The Honeymoon Hotel (24 page)

Someone nudged me in my ribs. ‘I wouldn’t be serving on that table if you paid me triple,’ muttered one of the waitresses as she squeezed past with an empty platter. ‘Mrs BD’s watching everyone – have you noticed?’

I’d noticed Ellie eyeing me a couple of times, but then I’d known her when she was a receptionist, not an ex-wife.

‘You’d think her and Joe were the parents, wouldn’t you?’ the waitress went on. ‘Poor Laurence. Looks like he’s getting an earful.’

Joe was drawing faces on Otto’s eggs and making hats for them out of napkins, while Laurence seemed to be listening to Ellie’s list of complaints. It was funny: in all my years of working for the family, for the hotel, I’d never really pictured what their Christmas Day must look like. The human side of the magnificent machine for entertaining.

I had a sudden sense that they’d all be having a better time upstairs in the time-warp kitchen, with Christmas crackers and familiar old crockery. Well, Laurence and the kids would. If Caroline was there, dishing up her big Sunday roast.

Joe looked up and grinned in faux-despair. I half-smiled back.

‘I’ll be glad to get off shift and get home,’ sighed the waitress. ‘You havin’ your dinner later?’

‘Yup,’ I said, and thought of the double portion of Christmas pudding waiting for me in the restaurant fridge, which I intended to eat in bed. Relaxing in my pyjamas.

*

Laurence left that night for his stay at the Mayo Clinic detox program.

‘Now, the Farewell to the Year – please follow the instructions I left on the—’

‘I know,’ I said, giving his bag to the taxi driver taking him to the airport. ‘I’ve run the New Year’s Eve party for three years now. It’ll be fine.’

He looked at me. ‘And have a few evenings off,’ he added. ‘You need a rest.’

‘I will.’

Laurence looked as if he was about to say something else, but I nodded at the driver to go go go! and he did.

Upstairs, Joe was settling into the comfy leather sofa in the sitting room with a giant salad bowl of crisps and a bottle of Diet Coke.

‘I thought you’d be going out?’ I said, surprised.

He shook his head. ‘Where would I be going?’

I didn’t know the answer to that. ‘To friends?’

‘Nope. Anyway, I couldn’t leave you on your own on Christmas night, could I? Wouldn’t be very chivalrous. I’ve got chef’s ice cream and some of Ripley’s DVDs. I’m afraid they’re mostly tap-dancing. You might recall she’s into that.’

‘Only in front of a captive audience.’ We shared a sardonic grin, remembering.

‘I know. Look, it’s sweet of you but …’ I’d planned to have a long bath with a new book, and an earlyish night. On the other hand, ice cream did sound good.

‘Don’t make me sit alone watching
Singin’ in the Rain
and eating ice cream on Christmas Day,’ he added. ‘I’m not Bridget Jones.’

‘Neither am I,’ I said defensively.

‘Well, I’m glad we’ve established that,’ said Joe. ‘Now, there’s a trough of cocktail sausages in the fridge. You and I are in charge of eating up the leftovers, apparently. And if that doesn’t make you feel Christmassy, I don’t know what will.’

‘Done,’ I said, and gave in.

The year before, I’d spent Christmas forcing down a seven-course gourmet meal with Dominic’s parents and playing one
fiercely competitive game of charades, before dashing back to the hotel (nursing chronic indigestion) to work an overtime shift. Dominic had promised to give me a spa day that had never materialized, and I’d maxed out my credit card on his expensive toaster.

This year, I watched
Singin’ in the Rain
. Then
42nd Street
. Joe gave me some miracle repair cream for tired feet, and I gave him a Green Guide to London. We ate our combined bodyweight in sausages, ice cream and Quality Street, and didn’t make a single comment about why the other wasn’t somewhere more fun. Then, at some point on Christmas night, we both nodded off in front of the antiquated four-bar electric fire.

It was one of the best Christmases I’d ever spent.

My very favourite night of the year at the hotel was, by a long, long way, New Year’s Eve. And I say that as someone who generally hates the whole New Year thing.

