The Honeymoon Hotel (29 page)

Maybe it was the novelty of Joe’s reaction that had distracted me, I thought. It was actually quite cheering to see him pissed off. It showed he cared about the hotel. I felt a gratifying warmth inside.

We all sat in silence for about two minutes; then Gemma gasped.

‘Oh, wait! I’ve had a genius idea!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together like a small child. ‘We could make it a prize! On the radio! We can offer the booking to someone who’s about to
propose to their boyfriend – or girlfriend! – as long as they get married on that date in June!’ Her eyes shone. ‘It’d be brilliant publicity for the hotel! And it would be so romantic.’

I thought about it. ‘That’s actually not a bad idea …’

‘It’d make it pretty obvious we’ve had a cancellation.’ Joe looked up from his furious defacing of Flora’s photo.

‘People call off weddings,’ Gemma pointed out. ‘Everyone knows some flaky friend who’s bailed out at the last minute. I mean, like Stephanie Miller! Remember? The bride Joe talked to, and she called it off? It happens. It’s not the
hotel’s
fault people get cold feet.’

I looked at my feet. Joe looked uncomfortable.

I swallowed and said, as if I’d never experienced a jilting myself, ‘Stephanie and Richard have postponed. I’m sure that at some point they’ll—’

‘Yeah, postponed.’ Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘Saved them both a bullet there. I’m amazed it hasn’t happened to us before now. But really, the night
before
? Surely you know if you don’t want to marry someone? It’s not like it suddenly dawns on you …’

Ouch. This time I flinched, and though I pretended to check something in my day planner, I caught Joe looking at me. When our eyes met, he glanced away, but not before I’d seen some sympathy in his eyes.

My cheeks burned. There was a very good reason I hadn’t confided my secret in many people.

‘I’ll put that on the strategy list, Gemma,’ I said briskly. ‘Good thinking. If you have any more brainwaves, let me know.’

‘Maybe she could have a party here?’ Gemma was on a roll now. ‘Ooh. What about a baby shower? Maybe she got married quickly because she’s up the duff’

I held up the newspaper: Flora beamed out at us in her skinny white jacket. ‘If that oven has a bun in it, it’s a petit four.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Joe, pushing himself off his seat. ‘You two have finally driven me to a master class in bed-making. It’s that bad.’

‘If you have any brilliant ideas while you’re doing it, let me know,’ I said as he left.

‘Wow,’ said Gemma thoughtfully when he’d gone. ‘Joe’s taken that personally.’

I gave her a close look. ‘How do you work that out?’

She nodded at the cake stand, temptingly placed between my desk and the door. It held the samples for Sadie Hunter’s afternoon tea cake tasting; and it remained full, and untouched. ‘He didn’t try to nick a cake on his way out.’

She was right.

*

In the end I was on the phone to Julia Thornbury for over an hour, and said about twenty words in total, in the ninety seconds when she wasn’t screeching, wailing, or telling me what Flora’s father intended to do to Milo McBloodyKnight when he got hold of him.

(I heard a voice that sounded a lot like unwilling chief bridesmaid/younger sister Abigail’s shout, ‘Shake him by the hand and wish him luck’ at that point.)

As Joe had guessed, Julia had found out about the same time
we had, having been away with friends all weekend, and she wasn’t best pleased, to put it mildly.

‘Of course I blame Flora,’ she assured me. ‘You’ve been nothing but efficiency itself throughout and I’m extremely sorry for the inconvenience she’s put you to. And Joe,’ she added, with a sigh. ‘Please apologize to dear Laurence for me. He’s been so helpful.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be as disappointed as we are. Maybe …’ I had a belated flash of efficiency. ‘Maybe he could take you out for lunch to see if there isn’t something we can do for Flora – you might throw her a little party perhaps?’

‘Oh, what a sweet idea. Maybe you could put me through to his PA so we can arrange a time?’

Fine, I thought, when I finally hung up. At least I could tell Caroline I’d got Laurence a lunch date out of all this.

*

I spent the rest of the day on the phone to the suppliers and – because I hated to see a job done badly – making a list of people who’d already saved the date for Flora, so she could get onto the stationers and commission a special ‘oops, we’ve already done it’ card. At least that might get me a sympathy mention in the gossip columns.

