The Honeymoon Hotel Page 8

  1. He’s a brilliant chef and has won all sorts of awards for doing mind-blowing things with cinnamon ketchup and so on.

  2. He’s a total idiot.

  It’s quite a short list. That’s literally all you need to know. Well, actually, there’s also:

  3. He is a classic Sexy Chef – stubbly demi-beard, very short blond hair, rock-star mood swings, can make you an incredible omelette at three in the morning, speaks fluent French and Italian (but mainly swearwords).

  Number 3 didn’t cut much ice with me; I was immune to Seamus’s stringy sex appeal. Dominic could be rude, but he could also be very charming, and I never trusted skinny chefs. All that energy had to go somewhere. However, Helen was besotted with Seamus and put up with the most outrageous behaviour, so he clearly had skills I wasn’t aware of, and frankly didn’t want to know about. They’d been dating for three years on and off (often off); it was a very intense relationship, based on the two hours per month they managed to carve out when neither of them was working late.

  ‘If he needs an eye test, he should go for an eye test. You’re not his mother, Hel. You don’t have to put up with—’ I started, but she raised a hand.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me.’

  I bit my lip. It was hard to stop myself marching into Helen’s house and dumping Seamus personally. But then it’s always easier to see what’s wrong in other people’s relationships, isn’t it? Especially when they make you feel a bit less bad about your own.

  I checked my watch; I had ten minutes before a conference call between a florist and a bride who now carried Farrow & Ball paint cards around to ensure everything was exactly the right shade for her dress. I had visions of her holding it up to the sky on her wedding day and demanding the clouds were more Wimborne White. The afternoon sun was warming the fire escape and the tangy smell of London summer rose up from the streets below: crushed grass, sun-baked pavements, and the roses and lavender from the courtyard gardens.

  I loved this private side of the hotel no one knew about. It was like being allowed to go behind the stage curtains and see all the lifts and trapdoors, being able to watch all the passersby and pigeons and black cabs and red buses from high up in the balconies.

  Helen finished her mouthful of cake and fixed me with her poised expression. She was already looking less droopy, and more Grace Kelly.

  Time for our reaffirmation.

  ‘It’s better to date a complicated man than a boring one,’ she said, solemnly. ‘Right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said, thinking of the conversation Dominic and I had had about the flat. At least when he committed to the joint mortgage I’d know he really meant it. I’d rather he took his time to decide and was sure, rather than promising and then backing … I swallowed.

  Dominic wasn’t going to back out. He wasn’t like Anthony. I always knew exactly what Dominic was thinking because he had no compunction about telling me or anyone else what was on his mind. Anthony had been a brooder. Politer than Dominic but – hang on, what was I saying? What the hell was polite about leaving your bride at the altar because you couldn’t think of ‘the right way’ to tell her you didn’t want to get married?

  ‘Much better,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now, make sure you make that follow-up call to the Hunters, and I’ll go and invent a fabulous reception tasting menu for them.’

  It hadn’t escaped my notice that for two women who spent their days arranging the perfect start to other people’s married lives, we weren’t exactly making great progress with our own. Or maybe that was part of the problem.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Though my office was small, it had three perfect features: a large original French window that opened out onto the rose garden; a wall thin enough to hear loud conversations going on in Laurence’s office next door (something he wasn’t aware of, going the other way, because I never yelped in agony when bending over a drinks cabinet or yelled down the phone at my ex-wives); and a wall big enough to take my Bridelizer.

  The Bridelizer was a modified year planner mounted on a massive pinboard, and it was the secret weapon in my meticulous wedding planning. I’d originally called it the Strategic Wedding Planner, but that had been shortened early on by Gemma to something ‘a bit less policey-sounding.’ It was mounted on a pinboard so it could be turned around to display an engraving of Green Park when a bride was in my office – she was, obviously, the only bride I was looking after ever in the history of weddings – but for the rest of the time it served as a visual reminder to me and the team of where we were on the merry-go-round of hypnotically similar tied bouquets and poached salmon luncheons.

