The Honeymoon Hotel Read online

  It wasn’t even half past eight. I blocked his way. ‘They’re your children,’ I protested. There had to be health and safety regulations about this. ‘Ellie specified that only you should take care of them.’

  ‘Don’t I know it? That woman can be surprisingly vindictive.’

  I went to run a hand through my hair and stopped myself; already my fringe was standing up. ‘Laurence, I can’t look after them. I’ve got a wedding today, and there’s loads still to do. And I need Gemma, before you ask. Ah!’

  It dawned on me with all the comforting shoulder-squeeze of a truly perfect idea.

  ‘Joe!’ I nearly punched the air. ‘He’s their half-brother. He can babysit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe. Has he met them?’

  ‘Um, I think he was at their christening – it’s a bit of a blur …’

  ‘Good. He can get to know them now. Where is he?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him this morning,’ said Laurence, just as a messy-haired Joe came yawning round the corner from the direction of the restaurant, half a croissant in one hand and his phone in the other.

  I ignored my irritation that he clearly hadn’t got my email about being ready for an early start, supervizing the final arrangements for the 2 p.m. ceremony, and fixed my brightest smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Joe, then saw my smile. ‘Oh, God. What have I done?’

  ‘Laurence has a job for you,’ I said. ‘And if you get stuck for ideas, Sam, our concierge, can get you tickets for The Lion King. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and have a word with the kitchens about the buffet.’

  And I went off to find Helen.

  *

  The rest of the morning passed in a hustle: checking the hairdresser and make-up artist into the bridal suite; making sure the chief bridesmaid, Lucy, didn’t hog said hairdresser and make-up artist; checking the rooms; liaising with the registrars; and all the other million and one tiny details I worried about so the bride didn’t have to.

  My bad feeling was about the best man, Steven.

  I’d been outside by the service entrance, making a discreet call to my friend in the lounge at Heathrow to see if we could swing an upgrade for the honeymooners, when I bumped into him, also on the phone. He was laughing in that smirky, lads-together way that set off my Best Man Alarm Bells.

  ‘… seriously, you lot are going to piss yourselves when you see what I’ve got lined up for Pete’s speech … Yeah … Yeah, I hope Nat’s got a sense of humour …’

  When he saw me, he hung up swiftly, and his guilty look only confirmed my suspicions. But even though I told Gemma and Helen to keep their eyes and ears open, we were so busy that none of us had time to hang around in the hope of overhearing something else.

  ‘You could send Joe to get the goss from the ushers,’ Helen suggested as we helped the temp staff finish off the airy ballroom, which had been given a warm autumnal glow with orange and cream roses, speckled ivy, and tiny pumpkins with tea lights ready to be lit when dusk fell.

  ‘Joe’s busy with his half siblings.’ I straightened a heavy silver knife so it was perfectly parallel with the gold-rimmed plate. ‘And will be until well after this wedding’s over.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not missing a trick there?’ suggested Helen. ‘He’s your man for infiltrating lads. They’d tell him anything. Give him a call, send him undercover in the bar.’

  ‘What? So he can upgrade the prank to a disaster? No way. While the wedding’s happening, I prefer Joe where I can’t see him,’ I said. ‘Babysitting.’

  Helen looked me straight in the eye. Now Seamus, and the post-split gloom, was ancient history, she’d gone back to her usual precision operating. ‘Aren’t you just cutting off your nose to spite your face there? I’m telling you, ask Joe to find out what’s happening, because you need to nix the surprise for the groom, whatever it is. I’ll get one of the girls to babysit the kids while they’re napping. This is something he’s good at.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. I hated it when Helen was right about Joe. ‘But when this descends into a total farce, I will be blaming you.’

  I didn’t even have time to think about it, because at that point, Joe himself strolled in. On his own, not a blond-haired wrecking ball in sight.

  ‘Chill,’ he said, raising an annoying hand before I could speak. ‘They’re having a nap. I popped them in that big room, with the big bed … the honeymoon suite? Ripley’s been eating the chocolates on the pillow.’

