The Honeymoon Hotel (11 page)

‘I won’t.’ Sniping about Ellie aside, Laurence and Caroline were quite amicable divorcées. It was really only the small matter of Laurence taking Caroline entirely for granted that had withered her patience in the end. ‘You know,’ I added, because it was true, ‘Laurence is very happy to have Joe back. I think he’s enjoying having him in the hotel. He seems to be taking a lot more interest in it himself these days.’

Caroline sighed. ‘I know. Joe’s a good boy. Well, man, now. Do I look old enough to have a son of twenty-eight?’

‘No,’ I said truthfully.

‘Good,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s our new Soap and Flannel spa facial. Do recommend it to your lovely brides. Now, where’s the waiter for the bill?’

We had our usual ‘No, let me!’ ‘No, I insist!’ conversation (she won), and we both checked our phones for messages while the waiter went off to get it.

I had four wedding-related problems, and one from Dom asking if I’d come up with a good Cumberland sausage joke yet. And Helen had texted me.

Ask Caroline about Joe. Hx

‘Honestly, just because one goes to London,’ said Caroline, texting furiously, ‘does not mean that people can
take the morning off
 …’

If Joe thought I was bossy and a bit of a control freak, I thought, he was in for a rude awakening if he got a job with his mother.

Have you asked yet? I have a tenner riding on this. Hx

I put my phone away.

‘Out of interest,’ I said casually, ‘why did Joe decide to come back? There weren’t any … problems out there?’

‘No, it was all going fairly well, as far as I know,’ said Caroline. ‘Not a bad idea, getting paid to take other people on outdoor jaunts you’d be going on yourself anyway. Which is more than I can say about Alec’s latest business proposal. You haven’t come across any grooms who’ve been kidnapped by their stags, have you? I mean, properly kidnapped with bags over their heads and ransom notes. Is it a new thing?’

I blanched. ‘Not as far as I know. Sorry, I was being nosy. It’s just that Joe obviously loved the lifestyle out there. And from what he says, his business was pretty successful.’

Caroline checked the bill, frowned, and put her credit card down on it. ‘Quite a specialist market, the sort of holidays he was running. He hasn’t really gone into much detail about it with me, but Joe’s like his father, terribly proud. Hates talking about money, doesn’t like discussing private matters. I expect he’ll end up telling you more about it than he will me.’

I moved my teaspoon round in my saucer, making it parallel to the cup. I wondered whether Caroline had seen Joe in the state I’d seen him the morning I found him in the bridal suite. Hungover and messy. He hadn’t looked terribly proud then; he’d looked wrecked.

I don’t know why I asked, but I did anyway. ‘You don’t think it was a girl?’

Caroline shook her head. ‘No, he never mentioned one.’

I knew it wouldn’t be a girl. No one who thought ‘stag tea parties’ with pork pies and lager were a good idea could possibly have had a girlfriend to be brokenhearted about.

‘Why do you ask?’ Caroline asked suddenly. ‘Does he seem touchy when you have brides in? Oh dear.’

‘Not exactly. Although he does seem a bit …’ I tried to find the right words. ‘
Fixated
on making sure they’re doing the right thing.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’s mentioned wedding contracts more than a few times, and how both parties should know what they’re signing up for. Not legal contracts,’ I added, ‘more, “I promise not to leave my snoring uninvestigated for more than a month, and I promise not to grow a moustache unless it’s for charity.”’

I’d managed to persuade Rory and Bethan that he was joking. But not before Bethan had got a couple of rather personal digs in about Rory’s ‘seasonal weight gain’.

Caroline sighed. ‘He always was a very honest child.’

‘Honest is fine, but he does take it a bit far,’ I said. ‘We had one bride call off her wedding after a chat with Joe at the rehearsal dinner about the honeymoon. I really don’t want to risk the same thing happening again. We’ve potentially got a big wedding coming up next year, and it could lead to a lot of exposure. If it all goes ahead.’ I paused significantly. ‘If we get it.’

Caroline raised her eyebrows, excited. ‘The Thornburys, I heard. Now if you could effect some cosy chat between Mrs. Thornbury and dear Laurence then it’d be three good words I’d be putting in.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘She’d be perfect for him. Rich and bossy and, if I remember correctly, somewhat deaf. We really have to find someone for Laurence, Rosie. I had
four phone messages last week, asking me if I could remember if he’d had rubella. And when I woke up there were two absolutely traumatizing photos he’d taken of his own … I won’t tell you what … asking me if I thought it had changed colour since I last saw it.’

‘Blimey.’

‘I can’t imagine he bothers that Ellie woman with this sort of thing?’

