The Honeymoon Hotel (23 page)

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m staying at Helen’s at the moment. She doesn’t have a lot of room.’

‘Why are you staying at Helen’s?’ Laurence looked shocked. ‘Don’t tell me your flat’s having to be fumigated again. Dominic hasn’t been hanging pheasants in the airing cupboard?’

I sighed. I’d forgotten about that. How we’d laughed (eventually). ‘No, it’s not that.’

I had to tell Laurence. He – and the rest of London, probably – would find out soon enough when bloody Dominic announced in his column that Betty was dead, long live New Betty. Swedish Betty was probably packing her Scandi-culottes for a fabulous New Year eating venison and bonfire-roasted marshmallows with Dominic’s friends. My old friends. Well, acquaintances.

‘Dominic and I have split up,’ I said, and the invisible fist
punched me in the chest this time. ‘Helen’s letting me sleep on her sofa till I find somewhere else.’

‘Oh, Rosie. I’m sorry to hear that. I really am.’

I didn’t dare look up. Laurence’s sympathetic face would finish me off. As it was I was biting my lower lip so hard it was starting to go numb.

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say – some too-much-information comment about the time Ellie kicked him out of his own hotel, probably – but instead he said, ‘Well, this is rather fortuitous because I was going to suggest it anyway, but if you’re set on working over the Christmas period, then you really ought to move in here.’

‘Into the hotel?’ I looked up, surprised. ‘But we’re fully booked.’

‘No, into the staff apartment. I’m going away for a few days …’

‘Are you?’

‘I’m
detoxing
,’ he said piously. ‘It’s not huge, as you know, and Joe’s back in his old room, but it’s cosy enough, and you’re very welcome.’ Then he spoiled it by adding, ‘Anyway, you’ll be downstairs most of the time if you’re duty manager.’

I was intrigued, quite apart from the generosity of the offer. I’d only been into the Bentley Douglas apartment a few times. It wasn’t anything like the rest of the hotel. I remembered it as being like stepping back into 1964, all jazzy sunflower wallpaper and battered yellow Formica, since any spare money the family had went on the public areas, not their own living quarters. I’d always assumed Ellie had overhauled it, just like
she’d attempted to turn the rest of the hotel neutral, and that now it would look as if someone had stapled four miles of beige linen to every flat surface.

Still, it was central, it was part of the hotel I’d never had a chance to explore, and I needed every penny I could lay my hands on, if I wanted to buy a flat of my own.

Flat. I’d be lucky. On my salary, even finding a tiny studio like Helen’s within the M25 would be a miracle.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s really kind.’

‘Excellent.’ Laurence rubbed his hands together. ‘Bring your stuff round whenever you like. We have Wi-Fi –’ he said it with air hooks, as if he didn’t quite believe in it – ‘but only a very basic package. Joe’s on at me to upgrade it.’

I smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. It
was
like a family here. Dominic had been wrong. I hesitated. ‘Laurence, um, you won’t tell anyone why I’m moving in, will you? I don’t really want everyone to know just yet.’

I could deal with Laurence feeling a bit sorry for me. Sam, not so much. Or Dino. Or any of the other heads of department who might either gossip about me or try to get me to join their after-hours poker circle for terminally single hotel employees.

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘It’s none of anyone’s business but yours. As my divorce lawyer liked to tell me.’

I was nearly out of the door, my head held high, when Laurence added, ‘But if you don’t mind me saying, Rosie, I hope your next boyfriend appreciates you a little bit more than that pretentious berk,’ and I had to walk out very quickly before he saw my wobbly lip.

If even Laurence thought Dominic had taken me for granted, things must have been very bad indeed.

*

When I let myself into the staff flat the following evening, with most of my life in three bags, Laurence was out having a Christmas drink with ‘an old friend’ I’d reintroduced him to at a wedding the previous weekend, after a discreet tip-off from Caroline. Joe, though, was at home to welcome me.

Or rather, he was sitting at the yellow Formica kitchen table, eating mince pies with a casual disregard for either calories or crumbs, and going through a list with a pen. I recognized Flora Thornbury’s scrawling hand – the list was titled:
Bridesmaids, Long List
, and was divided into
Blondes, Brunettes, Redheads
and
Children
. A copy of
Tatler
’s eligibles list was open next to it, with many Post-it notes.

‘Don’t tell me Flora’s choosing bridesmaids according to hair colour now?’ I asked, before I could stop myself.

