The Honeymoon Hotel Page 11

‘So you’d rather she got married to someone she didn’t love?’ Joe looked astonished. ‘For the sake of your spreadsheet?’

  I blushed furiously. It was exactly what I meant … and it wasn’t.

  ‘No!’ I took a deep breath. Joe was still my boss’s son. I shouldn’t project my own experiences onto this. ‘We take our wedding planning very seriously here, and of course we do everything we can to make sure we fulfil the bride’s and groom’s dreams, but it’s a service. It’s not our job to get involved in their relationships. We’re here to provide hospitality, not amateur psychotherapy. It’s none of our business. Good night!’ I added in a brighter tone, as a couple of Stephanie’s guests stumbled out of the bar and slunk past us towards the lifts. His hand on her bottom suggested that they were oblivious to anyone else around.

  The usher jumped, and the bridesmaid bumped into him. Joe and I smiled back in unison, and they waved and mumbled self-consciously.

  ‘Sympathy and whiskey cocktails are a dangerous combination,’ muttered Joe, still smiling.

  ‘As are high heels and hotel carpet,’ I muttered back.

  And pre-booked rooms and attractive friends of friends in black tie, I thought. Well, if they weren’t going to get the chance to have a drunken indiscretion at the wedding …

  ‘Good night!’ said Joe with a wave; then he turned back to me with a furrowed brow and a much less friendly tone.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Are you really such a business robot that you care more about the takings than two people making a lifetime commitment to each other?’

  ‘I’m not a business robot,’ I protested. ‘You’re assuming I don’t care about poor Richard in there, not knowing what was going on with Stephanie. And then having to tell everyone he knows that it’s all off. You don’t know them! I do! They’re a perfectly well-matched couple.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ he retorted. ‘And why poor Richard? Surely it’s way better to cancel things now than have Richard end up with a wife who doesn’t love him, just because she didn’t have the courage to tell him he wasn’t right for her? If you ask me, it should be part of the wedding planner’s job – to check they really do know what they want.’

  The knife was back, steely sharp under my ribs, taking my breath and my common sense away. A half-forgotten pain made me blurt out the words that leaped into my head.

  ‘Why is it any of your business?’

  ‘Because sometimes it’s easier for a stranger to be honest,’ said Joe, with an expression of humility that was a bit too Bono. ‘You have to be honest in life, Rosie. Yes, it’s sometimes hard, but it’s better to do this now than to get divorced in a year’s time.’

  ‘How on earth can you know that?’ I exploded. ‘Lots of people have pre-marriage wobbles. All brides do! It’s what happens when you spend four grand on a dress – it passes!’

  ‘That’s so English,’ snorted Joe. ‘Don’t talk about your feelings. Bottle it up. It’ll pass. Like love is some kind of virus.’

  ‘Viruses are forever,’ I snapped. ‘You’re thinking of a cold.’

  I stepped back to let a waitress come through with a silver room-service tray. She ducked as she went, as if she might get punched.

  ‘See that? That’s a lovely room-service supper,’ I said, pointing at it before Joe could comment. ‘I asked the kitchens to send something up to Stephanie and Richard. A really nice comfort-food supper. Don’t say I’m cold, because I’m not. I care a lot about this hotel, and everyone we look after here. A lot.’

  It all burst out more emotionally than I’d meant it to. Joe gave me a look that might have been about to turn into a question about whether I’d charged it to their room, but obviously something in my expression told him that was a bad idea. And I was pleased about that. It annoyed me to think he could be so wrong about my priorities.

  He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said instead.

  ‘It has.’

  An awkward silence spread between us. Joe seemed angry but not specifically with me. I was simmering inside, but not specifically with him.

  Although, no – I was pretty annoyed with him. If Joe was going to start playing the armchair counsellor with every client I had, I wasn’t even going to make it to August in my job, let alone meet any targets.

  It’s just for a few more weeks, I told myself. And then I could pass him on to Helen or Dino, and he could give them grief about the fat content of the tiramisu or whether we should only serve spritzers to people who looked like they might be alcoholics.