The Bonneville Farewell to the Year was different. It was a tradition that Laurence’s grandmother, Maude, had started in 1923, officially ‘to give people something to look forward to after being trapped with their families over Christmas.’ Laurence had told me that she’d cooked the whole thing up after the war for the benefit of her single girlfriends who weren’t sufficiently top-drawer to get onto the snobby debutante circuit where all the few remaining eligible men were to be found. I liked the game old dame even more for that.

The Farewell to the Year had been a hit from the start, thanks to its glamorous guests. In 1927 the Prince of Wales was rumoured to have been spotted dancing on the conductor’s podium with two divorced women. Before long, it was
the
place to go at New Year if you weren’t skiing, shooting, or making appointments with the family solicitor. Even when the hotel languished in the doldrums during the seventies and eighties, the Farewell had still drawn colourful revellers from all walks of
life. Aristos, actors, singers, chefs, the odd bishop – anyone who had to be in town for work over Christmas wound up under the majestic crystal chandelier as midnight struck and hundreds of balloons filled with glitter floated down from the nets above.

I never minded working at the Farewell because, for me, the hotel cast a special spell on those nights and all the ghosts of parties past walked, or rather danced, at midnight. A different kind of sparkle seemed to fall over the Bonneville on New Year’s Eve – a pearlier, more moonlit sort of glamour than the cheerful glitter of Christmas. When Laurence handed the organization of it over to me after Caroline left, I’d spent hours poring over old photographs from the thirties for inspiration: the sweeping staircase decked in silver stars, wide-eyed socialites draped in long beads gazing up into the hooded eyes of their black-tied dates, champagne in ice buckets everywhere. Then, as now, the big jazz band in immaculate dinner jackets started in the ballroom at nine and played on until the last person couldn’t dance another step, which was usually late, on account of the copious booze and the bacon sandwiches that appeared on heaped silver platters at two in the morning to sustain the revellers.

*

This year, from the moment the first cork popped, the party swung like its most riotous 1920s predecessor, and I threw myself into keeping everything running seamlessly towards midnight. I couldn’t wait to say farewell to this year – I hadn’t exactly covered myself in glory at another Christmas party, that one for a medium-size City law firm. My eye had been off the ball at the end, which had led to a scuffle and some unfortunate
breakages and a bit of a black mark from Laurence – and I wanted to restart my promotion campaign properly.

Midnight came, the silvery balloons tumbled down, everyone cheered and hugged and kissed as Big Ben’s chimes boomed out. I stood by the drinks table, alone, and felt a brief, sad pang that there was no one reaching for me to kiss. Which was ridiculous, I told myself; I’d worked this event for years, and no one had
ever
been there. This year, though, I suddenly felt the lack.

I busied myself with the glasses until the chimes finished, and when I turned round, I was hit by a full-on hug from Gemma.

‘Happy New Year!’ she yelled over the sound of poppers popping. Euphoria, like a good crisis, went straight to her head.

Across the room, I caught Joe’s eye over her smooth dark hair. He smiled but didn’t say anything, and I thought he mouthed
Happy New Year
at me. I smiled back, and the sourness inside me retreated. I’d never be completely alone, not in a hotel.

At half past four in the morning, Tam steered the final pair of revellers out of the ballroom and towards the taxi rank, where a lone black cab sat waiting. He could be surprisingly gentle for an eighteen-stone ex-international rugby player. Once he’d clocked off for the night, Gemma, Joe and I were left to start clearing the main debris of the party before the crack squad of housekeeping staff arrived at six. They were amazing to watch, like a furious army of ants, clearing mess and leaving only clean space behind, but I couldn’t leave the ballroom in this state overnight.

It seemed too quiet, without the music and laughter that
had filled it an hour ago, and with the lights up, the mess was a bit depressing.

I steeled myself; Caroline had drilled it into me that, when it came to parties, it was better to get the worst done before bed, plus I needed to count the bottles back in, so I could work out how much champagne had mysteriously vanished with the temp staff.

‘Just get the bottles in the crates, and put the glasses on that table,’ I said, making a start on the nearest table with its sticky tangle of streamers, napkins and flutes.