By five o’clock, I was thoroughly depressed, and called it a day.

Laurence had gone out for dinner with his osteopath, possibly in preparation for his lunch with Julia Thornbury, and Joe hadn’t been released from the iron grip of housekeeping, so at least I had the flat to myself when I let myself in. It was
funny, but I barely noticed the décor now; it was soothing, like going back home to your mum’s house. It even
smelled
of someone’s mum’s house, I thought: biscuits and carpets and comforting blankets. No wonder it had resisted Ellie’s attempts to redecorate.

I changed out of my work suit, then opened the French door in the kitchen that led onto the balcony, to look out over the roofs of Piccadilly. The London skyline never failed to cheer me up, and the view from Laurence’s kitchen was special, especially after dark, when the panorama lit up like a movie-set version of London town.

It only just qualified as a balcony, being half fire-escape, and littered with the skeletons of Christmas trees ‘left to recycle naturally’ according to Laurence, but there was a solid rail to lean on and it felt like being on the prow of a ship, high above the city. I loved this secret side of the hotel: the plain windows dotting the rear walls, lit up yellow or darkened depending on whether the curtains were drawn, as well as the various roofs and flat spaces of the surrounding buildings. The streets were pure Regency elegance from the ground level, yet plain and unmade-up from here, angular and darkened like the underside of a car, all function and purpose.

I watched the red tail-lights move in stops and starts down the Mall, and reminded myself that Flora’s cancellation was just a hitch. That I could get round it. That something would turn up. But I still felt flat.

I was disappointed for Joe, too. He’d put in so much work, not just office hours but in the long personal conversations he’d
had with Flora, trying to unravel what she actually wanted. I felt bad for being pleased at seeing him lose his cool. Lately I’d found myself trying to copy his approach, and annoyingly, sometimes it had helped.

I heard the door open inside, then the radio go on. I hoped Joe would leave me to my thoughts for a bit, but after a few minutes the balcony door opened, and then I felt something warm pressing into my upper arm.

Not just warm. Hot. Ow. Boiling hot, in fact.

I jumped and rubbed the burning sensation. It was a mug of … something.

‘Cocoa,’ said Joe. ‘It is cocoa you drink, isn’t it? Something from the nineteenth century, anyway.’

It didn’t smell like any cocoa I’d ever made. I didn’t know what Joe had poured boiling water onto, but it seemed chocolatey, and I took it, more to warm my hands than anything else.

He joined me, leaning over the railing. ‘We used to love sneaking out here as kids. Mum banned us when Alec tried to Spiderman down the side one summer. Got as far as the rooms below before he ran out of sheets.’

‘How high up was that? God. That must have given your parents a shock.’

‘Not as much as it shocked the guests in the room below.’

I laughed, and gazed out at the city. ‘I love it up here,’ I said. ‘All those windows. You get a real picture of just how many different lives there are going on under this one roof. Every room with a different guest, a different reason to be here, a different life …’

‘Little did the guests know,’ he said in a movie trailer voice, ‘that the deputy duty manager was watching their every move …’

‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m just weighing up how long we could stow Flora’s body out here before anyone noticed.’

Joe laughed. ‘I got a text this morning – of her wedding ring, would you believe? She says she’ll pop in to show you herself when she’s next in town. I honestly don’t think she gets how much chaos she’s caused.’

‘I’m sorry. You worked really hard. It’s not fair. But it happens.’

Joe leaned his chin on the rail. ‘I guess so. It’s probably karma, getting me back for lecturing you about letting clients be romantic and follow their hearts, not their heads.’

‘That’s a very generous way of looking at it.’

‘Something will turn up,’ he said, turning his head to look at me. ‘You’ve got to put your faith in the universe.’

‘Ha! I don’t think so. That’s the one thing I don’t put any faith in.’ I sipped suspiciously at the cocoa. It had a funny tang of curry powder. ‘In my experience, the universe specializes in doing exactly what you don’t need, at the exact moment when you haven’t time to deal with it.’

‘So it’s all down to you?’

‘It’s all down to me.’

‘Maybe you should leave a bit more space for the universe.’

Before I could even think of a reply sarcastic enough, Joe reached out and pointed to something moving over the skyline.

