Love Me Or Leave Me (12 page)

‘I’ll try not to,’ I answer, thinking, jeez, no pressure. Next thing, he’s clambering into the back of the cab, all long legs and angles. Then he rolls down the window and sticks his head out.

‘Don’t you worry though, I’m not leaving you high and dry. I’ll be back. And sooner than you know.’

And he’s gone, zipping off through the traffic and out of sight.

Two minutes later, I’m back downstairs in my office and Chris comes in, still ashen-faced and sounding breathy.

‘Oh my God, Chloe, how did you get on? What did he say? Did he bawl you out of it for the state of the back garden?’

I fill her in as best I can.

‘But then why was he in such a rush to leave?’ she asks, puzzled. ‘I thought he was here to stay, at least up until we open!’

‘Ahh,’ I smile knowingly at her. ‘Not telling tales out of school or anything, but it would seem there’s a lady in the case. One he’s very anxious to rush back to.’

Chris just rolls her eyes.

‘Well, what else would you expect? With the Rob McFaydens of this world, isn’t there always?’

TWO WEEKS LATER

Chapter Eight

Our Grand Opening. Actually happening. Here. Now. Tonight.

It’s the very first day we’ve flung our doors open for business and every time I let nerves get the better of me, I come close to having to breathe into a paper bag, just to calm myself down. I’ve got twelve couples jetting in from four corners of Europe and even though my sane mind knows we’re pretty much on track, every time I think of just how huge this is for me, I still have to resist the urge to slip off in a darkened room and wait for the panic attack to pass.

On the plus side though and with full credit to every designer, carpenter and builder who slaved so hard for us over the past weeks and months, the Hope Street Hotel is looking, dare I say it, so breathtakingly gorgeous, that I feel a chest swell of pride every time I trip down our magnificent
Gone With The Wind
-style staircase. Proud of the staff, the whole team and even, dare I say it, a tiny bit proud of myself.

If nothing else, Chloe girl, you made it this far!

All four floors are now carpeted in thick pale oyster cashmere carpet and look like they’re nearly ready to appear in a design magazine. Every single fixture and fitting is utterly gleaming and our team of florists have really excelled themselves, with the most magnificent sprays of bouquets all in simple elegant shades of white and green adorning every room and spare surface, so the entire hotel smells fresh, fragrant and opulent.

Not only that, but each and every bedroom has been fully and personally vetted by me to make sure they’ve been kitted out with welcome baskets for each individual guest, plus toiletries in each en-suite bathroom especially sent over from Aspreys. Shower gels, make-up removers, toners, razors, even night creams; everything I could think of that a stressed-out guest might forget to pack, the whole works.

There’s posh for you now, as my Mum would say.

Anyway, it’s just past lunchtime and given that some of our guests can’t arrive till after they finish work, our full programme doesn’t really kick off properly till six this evening. I’m expecting a few early guests to arrive later this afternoon, and have made sure to have a full afternoon tea laid on for them, but for the moment at least, I’ve a short breather to myself to catch up on a few last minute details.

So I’m downstairs in my little rabbit warren of an office, frantically going over the programme of events for the weekend ahead and I’m not joking, you want to see the state of the place.

So many good luck cards are dotting the walls and covering my desk that you’d swear I was about to step onto the stage at Covent Garden to sing opera on an opening night. My family and pals have all been so amazing; it seems like every single one of them has thought of me and I’m genuinely touched to tears by their messages of support.

‘We’re so proud of you darling!’ is staring back at me, on a gorgeous card from Mum and Dad and ‘Good luck on your first weekend as GM,’ from Gemma, with the tagged-on line, ‘but just remember, the minute this is all over, you’re jumping straight back into the dating pool … not taking no for an answer from you this time!’

Gemma, it has to be said, is on a perpetual quest to get me, as she puts it, ‘back into the game again’, now that I’m home. And only my constant pleas that I’ve barely time to brush my teeth these days, what with work being so all-consuming, has made her cut me a temporary bit of slack.

Of course I’ve been on a few dates over the past couple of years, but nothing of note. Goaded into it by all Gemma’s encouragement while I was over in London, I did genuinely try my best to ‘get back in the game again’. In fact at one stage, I’d been on more blind dates than a guide dog. Each and every one an unmitigated disaster.

