The Honeymoon Hotel Read online

  ‘I know, I know. Well. That’s … quite an ambitious proposal,’ said Laurence. ‘You’re only thirty.’

  ‘I realize that,’ I replied, ‘but look at the budgets I’ve been managing. And I can bring things to the role that an outsider can’t. I’ve been working in this hotel since I was sixteen years old. I know every room inside out, and I understand the family approach, all the traditions. I totally share your vision about reviving the Bonneville’s reputation but in a modern way. That’s starting to happen, with the weddings. People are talking about us being one of the classic, traditional wedding venues. That’s a brilliant marketing keystone. We can make the Bonneville the ultimate honeymoon destination again, as well as being the ultimate London wedding venue. Can’t you see it? The Bonneville … London’s Honeymoon Hotel.’

  I realized I was two seconds away from jabbing at the desk as if I were in a film. Something about Laurence’s office had that effect on me. All the black-and-white photos, probably. I sat back in my chair, feeling exhilarated. My heart was hammering in my chest; I really believed what I’d just said – it wasn’t what I’d rehearsed with Dominic at all.

  Laurence opened his mouth to say something, but I had another sudden persuasive brainwave.

  ‘Think how expensive it would be advertising for a new manager,’ I pointed out. ‘And then there are the interviews, the contract negotiations, the in-house training you’d have to do …’

  That hit home. Laurence hated anything that smacked of extra work, or more time with Diane, the inefficient but annoyingly unsackable HR manager.

  ‘What if …’ he said, and I knew from the way he placed his fingertips carefully together, one by one, that he was plucking ideas out of the air while pretending to deliberate in a sage fashion. ‘What if … we set a target?’

  ‘A target?’

  ‘Yes.’ Laurence glanced down at the spreadsheets I’d handed him. ‘What if you aim to increase the revenue you’re generating on your weddings by, um, twenty per cent, and get the hotel some coverage in, say, three national magazines.’

  I blinked, still working out how many more weddings I’d have to book to up my revenue by twenty per cent. ‘Three?’

  ‘Why not?’ Laurence shrugged as if national magazine coverage was something he sorted out all the time. ‘One big-name wedding would do that, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes, but what …’ I stopped. He’d clearly forgotten that I did have a big-name wedding lined up: the ‘English rose’ model Flora Thornbury, whose mother was an old friend of Caroline’s. But that wasn’t a done deal. That was just a breakfast intervew so far.

  ‘And then you’d promote me to general manager?’ I tried to keep my expression bold but professional, despite my heart rate going through the roof.

  ‘I don’t want to rush into a decision,’ said Laurence firmly. ‘But, Rosie, I do see you as a strong contender for this position, and if you can meet this target, then …’

  ‘By?’

  He looked anxious. ‘Bye? You’d leave?’

  ‘No, when do I have to meet the target by?’ I repeated.

  ‘By, um …’ Again with the thoughtful/idea-plucking fingertips. ‘By the end of next summer.’

  I narrowly prevented myself from saying, ‘You want us to cope without Paul for another year?’ but instead managed, ‘And you can put that in writing?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘And in the meantime, who’s going to do the manager’s job?’

  He swung on his chair and did not, I noted, seem keen to meet my eye. ‘We seem to be getting along all right, don’t we? Splitting the duties among the departmental heads?’

  ‘It’s a lot of extra work,’ I reminded him, ‘for not much overtime. Gemma’s already assisting you and me and doing reception shifts – I can’t delegate much more to her.’

  ‘Well, I have some ideas in hand,’ said Laurence mysteriously.

  ‘For what?’

  He mumbled something that I didn’t catch and then pushed himself away from the desk. ‘Rosie, you struck a chord there, with what you were saying about honeymoons. Call me an old romantic, but when I was chatting with your bride and groom this weekend, it did remind me of the good old days, when I was a little boy and we had some wonderful receptions here. Bit of glamour again in the Palm Court, folk all dressed up in hats and morning suits … Did I ever tell you that there used to be a dedicated girl just to spruce up guests’ sables in the coat check …’

  He got up and started wandering around his office, picking up the framed photographs and putting them down again with a wistful huff.