‘No,’ I said truthfully. ‘He can’t. Not since the court order. It was part of their divorce agreement. No phone calls other than to discuss Otto and Ripley.’

‘Otto and Ripley,’ muttered Caroline. ‘Dear God. Anyway, my goodness, is that the time? I need to see a man about some underfloor heating. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

‘I’ll get the bus,’ I said, and we made our way back out into the busy London street.

Caroline waved as her driver pulled away into the traffic, but I didn’t mind hopping on the number nineteen. I needed some time to process what I’d just learned, before I had to face all the parties involved back at the hotel.

I’d kept Flora Thornbury’s wedding meeting quiet, but on Friday morning there were definitely more cleaners polishing the tables in the Palm Court than usual. Under normal circumstances, the Bonneville was so tightly staffed that you rarely saw three cleaners on the same floor, let alone five in one function room.

I reckoned Laurence must have let something slip. He was a bit of a shameless star-spotter himself, though he pretended modern stars weren’t a patch on the gold-plated ones who’d frequented the Bonneville in the Good Old Days. I made a bet with myself that he’d be ‘passing’ the Palm Court at about, ooh, ten past ten, in a new shirt and fifty per cent more Eau Savage than normal.

Looking on the bright side – literally – the room was spotless. Every surface gleamed – the black grand piano, the glass tabletops, the silver tea services. I ran a quick critical eye over the furniture for any out-of-line chairs or used teacups, and tweaked a couple of round cushions. Sunshine streamed through the long French windows overlooking the rose gardens and creating a neat yellow column over the polished parquet. It really did
feel like the sort of room in which an off-duty film star would flick through the morning’s papers, while sipping a coffee poured from a silver cafetière.

Even on grey wintry days, I loved this room. Flora was a model – she’d appreciate the soft light and cleverly positioned mirrors. We could do beautiful thirties-style pre-wedding photos, I thought, she and her bridesmaids draped languidly over the Deco armchairs like Cecil Beaton models …

My usual secret list of photographers and make-up artists probably wouldn’t be necessary, but I’d brought it with me anyway, just to show we had one. And also to show that I was the sort of wedding planner who liked to keep everything well under control.

‘When’s she coming in?’ whispered one of the cleaners, and was shushed by her friend.

I pretended to look blank. ‘When’s who coming in?’

‘Flora Thornbury!’

‘Can you finish fiddling with that, please?’ I made
hurry up
motions at the girls lingering around the white sunburst flower arrangement on the piano. They seemed to be taking it in turns to move one rose an inch to the left, then back again, while casting casual-yet-nosy glances at the door.

Reluctantly they started to slope off.

‘I don’t mind volunteering for extra hours,’ said one as she passed. ‘If there are, er, any big weddings coming up?’

‘It’ll be next summer,’ I said, flapping them away. ‘Now, if you don’t mind …’

Flora and Julia Thornbury were due at ten o’clock, but as
per Dom’s cunning suggestion, I’d told Joe to meet me in the ballroom at half past ten. It wasn’t a completely mean thing to do; after all, what was he going to contribute to the discussion about supermodel dresses and celebrity guests? He hated all that ‘celebrity shit’, as he insisted on calling it, despite having lived virtually next door to LA for years.

Gemma dashed in, her eyes shining. She was wearing her favourite bride-interview outfit, a pale-blue cashmere cardigan over a tweedy miniskirt, powder blue Mary Janes, and a cream silk corsage. She looked about ready to pop with excitement.

Actually, I might have thought that because she was making agitated little up-and-down gestures with her hands, as if she were trying to dry her nail varnish in a rush.

‘She’s
here
!’ she whispered. ‘Flora! She’s in reception! Oh my God, she is
so
beautiful! I couldn’t stop looking at her. And she’s wearing
jeans
.’

I glanced at my watch. ‘But it’s only quarter to. She’s a model. They’re never early. They’re usually about four hours late.’

‘I know. But there was a lot of noise outside, and some flashing, and we thought there was another to-do with the police, but it was just a photographer, and now she’s in reception, talking to Laurence.’ Gemma starfished her fingers and opened her eyes very wide. ‘Well, her
mother’s
talking to Laurence. Do they know each other?’

‘Yes, they’re old friends.’

‘I thought so,’ said Gemma. ‘He was patting her arm.’ She demonstrated. ‘Like she was a horse.’

Good, I thought, I could pass that on to Caroline as a positive sign. Mrs Thornbury, according to the swift internet research I’d done, was divorced from Flora’s father, a wealthy property developer. She had two houses, one of which was in Switzerland, very close to one of Laurence’s favourite clinics. Only a Echinacea farm could make her more perfect.

