The Honeymoon Hotel (9 page)

‘No, I need to see my boyfriend,’ I said. ‘I … I need to discuss some stuff with him. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ve got a couple coming in to look around the hotel for their reception.’ I paused, not wanting to sound as snotty as I suspected I did.

Joe regarded me wryly. ‘And you want me to sit there and shut up?’

‘No! Just … just think of it as an
event
we’re pitching,’ I said. ‘Not a wedding. A complicated, expensive, elegant event. With two people conducting a touching legal ceremony in the middle.’

‘That’s all it is to you? An event? Like signing a mortgage, but in front of a bunch of friends?’ Joe’s eyes searched my face with a teasing sort of disbelief, but I found myself resisting the invitation to joke. I could understand now why Stephanie had had had her mental filing thrown up in the air by Joe; something about him was simultaneously provoking, challenging and a bit unsettling. It wasn’t so much that he was good-looking – which
I had to admit he was – but that he was … genuinely curious. He was that window letting a sharp spring breeze into a room. Sort of refreshing but also, well …

‘Yes. A really special event that means a lot to the people involved.’ I lifted my chin. ‘Leave the romance to the happy couple, and we’ll concentrate on everything else. It makes it easier all round.’

‘Really?’ said Joe softly, as if he didn’t believe me.

I held his gaze for a few long moments.
No
, I thought,
not
really
really
. But I didn’t have the energy to explain myself right now. Not after a day like today. So I said nothing, a tactic that his mother had taught me for dealing with tricky management situations. Laurence found it unbearable.

Joe, too, seemed to find it quite unsettling. He blinked and ran his hand through his hair again, then coughed.

‘Okay,’ he said with a wry half-smile. ‘Then I’ll see you in the morning.’

I managed a smile. As I walked away down the corridor to get my bag from the office, I had the sense that he was watching me, and it took more concentration than normal not to scuff my heels on the thick hotel carpet.

I woke up the next morning with a throbbing migraine, after a series of too-vivid dreams about being deserted at the altar by a skinny-dipping Stephanie Miller. The rest of the congregation behind me was also naked, and cross about it not being mentioned on the dress code, and in my dream I felt responsible for that too. It was a relief to open my eyes to see Dominic snoring away next to me. Snoring, and smelling of last night’s garlic vodka shots, but there.

I left him in bed and got up, checking my phone repeatedly as I made myself breakfast in case there was a message from either Stephanie or Richard, but there was nothing. No messages on my work voicemail either. Despite what I’d said to Joe about a wedding ‘just being an event’, I felt terrible about poor Stephanie and poor Richard. And I felt even more terrible that them cancelling really would really make a hole on my Bridelizer, even with our cancellation clauses.

I frowned at the boiling kettle. I couldn’t get Stephanie’s forlorn expression from last night out of my head. For the first time in ages – ever, maybe – I was torn between getting in to
work to sort out this mess, and not wanting to go in at all,
because
of it.

When Dominic did appear, looking rakish in the Noël Coward-esque dressing gown his mum had bought him for Christmas, he rolled his sleepy eyes at my attempts to eat porridge, check my phone, shovel down some ibruprofen and do my make-up all at the same time.

‘This new flat of ours,’ he said, pouring himself some coffee, ‘will it have a special room for you to do your early morning panic routine in? You’re making me feel like I’ve forgotten to revise for an exam.’

‘I think you’re overestimating our budget again,’ I said, blinking my mascara dry. ‘We can only just afford three whole rooms as it is. Anyway, I only ever see you in the mornings. I relish these brief moments of intimacy.’

‘So do I, darling. Why are we out of bran flakes?’ Dominic was opening and shutting the kitchen cupboards. ‘Oh, hang on! Have you been at my special marmalade?’

‘I thought it was just marmalade.’ Still no texts. Had Stephanie and Richard checked out? ‘Sorry.’

Dominic made a grumbling noise. He was quite territorial about his cupboards. Upstairs, downstairs, in the bathroom. It probably came from being at boarding school. I was hoping that would change when we moved into the new place and made a fresh start, with
our
cupboards, although I couldn’t completely dismiss the mental image of Dominic going round bagging the biggest cupboards for himself.

‘You’re very welcome to do some shopping,’ I added. ‘Then you can order in what you want.’

He made another noise that might have been ‘But you’re so much better at it.’

‘Are you out this evening?’ I asked as he sat down at the breakfast bar with his coffee and nicked my piece of toast.

‘Um, yes. Work thing.’

‘Want me to come with you? I’ve got an early finish.’

‘What?’ Dominic looked horrified. ‘God, no, don’t waste your night off – it’s just a boring drinks thing. You enjoy some downtime. Have a bath, watch a film. Relax.’

I peered at him over my coffee. ‘But I’d love to come with you. I’d like to meet some of your work colleagues.’