First there was … what’s his face … Eamonn, a ‘freelance TV director’, who took me to dinner, then spent two excruciating hours explaining why we were all living through a golden age of TV, except that barely 30 per cent of audience share were gleaning it from telly these days; everyone else was watching online. He subsequently spent the rest of the date explaining in excruciating detail to an attractive blonde at the table beside ours exactly what the word troglodytic meant.

In desperation, I found myself telling him my favourite programme was
Britain’s Got Talent
, just to get out of there that bit quicker.

Then there was Simon who I met online and who asked me out ‘for Starbucks’, like that was a noun these days. I honestly think the guy would have happily turned up in pyjamas, had it been an option. Anyway, I knew I was onto a loser when I asked what his plans for the weekend were and he proudly told me ‘I’m going back to bed to try and beat my personal best at Angry Birds.’

I smile to myself, re-reading Gemma’s card. But then right now, getting back into the dating pool seems like another bridge to be crossed at a later date, is all I can think.

Clicking on my computer and for about the thousandth time, I bring up our final guest list. And it’s an interesting mix, to put it mildly, I think, scanning down through all the names. I’ve already met each guest individually, as of course, one of our hard and fast rules is that everyone’s got to be personally vetted in advance of the weekend, just to make sure none of them are still at the stage of wanting to hurl furniture across rooms at each other and start calling each other lying, cheating bastards. But reading down through the guest list once again, I don’t envisage that we’ll have any problems. At least, I bloody hope not or let’s face it, that’s the end of me and the Hope Street Hotel.

Anyway, just like the original divorce hotel in the Netherlands, our guests really do seem to have come from all corners of the world. I’ve got couples from as far afield as Germany, Finland, Scotland, Sweden; I’ve even got a pair flying in directly from New York.

Lovely people too, the Fergusons, Larry and Jayne. By far the oldest couple I’ve got checking in, both in their late sixties, but with that sprightly energy and zest for life you see in retired people who take their fish oils regularly and have a golf handicap of approximately fifteen.

Course I was dying to know what brought them here in the first place, when they’ve probably got the best divorce lawyers known to man right on their doorsteps at home. Kids or grandkids living in Ireland, I wondered? Or maybe some property investments here that they wanted to sell and divide between them?

Nah, the two of them laughed at me, when I spoke to them at the interview stage.

‘Honey, we just wanted to get all the paperwork outta the way as fast as we could,’ Larry said, then with a twinkle in his eye added, ‘and give ourselves one helluva holiday, as soon as the legal bit is all over.’

‘Sure, I mean, why not?’ Jayne chimed in. (‘Sure’ pronounced Noo-Yawk style, so it sounded more like, ‘Shu-waaah.’) Jayne was one of those effervescent cruise ship blondes, with skin slightly too pulled back on her face and that New York sense of humour that always sees the gag in everything. I liked her on sight.

‘Besides,’ she grinned, ‘I always love visiting Ireland.’ (Pronounced, ‘Ayre-laaand.’) ‘Can’t stay away from the place!’

‘Me too,’ Larry nodded. ‘Book of Kells, Trinity College, plus I hear you gotta lot of great golf courses here I wanna check out, while I’m at it.’

‘And I wanna kiss the Blarney Stone,’ Jayne giggled. ‘Then go visit Knock, you know, at the grotto where our Lady appeared? Doncha get a miracle if you pray real hard there, like at Lourdes?’

‘What do you wanna pray for?’ Larry laughed. ‘You’re already gonna get half my money, thought that’s what you wanted?’

‘Well, there is that,’ she said, poking him affectionately, ‘but also I wanna pray for a new man to come into my life. Soon, before my knees give way!’

‘She’s just trying to make me jealous,’ Larry grinned at me. ‘But, just to be sure, we’re still getting divorced, right?’

‘Sure, honey. Just think of this as our fabulous divorce-y-moon. Kinda like the opposite of a honeymoon. Except better, because this way I walk outta here a helluva lot richer than I walked in!’