‘Where you do want lost property?’ Gemma held up a silver shoe in one hand and a pair of black lace knickers in another. ‘Shall I make a pile?’

‘Tweet photos,’ said Joe. ‘“Do you recognize these knickers? Lost at the Bonneville Farewell to the Year.” Hashtag FunTimes. Brilliant publicity!’

‘Again,
exactly
the classic image we’re trying to promote,’ I said, but my heart wasn’t in sarcasm tonight.

‘Seriously, shall I get a box?’ Gemma had found more underwear and an umbrella. ‘And labels? And the lost-property book?’

Maybe it was the evidence of everyone else’s fun, but suddenly the past months caught up with me. I didn’t want to dictate a list of lost knickers and mobile phones to Gemma. There was the rest of the year for that.

‘Just put everything you can find in that crate, then go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll deal with it in the morning.’

Gemma looked as though there was some sort of catch. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Go home. Get a taxi,’ I said, then added, out of habit, ‘Don’t forget to give me the receipt in the morning.’

‘A receipt? Jeez.’ Joe reached into his back pocket and got out his wallet. ‘Have you any cash, Gem? No? Look, here’s thirty quid. How far away from here do you live?’

‘On New Year’s Day?’ Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘About sixty quid away.’

‘Oi! Don’t take advantage of the fact that Joe’s clearly forgotten where everything is in London,’ I warned her. ‘You live in Clapham, not Cheltenham.’

Joe laughed and added another tenner.

‘Are you sure?’ She looked between us. ‘This isn’t some kind of management test? Am I supposed to say, “No, Rosie, I’ll stay here till the place is spotless”?’

I was shocked. ‘Of course not! What kind of insane slave driver do you think I am?’

‘Don’t answer that.’ Joe gave me a funny look, then turned back to her. ‘It’s a thank-you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a great job tonight. Great teamwork.’

Gemma stifled a yawn. ‘It was fun, wasn’t it? Way more fun than weddings.’

‘But you love weddings,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but
you’re
less stressed-out at events like this,’ she said, then looked a bit embarrassed. ‘I mean, not that you’re – I mean, you just seemed to be enjoying – that’s not the right word either, um …’

‘She knows what you mean,’ said Joe, before I could summon up a response. ‘Now, get on home.’

Gemma waved and dashed out. She had glitter all over the seat of her skirt and what looked like a tinsel tail. I decided not to say anything.

I walked across the empty ballroom, trying not to notice how shabby it was under the bright lights. A few chipped gold chairs would have to go back for a respray, and the curtains weren’t quite as plush as they’d seemed from a distance. That was the best bit about being a guest, I thought: you left with the illusion of the night intact.

‘I’d love to come to this as a guest,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ I waved a hand towards the glitter ball. ‘So I could enjoy it properly. See it as it’s meant to be seen.’

Something about the atmosphere tonight had fizzed with romance. I’d noticed one couple at the table nearest the ice feature who’d nearly melted it with their obvious chemistry. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her all evening. She’d glowed with that fluttery delight of knowing something was starting, new possibilities and promises flickering into life. They’d flirted from the first champagne cocktail, never moving from their seats, gazing into each other’s eyes; then when I looked over at midnight, their chairs were empty. They’d left.

I wondered if I’d meet them again, booking their wedding in the same ballroom where they’d met. My heart ached with envy.

Stop it, Rosie
.

‘Come on – sit down for ten minutes.’ Joe waved a bottle of champagne at me, dripping chilly beads of water from the ice
bucket. ‘Have a glass of this. Someone’s opened it – shame for it to go to waste.’

I started to argue, then gave up. I was tired. I needed the lift a glass of champagne would give me. ‘Go on.’

Joe wandered over to the stage where the band had been playing Sinatra classics all night, and pulled himself up on it with a groan. ‘Ah, that’s better. Now, finally. A drink.’

He wiped the champagne bottle with a linen napkin, and I realized he was about to swig straight from the neck.

‘What? No, wait.’ I hunted around until I found half a tray of unused champagne coupes tucked away under the grand piano. Someone had shoved them too far to reach easily, so I had to half-crawl under it to get them, and when I looked up, Joe was watching me with his half-amused expression.