‘Look! Quick, there!’

‘Where?’

He waved his finger. ‘Shooting star. Quick, wish on that.’

‘That’s not a shooting star,’ I scoffed. ‘That’s an
air ambulance
.’

‘No, it’s a shooting star,’ Joe insisted. ‘Make a wish.’

I started to tell him what a ridiculous idea that was – especially when the shooting star had a red flashing light – but something in Joe’s expression stopped me. Mingled with the earnestness I’d come to tolerate over the past few months was a flash of self-deprecation, as if he was only acting like this because he thought I expected it.

‘Don’t make me say universe again,’ he warned. ‘Humour me here. Like I humour you about folding loo paper into shapes.’

I felt a funny twist in my stomach, and looked quickly up at the sky. The ‘shooting star’ was heading for St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, but who was I to argue?

‘Wish outrageously,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t hold back. Be greedy and ambitious, let your subconscious guide you, and—’

‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I’m going along with your ridiculous shooting-star thing, but I’m still British.’

I closed my eyes and wished for another high-profile, big-budget wedding to fill that prime June slot Flora had just abandoned. I wished for the hotel to be filled with happy laughter and well-dressed guests, the smells of perfume and wedding cake and rose-petal confetti in the foyer. I wished for cute flower-girl bridesmaids in ballet shoes, Rolls-Royces pulling up outside, the clink of glasses and the click of cameras, the hotel gleaming and sparkling, a buzzing after-party in the hotel bar, and, at the centre of it all, I pictured myself,
keeping everything under calm control, ticking off every secret list.

Me and Joe.

I frowned. The image in my mind’s eye was of me and Joe. I tried to move him offstage, but he wouldn’t. He was there next to me, smiling at the guests, telling me to calm down and relax and all the other annoying things he came out with, just when I really didn’t want to relax. But now I did feel relaxed. A comforting, positive feeling swept over me, as if things
would
be all right. Something
would
come along.

The Joe in my mind’s eye slipped his arm around my waist and smiled at me, and I felt my mouth smiling back. My real mouth, in real life.

I snapped my eyes open in surprise.

The real Joe was an arm’s length away, leaning next to me on the balcony, and he was watching my face. And the feeling was still there. The gauzy, cashmere-blanket feeling of comfort, wrapping me up lightly in its cosy embrace.

My cheeks burned; I wondered if he’d somehow been able to see what had just gone across my mind. I hadn’t thought it on purpose. It was just like one of those random dreams, when you find yourself doing unspeakable things to your optician and then feel odd when you polish your glasses for reasons you don’t want to think about.

‘Did you wish for something nice?’ Joe asked, and his voice sounded different.

I shivered, and it was nothing to do with the February air out on the balcony. ‘Er, yes.’

He smiled slowly, and the edges of his eyes crinkled. ‘I hope you didn’t just run a series of budget proposals past that shooting star,’ he said with a nod towards the sky.

I didn’t know what to say. A fluttering had started in the pit of my stomach.

‘Did
you
wish for something?’ I asked instead. ‘On the shooting ambulance?’

He looked at me, and his expression became slightly more solemn. The fluttering spread up towards my chest, making all the little hairs on the backs of my arms stand up.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did.’

We looked at each other, and I could feel the breath stop in my throat.

‘Joe? Joe! Joe!’ yelled a voice inside the flat.

It was Laurence. I recognized that note of panic.

‘It’s your dad,’ I said.

‘I know,’ said Joe, without taking his eyes off me.

‘He sounds a bit panicky.’

‘I probably left the fridge open.’ Joe bit his lip, as if he was trying to work out how to say something, and I shivered again at his lovely square white teeth and the way they pulled at the soft pillow of his lower lip. ‘Rosie,’ he began.

‘What are you two doing out here?’ Laurence appeared at the balcony windows. ‘The fridge was wide open! I’ve got temperature-sensitive vitamins in there.’

‘That wasn’t what I wished for, by the way,’ said Joe, still looking into my eyes.

Every hair on my skin tingled. He was even more handsome
in the half-light of London. And he was still in love with someone else. Something tore inside me, with regret and longing. Fate was showing me a man who knew how to fall in love with a woman – but I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him myself.

‘I know,’ I said, and went back in.

