The Honeymoon Hotel

by Hester Browne

  Neither of those things are as much fun as they sound, by the way, believe me.

  ‘Hels, it’s very flattering that you think Dominic and I are role models, but you do know that we’re as likely to have a big row about the size of the wineglasses as we are to look all lovey-dovey?’ I pointed out. ‘In fact, probably more so?’

  ‘Well, even that would be all right. Even the way you squabble is funny. Like you’re really comfortable with each other. Anyway, aren’t things loads better with you and Dom now?’ She offered me a sugared almond. ‘Have you found a flat you both like yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ I softened. ‘But Dom’s really into it, far more than I expected he’d be. That’s why I really need to speed up this promotion business, so I can put my half of the money down on the flat …’ As I said it, I saw Julia Thornbury’s face again, already writing off the Bonneville as a possible venue. ‘Although it looks as though Joe’s put a spanner in those works.’

  I turned to my Bridelizer, and the prize June spot I’d been about to stick Flora Thornbury into. I’d got my silver stars out and everything. ‘Oh, God, how am I going to tell Laurence? He’ll have one of his blood sugar collapses when he hears we haven’t got that wedding. So will Caroline – she’s already virtually married Laurence off to Julia.”

  ‘What?’

  ‘She wants me to find him wife three. Get him off her hands. Again.’

  Helen’s eyes boggled. ‘Rosie, don’t you sometimes wonder if you’re a bit too involved with this family?’

  Luckily I didn’t have to answer that, because Gemma popped her head around the door.

  ‘Can Laurence have a word? In his office?’

  It wasn’t going to be a word. It was going to be one long protracted howl.

  Brilliant.

  *

  In the thirty seconds between leaving my own office and knocking on Laurence’s office door, I’d argued back and forth with myself several different ways about whether to drop Joe in it, and I’d more or less decided not to. Unless he’d got in there first. In which case, all was fair in love and weddings.

  So when I saw Joe sitting on the Other Chair opposite Laurence’s, my brain went into an abrupt reverse. How had even got there that fast? Had he done a sneaky double-back and gone straight there, to drop me in it?

  ‘Ah, Rosie! Sit ye, sit ye.’ Laurence waved at the chair with a jovial expression on his hangdog face, and I cast a quick look at Joe before I sat down. I hadn’t been expecting a ‘sit ye’.

  Meanwhile Joe seemed his usual blandly happy self. He still thinks he’s done something really clever, I thought. He has no idea.

  ‘Drink?’ Laurence offered. ‘Pomegranate juice? Spirulina? Green tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Joe?’ He made a face. ‘Wheatgrass?’

  Bloody California health bollocks, I thought testily.

  ‘So …?’ I said lightly. I’d taken the pink emergency mobile in with me, in order to look busy and indispensable. Helen was going to ring it after fifteen minutes, if I hadn’t got out of there.

  ‘So, yes, well, I wanted to talk to both of you.’ Laurence poured himself a martini glass of something green and healthy. ‘I’ve had Julia Thornbury on the telephone.’

  Joe and I exchanged swift glances, and he pulled a rather childish And? face. Which I’m sorry to say I returned.

  But I was the professional here, so I took a deep breath and said, ‘I can explain about that …’ at exactly the same moment that Joe said, ‘The thing about that is …’

  Laurence waved a dismissive hand. ‘No need to give away your secrets of negotiation to me, Rosie. Whatever you did hit the spot perfectly. I’m delighted to say that Flora Thornbury and her very famous legs will be getting married in our little hotel next June.’

  ‘What?’ said Joe, at the same time that I said, ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ I’d never seen Laurence look more pleased with himself, and believe me, I’d seen a lot of it over the years. ‘Apparently you are a very competent young lady, and Joe is a natural wedding planner! Very fresh. Very … innovative. Flora is terribly keen for Joe to help coordinate her wedding. She feels he “gets her”, whatever that means, and I hope it’s not rude,’ he added jovially.

  ‘Flora wants Joe working on her wedding?’ My heart, which had soared with elation to the top of my mental Bridelizer at the realization that the Thornbury thousands were now heading our way again, plummeted like a bouquet made from lead, with lead ribbons, at the prospect of being stuck with Joe – for months.

