The Honeymoon Hotel (3 page)

I sighed and reached for the bread basket. As usual, Dom had gone straight to the heart of the problem, like a guilt-seeking missile. He’d had lots of therapy, and consequently felt no hesitation about telling people what they were really thinking.

I knew Laurence took people for granted. It was one of the reasons Caroline had finally had enough and left him. And he hadn’t learned his lesson: he still took it for granted that she’d be prepared to sort his life out from a safe distance now.

‘To be honest with you,’ I said, ‘I think both Caroline and Laurence are hurt that no one in the family
does
really care about the hotel. Neither Joe nor Alec ever shows any interest in the place, and it’s been in the family for years.’

Dominic paused in his bread dissection. ‘Which one’s the hippie, and which one’s the psycho?’

‘Joe’s the hippie.’ I corrected myself: ‘No, he’s
not
a hippie. He’s a traveller. He runs a boutique travel service in America.’ I tried to remember exactly how Caroline had described it. ‘Planning wilderness experiences in the desert and spiritual discovery retreats and that sort of thing.’

‘He bums around arranging adventure holidays for rich kids on their gap years, so he can pretend his hasn’t finished yet. How old is he?’

‘Um …’ I did some mental calculations. ‘About twenty-eight?’

‘Twenty-eight? I’d been writing a column for four years by then!’

‘And I’d been working at the hotel on and off for nearly twelve,’ I pointed out. I was thirty. Dominic was thirty-five, but when it suited him he liked to talk as if he was at least fifty-five.

‘And where’s the psycho?’ he went on.

‘If you mean Alec, he’s living with Caroline in Oxfordshire. And—’ I don’t even know why I was bothering to add this, since random and enthusiastic loathing of people was one of Dominic’s favourite hobbies, ‘Alec isn’t a psycho, he left the army because he’d had enough of the moving around.’

He made a delighted scoffing noise. ‘That’s what Caroline told you. You don’t leave the army because you’re tired of moving around. That’s like someone packing in international football because he was bored of sports massages.’

I started to disagree, and realized I couldn’t. To be honest, Alec was a bit volatile. Good-looking and very charming, like his
parents, with a shock of red hair, but …
energetic
was probably the kindest way to describe him.

‘I think Laurence should count himself lucky neither of those two idiots wants to get involved with the family business,’ observed Dom. ‘If I were him, I’d be working quite hard to keep them as far away as possible. You don’t want your guests being ambushed in the bar, or subjected to shamanistic healing rituals in the foyer.’

I hadn’t seen Alec or Joe for years, but going by the occasional asides from Caroline it was hard to imagine either of them behind the front desk. ‘But it’s been in the family for so long. And it’s not just a hotel. Laurence loves the Bonneville. I love the Bonneville. It’s …’

I was about to say, ‘It’s more than just a hotel – it’s a piece of history,’ but I stopped myself just as Dominic’s eyes widened in warning. He didn’t subscribe to my ideas about the Bonneville having its own personality. He thought Helen’s poaching a decent chef for the restaurant was the key to turning the place around. But then he would.

‘It’s a unique hotel in London,’ I said instead. ‘And it has possibilities.’

Dom buttered his roll vigorously. ‘Then even better. If neither of the sons is interested in his precious hotel, Laurence should be taking more care to encourage the one competent member of his staff who is,’ he said. ‘He should make you manager by the end of the year. And if he doesn’t, you need to think about leaving and finding an employer who will recognize your talents.’

Yes, I thought, staring at the strange collection of matted
fleece stuck in gold frames on the wall behind Dom’s head. (He always got the seat that faced out into the room.) I
could
do this. A pay rise, a better job title … I deserved it. I just had to make a list and it would happen.

And then I just had to organize three weddings a month for the next six months on top of all my other work, and talk seriously to Laurence about promotion. I wasn’t sure which was the taller order.

‘Rosie! Is there a problem with the bread?’

I looked down at my plate. My roll was crumbled into bits. I’d been shredding it without realizing, and now it lay in a sad heap of organic flax and nut flakes.

Dom grinned. I could almost hear the words clicking across the screen in his brain:
‘The bread roll wasn’t so much a bread roll as a collection of stale crumbs huddling together in the bread basket for warmth …’

‘Was it a bit dry?’ he enquired.

I managed a smile. ‘
The bread was so dry that it could have hosted its own topical news quiz
. Said Betty.’