It was true: I rarely got the chance to meet Dominic’s friends because of my stupid hours, but the ones I had met were a lot of fun. Plus, Caroline was always nudging me to make some contacts outside the hospitality network, to expand the possibilities for corporate entertaining at the hotel, and Dominic’s office was full not only of journalists but of other trendy Hoxton types – the sorts of hipsters who owned pop-up art galleries or ran charity fundraisers – all of which could usefully be translated into events.

‘You really don’t,’ he said evasively.

‘Are you ashamed of Betty?’ I pretended to pout. ‘Have you told them I’m six foot and a blonde lingerie model? Are you worried I won’t be as funny in real life? Or—’ I pushed a Scooby Doo style finger into my cheek, ‘is there
more than one
Betty?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Dominic. ‘How many meals do you think one man can eat in a week?’

I laughed, and was about to ask if he wanted any more toast when my phone finally pinged with a text and I grabbed it eagerly.

It was from Stephanie:

‘Oh, bollocks,’ I breathed. A cold hand clutched at my chest. Technically, it was for the best. And it wasn’t anything to do with me, I was just their planner. But at the same time, that was a
big
wedding I’d just lost for the hotel. Not only for my department, but for the bar, the rooms – everything. Laurence would want a full explanation.

‘What’s the matter?’ Dominic was reading my stricken face. He didn’t make a joke, for which I was grateful.

‘I might
need
to come out for a drink tonight,’ I said. ‘That couple from the rehearsal dinner I told you about? They’ve cancelled their wedding.’

‘God, I’m sorry to hear that, Rosie,’ he said. ‘But it’s not your fault, before you even try to tell me it is.’

‘Isn’t it?’ I felt a bit wobbly. ‘Shouldn’t I have … noticed something was up?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Dominic. ‘It’s your job to notice if the wine’s corked and if the ushers are pissed. Everything else is up to them. And the customer is always right, remember?’

I smiled, but it felt tremulous. What was Joe going to say? He’d probably be pleased. Was I? I honestly didn’t know.

‘How’s this going to make me look to Laurence?’ My voice cracked. ‘General managers don’t lose big bookings like this at the last minute, do they?’

‘Come here.’ Dominic held out his arms, and I walked into them, grateful for his comforting hug that smelled of sleepy bloke and my good shower gel. ‘You stay in tonight and treat yourself. Get a takeaway. And, listen, I’m seeing the managing editor’s secretary at this drinks thing tonight. They haven’t finalized a venue for the Christmas party yet – I’ll tell them I can swing a great deal at this very chic London hotel I know.’

‘Would you?’ I brightened up a bit. ‘That’d help.’

‘No problem.’ Dominic detached himself and went back to his coffee. ‘You can thank me in the form of special marmalade.’

‘I’ll go past Fortnum’s on my way home.’ I shouldered my bag and grabbed my jacket. The day was looking slightly brighter.

‘Love you, Dom,’ I said, and kissed his head as I left.

‘Don’t forget the marmalade,’ he replied, which wasn’t quite the same thing, but I was too relieved to care.

*

I was determined not to let last night’s drama affect the wedding meeting I had lined up for that afternoon: Polly Stewart and Dan Clayton, a lovely couple whom I’d met a few times already. Polly particularly was a dream Bonneville bride: in love with vintage dresses, classic films and proper heels. The wedding was themed around
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
: a long column dress for her, bridesmaids in turquoise, and strings
of sugar pearls all around the cake. If Polly could have had the wedding ceremony conducted in black-and-white, I think she would.

Joe had turned up to the meeting in a fresh shirt and with a fresher new attitude. I didn’t know if Laurence had spoken to him overnight or if what I’d said about our wedding style at the Bonneville had sunk in, but he seemed determined to stay in the background, and just made notes and smiled at the couple every so often like a benevolent vicar.

The only minor hiccup was Dan’s unexpected request to have ‘Perfect Day’ as their first dance, rather than ‘Moon River,’ which I knew Polly was planning to choreograph as their first dance as a surprise.

‘It’s my favourite song,’ Dan whined when I made diplomatic
Are you sure?
noises. ‘It’s a classic!’

I glanced over at Polly, who clearly didn’t agree. ‘It’s quite a … melancholy tune,’ I said. ‘Bit sad?’

‘“Perfect Day”? What’s melancholy about that?’

‘What about a swing version?’ suggested Joe, coming to life for the first time. ‘Best of both worlds. Upbeat
and
classic!’

Polly looked horrified. So did Dan, come to that.

‘I think we should stick to what we’ve agreed,’ I said firmly. ‘“Moon River” is a beautiful choice. Maybe “Perfect Day” for the … follow-up dance? Okay? Brilliant. Now, did you two reach a decision about where you want to cut the cake?’

Joe opened his mouth to argue, but I gave him a swift kick under the table, and gratefully Polly moved the conversation on.

*

We waved Polly and Dan off from the sunny front steps, and I waited until their black cab had safely pulled away before turning to Joe, who was idly tossing the remaining sweets into his mouth as if they were mint imperials off the bar and not handmade petits fours.