  I knew where this was going. Despite being only in his late fifties, Laurence was a big fan of ‘the good old days,’ when London was being bombed to smithereens but martinis were still being quaffed in the Bonneville’s wine cellar/air raid shelter by Errol Flynn et al. He claimed to remember all kinds of things that he’d technically require a TARDIS to have experienced.

  He gazed at a photograph of Ava Gardner sharing a glass of champagne with his grandfather, the reckless serial adulterer who, Caroline once told me, had nearly gambled the hotel away in a game of Scrabble. The Bonneville had been saved, ironically, by a lucky triple word score. ‘It’s very unusual, you know, for a hotel to stay in one family for so long. I often wonder what advice my dad would give to me, if he had his time again.’

  ‘Yeeees,’ I said, with a surreptitious glance at my watch. I hoped this wasn’t anything to do with Ellie going off on another ‘girls’ holiday’ and handing over Ripley and Otto to their father. Melancholy discussions about the importance of ‘family’ and the need for them to ‘understand the hotel’ frequently led to me being asked to babysit Laurence’s second family, something I tried to avoid at all costs. I’d never met two under-fives with such world-weariness about Hamleys and Father Christmas.

  Laurence blinked at Ava, put her down, and looked at me with a directness that could be disarmingly charming if you weren’t prepared for it.

  But I was. I looked straight back at him. ‘Laurence?’

  He seemed to be on the verge of telling me something; then his expression changed.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Monday morning! Plenty to do, eh?’

  ‘Of course.’ Especially if you had to increase your wedding revenue by twenty per cent. I got to my feet, and was almost at the leather-covered door when I remembered that Laurence had initially seemed to want me for something.

  ‘What was it you wanted me for?’ I asked.

  He looked blank, then a bit shifty, then turned back to his computer. ‘Not to worry,’ he said airily, ‘nothing important.’

  Which of course meant it was exactly the opposite, but irritatingly, I couldn’t ask. So I just smiled, and left to start crunching numbers before the confetti people arrived. And also crunching as many of Delphine’s langues de chat as Helen could nick out of the kitchen for me. I was going to need serious amounts of sugar to meet Laurence’s targets, but I knew one thing: I was going to work out a way to meet them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fortunately my first chance to meet my new wedding target arrived the following morning, in the shape of Sadie Hunter and her mother, Margot. I’d already spoken to Sadie on the phone, and now I just had to persuade her mother, who was stumping up the cash for the wedding, that the Bonneville was the venue of their (but mainly Margot’s) dreams.

  These initial client meetings were always nerve-racking, but I enjoyed them, because showing off the Bonneville and all its wedding-day potential was easy. Unlike some hotels, designed for business or efficiency, the Bonneville didn’t need to wrap gauze round metal conference chairs and put up extra flower displays to hide ugly fire doors: you could see the romantic mood already in the intimate alcoves and the lovely double staircases in the foyer, curving like two elegant swans’ necks to the mezzanine level where the musicians played. I loved watching the possibilities dawn on the bride as we walked around, and I told them stories about previous weddings,
and also the hotel’s celebrity-filled past. We offered ceremonies in the courtyard where dukes had proposed to actresses, in the ballroom where debs and officers had fallen urgently in love during the war, and in the cosy library during the winter. Each event was tailored exactly to the bride’s vision, which, after an hour of anecdotes, usually coincided with the classic and sophisticated wedding I wanted to arrange for her.

  My job was to combine the magical atmosphere of the hotel with the not very romantic financial specifics of our wedding package, a diplomatic business art Caroline had taught me, and which I was trying to pass on to Gemma, with less success.

  I could see Gemma’s attention was wandering already as we prepared my office for the Hunter meeting. I used the official events meeting room for arranging conferences or charity functions, but when I was talking to brides I preferred my own small office: a morning room next door to Laurence’s office, decorated in pale fondant colours with misty watercolour paintings of London scenes on the walls. It looked out onto the garden through French windows, with the wedding fountain in full view. I liked to set the scene from the start, hence the cream and pink roses I was arranging on the desk.