My easiest interview by far. I scrolled on down through my check-in list and my eye fell on another couple who’d really interested me. One Lucy Belton and Andrew Lowe. She’s actually a really well-known model and has one of those faces you nearly feel you know as well as your own, she’s in the papers that often. She’s got – or certainly she used to have – the reputation as being a bit of a party girl and the press nearly always refer to her as ‘Lucy Belter’. Or else ‘Party Central’, which is, if anything, possibly worse.

Back in her heyday, before she got married, I couldn’t tell you the number of pap shots you’d see of Lucy in a skin-tight little dress (always a skin-tight little dress) falling out of some hotspot at 5 a.m., all long blonde tresses and killer heels.

Anyway, a few years ago, I remember there was a mass of publicity about the fact that the original party girl herself was suddenly about to settle down and get married. But not to some robust young soccer player with a monthly salary that ran into six figures, as you might expect.

It was just before I left Ireland – or rather, before I
had
to leave Ireland – and I remember being surprised that her groom-to-be was a much older, sober looking guy, a silver-haired, mustachioed businessman called Andrew Lowe. Of course no doubt disappointed that they were about to lose grade-A tabloid fodder, the papers had a field day with it, and I can still remember headline after headline hinting that her sole interest in someone twenty-five years older than her most likely originated primarily in his bank account.

Mind you, I found it tough to even get a read on Andrew Lowe. On the day of his interview, he was super professional, answered all my questions, ticked all the boxes and was in and gone out of here in less than half an hour flat. Polite, businesslike and old-school gentlemanly. As for Lucy Belter herself? She arrived here a good forty minutes late the day of our 9 a.m. meeting, looking exactly like she’d come straight from a catwalk show and hadn’t even bothered to change along the way.

Six feet tall with long, swishy blonde hair and immaculate ‘camera ready’ make-up, she was dressed in a tight little summery nude dress that on me would end up looking like bandages, but on her looked just … wow, traffic-stoppingly amazing. I couldn’t help but pick up on the number of builders and workmen here at the hotel who made a point of hanging round Reception, just so they could get a good ogle at her as she swept by.

Funny thing was though, if you were to believe what you read in the papers, you’d have expected Lucy Belter to be some kind of gold-digger whose moment had now come. That’s certainly what I’d primed myself for and yet that’s not what I found at all. Once you got behind the fun, lively, Party Central image, I felt that underneath all the high octane glamour was just an ordinary, down-to-earth girl. Not only that, but someone who had genuinely married for love. As she kept telling me though, it was just ‘circumstances’ that broke them up.

I remember being utterly intrigued as we said our goodbyes, thinking this is a girl who doesn’t even want to be here in the first place. She’s clearly coping with a lot of pain and I’ve nothing but admiration for how she’s dealing with it so bravely, but what’s baffling me is … what could have happened to bring a couple like her and Andrew to this?

I keep tapping a pencil off the list in front of me and my eye falls on the name of another couple that stopped me in my tracks. One Dawn Madden and her husband, who goes by the incredibly impressive name of Kirk Lennox-Coyningham.

A child, I thought, when I first interviewed Dawn a few weeks ago. My heart went out to the poor kid. If you saw her pale, frightened little face, you’d just want to take her home with you, give her a big feed of carbs and then allow her half an hour in front of the telly to watch cartoons, on account of she had to be up for school the following morning. I mean, come on, the girl got married at twenty-two. Who in their right mind gets married in their early twenties? Cousins and internet brides, that’s who. For God’s sake, I couldn’t cross the street at that age, never mind get married. How, I find myself wondering, could her family and friends have stood by and just let it happen?

But then maybe they didn’t. Sure, who am I to judge? Thing is, I’ve met her ex too, only last week. Kirk, who’s only a few years older than she is. When he walked into his interview, I thought he was probably the most beautiful man I’d ever clapped eyes on, with jet black hair twice the length of my own, dressed head to toe in flowing white linen, and sitting cross-legged on the floor for our entire chat.

He was one of those guys that look right at you, deeply and evenly with soft brown eyes that seemed to bore into yours till it was nearly embarrassing. Casting agents, I thought would take one look at this fella and sign him up on the spot to play the lead in
Jesus Christ, Superstar
. And even leaving aside the fact that I’m a good ten years older than him, I can tell you t’was was a tough enough job to concentrate on the list of questions I had to go through, when all I wanted to do was gaze and admire all that gorgeousness.