The Invasion
Incidentally, Charlotte was spared the experience of a ride on the motorway with Tom Parker in the driver's seat.
Mr Parker stayed behind in London to follow up some promising contacts he believed he had made at the party, and Gigi stayed in London with Mrs Griffiths because the police wanted to question her further about Otis Molyneux. Sidney stayed in London as well because he felt he had to be where his foster child was, and that was that.
Charlotte did not see much of him in the morning before she left for Victoria Station to catch her train to Sanditon, and what she saw of him was mostly a face in a coffee mug. It must have been a very late night for him, judging by the rings under his eyes. He did not look exactly elated or particularly happy, but simply tired, and he did not comment on his reunion with mrscampion. Charlotte was careful now with premature judgement, though. Whoever knew what else had happened at the party – she did not, for she had returned to Bedford Place soon after Sidney Parker and mrscampion had vanished into the crowd.
Sitting now in the half-empty train and gazing out of the window at the never-ending London suburbs, she found it hard to believe that the past forty-eight hours had actually happened. The excitement of the cricket match, the frantic rush to London, the search for Gigi, the dramatic showdown at Sam Siddaway's hotel, the reckonings of the next day, the golden dress, the conversation with Susan, the dance.
The dance. And the one conundrum that was occupying her mind: What would have happened if mrscampion had not appeared, stealing Sidney Parker's attention away? This question proved to be an as endless loop as the London suburbs, only interrupted by Charlotte's phone buzzing with a new message.
Thought you might like this, an unknown number said, sending her a picture. Better ignore that, she thought, when a second message from the same number buzzed in: Sorry. Sidney gave me your number. This is me. Crowe. Like Babington, he really seemed to go by no other name, poor man.
The picture was of a beautiful woman wearing a stunning gold dress and an ostrich feather in her dark hair. She was not looking at the camera, though, but up to the tall man by her side. He was equally handsome and gazing down on her with an indulgent smile. Looking at me, Charlotte thought, feeling her knees go a little wobbly when she remembered that gentle dark gaze. He had never looked like that at mrscampion – at least not during the few seconds she had seen them together.
Thank you, she typed to Crowe, and then, in a brief moment of vanity, she cut Sidney from the picture and sent what remained of it to her family: Went to London and met a doppelganger.
She did not have to wait for too long for the replies to come in.
Mum: You look beautiful. So proud of you. Hope you didn't get blisters from your shoes. If you did, try tea tree oil or Epsom Salt.
Dan: Where's my rubber boots sister, and will I ever get her back?
Joe: Why are you wearing a bird on your head, Char?
Alison: Why do you have a brain in your head, Joe?
Alison: Who is that arm next to you, Charlotte?
Mum: I hope you HAVE Epsom Salt?
Alison: WHO IS THAT ARM?
Dad: JUST BE CAREFUL!
Charlotte closed her phone with a chuckle. If anything, she could always rely on her family to make her smile.
Back to Sanditon and the hotel, she quickly found herself in a reality that made her forget the past two days – at least for most of the time. There was so much to arrange and to prepare for the open-day that Charlotte hardly ever found a minute for thoughts about Otis's fate, Gigi's tears, Sidney Parker's eyes and mrscampion's lipstick.
Mary was alarmed beyond anything and wanted to know what exactly her husband was achieving in London. The electrician who was supposed to make the show apartment shine bright did not show up, and neither did the fire protection company that was supposed to connect Regency Row's alarm system to the hotel's. The temp agency cancelled the temps for the weekend, the wine merchant failed to deliver on time, as did the company for bakery products that was going to sponsor Arthur's cupcake competition.
The strangest mystery of all was, of course, the gardener who was due to show up on Tuesday afternoon to make sure that the hotel grounds looked fit to welcome a throng of visitors. Charlotte called him when he did not arrive on time, and all he said was that the invoice had not been paid yet.
"There is no invoice from Hillier's Garden Services," Charlotte said. "I've checked all files, I can't find anything. Can you send me a copy?"
"I want to discuss this with Mr Parker," the gardener said.
"Mr Parker is in London right now. I'm in charge of accounting, so, as I said …"
"I mow your lawn when you pay Lydia's bill."
"Excuse me?" Charlotte said, nearly dropping the receiver.
"My daughter. She's doing IT services for the hotel."
"Mr Hillier, first of all, your gardening services and your daughter's so-called IT services have nothing to do with each other. Second, your daughter is being paid for social media services, and unless she upscales these significantly, I see absolutely no reason to pay her anything at all."
"I will discuss this with Mr Parker," the gardener repeated and ended the call. Charlotte shook her head. Sure enough, within ten minutes, Mr Parker texted her to put Lydia Hillier's invoice for social media services on the top of the list she had to mail to his brother. One hour later, Mr Hillier himself and his pruning shears appeared. It was another conundrum on her growing list of conundrums.
That email she had to send to Sidney Parker cost her several nerves, and she was grateful for any distraction, be it Clara calling in sick, Edward and Esther discussing Lady Denham's state of health at the reception desk (not well, she was still in hospital and recovering from what must have been a stroke), or James.