‘Shall I send her in here?’ Gemma asked.

‘Of course not, no, I’ll come through to reception,’ I said, gathering my files and notebooks together. ‘Have you seen Joe this morning?’

It was more a safety check than a genuine question, since if Joe was doing what I’d specifically asked him to do by email last night, he’d be in Berry Brothers wine merchants, but there was always the chance that he hadn’t actually read his emails yet.

Gemma hesitated, as if she was worried about dropping him in it, then seemed to change her mind and said, ‘No.’

‘Good. I mean, oh. Oh dear.’

‘Should I go and see where he is? Or …’ She put on her innocent face. ‘Maybe there should just be two of us in the meeting? Don’t want to crowd Flora. And it’s not as if Joe’s going to be able to explain what the hotel has to offer, whereas I can take notes while you talk and maybe suggest ideas …’

Gemma had tactics, I’d give her that.

‘That’s a good point,’ I said. ‘But just make sure he’s not lurking around, will you? And then if you could get back onto the florist for the Montpelier wedding – they still haven’t called to say when they’re dropping off the table decorations. Go round there if you have to, they’re only in Mount Street.’

‘Mount Street? What about the meeting? I won’t be able to get there and back in time.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ I said, pushing her firmly towards the foyer. To be honest, I didn’t want Gemma or Joe in this meeting, not until I’d worked out what it was that Flora Thornbury wanted, and how best I could persuade her that the Bonneville Hotel, and only the Bonneville Hotel, could provide the wedding of her wildest – but still tasteful – dreams.

*

I met plenty of beautiful brides in the course of my job, but Flora Thornbury was an entire league of beautiful above the norm.

Even in skinny jeans and a white T-shirt, she looked as if she were made from the same translucent fine bone china as the special Georgian family tea service I only offered to brides I adjudged to have very careful relatives. Her skin glowed without make-up, her lovely long blonde hair fell in a soft fringe over her small nose, and when she smiled as I approached, it was with the whitest, most even teeth I’d ever seen.

Many brides looked almost as lovely as this, but only after about eighteen months of a really intensive improvement programme. I wondered, hopefully, if Flora had been one of those gawky, brace-faced teenagers who’d suddenly blossomed into a gorgeous swan at seventeen, but the way she was standing – half-warding off attention, half-expecting it – made me suspect that she’d probably always been like this.

‘Hello, Flora, Julia, I’m Rosie,’ I said, holding out my hand to her, and then her mother.

‘Hey, Rosie, it’s lovely to meet you.’ Flora had a feathery handshake and smelled of gardenias. Julia Thornbury had a much firmer handshake and smelled of Chanel No. 5 and spaniels. If Flora was fine bone china, Julia was more your rounded Denby-ware; Flora’s face was like hers – pretty nose, blue eyes, pink cheeks – but set in a much longer, finer framework.

‘I thought we could have a quick tour of the rooms, then sit down for a proper chat in the Palm Court,’ I said, gesturing towards the double doors with the looping arcs of stained glass. ‘It’s one of our smaller function rooms – we use it for more intimate wedding receptions. And of course for our famous afternoon tea.’

‘Why is it famous?’ asked Mrs Thornbury.

‘Because it’s an exact replica of the tea that the hotel was famous for in the thirties. Our pâtisserie chef makes the same beautiful tiny cakes that our original French chef created for the Bonneville, and we serve it on the same tableware, with champagne or cocktails or tea. It’s like stepping back in time.’ I smiled. ‘Pop in one afternoon – quite a few of our brides are planning tea-party weddings. We can mix a unique cocktail, just for your event.’

‘’Mazing,’ said Flora.

After a sweep of the main function rooms, and a peek into the dining room, where Helen gave them a mouthwatering overview of the catering options, I settled Flora and Julia into the sofa by the windows and tucked myself into the chair opposite; they had a view of the gardens, and I had a very good view of the double doors and, more importantly, the foyer, where
various staff were lurking. I signalled one of them to come and deal with the tea, and a fight nearly broke out before Luisa, of the very sharp elbows, broke free.

While I sorted out the Thornburys’ refreshment requirements (one herbal tea, one English breakfast; I could have guessed), I spotted that Julia was carrying a very thick, old school leather Filofax with a pen stuck in it, while Flora just had a simple notebook. As far as I could see, she didn’t seem to have the standard bridal accessory of a gigantic file of ‘ideas’. From experience, this might be a good thing or a bad thing. Either Flora had no idea what she wanted but was open to my suggestions (good), or she had no idea what she wanted but needed me to run through every possible permutation until I hit on something she liked by process of elimination (bad). Or she had a whole website of ideas on a laptop she hadn’t even brought out yet (very bad).