‘Very good. You should have your own column. Do you want me to look into it?’ Dominic’s brown eyes twinkled above the dark softness of his new beard. Helen thought the new beard was a sackable offence, but I liked it. He was carrying it off surprisingly well, even if it was now a very short step in my imagination to buckled boots and a sword. We were a proper power couple, me and Dom, I thought with a tingle. Betty and Dom. The king and queen of the London restaurant scene.

‘No, I don’t think I can eat enough,’ I said airily. ‘And who
would make up the jokes for
your
column? Although maybe Betty could write about cocktails somewhere?’

Helen and I could do a brilliant cocktail column …

‘You know, I’m not sure I should be encouraging you to work even more hours than you already do,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘I don’t see you enough as it is.’ We both ignored the ominous creak from the table. Well, I did. Who knew what mental notes Dominic was making about the furniture.

‘No, actually,’ I said quickly, ‘I think you’re right. I should go for the promotion sooner rather than later. Because it would be very handy to have some extra money for a deposit, wouldn’t it?’

Dominic wasn’t listening. A wicked smile was spreading across his face. The one that made me think of pirates and cutlasses. I pressed on, because this was actually all fitting together nicely.

‘I’ve been looking at flats …’

‘Have you?’ he murmured.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the waiter hovering by the table, beaming nervously and brandishing a notepad. ‘Ready to order, guys?’

I stopped myself. Later. I didn’t want to rush this conversation. I’d bring up the details over pudding. Dom was always happier over pudding.

‘Do you know what you want?’ he asked me, more for the waiter’s benefit than mine, because we both knew what I’d be having. I had all the dishes Dom didn’t like – squiddy things, vegetarian options, cream sauces, warm puddings – fortunately all the dishes I’d have picked anyway. We were a good team like that.

I glanced at the menu, which appeared to have been written in crayon by the chef during a power cut. There was a fine line between rustic and crusty when it came to gastropubs.

‘I’ll have the squid to start, followed by the artichoke and quail’s egg risotto.’

‘Great choice,’ said the waiter with an obsequious nod.

‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ muttered Dominic. ‘And I’ll have the potted shrimps, and the rabbit rillettes, followed by the steak and kidney pudding, and the skate. And can we have some, ah, spinach, please. And whatever squeezed potatoes might be. I’ll just have mine affectionately cuddled, if that’s all right.’

The waiter glanced over his shoulder at the manager and the chef, both of whom were standing by the door to the kitchen. They waved their arms at him, saw me looking, and pretended they were examining a light fitting.

‘So,’ said Dom when the waiter was gone, leaning forward again and giving me a tantalizing waft of his aftershave, ‘what does Betty think about the décor? Has it all been stolen from a barn in Wiltshire, do you reckon? Or an abandoned Victorian school?’

I looked down, trying not to smile. Even after two hundred dinners, the novelty of being part of Dom’s weekly column hadn’t worn off. Moments like this made me almost glad things hadn’t worked out with Anthony. With Dominic, I felt as if I was a proper grown-up, with an exciting social life, right in the heart of where everything was happening in London.

We discussed the décor for a bit, the food arrived, we ate it
and joked about the reclaimed plates; then over coffee, I seized the moment and got the flat details out of my bag.

‘I know we haven’t got a proper budget yet,’ I said, pushing the printouts across the table, ‘but I thought it’d be a good idea to start working out what areas we could live in. I’ve found some that I think you might like …’

‘Where are they? Because you know I’ve got to be central for work.’ Dominic eyed the papers warily. ‘And near somewhere that sells decent bread. And at least four Tube stops away from any hipsters wearing cardigans.’

‘We can’t afford to live near hipsters. You’re safe there.’

‘Pass me your A to Z.’ I had an old-fashioned A–Z for flat-hunting purposes. Dominic took a water glass, opened the A–Z on the Kensington page, squinted, put the glass down and drew a circle round it, then passed the map back. ‘There. Within that should be fine.’

I looked at it. ‘Sorry, have you had a three hundred per cent pay rise and not mentioned it?’

He picked up his espresso cup. ‘You want me to make a smaller circle?’

This was why I wanted to start looking early, before the lease ran out. It was going to take a few months before Dominic came to terms with what we could actually afford to buy.

‘If we go for a one-bedroom rather than—’

‘Got to be two,’ Dominic started, but then his phone rang in his pocket. He ignored it for a few seconds, which I found flattering; then he pulled it out of his pocket, winced, and put it back.

‘Who was that?’ I asked.

‘Oh, just Jacob.’