  My mouth dropped open, and he laughed. ‘You are too easy,’ he said, doing unspeakable double finger-gun jabby-jabby movements. ‘They’re in Dad’s flat. With Dad. They’re all asleep.’

  For someone who’d had London’s demon children for several hours, I thought Joe looked surprisingly unruffled. I was even more amazed he’d wrangled Laurence back to look after them.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got the knack,’ said Helen, impressed.

  ‘They’re no bother. Well, Ripley’s going through a song and dance phase – she won’t take her tap shoes off.’

  ‘Tap shoes are an improvement,’ I said. ‘Last time they were here, Ripley refused to get off her tricycle. She rode it through the restaurant like the kid from The Shining, then rammed the kedgeree cart until they filled up her breakfast bucket. Otto didn’t even ram the cart. He just stood in front of it, freaking out the server.’

  Joe laughed. I wasn’t joking.

  ‘Listen, Rosie needs a favour,’ said Helen, glancing at me.

  I glared at her, then said, ‘Um, I think something’s going to happen with the best man. I need you to keep an eye on him.’

  Joe folded his arms and looked ‘patient’. It was an improvement on ‘confused’ but only just. ‘Do you actually know that?’ he asked. ‘Or is this just you extending the iron fist of bridal control again?’

  ‘No, she knows. Rosie’s like one of those dogs who can tell when a tornado’s coming,’ Helen explained. ‘Or one of those horses who can predict earthquakes.’

  ‘Nice image. Does she tap out warnings with her hooves? One tap for, “He’s lost the rings”? Two taps for, “He’s shagging the bridesmaid”?’

  ‘Can we be serious for a moment?’ I demanded. ‘I overheard the best man talking to someone on his mobile, and he’s definitely planning a surprise at the speeches. And Natalie really doesn’t like surprises. She bought her own engagement ring, and made me brief Peter about what to say in his speech.’

  ‘We’re run off our feet here,’ said Helen, ‘so we need you to keep an eye on him.’

  Joe looked more interested. ‘What? Like, track him? Or do you want me to try to talk him out of whatever he’s doing?’ His expression turned questioning – the annoying kind of questioning. ‘Maybe it’s just banter, though? Should we really be interrupting the last man-to-man moments for the groom and his mate? What if there’s something Peter needs to know?’

  ‘No!’ I surprised myself with how forcefully it came out.

  Helen and Joe both looked shocked.

  ‘No,’ I repeated, nettled by Joe’s lack of concern for the rest of the wedding party. ‘That’s what the stag night’s for. This is Natalie’s day, and she’s really not going to appreciate some embarrassing slideshow of … of the groom’s bits, or whatever he’s got lined up. Never underestimate what a sense-of-humour failure some people can have at weddings. Oh, God.’ I clutched my head. ‘I knew I should have checked Steven’s speech …’

  ‘Nothing’s perfect, Rosie,’ said Joe, with a rather patronizing head tilt.

  ‘My weddings are as close to perfect as the Met Office will allow,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘No one remembers perfect,’ said Joe. ‘But they do remember fun. And little things that go wrong. It makes it personal,’

  I gave Helen a look which I hoped said, Thanks, Helen. Great idea.

  ‘Just keep an eye on this guy.’ Helen remained unruffled by the potential additional chaos now being unleashed. ‘Find out wh
at he’s planning if you can. Offer to help. And then nip it in the bud.’

  ‘Quietly,’ I added. ‘And tell me what’s going on. And don’t let Natalie know.’

  He grinned. ‘I appreciate your trust, ladies. Leave it with me.’ Then Joe managed to pull out an irritating gesture beyond anything he’d done so far: he did a mock salute, spun on his heel, and left.

  I turned to Helen and opened my mouth. No words would come out.

  ‘Don’t start,’ she said, and pointed at the napkins. ‘Get folding.’

  *

  I watched all the ushers – and Joe – like a hawk for the next couple of hours. Joe kept making it’s all fine! secret gestures to me, which worried me more than the skulking best man, to be honest, but there was nothing I could do; and by two o’clock, to my relief, the wedding of Natalie Thompson and Peter Lloyd was finally under way in the courtyard.