It turned out to be somewhere in between, although it took us two cups of tea and a lot of roundabout discussion of flowers and vague ‘’Mazing!’s from Flora to get there. If it hadn’t been for the enormous sugar-cube-sized diamond on her finger, I’d have wondered if Flora wasn’t just one of those girls who booked wedding meetings for the sheer pleasure of discussing where to get lilacs in December. I’d had more than one of those over the past year.

‘So, tell me about your dress,’ I said eventually in desperation, and Flora abruptly focused as if I’d just turned on a light.

‘My dress, okay, well, I’m talking to a couple of designers – I’m thinking about lace, and a sort of vintage feel.’ She made a few gestures around her skinny shoulders. ‘Satin, definitely. I
want to look like one of those amazing film stars with marcel waves and diamonds.’

‘But you’re not cutting your hair,’ Julia reminded her.

Flora rolled her eyes. ‘No, Mummy, I’m not cutting my hair. I just want that feel.’

‘Well, vintage glamour is very us.’ I smiled. ‘As you can see.’ I gestured at the Art Deco lounge, resplendent with palms and stars, and picked up my fountain pen. ‘And is that your starting point for the whole wedding?’

‘Yah, I want something quite traditional,’ Flora sighed in her soft King’s Road drawl. ‘My fiancé, Milo—’

‘Milo McKnight,’ added Julia. ‘He’s one of the shipping McKnights.’

‘Mmm?’ I nodded. I knew Milo – not personally, of course, but through the stacks of society magazines Gemma and I read on a monthly basis to keep up-to-date with who was who and where and with whom, and who might turn up after hours in our discreet hotel bar. The Honourable Milo didn’t actually do any shipping himself, but his great-grandfather’s efforts had provided enough family money for Milo to have his own art gallery in Mayfair. I’d walked by it a couple of times, but it was quite hard to work out what was art and what was wall. Also who was a customer and who was staff.

‘Milo’s quite a traditional person. And so am I.’ Flora opened her big hazel eyes wide at me, and I tried not to feel starstruck. ‘We came here for drinks one night after an opening, and I just felt as if we were stepping into a film. I can totally imagine myself getting married here.’

‘I can too,’ I said fervently. The exposure would be transformational not the splashy
Hello!
magazine spread sort, Flora was too classy for that, but the discreet word-of-mouth recommendations that gave priceless cachet to a venue. A real film-star wedding. Laurence would pass out with joy. My three national magazine feature spreads would be in the bag. And if I persuaded Flora to arrange the whole thing here, including a spa weekend for her attendants, most of whom would also be models, I’d guess, and a chic rehearsal dinner in Helen’s restaurant, it would more than make up for the Stephanie Miller cancellation.

I can do this
, I told myself.
Think like a manager, and you will become a manager
.

I smiled across the table at the Thornburys. I’d assumed supermodels would be the worst Bridezillas going, but Flora seemed very content to be led through this process. Julia might not be quite so easy – I could detect a tiny trace of ‘Wedding I Never Had’ – but I’d dealt with much, much worse.

‘So …’ I opened my notebook to a new page. ‘How big a wedding are we talking about? Do you have a rough idea of numbers?’

‘A hundred,’ said Flora at the same time as Julia said, ‘Two hundred and fifty.’

‘Somewhere between the two, then,’ I said easily, as they scowled at each other. ‘Bigger numbers aren’t a problem – we simply create different areas for the main meal, so you get the best of both worlds. Some guests find that a bonus, actually – you can subtly keep various factions apart!’

‘Good,’ said Julia a bit too emphatically.

‘Oh, Mummy …’

I made a coded note of that. Caroline might have some insider goss on exactly who Julia wanted to park in the orangery.

‘And did you have a particular date in mind? We are getting booked up already for next spring – June is looking very busy for us, but then it always is….’

‘We want to get married on the third weekend in June.’ Flora smiled shyly. ‘It’s our anniversary.’

‘Oh, that’s very sweet,’ I said, with growing pleasure. A traditional romantic supermodel – who knew? I could already see the classic shapes of this whole event. A big-budget, totally traditional wedding – my dream assignment.

And then I spotted Joe appearing in the foyer, and my stomach lurched. No.
Really no
. This wasn’t a good time for him to come in; the last thing I wanted was him dropping another bouncing bomb on my plans: the innocuous comment that got bigger and bigger and finally exploded, destroying everything.