  Now that I was working to Laurence’s revised target, the Bridelizer was more important than ever in terms of keeping me on track. It was divided into months, with a Polaroid of the bride, and sometimes her fiancé if we’d met him, plus her theme, and an invitation so the details were engraved on our minds, as well as on the cards. Some months were more crowded than others. I already had two weddings in April and three in May for next year, and the following Valentine’s Day slot was being held two years in advance for one particularly starry-eyed girl called Lauren who’d already bought her dress in a Vera Wang sample sale. I wasn’t sure if her boyfriend knew, though. About the dress or the wedding booking.

  For every successful wedding completed, I added a bouquet to the column running up the right-hand edge of the pinboard. Gemma and Helen assumed they were just to keep track of how many weddings we’d done, but what I didn’t tell them was that each bouquet now represented the tiny steps I was taking towards Laurence’s target of a twenty per cent increase. Once I got level with Alice Invarary’s Roman nose in March next year, I’d have done it. Laurence had said June, but it had occurred to me that if I hit it earlier I could push to get my pay rise and promotion sooner, the better to convince the bank to approve my joint mortgage with Dominic.

  So far, the bouquets had only reached Laura Southwell (December wedding, mulled wine on arrival, huge globes of mistletoe and holly, vintage fur-tipped cape for the bride). A really major society wedding – ideally Flora Thornbury’s – would punt that bouquet up to Jessie Callum’s My Fair Lady-themed reception, and I’d be home and dry.

  But first I had to book in seventeen classically English weddings, arrange them, run them, wave the bride and groom off on honeymoon, settle the invoice – starting this morning with a new assistant who didn’t even wear full-length trousers.

  It’s only for a couple of months, I told myself, and opened my day book to prepare for the day ahead. Then I closed the book, and made a very strong pot of coffee.

  *

  Joe’s introductory meeting as part of the events team didn’t bode well for his future contribution to our department.

  He was ten minutes late, which made me fidgety, on top of my existing ‘boss’s son sitting in on my meeting’ nervous. I didn’t like lateness – it reduced the amount of time available to sort out cock-ups – and as I was always telling Gemma, you couldn’t afford to be even a second over your timetable as an events planner. It could be the difference between a bride staying, and a bride flouncing off.

  Gemma and Helen had both appeared in my office five minutes early; neither of them was bothering to hide her curiosity about Joe, though I was doing my best to ignore it.

  ‘I think we should make a start,’ I said, shuffling my papers in a way that made me feel like a newsreader. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t stop myself. For some reason, I’d thought it was a good idea to wear my skirt suit to reinforce the message that events was a serious business, and the waistband was cutting into me. ‘It’s twenty to ten already.’

  ‘No,’ said Helen, as if she were speaking to a small child. She crossed her legs and leaned back on the padded chair. ‘We’re not all here. Chill your boots. He’s probably got lost. This hotel’s like a rabbit warren if you’re not familiar with it. All the carpets are the same.’

  ‘This is the o
ffice next to his dad’s,’ I pointed out. ‘And he lived here until he was eighteen.’

  ‘Shall I note that?’ Gemma asked, her pen poised. ‘Joe is late?’

  I was about to say, ‘Yes, why not note that,’ when the door opened and Joe appeared.

  I blinked because for a moment I didn’t realize it was Joe. This morning’s Joe looked like a different person again to the one I’d met in Laurence’s office, much less the one I’d encountered in the bridal suite. The board shorts had gone, and in their place was a pair of chinos topped by a blue checked shirt – albeit one that already looked as if it had spent several weeks at the bottom of a laundry basket at the same time as still having visible packet creases.

  The blond hair was still long and rumpled, though, and he hadn’t shaved. And he was wearing his horrible shell necklace. On this showing I could probably introduce him to a florist, but definitely nobody more important in the wedding hierarchy.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, with a half-apologetic smile that I spotted Gemma returning at full-beam. ‘Slept in. Jet lag.’