  The only problem was that I had Flora Thornbury and her mum booked in soon. There was no way I wanted Joe being ‘honest’ with Flora about her previous boyfriends or how she really felt about millionaire serial-fiancé Milo.

  (Yes, I’d done my research.)

  I was about to tell Joe, very calmly, that he needed to keep it buttoned from now on, when he disarmed me with a very charming smile. I hadn’t seen it before, and it took me by surprise.

  ‘How about a nightcap in the bar?’ he suggested. ‘Wind down a bit. I think Richard’s dad’s still in there. Seems like he wants some company now all the bridesmaids have turned in.’

  The abrupt change in mood threw me. Joe seemed relaxed enough, but blood was still pounding through my veins like turbo-charged treacle. How could he just switch off like that?

  ‘I need to get home,’ I said tightly. ‘We can talk about this in the morning.’

  ‘Haven’t we talked about it already?’ Joe shrugged and smiled again, more encouragingly this time. ‘It’s done. I hear you. Tact. Be more English. Move on. Come on, let’s have a drink.’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘What happens at midnight?’ He tipped his head. ‘Do you turn into a pumpkin? No, wait – it’d be something hotelly, right? Do you turn into a … room-service trolley?’

  I wanted to be friendly too, but I couldn’t. The talk of jilting had scraped against an old wound, and it was impossible to get the primness out of my voice. I didn’t like things going wrong like this. I struggled with myself.

  ‘No, I need to see my boyfriend,’ I said. ‘I … I need to discuss some stuff with him. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ve got a couple coming in to look around the hotel for their reception.’ I paused, not wanting to sound as snotty as I suspected I did.

  Joe regarded me wryly. ‘And you want me to sit there and shut up?’

  ‘No! Just … just think of it as an event we’re pitching,’ I said. ‘Not a wedding. A complicated, expensive, elegant event. With two people conducting a touching legal ceremony in the middle.’

  ‘That’s all it is to you? An event? Like signing a mortgage, but in front of a bunch of friends?’ Joe’s eyes searched my face with a teasing sort of disbelief, but I found myself resisting the invitation to joke. I could understand now why Stephanie had had had her mental filing thrown up in the air by Joe; something about him was simultaneously provoking, challenging and a bit unsettling. It wasn’t so much that he was good-looking – which I had to admit he was – but that he was … genuinely curious. He was that window letting a sharp spring breeze into a room. Sort of refreshing but also, well …

  ‘Yes. A really special event that means a lot to the people involved.’ I lifted my chin. ‘Leave the romance to the happy couple, and we’ll concentrate on everything else. It makes it easier all round.’

  ‘Really?’ said Joe softly, as if he didn’t believe me.

  I held his gaze for a few long moments. No, I thought, not really really. But I didn’t have the energy to explain myself right now. Not after a day like today. So I said nothing, a tactic that his mother had taught me for dealing with tricky management situations. Laurence found it unbearable.

  Joe, too, seemed to find it quite unsettling. He blinked and ran his hand through his hair again, then coughed.

  ‘Okay,’ he said with a wry half-smile. ‘Then I’ll see you in the morning.’

  I managed a smile. A
s I walked away down the corridor to get my bag from the office, I had the sense that he was watching me, and it took more concentration than normal not to scuff my heels on the thick hotel carpet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I woke up the next morning with a throbbing migraine, after a series of too-vivid dreams about being deserted at the altar by a skinny-dipping Stephanie Miller. The rest of the congregation behind me was also naked, and cross about it not being mentioned on the dress code, and in my dream I felt responsible for that too. It was a relief to open my eyes to see Dominic snoring away next to me. Snoring, and smelling of last night’s garlic vodka shots, but there.

  I left him in bed and got up, checking my phone repeatedly as I made myself breakfast in case there was a message from either Stephanie or Richard, but there was nothing. No messages on my work voicemail either. Despite what I’d said to Joe about a wedding ‘just being an event’, I felt terrible about poor Stephanie and poor Richard. And I felt even more terrible that them cancelling really would really make a hole on my Bridelizer, even with our cancellation clauses.

  I frowned at the boiling kettle. I couldn’t get Stephanie’s forlorn expression from last night out of my head. For the first time in ages – ever, maybe – I was torn between getting in to work to sort out this mess, and not wanting to go in at all, because of it.