  ‘Gemma?’ I said, as she dumped some wedding magazines unceremoniously in the wastepaper basket instead of fanning them out on the coffee table as instructed.

  ‘What? Sorry …’

  ‘Remember, this is about the light touch,’ I said. ‘Think dream hotel. I want this to be everything Sadie Hunter’s been picturing in her mind when she’s been imagining her wedding. If we get this right, ideally she’ll book it today, before she sees anywhere else.’

  ‘Is she looking at other places?’

  ‘All brides are looking at other places, even if they say they’re not.’ I moved to the sofa and plumped up the round satin cushions with swift punches. ‘But we’re special. We’re unique and personal, and we can offer Sadie the sort of wedding that’ll feel as if she’s starring in her own romantic film. From the moment she steps through the door this morning, I want her to feel as if the whole world’s gone into black-and-white, and there’s a string orchestra playing in the background.’

  Gemma paused to make a note in her ever-present notebook. ‘So we should put the Ella Fitzgerald CD on?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said patiently, ‘put the Ella Fitzgerald CD on. We’ll have morning coffee served in the lounge once we’ve done the tour – can you ask Delphine for the special mini pastries? The pretty ones that look like shells. I want to sell Sadie the mothers’ afternoon tea package as well as the wedding.’ I paused as she wrote it down. Her mouth formed the words ‘afternoon’ and ‘tea’.

  ‘Now. Have I forgotten anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Hen package?’

  ‘The attendants’ treat,’ I corrected her. ‘Hens go to Blackpool, attendants drink special cocktails and have massages at the Bonneville. And yes, we’ll talk to her about the spa and the girls’ pampering weekend, and about the stag do Sam can arrange from here, to keep it all under control.’ I checked my notes. Brides liked our stag night package. And once the groom and best man had talked to Sam, they were quite keen on it too.

  ‘Have I missed anything?’

  Gemma tapped the pen against her lips. ‘Keeping the hotel clear? I’ll remind Dino not to let the lads deliver the lager through the main bar till she’s gone,’ she said. ‘Don’t want two sweaty delivery men spoiling the magic.’

  ‘Good,’ I said approvingly. ‘You’re getting the hang of this.’

  *

  Sadie and her mother arrived bearing a thick folder each, and with a list of questions about a mile long. Sadie’s were mainly about rose petals and places the hired London bus bringing her from the church could park; Margot’s were more about cost per head. It didn’t put me off; I liked providing quick and reassuring answers to bridal questions. I’d heard most of them.

  Sadie informed me that she’d set up a wedding Pinterest board and whipped out her iPad so she could ‘run through the themes and moods’. ‘The theme I want is Golden Age of Hollywood,’ she explained as we swiped our way through her gallery of moody brides in lace cloches and images of icy martini glasses. ‘Style, elegance, satin, romance.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve come to the right place for that,’ I said, pouring them some tea from the silver pot in front of us on the low table. ‘We could book you into the same junior suite Grace Kelly used to reserve, the one overlooking the park?’

  ‘Really? Did she stay here?’ Sadie looked starstruck.

  ‘She did. She had a special extra-deep bath installed. The taps were flown in from France and installed overnight for her. She had a special key so she could let herself in through the kitchens, to avoid any photographers.’ I loved all these vintage details – I’d spent hours poring over the yellowed documents in Laurence’s archives, fascinated by the luggage lists and special-request notes.

  Margot Hunter raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought she stayed at the Connaught? There are all those photographs of her arriving at the front door …’

  ‘Oh, she did stay there, yes.’ I nodded. ‘But quite a few stars used to stay at the Bonneville when they didn’t want to be seen, if you know what I mean.’ I smiled enigmatically. ‘They wanted to be treated just like regular people, which is fine, because our ethos is to treat all our guests like Hollywood stars.’

  ‘Ooh,’ sighed Sadie, and I knew I’d just added another bride to my year’s tally.

  *

  I sent Gemma ahead to sweep the corridors clear of all chambermaids and cleaning carts, and ushered the Hunters into the elevator, pointing out the polished brass stars on the ceiling as well as the hidden uplights that gave everyone a flattering candlelit glow. With that, Margot Hunter abandoned her practical questions about seating numbers and plug sockets in the rooms and joined in with Sadie’s eager questions about the hotel’s glamorous past.