‘Do you always have to do things the most difficult way?’ He waved the bottle. ‘I don’t have anything you can catch, you know.’

‘It’s not that.’ I held the coupes out so he could pour the champagne, which he did with a deft turn of the wrist – as you’d expect from someone who’d grown up in a hotel. ‘It’s doing things properly. I want to start this year as I mean to go on. With a bit of style.’

Joe raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he took the glass I was offering, and I sat myself down on the stage next to him. We stared out at the dance floor, and I wished I’d turned the lights down. They were chasing away the ghostly magic.

Good
, I reminded myself.
It’ll make you tidy up quicker
.

‘So what are your New Year’s resolutions?’ Joe asked.

’Oh, you know. The usual. Work harder. Lose weight. Buy a flat. Get Dino to give me his martini recipe. How about you?’

‘All the above. Plus run a marathon.’

I laughed awkwardly, not sure if he meant it.

‘Hang on, I’m sorry to do this,’ said Joe, slipping off the stage. ‘But I’m going to have to turn these lights down. Just for ten minutes.’ I was surprised at how romantic he was being; then he added, ‘They’re making my contact lenses dry out.’

‘Just for ten minutes,’ I agreed, trying not to let him see how relieved I was. ‘I don’t want to fall asleep.’

After a moment or two, the harsh halogen light dimmed until only the soft light of the chandelier remained, turning the room from yellow to a gentle grey.

The glitter ball was still spinning lazily and I watched it cast a shimmering net of lights over the room, now draped in a more flattering velvety shadow. Opaque diamonds tumbled over the white-clothed tables, over the huge angel wings made from hundreds of calla lilies, and across the empty dance floor.

‘That’s better,’ said Joe, undoing his bow tie as he made his way back across the floor. Even he looked better now, dishevelled rather than tired, black-and-white, not colour. I sipped my champagne and felt the welcome bubbles trickle into my bloodstream.

‘So,’ he said, hoisting himself easily back up. ‘Your New Year’s resolutions. What are they really?’

‘I just told you.’

‘Yeah, sure you did. What do you really want to achieve by this time next year?’

‘You’ve been back in the UK for months now. Have you still not worked out that direct questions are considered a bit rude over here?’ I said, not entirely joking.

Joe smiled and topped up his glass. I covered mine with a hand. ‘How else do you get to know people if you don’t ask questions? I mean, you don’t have to answer, not if it’s something like
take over the hotel and start a cult in the laundry rooms
. Come on. What do you see happening this year, for you?’

The new year. It stretched out in front of me like a mountain path, winding upwards in a series of weddings and Monday morning meetings and direct debits. Not a mountain path with handrails, or steps either. One with a misty summit, and I had no map and the wrong shoes. I wobbled at the thought of climbing it alone. No Dominic. No flat to hunt for together. No parties, no newspaper column, no chance to make a name for myself with a huge
Reporter
party …

I blinked, hard, and the words burst out of me into the darkened room, directed more to myself than to Joe. I’d based my life round Dominic more than I’d realized. From now on, I was doing it
myself
.

‘I’m going to make my target,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get the promotion, and I’m going to use the raise as a deposit on a flat of my own.’

‘Whoa, wind back there,’ said Joe. ‘Your target? And what promotion?’

I took another long sip of champagne. It was very good champagne. It was nice to drink it in this glamorous, quiet place. ‘I did a deal with Laurence this summer, before you arrived. If I
achieve certain goals in the events department by the end of June, he’ll consider me for the general manager’s job.’

‘Will he now?’

‘Yes.’ I wasn’t sure from Joe’s tone whether he’d assumed he’d be in line for it. I wondered whether he knew Caroline had told me about her plans for him.

‘And how near are you?’ he asked. He paused. ‘Guess that business with Stephanie Miller cancelling can’t have helped. Sorry.’

‘No, it didn’t. Thanks for that.’ Should I tell him the details? I wasn’t sure I should. The only people who knew about my deal with Laurence were me, Caroline and Laurence, and I didn’t know how the other heads of department would take it if they found out.