Joe spun round. ‘Actually, she is. Part of the bridesmaid questionnaire she sent out was, “Would you object to having your hair dyed?”’

‘No.’ I put my handbag down on the table and looked closer. ‘You’re winding me up.’

‘I’m not. I had to talk her out of making them give her their weights and measurements, too. So I
am
getting more tactful, see?’ He grinned. ‘Flora’s almost as bad as you when it comes to detail. I can see
you
asking your bridesmaids to dye their hair to—’

He stopped, suddenly remembering why I was moving in.
Because I was at the exact furthest point from requiring bridesmaids.

‘Tactful,’ I said. ‘But for the record, I will not require my imaginary bridesmaids to dye their hair. I will have their heads shaved so I will be the prettiest woman there. I believe that’s the Bridezilla principle you’re always going on about?’

‘Hey, let me get your bags,’ he said, getting up. ‘Welcome to Casa Bentley Douglas. You can pick a room, there are two spare …’

I followed him out into the narrow hall/landing where, as I’d guessed, Ellie had made a stab at redecorating by painting the walls ‘biscuit’. She hadn’t been able to do anything about the loud carpet, which had a jolly 1960s swirling pattern, or the chunky furniture, which had been out of fashion for so long it was coming back in. After the clean lines and muted thirties colours of the main hotel, it felt like going through the wardrobe to Narnia.

‘I thought you might prefer the spare room rather than Ripley and Otto’s,’ said Joe, swinging open the door to a cosy bedroom with a terracotta carpet, pale orange walls and curtains that looked as if they’d been made from the ties of Carnaby Street hipsters. ‘You think this is bad, but Ripley’s going through a pink phase. The other room’s like sleeping inside Peppa Pig.’

‘It’s great.’ I eyed the décor. Thankfully I’d be asleep most of the time. If I could sleep, with those curtains.

‘Bathroom’s down here, shower’s a bit temperamental, been on at Dad to replace it for ages, but you know what he’s like – you
might be better breaking into Room 219 which is the nearest …’

It only took a few minutes for Joe to show me round the flat; then we were back in the kitchen, where we stood about awkwardly, as it dawned on the pair of us that we were now flatmates and privy to each other’s off-duty routines, such as they were.

‘So,’ said Joe. He glanced at his ‘off-duty’ sweatpants, and I realized his feet were bare. Tanned, still, with a small star tattooed on the bone by his big toe. It reminded me that I knew where his other tattoos were. The less accessible ones.

I swallowed, and scrabbled for a neutral subject.

‘So, er,’ I said, gesturing towards the table, ‘what’s the gossip with Flora’s bridesmaids? Anyone famous?’

My involvement with Flora’s wedding was now largely catering-based. Joe was the one dealing with the favours, the favoured personnel, Flora’s expectation that Photoshop could be performed in real time on actual people, and so on.

‘Oh, she’s running auditions, essentially,’ he said. ‘Let me show you the long list …’

An hour flew past discussing Flora’s wedding madness, and I was surprised by how confident Joe sounded about the plans. Maybe I’d been a bit harsh on his organizational skills. Anyone who could talk Flora out of releasing ten thousand butterflies at the moment of her marriage had to have hidden steel.

At eight, he asked me if I fancied anything to eat, and when I said yes, he called down to the kitchens and persuaded them to stick a pizza in the oven for us. Then he said, conversationally,
‘Listen, I meant it about helping out over the holidays. I’ll be here anyway.’

‘Aren’t you going skiing? Or snowboarding?’ I couldn’t stop glancing around the kitchen; one big window looked out over the hidden rooftops of Piccadilly, and underneath it along one wall there were appliances I hadn’t seen since 1970s episodes of
Fawlty Towers
. Was that a Teasmade?

‘No, I’ve either got to work here, or work at Wragley Hall with Mum. She says I have to work Christmas week, so I can hold my head up with the staff. If I stay in London, at least I can go out into town, whereas if I go to Wragley, there’s no escape from Alec. He’s a complete nightmare over Christmas. He still booby-traps the chimney in case Santa drops in. I’m not even joking.’

‘I know you’re not,’ I said. ‘I heard about the reindeer.’

‘Anyway, London’s pretty cool at Christmas,’ he went on, stretching out his long legs under the table with a yawn. ‘I’ve never been to that skating rink at Somerset House.’

‘It gets pretty busy,’ I said. ‘But yeah, it’s nice.’