  ‘Which?’ I said, before I could stop myself.

  He raised an eyebrow, as if he couldn’t believe someone might question why he was late for his first-ever meeting. ‘Both?’

  ‘Probably culture shock, too,’ said Helen cheerfully. ‘Getting used to an English breakfast again, eh?’

  Joe ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah, actually, where are you getting your coffee from? Because it’s pretty poor compared with what people expect as standard in the US now.’

  Gemma’s mouth dropped open.

  Fresh start, I told myself, before the irritation could take hold. Be positive. Be nice. The coffee could be a bit … variable, sometimes. Laurence thought caffeine was the devil’s work.

  ‘I’ll speak with our supplier!’ said Helen brightly.

  ‘Joe, do you know Helen? Helen Yardley, our restaurant manager, and Gemma Lane, Laurence’s PA and my events assistant.’

  ‘Junior events planner,’ said Gemma. ‘Or deputy wedding coordinator, depending on the event.’

  ‘Again, Gemma, that remains technically under discussion,’ I added, still smiling.

  Helen had risen from her seat and extended her hand towards Joe; she had a very elegant way of doing that which I’d tried and failed to master since we’d been mates. My handshake was still more headmistress than cool starlet. ‘Hello!’ She smiled charmingly. ‘How lovely to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Joe, casting a wary look in my direction. ‘What’s Rosie said? That she had to call security on me?’

  ‘Of course not! I never said—’ I blustered.

  ‘She hasn’t told us anything, apart from the exciting news that you’re work-shadowing us all.’ Helen carried on smiling at Joe. ‘I had a brief meeting with Laurence this morning – he told me that you were working your way around the hotel. He’s trying to get the heads of department together for a formal lunch so we can welcome you properly.’

  Joe immediately looked pained, the same expression he’d worn when Laurence told him he’d be starting with weddings. ‘Really? I told him not to do that. I don’t want a big fuss made about the boss’s son, you know, touring the hotel …’

  Being handed a plum job on a plate without any experience or actual desire to do it, said a voice that sounded a bit like Dominic’s in my head. I squashed it.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll treat you exactly as we would any intern,’ I said, and shuffled my papers again. ‘So, ah ha! You’re late! Don’t be late again! Sit down and let’s get on with the meeting.’

  Helen looked at me a bit oddly and made a stop shuffling the papers gesture. I guessed it had come out less amusingly than it had sounded in my head.

  ‘Joe?’ Gemma was tilting her head. ‘I’m taking minutes, but if you’d like to take minutes in the future, as part of your shadowing experience, you only have to say.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Joe. ‘But I have no idea how you’d even start doing that.’

  ‘I can show you,’ she said, getting up eagerly. ‘It’s very easy …’

  I coughed. ‘Gemma, if you could minute for today. Joe, have a seat, and we’ll get started. Lots to get through.’

  He sat down and I noticed that both Helen and Gemma started fiddling with their hair. Even Helen, whose hair was usually so neatly hair-sprayed it could withstand both kitchen flood and chef meltdown.

  ‘Normally in these meetings we have a discussion about what’s coming up in the longer-term diary, as well as the weddings booked in for the next few weeks,’ I began briskly. ‘It should give you an idea of the sort of workload we manage on a daily basis.’

  I was hoping that mention of workload would be enough to put off Joe and his ‘wilderness experience’ background, but he just leaned back in his chair, crossed his long legs and started to inspect the plate of biscuits Helen had brought with her from Delphine’s pastry room.

  ‘So, first of all, the headline news is that Flora Thornbury will be coming in at the end of the week to discuss her potential wedding with us next June. This could be a milestone wedding for us, because as you know, Flora’s just landed the big Marks and Spencer contract, so please can we make sure that everything is absolutely spot on and camera-ready, in case Flora’s taking photos. We might end up on her Instagram feed or something.’

  Gemma made an ooh noise as her pen flew across the page.