Obviously, I believed in the wish-granting potential of the universe about as much as I believed in the proposal-predicting power of a randomly chucked bouquet and the divorce-preventing properties of a blue garter and a sixpence in the shoe.

So I was really not expecting the call I got from Charlie Nevin, wedding photographer, on Friday morning.

I was actually making a to-do list for a new bride I’d signed up for a winter wedding in December, and had just reached ‘Photographers: a selection’ when Nevin’s own face came up on my phone.

‘Nevin!’ I said with delight. ‘Just the man.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think?’

Nevin was my favourite of the wedding photographers we used, and the one I recommended most often. He shared my belief in planning, to the point where he had fully thought-out strategies for thunderstorms, power cuts, light rain, heavy snow, and various key personnel not turning up. Part of his contract was that he be allowed to attend my early meetings to ‘run through’ (i.e. vet) the bride’s requirements; he had the sort of polite but remorseless focus that cut through the dithering
of more indecisive couples. If he was in the area and at a loose end, I sometimes asked him to drop in anyway, just to sit in meetings and firm up bridal decisions more quickly.

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come in and have a chat with a delightful couple planning a December wedding, would you?’ I asked.

‘It would be my pleasure.’ Nevin also had the mother-of-the-bride-friendly trait of sounding as if he’d wandered off the set of
Pride and Prejudice
. ‘But I was calling because I’ve got a favour to ask of you.’

‘If it’s another wedding reshoot, that’s a yes from me. We love the overtime and the chance to dress up here.’

‘Ha! But no. This is rather cheeky,’ he went on, ‘but it’s for a special client – long story short, she was booked into another hotel – full package, honeymoon there, full ceremony, no expense spared – but there’s been some kind of mix-up, complete freak-out, and now she and her chap need to find somewhere else, asap. I don’t suppose you’ve got any dates free in June, have you?’

‘In June?’ The busiest wedding month of the year? I started to say, ‘You’ll be lucky,’ but then I realized I did. I had a plum date free.
The
date in June, in fact.

My heart beat loudly.

‘They were booked in for June the twentieth’ he went on, sounding even more hopeful. ‘Save-the-dates have gone out, the dress and flowers are arranged, most things are in motion, so if there is any way on earth you happen to have that date free …’

‘June the twelfth?’

‘I think they’d be prepared to, um, make it worth your while if there was some magic you could perform. They’re not exactly skimping on the budget.’

‘Well, as it happens, I might be able to squeeze them in.’ I highlighted 20 June on my laptop calendar and prepared to fill in some details.

‘What, really?’ He sounded amazed.

‘For you, Nevin. Not for any old snapper.’

‘Now, hang on. Are you bumping some other poor couple?’ He was a photographer, but he did have some scruples.

‘Ask no questions, Nevin, and I’ll tell you no lies.’

‘Marvellous. Too kind.’ I could hear the astonishment in his voice. ‘Well, I can tell you now,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘The groom’s an actor, Benedict Quayle?’

I blinked. ‘Benedict Quayle? From the
Dark Moon
series?’ I’d only seen the first in the trilogy myself, but Gemma was a massive fan. The day she’d stood behind Lorenzo della Chiamo in Harrods food hall was a day none of us would ever forget. Mainly because Gemma liked to remind us of it once a month, or whenever she had a pasta salad (‘Lorenzo’ had had gluten-free fusilli, which apparently made him and Gemma soul mates).

‘Yes! Him. And his fiancée’s an actress too but she’s not very famous yet, she’s called Emily Sharpe. What’s a bit sticky is that they’re both currently working in America. He’s filming … whatever the new
Dark Moon
film is.’

‘
Return to the Light
.’

‘Probably. And Emily’s in that, and some play or other, I believe. Or a film. I’m not really up on these things.’

‘So is that why they’re getting the photographer to reorganize their wedding? Didn’t they have a wedding planner?’

‘No, they were using the wedding planner at the hotel. The best man and chief bridesmaid are apparently on hand to sort things out on the ground in London, but Emily asked me if I could recommend a venue. She’s very stressed, as you might imagine, but I knew you’d be able to calm things down. If anyone can make sure she has an even better day than the one she’s just lost, you can, Rosie.’