He was in desperate need of a sympathetic listener, as his father's cancer was advancing towards the terminal stage while he himself was still pondering about the offer of an internship at a Vancouver architect company.
But once James was counselled, there was no further excuse: Sidney was waiting for that list of his brother's most pressing creditors, so she had to mail it to him. Compiling that list did not take long. Typing the email accompanying it took about one hour:
Dear Mr Parker (or was it Sidney? After that dance, it had to be Sidney… but then he had never called her Charlotte, only once, indirectly, to the intrusive waiter… she better left it at Mr Parker, and waited for how he replied),
As discussed with your brother, please find the creditors list enclosed. The most urgent ones are marked in red. (He was no fool, he would work that out himself. Nevertheless-)
If you need further details, please let me know. (This came close to begging for a reply, did it not? Charlotte sighed. But she would have written it in any other email to any other man, so she did not delete it. Now came the truly difficult part:)
Yours sincerely (That was a bit too formal, wasn't it?)
Regards (Too harsh, right?)
Best regards
Charlotte (Too obvious. This was a professional email, no private back and forth)
C. Heywood (No. By that rate, they would still be keeping up the Mr-Parker-Miss-Heywood nonsense by Christmas)
Charlotte Heywood (That was who she was, after all)
She was staring at the message for another five minutes before she sent it, and after she sent it, she spent ten more minutes in front of the screen, waiting for a reply. When no reply came, she grabbed her phone and walked over to the Conservatory. Taking pictures for another Instagram post on the preparations of the open day was a perfect distraction. By the time she had finished the post, she had received a reply.
Thanks
x
The best thing about the preparations for the open-day was, of course, the fact that it took Charlotte's mind off dissatisfying messages: Wi$**,''''.' Thanks. One could hardly describe Sidney Parker as an eloquent writer.
And he did not do her the favour of simply walking off her mind, either. He was very present, whether she walked the beach after work and, without thinking, found herself by the cove, or whether she checked the gardener's work and found herself staring at the hydrangea, remembering how he had made amends after Doktor Fuchs's visit, or whether she simply opened her window in the morning and found herself eye in eye with the wise old herring gull that was standing on the gutter and seemed to know all about her heart.
Even when she joined James and Fred for another night at the pub on Friday, her mind was mostly occupied by the fact that the London party would be returning to Sanditon late this evening. Sure enough, on Saturday morning, she bumped into Sidney Parker himself as they were both leaving their attic rooms. After all those nights of being neighbours, it was the first time they met on the corridor.
"Mr Parker- "
"Miss Heywood…" Something turned Charlotte's insides into treacle when she felt his gaze on her.
"I was…"
"We have – " They both looked at each other, smiling shyly.
"You go first," Sidney said.
"I was just going to say that I wanted to look in on Gigi."
"Yes. Please do." He sighed. "Because I'm at a loss. She still holds me accountable for everything that's happened."
"You must be patient with her. Her whole world has crumbled down within a moment, and there is no hope of restoring it. I… I believe you know how sharp the agony of separation can be." Charlotte felt herself blush. In any case, she had learned a little about the agony of separation during this past week, though fearing Sidney Parker to be in the clutches of a woman promoting ugly handbags and pink home accessories online was nothing compared to being duped by a criminal from Interpol's most-wanted list.
"You're right. I know how separation feels. Although fate has a way of surprising even the most jaded amongst us." Charlotte could not help but smile. The man she had met in London was not jaded at all.
"You are not nearly as unfeeling as you pretend."
"If that is the case, I will ask you to keep it to yourself." There was a twinkle in his eyes. "I have a reputation to uphold."
"Your secret is safe with me," Charlotte promised as her heart went into a flutter. All hope was not lost, not yet. After all, he was here, smiling at her, and mrscampion was miles away.
In the end, Charlotte found a way to take Gigi's mind off her troubles, and that was by handing her an apron and declaring her Arthur Parker's assistant for the production of meringue swans for the open-day. Gigi kept moaning and calling Arthur rude and offensive, but he just fed her with strawberries, gave her some egg whites to whisk and with his tireless good mood, smiled all her complaints away.
Charlotte spent the Saturday glued to her clipboard, ticking off open tasks from her to-do list. With Clara calling in sick for the whole weekend, some last-minute amendments had to be made, but finally, the programme for the Sanditon Grand Hotel Open-Day was complete: "We'll start with the cupcake competition for the kids," Charlotte explained to Mr Parker, checking off each event on the whiteboard. "Then there are three guided tours of the house, conducted by yourself, and Kamila's scavenger hunt."
"Splendid," Mr Parker said. "What else?"
"The show tables in the Conservatory, the Who Wants to be A Millionaire quiz, the tombola for Sanditon's animal shelter, the bedsheet competition, the children's painting corner, the duck race, the quick-yoga sessions by your sister, and of course the show apartment in Regency Row. That will be supervised by James Stringer."
"Excellent."
"Then there's the test tee-off with Edward on the golf course. Plus the food stalls on the lawn in front of Regency Row and the cocktail tutorials at the bar. The maintenance team will be running the shuttle service to the town. And we'll end it all with the golf cart race."