I had a sudden flashback to last year: Dominic had reviewed the café next door. We hadn’t actually skated – I didn’t want to make a fool of myself; he didn’t want to risk his writing hand – but it had been Christmassy. A London moment we’d shared.

I didn’t want to think about Dominic and the life I’d just lost, but my caffeine levels were dropping along with my energy levels, and miserable thoughts were breaking through like splinters.

‘Do you want to go?’ Joe suggested with an encouraging
smile. ‘We do get an afternoon off between now and New Year’s, don’t we? I’ll take you – my treat.’

Would Dominic be going this year, with New Betty? I’d bought a special skating hat, a furry Russian one from Topshop. I’d wanted it to feel like New York. It
had
felt a bit like New York. (Disclaimer: I’ve never been to New York.) Dominic had grumbled about the lukewarm hot chocolate, but in a funny way …

‘Rosie?’ I felt Joe touch my arm, and when I looked up, he was gazing at me as if he was worried. His unexpectedly kind expression made me feel warm inside, then sad.

‘Sorry?’ I blinked my tears away, and smiled manically. Work. That solved most of my problems. Lots of work. ‘So!’ I pulled the list towards me. ‘What has Flora got in mind for her hen night?’

‘Uh-uh. I called down for supper. Work’s finished for today.’ Joe’s blue eyes were still fixed on mine, concerned. ‘Look, if you—’

‘If we want her wedding to be a headline feature, I don’t mind putting the hours in,’ I carried on. Something had changed in the atmosphere between us. It was work, but it wasn’t work. I felt as if he was seeing a different me now. If he asked me how I felt about Dominic now, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop talking.

Joe gave me a funny look. ‘Okay. But only till the pizza comes.’

*

And so the days leading up to Christmas slipped past in a blur of tinsel, carols, mistletoe, tipsy guests, champagne and 2 a.m. finishes, until I found myself – surreally – in the Bonneville’s restaurant on Christmas Day, volunteering to help dish out sprouts to a roomful of people rather than sit in my boss’s
empty flat watching repeats of
Christmas Top of the Pops
from 1978. In a room that was, still, to all intents and purposes, in 1978, too.

Downstairs, the restaurant was, for one day, a riot of tasteless gold and red jollity. At the beginning of December, Helen’s team had added a few festive touches to the restaurant’s usual eau-de-nil and seashell colour scheme, but for Christmas Day, they’d abandoned good taste and thrown all the remaining tinsel at it.

Gold garlands mingled with real pine along the banquettes and red Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling as I shimmied round the tables dishing up sprouts and sherry trifle with the other waiting staff. I had to admit, it was fun. A sort of communal madness had got us through the early prep, and now we were openly speculating at the serving pass about the families who’d decided to have dinner in a hotel instead of at home.

The oddest family group of all was the one in the corner banquette: the Bentley Douglases.

Joe, Laurence and solemn little Otto had crammed paper hats from the crackers over their luxuriant blond hair (clearly a family trait, now I could see them all lined up), but Ripley was stubbornly wearing a pink riding helmet, while Ellie was refusing to wear anything that might spoil her immaculate Kate Middleton blow-dry. What with the fur-trimmed beige sweater, Chanel miniskirt and lace-up boots, Ellie looked as if she’d dropped in on her way to a matinee performance of
The Nutcracker on Ice
.

Three silver-service staff members were lined up behind the table, and Ripley was pointing at things with a magic wand,
again pink. Otto was glaring at the four boiled eggs on the plate in front of him. Ellie had been grilling the waiter about every dish since she’d arrived, and Laurence’s glassy smile told me he’d taken a lot of St John’s Wort.

Only Joe seemed to be having a good time, reading out jokes from the crackers, persuading Otto to eat his eggs, acting the fool a bit, the way I’d noticed him doing with some of the youngest bridesmaids, something the photographers loved him for. Grumpy attendants were a real pain to photograph, and Joe’s lack of self-consciousness – which was a bit annoying with adults – worked brilliantly on tantrumming tots.

I tried to picture the Joe I’d first met: sulky, hungover, unshaven, sprawled over the bridal suite bed like a used towel. It was hard to match the man in front of me now with that version. Something had definitely changed, but I still didn’t have the first idea what had happened to put him in that state to begin with. That hadn’t just been jet lag. I felt like I knew Joe much better now, yet I felt less able to ask him what exactly it was that had put his sunny nature under such a cloud.