  ‘We’ll be treating her in exactly the same way we would any other potential bride at the Bonneville,’ I went on, ‘which is to say, as if she’s the only bride marrying in our hotel. It’s a very important part of our wedding ethos,’ I added, more to Joe than to the others, who’d heard this many times before, ‘that we make the bride feel as if she’s stepping into her own private venue from the moment we begin to plan her big day. We don’t ever refer to any other weddings taking place, or make any sort of comparisons.’

  Joe’s brow furrowed. ‘I thought the aim of building the wedding service was to make make this into the most popular place in London?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I nodded.

  ‘So presumably brides want to know that lots of other very fashionable people have got married here?’

  ‘Word of mouth is our best advert, yes.’

  ‘So why are you pretending she’s the only bride you’re looking after?’

  I stopped. There was a certain – male – logic to that. ‘Well, because all brides want to feel they’re special. A bride chooses the Bonneville because she’s heard our weddings are super-elegant and sophisticated and romantic. And she wants to know she’s choosing a trusted venue. But once she’s here, we want to make her feel as if she’s the only bride in the world.’

  Joe looked confused. Or possibly ‘confused’; I couldn’t imagine what was confusing about what I’d just said. ‘But I don’t get why you’d even pretend. Isn’t it better to be really honest and upfront about it from the start?’

  ‘There’s honesty and there’s wedding honesty,’ I said.

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘As in, “Pale green doesn’t suit all bridesmaids”,’ Gemma supplied helpfully, ‘as opposed to, “You look like you’re being followed down the aisle by four leeks”.’

  I looked askance at her; Helen snorted with laughter and pretended she was clearing her throat.

  ‘So,’ I went on, because time was pressing, ‘Flora will be coming in, and we’ll be going through the wedding options with her—’

  ‘Isn’t it the other way round?’

  Again I looked up from my notes to see Joe looking ‘confused’. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Shouldn’t she be telling you what she wants?’ He raised his palms in apparent confusion. ‘Isn’t that how it works? She comes in, and we give her the unique, personalized wedding of her dreams?’

  I put my pen down. ‘The thing is, Joe, weddings are complicated, and for everyone’s sake, they need to run on a timetable and in
a certain way. We’ve got a system we trust—’

  ‘Then no is the answer,’ said Joe. ‘You give them the wedding you want.’

  ‘No! Of course we listen to their requests and I do everything we can to accommodate them … within reason,’ I protested, ‘but our job is to give them the Bonneville wedding we’re known for, and that’s a very traditional affair. That’s why they come here. You don’t go to Chanel for a onesie, do you?’

  Joe slumped back in his seat. ‘Okay. Fine. So what about the groom? When’s he coming in?’

  ‘I don’t think he is. Is he, Gemma?’

  ‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘I can’t even remember what he’s called.’

  ‘His name is Milo,’ I said at once. ‘Milo McKnight. He’s an art dealer. I doubt he’ll be joining us in the planning meetings. We tend to see brides with their mothers or their bridesmaids, not their fiancés.’

  ‘Why? Isn’t it the groom’s day too?’

  Gemma’s head was swivelling between me and Joe, her eyes wide. She clearly hadn’t anticipated him taking such an active role in the proceedings. Neither had I.

  I realized I didn’t have an official answer for this. ‘Grooms just don’t tend to be as interested. And the bride’s often been thinking about her dream wedding for a long time. She has specific ideas.’

  ‘As has her mother,’ Helen added. ‘Usually her mother’s been thinking about the wedding she wanted to have, before her mother made her have the wedding she wanted.’

  I nodded. We’d had a run of difficult mothers in the past few months. I’d had to deploy Laurence and his charm offensive to talk them down.

  ‘Ooh, are you talking about that right Mumzilla we had in last week?’ Gemma said, reading my mind with her usual magnificent discretion. ‘Did Mr Bentley Douglas manage to talk her out of having the joint vow renewal with the bride’s dad?’

  I glanced at Joe, who didn’t really need to know this, and said quickly, ‘He did, yes. But she still wants to sing. So we’ll need to come up with another strategy for that.’