  ‘Working under your supervision, naturally. Julia specifically said she wanted you, Rosie, to oversee the wedding, but that Flora was insistent about Joe’s input on the details. I said that we didn’t normally assign more than one wedding coordinator to a client, but in the case of such a very special wedding, I’d be happy to make an exception, and that both of you would be at their disposal, in addition to our support team. That’s fine, isn’t it? I’ve passed on your mobile numbers, anyway.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Joe. ‘So I’m on weddings indefinitely now, am I?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll be moving you around the departments as planned, but you’ll be working on this wedding with Rosie until June,’ Laurence informed him. ‘I take it Flora’s not planning a function that can be dashed off in a weekend?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said, already seeing the endless meetings about security, Pantone-coordinated flowers, cake tastings and so on, all with Joe in the foreground, asking stupid questions and making ludicrous suggestions, while I tried to keep Julia Thornbury and Flora on speaking terms.

  ‘Marvellous! Well, finally something to celebrate. Cheers! To the Thornburys!’ Laurence rubbed his hands together, and took a big slurp of his health drink.

  The strangulated face he pulled as it went down was not entirely dissimilar to the one I was pulling inside my own head.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As he might have mentioned once or twice – or possibly three hundred times since the email had arrived – Dominic had been nominated for the London Eats and Drinks Food Writer of the Year, but he wasn’t expecting to win. Not because he didn’t think he was the best – he did think he was the best food writer in London, by quite some margin – but because he’d won the previous two years running, ‘And it starts to look like you’ve got something on the committee if you win more than twice.’

  ‘And,’ as he pointed out to me in the taxi on the way there, ‘it depends whether they’re giving Chef of the Year to Eddie Hopkirk. That would be awkward, considering the review I gave him.’

  ‘Don’t remind me about that review,’ I said darkly. The colourful death threat, scrawled on the back of a menu that Dominic had described as ‘the solution for dieters who don’t want to be tempted to eat on their fast days’ was framed and hung in the place of honour in the loo, where it would look self-deprecating yet allow everyone who visited the flat to see it.

  ‘And Karyn Chan’s nominated,’ I reminded him. ‘The chef whose tempura tasted like deep-fried kitchen roll.’

  He didn’t look up from his laptop; he was filing some very late copy to the paper’s website. ‘Scouring pads! I said it was like eating beer-battered scouring pads.’ He gave me a playful nudge, which didn’t help my last-minute make-up application; Laurence had given me the night off, but, like Cinderella, I’d had chores to do first. ‘Don’t you read my reviews?’

  ‘Not the online ones. The comments underneath are too scary. And they were from the chefs.’ I paused long enough to give him a firm look over my compact. ‘Please don’t upset anyone tonight, will you? I don’t want a scene.’

  ‘Oh, no one really cares. It’s all part of the game,’ said Dominic easily. ‘They’d rather I wrote something about them than nothing at all. As long as it’s true. It makes it all the sweeter when I love a place.’

  I opened my eyes wide to check that my concealer was
hiding my eye bags. It wasn’t, but then after the week I’d had, not even industrial grout would have covered them. You could probably have seen them through Ray-Bans.

  ‘Betty, darling, you look ravishing,’ he said, before I could even ask. Dominic was very good at compliments when it mattered. He shut his laptop and slid an arm across the back of the taxi seat, round my shoulders. ‘I don’t know why you’re worrying about me being rude, when we’ve got Seamus the Shouty Chef on our table. Makes me look like Desmond Tutu. Does the fact that he’s nominated for something make it more or less likely that he’ll get very drunk and go into meltdown?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. Please don’t wind Seamus up,’ I said automatically. ‘For Helen’s sake, if nothing else.’

  ‘What? It’s impossible not to wind him up! He’s permanently wound up. He’s like a giant, angry alarm clock, with a big knife. I have no idea what Helen sees in the stroppy little butcher. Apart from his beef Wellington. Which is a solid eight out of ten.’

  I opened my mouth to protest, and Dominic gave me a cheeky wink.

  ‘All right, eight and a half. But his puddings are into minus figures.’

  ‘Helen loves him, so he can’t be that bad underneath.’ I pressed some powder onto my shiny nose and wondered if it was too late to Botox my whole face. ‘She overlooks his … mercurial personality, because he’s a genius chef and will have another Michelin star by the end of the year.’