‘Jacob … from the office?’ I hadn’t met many of Dominic’s work friends. They all kept strange hours and, according to Dominic, were best left at work because ‘writers are only amusing on email, not in real life when they can’t edit themselves.’

‘Yeah, he’s at some bar down the road.’ He studied a printout. ‘Is this legally a flat? Are you sure it’s not a cupboard?’

‘If Jacob’s just down the road, tell him to come here and join us for a drink,’ I suggested. ‘I’d like to meet Jacob. Is he the music writer?’

Dominic pulled a face. ‘No. He writes about wine. Good reason not to bring him here. Anyway, didn’t you want to talk about these flats?’

I gave Dominic a look, but decided not to say anything. When we had a place of our own, I was going to throw the most amazing soirées. Writers, chefs, restaurateurs, his friends, my friends … it would be a salon. A foodie salon. I ignored the fact that I’d be working God knows how many hours a day to pay the mortgage.

‘This one’s got a brilliant kitchen,’ I said with a confident smile, and slid the paper over the table towards the man already wearing a velvet smoking jacket in my head.

For the rest of the week, when I wasn’t on the phone to brides or running round the hotel setting up client meetings and cake tastings, I thought about various ways to bring up the topic of the manager’s job with Laurence. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to ask him, but I knew I had one chance to get it right. Laurence was so adept at wriggling out of conversations he didn’t want to have that he could change the subject before you’d even finished outlining it.

I thought about the best tactics all through that weekend’s wedding – a small but no-expense-spared second marriage of a hedge fund manager and his childhood sweetheart, now a successful interior designer – and by the time I headed towards the conference room for the weekly Monday morning management meeting, I’d more or less decided that my best bet was just to spring it on him.

We had a quick meeting every morning in Laurence’s office, but Monday was the formal one where the weekend’s cock-ups were dragged out from under the carpet, if they hadn’t been swept there firmly enough, and for that, everyone needed to sit down. Some of the things that could go wrong at the
weekend in even a smallish London hotel would make your hair curl.

Gemma usually took the minutes, but when I pushed open the meeting room door, decorated with brass sunburst reliefs to match the exuberant Deco mirrors that lined the corridor, she was already hopping from foot to foot as if she needed to be somewhere else. Possibly the loo.

‘Brilliant, you’re here,’ she said in a rush before I could speak. ‘Laurence says can you take minutes for the meeting, because I’ve got to get his prescription?’

‘His what?’ That was typical of Laurence’s management style. Zero concern for the staff meeting, yet a move bordering on genius to ask Gemma to run his errand before the weekly round-up, her favourite source of fresh gossip, thus ensuring the prescription gathering would be done at full speed, so as not to miss any juicy details.

‘His magnesium and iron are at a dangerous level, he says. Won’t be long. Thanks, Rosie,’ said Gemma, shoving her notebook and pen at me, and dashing out.

I sat down next to the plate of Danish pastries, freshly baked by our French pâtisserie chef, Delphine, and opened the notebook to a new page. I looked round to see who was here, and started to scan her notes from last week, while jotting down today’s attendees.

Taking minutes was one of the first jobs Caroline had given me when I came back to the Bonneville after college, so I could learn how all the hotel departments fitted together to make one smoothly humming machine. I’d got used to interpreting
the various unvarnished comments into records-friendly management-ese, something Gemma hadn’t yet mastered, going by the rather literal transcript of Dino the bar manager’s face-off last week with Sam the concierge over who got room-service tips for after-hours cocktails. They were both pretty sweary, although to give Gemma her due, it made for surprisingly colourful reading. If things didn’t work out for her here, she had a future in writing quite violent film scripts.

I glanced up to see who else had walked in, and caught a snippet of conversation between Diane and Jean, the magnificently upholstered housekeeper. I heard, ‘Laurence’, ‘stock check’ and ‘general manager’s job’, and then Diane rolled her eyes and said, ‘Well, I’d be the last one to know.’ Which led me to guess they were talking about Paul’s as yet unappointed replacement as hotel manager. We were all wondering about it, since his duties were being shared out between us in the meantime.

My chest fluttered. What if Laurence was going to announce the appointment in this meeting? My plan might be too late. Not too late, I reminded myself. I had a strong case to make. I had to think big.

A sudden gust of Hugo Boss wafted over my head, and Sam the concierge slid into the chair next to me. ‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, right into my ear.

I added
Sam Smith, concierge services
to my notes, and said, ‘Morning, gorgeous, yourself.’ Across the table, Diane giggled in a very un-HR-manager way, and I knew Sam had given her his special Monday morning wink.