  The hotel looked breathtakingly romantic in the soft autumn sunshine, I thought, as I made some final glass checks on the champagne reception in the foyer. A few bronze leaves were circling lazily down from the tall trees and the long windows reflected the fluffy clouds drifting across the blue sky. I just couldn’t quite shake the horrible feeling that I’d given Joe permission to destroy an entire reception.

  The unnatural smooth atmosphere went on until twenty past two, when the drama arrived, in the form of Gemma, the eagerest bearer of bad news in the business.

  ‘Rosie! Rosie! I’ve been looking for you for ages!’ Gemma darted around the corner so fast she nearly skidded into a tower of white roses. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, making her hands into claws of panic. ‘I heard something. That best man. Steven?’

  My heart flipped. ‘What? What did you hear? When?’

  ‘He was on the phone, outside. I don’t know who he was talking to, but he told them what time the reception started, and when his speech would be, and said something like … “burst in and wave it around”.’

  ‘Wave what around?’ I stared at her. ‘A gun? A marriage licence? What else would you wave around? No, actually, don’t answer that.’

  There was a ripple of applause from the courtyard, indicating that Natalie was now the newest Mrs Lloyd, and that the guests were raring to get started on the champagne reception in the foyer.

  ‘Oh, no, they’re coming!’ Gemma looked aghast. The string quartet started up in the little alcove between the courtyard and the foyer where the waiters were standing with their silver trays of flutes. ‘It Had To Be You’ floated down the corridor.

  ‘Where’s Helen?’

  ‘Kitchens.’

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Great. Great.

  ‘Tell Tam to keep an eye on the doors,’ I said. ‘And then find Joe and tell him to stick to the best man like glue.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gemma.

  ‘If worse comes to worst,’ I said, ‘I’ll just deploy Laurence’s FCT again.’

  ‘FCT?’

  ‘Free champagne tactic. Father of the bride, speeches, got a bit personal about the mother of the bride, nasty divorce,’ I explained rapidly, my attention now on the first guests streaming into the foyer in search of canapés. ‘Couldn’t stop him, so Laurence sent waiters in with free champagne for a toast – everyone stopped listening, he lost his thread, I got the best man to do an impromptu toast, all sorted.’

  ‘Rosie, you are amazing,’ said Gemma admiringly.

  ‘I do my best,’ I said, my eyes scanning the horizon for misbehaving best men.

  Natalie and Peter had now sailed into the foyer, bathed in the light falling from the cupola above them. Natalie looked radiant. Peter looked stunned but happy. Steven, the best man, looked smug, in that rugby-club prankster way that made me even more determined to nip his antics in the bud.

  There was no sign of Joe. I’d just have to deal with this myself, as usual. I couldn’t help feeling … a little disappointed?

  I adjusted the hidden headset in my fascinator, and clicked it on. ‘Okay, Gemma,’ I said. ‘Let’s do this.’

  *

  In the main reception room, all two hundred guests were taking their seats, a genteel selection of elderly relatives, respectable university friends and other teachers, none of whom were talking above a polite murmur as the musicians carried on playing in the foyer and the chink of glass and cutlery began as the meal was served.

  Somehow the calm only made me more nervous. That and the fact that Joe was evading Gemma’s best efforts to track him down, and wasn’t answering his phone.

  The meal went off without a hitch, and by quarter past four, right on schedule, I gave the prearranged sign to Graeme, the father of the bride, that his moment had come. (The prearranged sign was a small tot of brandy, served discreetly by one of the waitresses.)

  I watched as he stared at the glass for three seconds, then knocked the shot back and stood up, and I turned on the hidden microphone in his table display.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family …’ he began, and the speeches were under way.

  I pressed my headset. ‘Anything?’ I whispered to Gemma, who was outside doing a final check on the loos to make sure no guests were missing the speeches.

  ‘Nothing.’

  The best man, Steven, caught me looking at him, and smirked.

  ‘… Burst in and wave it around …’ rang in my head.

  Since there was nothing I could do, I forced myself to think damage limitation. Maybe Joe was right, I thought. Maybe I was being a bit controlling? How bad could it be? Probably just some photo of Peter in a dress at another stag do. All rugby players had at least three of those. And they were family here. They’d just laugh.