‘Well, it’s lovely that you thought of me. I’ll do everything I can,’ I reassured him.

I was so excited I could have done laps of my office with glee. Not just a wedding to fill the June twelfth slot, but a celebrity one! Featuring one and a half celebrities who outranked Flora in the first place!

A small voice at the back of my mind wondered what had happened to get someone that famous double-booked at a hotel in the first place, but I shoved it to one side.

‘I always knew you were a miracle worker, but this is fantastic,’ said Nevin. ‘So may I give them your number? Probably don’t need to say this, but you’ll have to keep it under your hat. Can’t have word getting out that Transylvania’s most eligible vampire’s getting married and all that.’

‘He’s a shapeshifter. From Venice,’ I said automatically, thinking of all the security I’d had to block-book months in advance for Flora. Brilliant. I wouldn’t have to cancel that. I hated cancelling security.

Anyway, I thought, putting the phone down with a silent
yes!
I’d need at least two people to keep Gemma away from Benedict. Another good reason to keep this completely to myself.

*

Calls were made, emails were sent, and the first meeting with Benedict Quayle and Emily Sharpe’s marital representatives in London was set up for later that week.

As I’d promised Nevin, I hadn’t told anyone about the meeting. I had no idea what Gemma might do if she thought someone who knew Benedict Quayle’s actual pasta salad preferences was in the building, but also if the booking didn’t materialize, I’d never hear the end of it from Laurence. He was still on a series of herbal remedies to get over the loss of Flora’s room bookings.

Part of me wanted to tell Joe, to prove his shooting-star guff had worked, but since Flora’s cancellation he’d reverted to his old ‘weddings are for snobby people who want to show off to their mates’ attitude, and had turned his back on events to focus on making the Bonneville’s laundry more eco-friendly, to Jean’s despair. Besides, as he took great delight in reminding us while Gemma was reading
Heat
magazine’s engagement special aloud to us, he had no idea who these people were anyway.

Besides, I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. I’d had to sign a confidentiality agreement emailed over by Benedict Quayle’s agent. It went on for
pages
. Missy Hernandez wasn’t going to be present at my planning meetings in person, but she’d managed to make herself very,
very
present in my email inbox.

On this particular Thursday morning, Missy’s extensive list of security requirements was in the joint possession of Ben and
Emily’s wedding proxies: chief bridesmaid Chloë, and best man Magnus. They were not together.

‘We’re not together, him and me,’ Chloë informed me, gesturing with a finger between her and Magnus, before I’d got past ‘Hello, and welcome to the Bonneville Hotel.’

‘You should be so lucky, love,’ said Magnus, before I’d had time to react to Chloë’s statement.

‘No, I think I’m lucky already.’ Chloë was American, but she’d certainly got the hang of British sarcasm. ‘And please don’t call me love. I’m not your mom’s cleaner.’

‘Sorry,’ said Magnus, then paused. Glimmer of a smile. I
knew
what was coming next.

So did Chloë. ‘And don’t say babe,’ she shot back without dropping her smile to me.

‘Forgive me. Darling?’

‘Does it
look
like it’s working, Magnus?’

The first grippy sensation of a stress headache began to press against my temples. I hadn’t expected this. Not from a wedding whose flower budget suggested an extreme interest in peace and love.

‘Would you like to come through to the Palm Court?’ I asked.

Before I met them, I’d been quite glad Chloë and Magnus were coming as a pair, because, to all intents and purposes, anyone passing the Palm Court would assume
they
were the couple planning their wedding with me. The obvious tension between them made it even more authentic. It wasn’t the sort of tension normally resolved by a bout of urgent snogging behind a convenient door. It was the tension of two people unable to
decide where to kick off the argument proper, and what might get broken in the process. In other words, the sort of fury often engendered by weeks of discussing whose mother got to wear pistachio and whose mother got the bigger hat.

Still, I managed to get things back onto a cheerful front as I welcomed them to the Bonneville and commiserated about Emily and Benedict’s ‘disappointment’ with their first booking.

‘It’s a blessing in disguise.’ Chloë crossed her legs and looked scandalized. ‘Oh, my God, can you imagine how badly things could have gone wrong on the day, if she’s this disorganized now? I feel sorry for the clients who
got
the date. The woman is a liability. I can’t imagine how it could have happened.’