‘Before you start on all the things I shouldn’t have said,’ he began, seeing my expression, ‘what was all that about? Can’t they even choose their own first dance now?’

‘For the record,’ I said, in as friendly a way as I could manage, ‘you might want to have a look at the list of songs we recommend for first dances.’

‘We recommend them? Isn’t that the kind of thing couples have picked out years in advance?’

‘Well, yes, but sometimes what feels right when they were planning the wedding at home doesn’t always work when you factor in the setting, the band, the moment …’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

I pushed my way back in through the brass revolving doors, and set off down the corridor towards my office. Joe loped along beside me. His long athletic strides made me more conscious of my own mincing steps in my pencil skirt and high heels, and for some reason that annoyed me too.

‘All right, so you’d prefer them to do a proper waltz, but I
like
“Perfect Day”. Didn’t you like my compromise? A big-band version? Although if they wanted “Firestarter” by The Prodigy, I still think you should let them have it.’

I stopped in front of an unspecific watery photographic print,
chosen as part of Ellie’s short-lived revamp of the hotel when she took over as Mrs Bentley Douglas II. She ended up making everywhere look like reception. I’d have junked all her horrible prints, but this one was covering a stain on the wallpaper, and Laurence refused to pay for mass redecoration until he’d had his annual Mayo Clinic all-clear.

‘A jazzy version of a song about being off your face and drinking sangria out of a brown paper bag in a park – in the elegant Art Deco ballroom of this hotel?’ I demanded, all in one breath. ‘No. That’s not what Polly wants to do her first dance to. Definitely not.’

Joe stopped too. ‘But Dan
likes
that song. I bet it’s the one thing he’s actually chosen in this wedding. Why does it matter to you?’

‘Because it’s not … it’s not a happy song.’

Joe tilted his head and gave me another of his Californian expressions: the
own your feelings
one. I felt my cheeks redden under his direct gaze. He seemed to be looking straight into my head, and I hated having to justify things I
knew
were right. ‘Go on, say it,’ he said easily. ‘Be honest,
you
don’t like it.’

‘I don’t tell them what kind of wedding to have,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘I just try to make sure nothing goes wrong. And that starts with guiding them towards the right choices in the early stages. Polly wants “Moon River” because she’s got a vision about being swept around the floor in a waltz.’

As I said it, I knew this wasn’t about Polly and Dan and Lou
Reed. It was about Stephanie and Richard and the cancelled wedding. But Joe could bring it up. I wasn’t going to.

‘Does Dan even know he’s got waltzing lessons coming up? Or are you booking those for him too?’

I swallowed and tried to keep my voice level. ‘I know you think I’m a control freak, but my job is to keep an eye on the bigger picture, as well as the details. Sometimes couples are a bit too close to emotional issues like keeping the family happy and adding up their budget so that they miss things.’

‘Or maybe you’re too close to the details to see the people,’ said Joe. ‘Details are fine, but they’re only details at the end of the day. Maybe it’s good to step back from that and ask what it is that the couple actually want, and give it some room to breathe.’ He made an expansive gesture. ‘To evolve.’

I closed my eyes. Who exactly did he think he was? Some kind of workplace examiner? ‘You seem a lot more into the whole concept of weddings than you were a few days ago.’

Joe shrugged. ‘Jet lag wore off? I’m feeling a bit more human. Plus I had a chat with Mum on the phone this morning. She wants me to go down to stay with her at Wragley Hall, to help out Alec with some building work she’s got him doing. Something about a golf course? He’s got an explosives licence now.’

‘You’re kidding me?’ I said without thinking. ‘Someone gave Alec a licence to blow things up?’

‘I know. Like he normally asks first.’ Joe shared my recoil of horror. ‘So, as you can imagine, the prospect of being here and helping out with a few weddings suddenly took on a much less … potentially fatal attraction. To coin a phrase.’

I couldn’t blame him for that. And it also reminded me that Caroline would be getting updates on my mentoring from Joe, and I didn’t want to look bad in
her
eyes.

‘And,’ he went on less cockily, ‘last night … bit awkward. I probably owe you some overtime for that. Not that I think I did the wrong thing,’ he added, ‘but, yeah …’

‘They cancelled the wedding,’ I said shortly.

‘I know. I heard.’

We stared at each other, Joe’s earnest eyes raking my face, while I tried to guard my expression as best I could. I must have been tired, because I honestly didn’t know what I thought, I just felt weary. All that effort, all that planning, for nothing. And what about Stephanie and Richard? What sort of conversation were
they
having now?

‘Look,’ I said, trying to control the situation before Gemma or Helen saw me looking so rattled, ‘I’m not saying it’s up to us to decide the wedding for the bride, but it’s like Polly said, it’s reassuring for her to know that someone’s calm enough to say yes or no. Because in my experience, none of the wedding party ever really is.’