ‘You’re in luck,’ I tell Melanie. ‘Christine is down to take Room 1, which has a sea view.’
Melanie squeaks with joy and shares a look with her husband. She pauses, and glances back at Katie. Her smile slips. ‘You won’t be next to us any more.’
Katie shrugs. If anything she looks slightly relieved.
‘She’s only across the corridor,’ I say. ‘It’s a small hotel, all the rooms are very close together.’
Melanie’s pinched expression slackens. ‘Do you mind, Katie? This is your break as much as ours.’
Again the young girl shrugs. ‘I don’t care about views.’
‘And you’re quite sure,’ Melanie says to Christine. ‘About swapping with us? You really don’t have to, you know.’
Oh yes you do, her face and her tightly curled hands say. You do now you’ve offered.
‘I’m more than happy,’ Christine says. ‘I could never grow tired of looking at that landscape. It’s so beautiful here.’ She returns her gaze to me. ‘You’re very lucky to live here.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I am.’
Having dispatched Christine, Melanie and Malcolm to their rooms I beckon the final guest, standing stiffly near the door, to approach reception. He avoids eye contact as he walks towards me, then draws to a halt about a foot from the desk. A loud crack of thunder breaks the silence, making both of us jump. Two seconds later lightning tears through the dark sky beyond the window and the rain, which has been falling lightly for the last hour or so, suddenly buckets down.
I laugh. ‘Welcome to Rum!’
The guest keeps his gaze fixed on the shiny expanse of desk that separates us. He’s younger than the others, I’d guess late thirties. His dark hair is thick and curly but it’s receding either side of his widow’s peak. Though he’s of average build his face is strangely fleshy, all cheeks and chin, with a long, wide nose. His eyes blink rapidly beneath the sheen of his wireless glasses.
‘Trevor Morgan.’ He holds out a hand and I raise mine to shake it.
‘No.’ He slaps his palm against the desk. ‘The key.’
‘Oh.’ I glance at the laptop, then twist round to the key rack.