  When Dominic did appear, looking rakish in the Noël Coward-esque dressing gown his mum had bought him for Christmas, he rolled his sleepy eyes at my attempts to eat porridge, check my phone, shovel down some ibruprofen and do my make-up all at the same time.

  ‘This new flat of ours,’ he said, pouring himself some coffee, ‘will it have a special room for you to do your early morning panic routine in? You’re making me feel like I’ve forgotten to revise for an exam.’

  ‘I think you’re overestimating our budget again,’ I said, blinking my mascara dry. ‘We can only just afford three whole rooms as it is. Anyway, I only ever see you in the mornings. I relish these brief moments of intimacy.’

  ‘So do I, darling. Why are we out of bran flakes?’ Dominic was opening and shutting the kitchen cupboards. ‘Oh, hang on! Have you been at my special marmalade?’

  ‘I thought it was just marmalade.’ Still no texts. Had Stephanie and Richard checked out? ‘Sorry.’

  Dominic made a grumbling noise. He was quite territorial about his cupboards. Upstairs, downstairs, in the bathroom. It probably came from being at boarding school. I was hoping that would change when we moved into the new place and made a fresh start, with our cupboards, although I couldn’t completely dismiss the mental image of Dominic going round bagging the biggest cupboards for himself.

  ‘You’re very welcome to do some shopping,’ I added. ‘Then you can order in what you want.’

  He made another noise that might have been ‘But you’re so much better at it.’

  ‘Are you out this evening?’ I asked as he sat down at the breakfast bar with his coffee and nicked my piece of toast.

  ‘Um, yes. Work thing.’

  ‘Want me to come with you? I’ve got an early finish.’

  ‘What?’ Dominic looked horrified. ‘God, no, don’t waste your night off – it’s just a boring drinks thing. You enjoy some downtime. Have a bath, watch a film. Relax.’

  I peered at him over my coffee. ‘But I’d love to come with you. I’d like to meet some of your work colleagues.’

  It was true: I rarely got the chance to meet Dominic’s friends because of my stupid hours, but the ones I had met were a lot of fun. Plus, Caroline was always nudging me to make some contacts outside the hospitality network, to expand the possibilities for corporate entertaining at the hotel, and Dominic’s office was full not only of journalists but of other trendy Hoxton types – the sorts of hipsters who owned pop-up art galleries or ran charity fundraisers – all of which could usefully be translated into events.

  ‘You really don’t,’ he said evasively.

  ‘Are you ashamed of Betty?’ I pretended to pout. ‘Have you told them I’m six foot and a blonde lingerie model? Are you worried I won’t be as funny in real life? Or—’ I pushed a Scooby Doo style finger into my cheek, ‘is there more than one Betty?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Dominic. ‘How many meals do you think one man can eat in a week?’

  I laughed, and was about to ask if he wanted any more toast when my phone finally pinged with a text and I grabbed it eagerly.

  It was from Stephanie:

  Checking out now. Wedding off. We need some thinking time. Will be in touch. Thank you for all you’ve done. Best, S

  ‘Oh, bollocks,’ I breathed. A cold hand clutched at my chest. Technically, it was for the best. And it wasn’t anything to do with me, I was just their planner. But at the same time, that was a big wedding I’d just lost for the hotel. Not only for my department, but for the bar, the rooms – everything. Laurence would want a full explanation.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Dominic was reading my stricken face. He didn’t make a joke, for which I was grateful.

  ‘I might need to come out for a drink tonight,’ I said. ‘That couple from the rehearsal dinner I told you about? They’ve cancelled their wedding.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry to hear that, Rosie,’ he said. ‘But it’s not your fault, before you even try to tell me it is.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I felt a bit wobbly. ‘Shouldn’t I have … noticed something was up?’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Dominic. ‘It’s your job to notice if the wine’s corked and if the ushers are pissed. Everything else is up to them. And the customer is always right, remember?’

  I smiled, but it felt tremulous. What was Joe going to say? He’d probably be pleased. Was I? I honestly didn’t know.

