There’s a lot of drivel talked about what it takes to run a B&B but there is one talent you definitely need: you have to not mind rolling out of your scratcher pretty sharpish in the am. You need to be washed and dressed with no croak in your voice and no pillow marks on your cheek before the first guest comes down. And these days, with all the cardio and triathlons, that can be well before seven, even on a Sunday.

One of life’s mysteries is that, no matter how many times you go round at night collecting glasses and banging cushions once they’ve all staggered off to bed, in the morning the house still looks . . . frowsy. So you have to take your washed, dressed, croak-free, creaseless bahooky round it, early doors, picking up petals and re-fanning magazines in good enough time so’s you can get the place smelling of rolls and coffee before the runners come back and the serious drinkers are stirring.

But as long as there’s strong coffee, warm rolls and good fruit on the table you’re laughing. Then, when the bacon and eggs are served, I like to go upstairs and air the beds. I plump the pillows, smooth the bottom sheet and throw the top one back over the footboard. With any luck, this freaks them out so much that they make their own beds for the rest of the stay.

That’s the one exception to my golden rule: BUTT OUT! There’s always one – and it’s usually a woman, I’m afraid to say – that I call Helpful Hilda. She stacks β€œempty” plates, that are never quite empty enough to stop leftovers getting squashed between them. Sometimes she carries them through to the kitchen and planks them down right in your way. Extreme Hildas might even try to wash them, putting crystal in the machine and wiping teacups with the floor cloth. Gahhhh! Butt out!

All that makes it sound as if I hate my job. I don’t. I’ve got everything but my fillings invested in this business and I’ll make it work if I have to sacrifice goats in the woodshed. That said, mind you, my favourite bit of the day is when they’ve all gone out – walking the cliffs, sitting on the beach, antiquing in the hammering rain . . . I lay fires, start scones on precision timing, so they’ll be fragrant when the guests return but not burned by the time they’ve taken their coats off and been for a wee. And I always do a bit extra. It’s not enough to provide a jigsaw. You need to sort out the straight bits and half-make the edge. Seriously, if there’s a half-made edge on the big table in the window and all the bits are face-up in the box no one can resist a jigsaw. Especially one I sent away for that’s a photo of the house.

There’s a danger they’ll linger over it and throw off my dinner prep. But I’ve got a fix for that too. I put home-made bath bombs (gin and rose, mint and lime) on the edges of all the tubs on the second day. Then, when I want them all to clear out of the drawing room after tea, and start getting changed for pre-dinner drinks, I edge round the door and say β€œIs anyone planning a soak? I turned the Aga up just in case, but the hot tank’s starting to rumble. I’ll need to draw some of it off if no one wants it.” Someone always wants it and, when one breaks, they all follow.

Then I’ve got the drawing room back. Clear cups, suck scone crumbs up the dust buster, bang the cushions, lay out the nuts and nibbles ready for drinkies.

Dinner’s easier than breakfast by far. For a start, you can gong a sound to summon them and also everyone’s eating the same thing. But here’s a tip for after dinner: don’t ask who wants coffee when they’ve finally scraped the pattern off the plates in denial that the cheesecake’s finished. Because oh my God people can wonder aloud whether they want coffee for a long time. Here’s what I do. I take pots of coffee, decaff, cocoa and peppermint tea through to the dining room and leave them all on the table. Then I vamoose and shut the kitchen door, to start the dishes and dare a Hilda to come and bug me.

When I hear them all going to bed at last – a creaky staircase is a boon in a B&B – I collect the last of the dishes, I go and bang those damn cushions one more time, then it’s off to bumpkins for me too, alarm set for five, hoping I sleep on my back and wake with creaseless cheeks to face another day.


Giveaway: Leave a comment below for your chance to win a print copy of Go To My Grave. U.S. entries only, please. The giveaway ends October 24, 2018. Good luck everyone!


You can read more about Donna in Go To My Grave, a spine-tingling standalone Gothic thriller, coming October 23, 2018.

Donna Weaver has put everything she has into restoring The Breakers, an old bed and breakfast on a remote stretch of beach in Galloway. Now it sits waiting―freshly painted, richly furnished, filled with flowers―for the first guests to arrive.

But Donna’s guests, a contentious group of estranged cousins, soon realize that they’ve been here before, years ago. Decades have passed, but that night still haunts them: a sixteenth birthday party that started with peach schnapps and ended with a girl walking into the sea.

Each of them had made a vow of silence: β€œlock it in a box, stitch my lips, and go to my grave.”

But now someone has broken the pact. Amid the home-baked scones and lavish rooms, someone is playing games, locking boxes, stitching lips. And before the weekend is over, at least one of them will go to their grave.

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About the author
Catriona McPherson is the multi-award-winning author of the Dandy Gilver mysteries, set in Scotland in the 1930s where (but not when) she was born. She also writes darker (that’s not difficult) contemporary standalones, which have been Edgar and Mary Higgins Clark finalists. The latest is Go To My Grave, which Kirkus called “a virtuoso exploration of guilt, remorse, and revenge” in a starred review.

Catriona immigrated in 2010 and her first US-set mystery, Scot Free (the lighter side of the dark underbelly of the California dream), came out last year. LJ gave it a star and said β€œlaugh-out out loud whodunit, comparable to early Janet Evanovich”. Catriona lives in Solano County with a black cat and a scientist, and writes full-time. Reach out to Catriona at catrionamcpherson.com.

All comments are welcomed.