  My eye fell on the guests nearest the top table. A whole table of white-haired aunts and uncles of the bride, smiling benignly up at Graeme. Two were wearing clerical collars. One looked like he might be a High Court judge.

  On the other hand …

  I swallowed.

  Natalie’s dad’s speech was sweet and heartfelt, about what a gift Natalie had always been to him and Kathryn, his lovely wife of thirty-four years (‘as of this weekend!’). Then Peter got up, to some more raucous applause. The champagne was taking hold. He kicked off with the usual, ‘My wife and I …’ line, and this time the cheering was a bit beerier.

  My headset crackled. ‘Red alert,’ said Gemma’s voice. ‘I’ve just spoken to one of the chambermaids, and she says she thinks there might be someone in the honeymoon suite?’

  I froze, torn between dashing up to sort it out, and staying put to make sure nothing happened.

  It’d take me two minutes to get upstairs, if I took my shoes off and ran. Two minutes to get back. A minute to deal if there was nothing, ten if there was a problem.

  Over at the top table, Steven the best man gave me a knowing eyebrow raise. One that said, I know something you don’t, love.

  ‘Go and check, and report back,’ I said into my headset. ‘I’m staying here with the best man.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Gemma, and crackled off.

  She didn’t buzz me again. Peter finished his speech to generous applause, and then the best man got to his feet. My stomach muscles tightened. I could tell from the way he kept glancing at me, at the door, at the groom, then back at the door, that something was definitely up.

  ‘When Pete asked me to be his best man, I was honoured,’ Steven began, with a leer at the bride. ‘I asked him why he’d chosen me for this esteemed position, and he said, “Steven, you’re the man I want by my side on the most important day of my life. And also because you know a lot of good lawyers to deal with the aftermath of the stag. Wa-hey.”’

  ‘Heeeeuuuurrrrrgggggghhh!’ roared the assembled members of Steven and Peter’s rugby club.

  The two vicars and the High Court judge nearest the top table stiffened in their seats.

  Natalie’s smile turned rigid, and a red flush appeared across her cheekbones.

  ‘Now, when I say that Peter an
d his stags had a good time in Prague, I mean we all had a bloody good time. Mentioning no names! But when I say we had a good time, maybe I should be a little more specific. I mean, you’re safe now, Pete, she’s said yes!’

  Natalie glanced over at me anxiously. I smiled back, but kicked myself for not ‘dropping in’ on the groom’s breakfast to head this off at the pass.

  I pressed my headset. ‘Anything?’ I whispered. ‘Gemma?’

  There was no reply. ‘Gemma? Where’s Joe?’

  The words froze on my lips. I saw her before anyone else did, through the long glass double doors, approaching from the foyer like a tidal wave of inappropriateness.

  A woman – or at least, I thought so; she could have been a slightly underambitious transvestite – in a leather miniskirt and bustier top, and the sort of waist-length blond extensions designed for twirling around at the same time as the wearer’s nipple tassels. She had a determined expression on her face, but that might have been on account of our slippery carpet and the very high Perspex shoes she was wearing.

  I held my breath, paralyzed with indecision. If I made a move, it would attract attention; if I didn’t …

  I could not let this happen. But what to do? Head her off? Stop Steven? A few people near the door had also noticed her now, and a general ripple was spreading among the tables, like a sort of communal embarrassment at where this speech could be headed. They had no idea how much worse the destination could yet be.

  My head flicked back and forth between the advancing stripper and Steven’s red face, like a tomato above his tight morning dress. I didn’t know what to do. The powerlessness gripped me.

  What was it she was carrying? She was clutching something in her hand.

  Something white and plastic.

  Small, white, and plastic.

  Was that a … pregnancy test?

  No. I’d heard of some bad-taste best men’s speeches before, but this was by far the worst.

  Then, just as I thought I’d have to scream myself and pretend I’d had a vision of the Virgin Mary in the wedding cake, the stripper suddenly looked shocked and disappeared from view through the glass in the doors, sideways, like a tree being felled.