  ‘How’s this going to make me look to Laurence?’ My voice cracked. ‘General managers don’t lose big bookings like this at the last minute, do they?’

  ‘Come here.’ Dominic held out his arms, and I walked into them, grateful for his comforting hug that smelled of sleepy bloke and my good shower gel. ‘You stay in tonight and treat yourself. Get a takeaway. And, listen, I’m seeing the managing editor’s secretary at this drinks thing tonight. They haven’t finalized a venue for the Christmas party yet – I’ll tell them I can swing a great deal at this very chic London hotel I know.’

  ‘Would you?’ I brightened up a bit. ‘That’d help.’

  ‘No problem.’ Dominic detached himself and went back to his coffee. ‘You can thank me in the form of special marmalade.’

  ‘I’ll go past Fortnum’s on my way home.’ I shouldered my bag and grabbed my jacket. The day was looking slightly brighter.

  ‘Love you, Dom,’ I said, and kissed his head as I left.

  ‘Don’t forget the marmalade,’ he replied, which wasn’t quite the same thing, but I was too relieved to care.

  *

  I was determined not to let last night’s drama affect the wedding meeting I had lined up for that afternoon: Polly Stewart and Dan Clayton, a lovely couple whom I’d met a few times already. Polly particularly was a dream Bonneville bride: in love with vintage dresses, classic films and proper heels. The wedding was themed around Breakfast at Tiffany’s: a long column dress for her, bridesmaids in turquoise, and strings of sugar pearls all around the cake. If Polly could have had the wedding ceremony conducted in black-and-white, I think she would.

  Joe had turned up to the meeting in a fresh shirt and with a fresher new attitude. I didn’t know if Laurence had spoken to him overnight or if what I’d said about our wedding style at the Bonneville had sunk in, but he seemed determined to stay in the background, and just made notes and smiled at the couple every so often like a benevolent vicar.

  The only minor hiccup was Dan’s unexpected request to have ‘Perfect Day’ as their first dance, rather than ‘Moon River,’ which I knew Polly was planning to choreograph as their first dance as a surprise.

  ‘It’s my favourite song,’ Dan whined when I made diplomatic Are you
sure? noises. ‘It’s a classic!’

  I glanced over at Polly, who clearly didn’t agree. ‘It’s quite a … melancholy tune,’ I said. ‘Bit sad?’

  ‘“Perfect Day”? What’s melancholy about that?’

  ‘What about a swing version?’ suggested Joe, coming to life for the first time. ‘Best of both worlds. Upbeat and classic!’

  Polly looked horrified. So did Dan, come to that.

  ‘I think we should stick to what we’ve agreed,’ I said firmly. ‘“Moon River” is a beautiful choice. Maybe “Perfect Day” for the … follow-up dance? Okay? Brilliant. Now, did you two reach a decision about where you want to cut the cake?’

  Joe opened his mouth to argue, but I gave him a swift kick under the table, and gratefully Polly moved the conversation on.

  *

  We waved Polly and Dan off from the sunny front steps, and I waited until their black cab had safely pulled away before turning to Joe, who was idly tossing the remaining sweets into his mouth as if they were mint imperials off the bar and not handmade petits fours.

  ‘Before you start on all the things I shouldn’t have said,’ he began, seeing my expression, ‘what was all that about? Can’t they even choose their own first dance now?’

  ‘For the record,’ I said, in as friendly a way as I could manage, ‘you might want to have a look at the list of songs we recommend for first dances.’

  ‘We recommend them? Isn’t that the kind of thing couples have picked out years in advance?’

  ‘Well, yes, but sometimes what feels right when they were planning the wedding at home doesn’t always work when you factor in the setting, the band, the moment …’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  I pushed my way back in through the brass revolving doors, and set off down the corridor towards my office. Joe loped along beside me. His long athletic strides made me more conscious of my own mincing steps in my pencil skirt and high heels, and for some reason that annoyed me too.

  ‘All right, so you’d prefer them to do a proper waltz, but I like “Perfect Day”. Didn’t you like my compromise? A big-band version? Although if they wanted “Firestarter” by The Prodigy, I still think you should let them have it.’