I didn’t attach a lot of significance to Sam’s
gorgeous
; Sam called everyone
gorgeous
, even the porters. It was why he got the best tips in the hotel, that and his ability to produce tables from nowhere at booked-out restaurants, and top seats for
The Lion King
.

In the interests of fairness, I should explain that Sam was very good-looking. It’s a lot easier to get away with calling everyone
gorgeous
when you look like you’ve just stepped out of an Armani advert yourself. You with your perfectly cut hair, and your David Beckham eyes, and your wink that you shouldn’t be able to get away with, but you do. Except with me. Too many tipsy best men trying it on had rendered me impervious to winkage.

‘So listen, Miss Moneypenny, what do you know about Paul’s replacement?’ Sam muttered, leaning over to get a Danish pastry from the plate. ‘Rumour has it Laurence was spending a lot of time with the Do Not Disturb sign on his office door last week.’

Across the table, Diane’s ears swivelled.

‘Was he?’ I poured him some coffee from the jug, then topped up my own cup. ‘You know what Laurence is like. He’s probably found a new website that can diagnose skin conditions by holding your palm up to the screen.’ I raised a finger, seeing Sam’s mouth twitch mischievously. ‘Don’t tell him that, by the way. If I find him palming his laptop,
I will know
.’

Sam raised his eyebrows and popped a chunk of pastry in his mouth. ‘Something’s afoot. Mark my words. The lawyer’s been in. The one who looks like an undertaker.’

‘You’ve been listening at the door?’ I turned in my chair to look at him properly, suddenly interested.

‘Not listening at the door as such. Just … keeping my ear to the ground. If you know what I mean.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Elaborate.’

Sam inclined his head so Diane couldn’t hear, and muttered, ‘One of the maids popped in to empty his bin and he slammed the phone down.’

I raised an eyebrow. Laurence didn’t slam phones down. He usually couldn’t remember how they worked, and ended up putting the baffled caller on speakerphone instead, which led to some interesting revelations.

‘And,’
Sam went on, ‘he was talking to Caroline.’

I frowned. ‘Caroline?’

‘Morning. Is this about Laurence?’ There was a whoosh of garlic-scented kitchen air and my friend Helen dumped her file on the table next to us. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with him.’

I added
Helen Yardley, restaurant
to the minutes.

‘I thought picking bones was your job?’ Sam’s face lit up at the sight of Helen in her smart suit. ‘Restaurant? Picking bones? No?’

‘No,’ said Helen. ‘My job is running the restaurant, and I do not need Laurence popping up in the kitchens like he did all weekend, disrupting the highly strung team of sociopaths we have working in there. And Kevin. The last thing I need is Laurence upsetting Kevin.’

‘Laurence in the
kitchens
?’ I said. This really was out of character. Laurence was terrified of Helen and, to a lesser extent, of Kevin Lomax, the head chef and Helen’s secret weapon in her campaign to get the hotel restaurant Michelin-starred. Both had access to huge knives and were usually cross about something, which was understandable in Helen’s case, at least, given that her job involved dealing with a colossal collection of egos all heated to boiling point.

Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms with a conclusive smirk. ‘So that’s it. Lawyer’s been in. Laurence has nosed around the kitchens. Phones slammed down. Laurence asking the ex-missus for advice. I reckon he’s got a new manager. Or he’s interviewing someone.’

‘He wants Caroline to come and interview them, more like,’ snorted Helen.

I tried not to let my emotions show on my face. Ugh, was I too late? Why hadn’t I been to talk to Laurence sooner about this?

Because you were run off your feet covering Paul’s duties
, I reminded myself.

Helen turned to me. ‘Wouldn’t he have told you first, Rosie? I mean, you’ve been doing that job, more or less, since Paul left.’

I think she said it louder than was necessary because Diane the HR manager was sitting opposite us.

‘You should probably have had a pay rise for your overtime,’ she added helpfully, in case Diane hadn’t got it the first time. Helen was a good friend like that. ‘You’re never out of here before ten. And you’re here most weekends with weddings, too.’

Diane maintained her bland smile. She’d trained for a long time to get her face that non-commital.

‘I bet Dominic Crosby’s not happy about the hours you’re working.’ Sam shook his head with regret, also for Diane’s benefit but also because he never missed an opportunity to get in a dig about Dominic. ‘I’ve noticed how busy Betty is in that column of his. Some weeks she doesn’t even appear.’