"Something to enjoy for everyone. Splendid, Charlotte, splendid. Now we only need Lady Denham to recover, and all will be well."
"Is it really so bad?" Charlotte asked. Mr Parker shrugged his shoulders.
"She's our main investor, so of course I prefer to see her alive and running about," he said with a laugh that somehow did not ring true. "Anyway." He clapped his hands. "I see our open-day is in safe hands with you, my dear. Anything I can do to assist you?"
"Make sure the sun is shining tomorrow," Charlotte suggested.
"I will. Oh, Esther. What is it?"
"They are here," Esther said, more bored than ever before.
"Who?" Mr Parker looked nonplussed, and even Charlotte wondered for a second whether this was Esther's way of announcing the invasion of the Martians.
"Doktor Fuchs and his first group of guests. Unloading the luggage from the bus right now. I thought you might like to welcome them."
"Of course, I will! What a day! What a weekend for the hotel!" Mr Parker rushed out of the office. Esther stayed, looking at her wooden seagull namesake on Charlotte's desk and shaking her head.
"I can't believe you saved that ugly thing."
"I met Babington in London," Charlotte said. "I think he really cares about you, Esther."
"Then he better returns to talking to that seagull, for I don't care about him." She went back to Reception, switching on the smile on her face as if it was a lantern, for now, Doktor Fuchs and his guests came filing into the lobby, collecting their keys, blocking the elevator and keeping Esther and Mr Parker busy for the next half hour.
It turned out that Doktor Fuchs's assessment of his clientele had been right. They were neither interested in an invasion of the Sussex coast nor did they threaten to enter Lady Denham's garden. One of them was a retired engineer who immediately fell in love with the ancient elevator. Another one was an architect who cornered Phillida Beaufort during her evening duty at the reception desk with a lecture on the Italian influence on Victorian architecture – a subject Phillida found slightly less fascinating than the messages popping up on her mobile phone.
Apart from that, Doktor Fuchs's guests enjoyed their tea time in the Conservatory, listened happily to Mr Parker's account on local history and eagerly took pictures of each other, of their tea and the hotel.
Charlotte was ready to wrap up her preparations and call it a day when she noticed that something was missing outside. The Aston Martin, duly parked by Sidney next to the entrance to impress new arrivals, was no longer there. "Is Sidney gone?" Charlotte asked. Phillida shrugged her shoulders.
"No idea. There are rooms booked again for these funny friends of his. Maybe he's picking them up from the station."
But not in a two-seater, Charlotte thought. And they always travelled in Babington's car, taking a detour to the Brighton casino on the way. Then she was distracted by two ladies from Doktor Fuchs's group, one white-haired, one grey-haired, both checking out the postcard stand and seeking her advice. "This? Or this?" the grey-haired lady asked, undecided between a view of the hotel against the blue sky and the picture of a seagull in flight over the town.
"Who are you sending it to?" Charlotte asked.
"My daughter. She likes hotels. And she likes seagulls."
"Why not send her both cards then? Give her a double treat?"
"Oh," the grey-haired lady said. "That is a nice idea. Do you have stamps?"
When Charlotte handled the stamps and the cash and the tip the lady insisted on giving her, the front doors opened and a cold rush of evening air came in, carrying Sidney Parker and a pink suitcase along, followed by no one other than mrscampion herself. "Phillida," he said to the receptionist. "This is Mrs Campion. My brother's got a room booked for her."
"Of course," Phillida stammered, staring at his guest in awe. "Mrs Campion. That'll be one of the tower rooms, fourth floor." Apparently, Phillida was one of her five-hundred thousand followers. The two postcard ladies in their comfortable cardigans and functional loafers squinted at the apparition sporting an ugly oversized handbag, tight-fitting white jeans and the highest high heels that had ever graced the floor of the Sanditon Grand Hotel's lobby.
"I can't believe I'm back," mrscampion said, looking around the lobby, taking a selfie, then settling her adoring gaze on her companion. "Still the same old dusty glass cabinets. It's as if I never left. It's all unchanged, Sidney."
"Yes," Charlotte heard him say when his eyes met hers for the briefest of moments. He seemed to hesitate whether to acknowledge her or not, whether to greet her and introduce her. "Let's get you settled in, shall we?" he suggested without looking at Charlotte again as he nudged his guest towards the elevator.
And I practically invited her with my Instagram comments, she thought. What a fool I was.
"Den würde ich nicht von der Bettkante schubsen," the postcard lady said to her white-haired friend, and they both broke into giggles as if they were teenage schoolgirls and not senior travellers interested in English history and culture. After a few moments of mirth, the postcard lady stopped laughing and turned to Charlotte. "If he runs away, she cannot follow him in those shoes."
Run, Sidney, Charlotte thought. Please run.
Notes:
The lady buying postcards for her daughter is no other personage than my mother. She likes to go travelling with her best friend, and with the situation being what it is, I thought it was safest for them to go on a roundtrip with Doktor Fuchs this time
"Den würde ich nicht von der Bettkante schubsen": basically meaning: "What a handsome man – If I happened to find him in my bed, I'd ask him to stay."