I could. An assistant who hadn’t saved a document. A lost booking from the previous year. Computers crashing. A really bad hangover and too much paperwork … My blood ran cold just thinking how easily it could have happened.

Magnus stirred two sugars into his tea and clattered the spoon round the china cup, causing Chloë to wince theatrically. ‘Or someone more famous bunged them more cash. I can find out. I’ve got contacts in that game.’

She didn’t even turn her head. ‘Stay classy, Magnus. But it’s critical that we regroup and focus. Especially as Emily can’t be here to check things out herself, I think it’s even more important to have absolute confidence in every detail going forward.’

Chloë, I soon discovered, was a solicitor, a junior partner in a firm specializing in family law. She was very friendly, but as I was pouring the coffee, she put her phone on the table with
the clock app open, as if she would be billing me if we overran, and I decided not to make a joke about Emily and Benedict arranging their prenup with her.

Magnus, on the other hand, did something in property. He was good-looking in a raffish, public-school sort of way, but he wore yellow socks and reminded me a little bit of Dominic, specifically the way his eyes glittered at his own jokes and how he talked over Chloë and me. I was surprised by how wearing I found him. Maybe my tolerance had worn off in the weeks I hadn’t been living with Dom.

‘So, have you two known each other long?’ I asked, to push away the Dominic thought.

‘I’ve known Emily since boarding school,’ said Chloë, answering the question she wanted to answer. ‘My dad’s English and I went to school here. Em and I shared a flat together in London. We’re very close.’

‘Although you haven’t seen her for a while, have you?’ Magnus toyed with the biscuits, touching all of them deliberately, and then settling on a Bourbon cream. Delphine made them herself, dementedly pricking individual marks into them to make them look like the mass-produced version.

‘I’ve been busy with work, going back and forth,’ Chloë explained to me. ‘Obviously Emily’s been out in the States for the past year or so. With Benedict.’

‘Are we calling him Benedict now he’s famous?’ Magnus enquired. ‘Even though he’s been Benny for the twenty-five years I’ve known him?’

Chloë finally turned her head and gave him a withering look.
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve only known him for the
seven years
he’s been dating my best friend.’

‘On and off,’ said Magnus. ‘Seven years, on and off.’

‘Have you had a stopwatch running?’

I let out an inner groan and poured myself a cup of tea to disguise it. Seven years of these two squabbling like this? God almighty. No wonder Emily and Benedict had decided to give things a go in America. If they were in America. If it were me, I’d have moved to Glasgow and set my alarm to email at appropriately time-delayed times of the night if it meant getting away from this over dinner.

Come on, Rosie
, I told myself.
Channel your inner Joe. Find the joy in these two. Enjoy their spark. Imagine them fighting their rising feelings over a big argument about what colour cravats the ushers should wear …

‘So anyway,’ I said, hauling the meeting back on track. ‘I can show you two around today and give you a sense of how our weddings work here, where we hold them, what sorts of party spaces are available. We can try to replicate what Emily and … um, Benedict? had planned originally, or we can create something completely fresh.’

‘I think they should have something bespoke,’ said Chloë, decisively.

‘Bespoke? It’s a wedding. Not a three-piece suit,’ said Magnus. ‘Now, thank God Benny got his
suit
ordered early. More to the point,’ he added to me with a wink, ‘the stag’s still going ahead as it was. Track day, then paintballing, then we’ll draw a discreet veil over the rest.’

‘For the moment,’ said Chloë darkly. ‘I don’t think you’ve seen Missy’s official risk assessment of your track day, have you? Let alone the
veiled stuff
. Good luck getting that past Benedict’s insurance.’

I looked at Chloë, then Magnus, and foresaw weeks of frozen smiles ahead of me. For the first time ever in my career, I was actually grateful I only had twelve weeks to plan a wedding.

‘Do you know if Emily or Benedict has ever visited the Bonneville?’ I asked. ‘I’m thrilled that we’ve got the opportunity to host their wedding, but it would be nice if we could reference some personal memory they have?’

Chloë shook her head. ‘I don’t believe so. But Emily is happy to do FaceTime when she’s available, and you can walk her around so she can get a feel for the place? I’m recording all our conversations too, obviously.’