  I happily told them about how the ballroom swung to the sound of the house band with trumpeters moonlighting from Buckingham Palace, and about the secret tunnel from the Bonneville to the umbrella shop across the road that used to be an underground jazz club before the war.

  ‘The whole third floor was designed to accommodate foreign dignitaries travelling with large retinues – the rooms can be opened out into one long area,’ I explained as I led Sadie and her mother down the corridor towards the bridal suite. ‘It makes it perfect for our wedding parties now, of course. The bride’s room is one of our biggest on its own, but it also has folding doors at the far end, so you can open it all up and have the attendants and the bride getting ready together if you want!’

  ‘Oh, that’s a lovely idea!” Sadie actually clasped her hands together.

  ‘And I can keep an eye on Amy if we’re all together,’ said her mother, darkly. ‘Make sure she doesn’t decide to make some alterations to her bridesmaid’s dress, like she did at your cousin’s wedding …’

  ‘Mum! She wouldn’t. Just think of the gorgeous reportage photos …’

  I was feeling very confident now. ‘There’s a wonderful moment when the bride pulls back the folding doors and her family see her for the first time in her gown – really special. Even I always end up in floods of tears.’

  As we turned the corner, I was surprised to see Gemma with Maricruz, the most thorough of our chambermaids, outside the white double doors of the bridal suite. They both looked confused, which was more normal for Gemma than Maricruz, who usually appeared all too aware of what was going on.

  Maricruz had one hand on the glass doorknob; she removed it, then she grabbed it again, and then, when she saw me and the Hunters, she let go of it as if it were red-hot, and shoved her hand into her green apron.

  ‘Good morning, Maricruz!’ I said cheerily. ‘Are we all done in there?’

  ‘Ah, no. Not yet.’ Her dark eyes were clearly warning me about something but I couldn’t work out what.

  ‘Maricruz is a perfectionist,’ I explained to Sadie, reaching for the doorknob. ‘It’s o
kay, Mari, we just want a quick look.’

  Maricruz grabbed my arm. ‘No. Is not ready.’

  ‘The room isn’t ready?’ I frowned. There was no one booked in the bridal suite, and I’d checked it myself on Monday, after it had been cleaned up following the weekend’s wedding. In fact I’d checked it again before I left last night, in preparation for this visit – I’d even put some fresh flowers by the bed.

  I looked at Gemma, who shrugged and mouthed, Won’t let me in.

  ‘Is not ready,’ Maricruz repeated, with a nervous side glance at Sadie and her mother.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ enquired Margot Hunter.

  Unease fluttered in the pit of my stomach. The bridal suite was the jewel in my presentation, the place where the bride really starting picturing herself, getting married in our hotel. The last thing I wanted was to lose the Hunters now.

  I flashed them a reassuring smile, then steered Maricruz to one side and lowered my voice. ‘Maricruz, tell me the truth. Is Beatriz sleeping in there again? Because that’s not the first time I’ve—’

  ‘No!’ Maricruz looked indignant, then panicky. Her eyes hopped from side to side, as if she were following a tennis match behind me. ‘No, is not Beatriz.’

  ‘Estrella?’

  ‘No!’

  We had a lot of sleeping beauties on the chambermaid team. Sleeping beauties and pillow-chocoholics. The minibar raiders were usually caught by their clinking, but some of the girls working two or three jobs snuck naps where they could. I didn’t blame them.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Sadie had been away with the celebrity fairies, but now even she was intrigued.

  ‘No!’ said Maricruz at the same time as I did.

  ‘Not at all!’ I said. I had to get in there and find out exactly what it was Maricruz didn’t want me to see. ‘I just want to check that …’ I racked my brains. ‘That the balcony doors are open – it makes all the difference to the first impression, being able to see the wonderful view of the garden. One second! Gemma? Gemma is my very capable assistant. Why don’t you tell Sadie about the wedding we had at the weekend? With the croquembouche?’