‘He’s fine with it,’ I said calmly. ‘He’s very busy himself. He’s up for an award soon, at the London Eats and Drinks Awards. Best Food Writer.’

‘Get you two. The Entertainment Power Couple. You’re the Jolie-Pitts of the slate cheeseboard world,’ said Sam with a straight face.

‘Sod off,’ I said, pleased.

Helen nudged me, because Laurence had finally arrived, followed by Tam, head of security, in a suit specially tailored to accommodate his massive thighs, which were genetically better-suited to a kilt, preferably a Highland battle kilt. Tam was always the last in. He stood outside the door until the final moment, on account of the meeting-room chairs which
were original Art Deco ones, and somewhat fragile. Or maybe because he found the weekly politics of it all less interesting than standing outside, eyeballing potential intruders.

I squinted at Laurence. There was no immediate sign, as far as I could see, of any dangerously low magnesium and iron levels. In fact, he looked positively chipper.

‘Good morning, troops!’ he said, sweeping to the head of the table and sitting down with a habitual flick of his suit jacket, and the meeting began.

*

Depending on the sorts of problems that needed raking over, Monday morning meetings could roll on for ages, but today’s drew to a close after a brisk thirty minutes. Everyone rushed out to get on with the working day, but I hung around until only Laurence, Sam and I remained.

I gave Sam a
get lost
look, and he slid away to make some lucky guest’s day with a table at the Ivy.

‘Rosie.’ Laurence beamed. ‘Just the person.’

I assumed it was about the minutes. He probably wanted me to edit the bit where Helen asked him about the budget for the kitchen upgrades, and then asked when the last renovation of the dining room had been, and he couldn’t remember. ‘I’ll get these minutes typed up and drop them by later,’ I said. ‘But I wonder if I could have a quick chat with you.’

‘What? A quick chat about what?’ Laurence’s expression froze. ‘You’re not going on holiday?’

‘Ha! No, as if,’ I reassured him.

‘So what’s it about?’

‘About weddings. And me.’

He clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Dominic’s proposed?’

I tried not to take offence at the surprise in his voice. ‘I’m not getting married, Laurence.’

‘Thank God.’ He seemed relieved and I was starting to wonder whether I should be reading anything into it, when he added, ‘Because I’ve just had to give Jean a fortnight off in July for some cruise, and frankly we can’t afford to lose the only other person who knows how to handle the chambermaids.’

I followed him into his office.

Laurence’s office hadn’t changed much since his grandfather had barked orders into the big black telephone nearly a century ago.

By the window, which overlooked the gardens, were a side table covered in silver-framed photos of celebrity guests from eras past and an antique cocktail cabinet in the shape of a globe. It opened at five fifteen daily for Laurence’s gin and tonic: some of the sticky bottles were original 1960s liqueurs that were probably illegal in the EU now. The only concession to the twenty-first century was a computer, placed uncomfortably on the desk between a photo of Caroline (and Joe and Alec) on one side, and Ellie (with Ripley and Otto, Laurence’s two very young, very blonde children with Ellie) on the other. I was often called to turn the computer on and off again when it crashed. Laurence thoughtfully draped the screen with his red spotted hanky first, but I knew what he was looking at: gruesome symptom checkers, not porn.

‘Sit ye, sit ye,’ he said, wafting a hand at the leather chair
opposite his desk, as he lowered himself gingerly into his seat. ‘Ooh, dear.’

I smiled sympathetically, but didn’t ask. He groaned a lot, and I had two trendy confetti suppliers arriving at eleven to demonstrate the ‘perfect flutter and easy clean-up’ for their fake rose petals. (
Fauxses
, as they called them.) Asking Laurence about his twinges could easily run into, then wipe out the entire appointment.

‘Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’ He appeared to be bracing himself against the chair, but I ignored that, too.

‘I wanted to talk to you about my role in the hotel.’ I took a deep breath, and prepared myself to deliver my big speech.

He stopped wincing and flinching and suddenly looked rather focused. ‘Your role in the hotel?’

‘Yes.’ I produced some spreadsheets I’d printed out, complete with projections for the rest of the year. I’d been realistic, and ignored Dominic’s suggestions to ‘forecast’ three royal weddings taking place in our conservatory. ‘This is the breakdown of the hotel turnover on weddings, and another on the other events business I’ve brought in. Conferences, parties, private dinners, that sort of thing. And I’ve added projected figures for the weddings I’ve already booked in for the rest of the year.’