The singer sped past me out of the gate, sending me flying as I tried to say goodbye. We’ve been through some ordeals this summer, but we’ve never had a B&B guest so unhappy that they’ve tried to run me over.
We had been hosting performers for a music festival and by the time this singer arrived, we had welcomed quite a few celebrities with no problems.
The first to stay with us was a TV star who had driven down from Dublin and insisted we come with him to his gig that night to have pizza in the bar with him before he went on stage.
No good ever comes from upgrading people. It makes difficult customers worse, somehow
The next to arrive in the boondocks of West Cork was a musician used to working with the likes of Van Morrison. He gave us a signed copy of his book before he left and was great company.
Then, in the pouring rain, a car came up the drive bringing a singer I looked up but couldn’t find much information on, except that when I checked the programme he was doing a morning slot in a village hall.
Before he arrived, the organiser texted me in a panic to say he wanted to stay two nights, and was bringing his partner. That was fine, I assured her to be helpful, because she works very hard to run this festival to bring a bit of a buzz to the area. It’s a cross between Waking Ned and Father Ted down here, but once a year there are some musical events, including this one where the locals get up in bars to sing, and where the odd rock and pop star agrees to come and do a turn, along with other lesser-known singers.
If I was reading it right, this singer looked a bit askance at his room, the second best room in the house, and I panicked and forgot my golden rule: no good ever comes from upgrading people. It makes difficult customers worse, somehow.
We didn’t please the last people we upgraded, from the small double we call room four to the large king-sized luxury room with mountain view we call room three. Unfathomably, they dented our five-star Airbnb ranking after complaining that the bigger room lacked a doormat. We appealed to Airbnb but they insisted the review was valid. Our overall rating on our best room plummeted in one foul swoop from five stars to a low four, and it has taken us all summer to claw it back to nearly five again.
After a few minutes fretting over the pros and cons, I went back upstairs and knocked quietly on the door of room four. I heard a muffled command and knocked again. ‘I said come in!’ yelled the singer.
I put my head round the door: ‘Would you like the bigger room as you’re staying two nights?’ He said he would. So I swapped them to room three, helping to carry their bags across the hall.
When they reappeared downstairs, I wished him a pleasant evening. But he muttered something as he walked out the door. I could have sworn he was more unhappy than before I swapped his room, but I told myself I was imagining it.
The next morning, they came down for breakfast and I lavished upon them the best spread I could muster. But they spoke only to bark monosyllabic commands.
I sent the builder boyfriend in to top up the coffee, because he can charm anyone, but I heard the singer raising his voice to bark: ‘Just leave it there!’
The BB came back into the kitchen ashen-faced to find me on the phone telling the organisers that the big star of the festival who was checking in later would be in the small double.
And that was when the Syrian Kurdish bouzouki player came up the driveway. The festival organisers had overbooked me and I had no idea he was coming. He pulled up in an old banger that choked and stalled to a halt and sat there looking utterly shattered. I insisted he come in. I would find him a room somehow.
I was mortified to have to give him our least fancy twin, for when I looked him up, this little Kurdish fellow was a world-renowned performer who played stadium-sized festivals all over the world. He was so polite he smiled and said any room was fine. All he wanted to do was sit in the sun with a strong coffee and have a smoke before his set.
The singer munched his cereal solemnly, while the world music superstar hugged me and left
He got the BB smoking with him, and then the pair of them decided to go to pick up a takeaway, which we all ate together in the kitchen. I told him we had bought tickets to his gig and were very much looking forward to it.
When our new friend came out on stage that night in a smart suit, there to our astonishment, right in the front row, was the other singer who was staying with us. He and his partner seemed to be having a wonderful time, clapping along and even dancing at the end. It was a magical evening. I felt confident we were now all firm friends.
But the next morning, when the singer came down to breakfast, he was monosyllabic again. I fretted round him but there was no mistaking the atmosphere. He sat in the formal dining room munching his cereal solemnly, while the world music superstar insisted on a quick coffee in the kitchen, hugged me, thanked me profusely, and left.
The next thing I knew the singer and his partner were walking past me with their luggage. I rushed after them but they got in their car without saying goodbye, and began to drive around the house to the rear gate.
I’m not having this, I thought, running back through the house to exit the back door and intercept them. I waved them down in the farmyard. As the car slowed to make it through the farm gate, I bent to look into the window to say I hoped everything had been all right.
And as I did so, the car suddenly accelerated, forcing me to leap backwards out of the way. It screeched through the gates and churned up the grass verge as it roared down the lane.
The BB came out of the woodshed where he had been chopping and asked what the hell just happened. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what just happened,’ I said. ‘It’s the curse of room three.’
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