  ‘He’s more likely to have a court order. Or a bankruptcy notice,’ said Dominic happily, and the taxi pulled up outside the venue, so I was spared the dubious honour of defending Seamus Lynch’s reputation.

  *

  The London Eats and Drinks Awards were being held in an old London Underground building – a tactfully neutral move, considering most of the big hotels were nominated for various awards.

  Helen was waiting for us in the foyer. As always at these events, she stood half a head above the sea of black dinner jackets, her ice-blonde hair shining under the chandeliers like she was starring in a shampoo ad. When she saw us and waved, five men turned round in the hope that she might be waving at them.

  Over here! she mouthed, and we shouldered through the throng to where she’d positioned herself by the bar table. I led the way, since I knew from experience that the number of people grabbing Dominic to congratulate him on his latest column – or, more likely, to want to pick a fight about it – could slow us down considerably. And I needed a glass of champagne.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Helen, pressing one into my hand the second I was within reaching distance, like a relay runner slamming over a baton. ‘I thought you weren’t going to make it. What was the big drama Gemma wanted you to deal with?’

  ‘Labels on Tabitha’s favours.’ I let out a grateful sigh as the bubbles went straight into my system. ‘She’s marrying Matt, not Mike. Mike’s the best man. Could have been awkward. Joe was supposed to be changing them all over, but he’s gone AWOL again. Did you see him before you left?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘He’s probably keeping out of your way after the Stag Incident. Did you smooth that over?’

  ‘Sort of. Well, no.’ Joe had livened up yesterday’s first Project Thornbury meeting with Flora and Julia by offering to organize Milo’s stag weekend as part of the package. And Flora’s hen. I let him run with it at first: I’d been thinking along the lines of whiskey tasting for Milo and cupcake decorating for Flora, but without warning Joe had launched into wild suggestions about fire-walking and burlesque stripping – for both parties, which would include the bride’s parents. I could almost see Julia’s blood pressure rising as Flora and Joe discussed whether a pole could be erected in the private Clarendon room.

  ‘I can’t decide whether I mind him skiving off or not,’ I said darkly. ‘It’s probably a good thing, on balance. Every time he opens his mouth in a meeting, I can feel my Bridelizer going backwards.’

  ‘Forget about Joe. This is going to be a fabulous evening. Oh, look, you’ve finished your drink already,’ said Helen. ‘Have another. Is my dress okay, by the way?’

  ‘You look amazing,’ I said, because she did.

  Helen was tall enough, willowy enough, and most importantly stylish enough to carry off long backless jersey numbers without looking as if she’d got them on back to front. Her hair was dressed in a messy fishtail plait over one shoulder, instead of the smooth up-do she wore for work, and every time she sipped from her wineglass, the silver statement bracelets on her wrists jangled.

  I was wearing my reliable green cocktail dress, which I hoped, in certain lights, made me look a bit like Joan from Mad Men. It had a very powerful invisible Spanx-y type lining that made it hard to eat, but the main thing was that it was smart without being too attention-seeking, and it had a pocket for business cards.

  ‘Thanks! You look amazing too.’ Helen leaned in and whispered, ‘I’m hoping tonight’s the night!’

  I crossed the fingers of the hand that wasn’t holding my glass, and grinned. ‘It will be! I’ve got a fiver on Seamus winning Chef of the Year. I read he’s second favourite after Karyn Chan.’

  ‘Not that,’ said Helen. ‘Well, that too, but no, I hope tonight’s the night Seamus agrees to move in with me!’

  I smiled, but deep down a voice was screeching, ‘Whaaaaaaaat?’ I didn’t want Helen to let surly, unreliable Seamus into her tiny, beautiful flat. Or even within a mile of it. But it was complicated; I’d agreed with so many of Helen’s crazy justifications for his behaviour over the years, usually in return for her reassurances that Dominic was merely eccentric, that it’d look unreasonable to do a complete U-turn now. It didn’t stop me feeling very uneasy, though.

  And then Seamus himself sloped into view, and Helen began to glow in the shivery way she did whenever she was with him. Seamus also had a quivery glow, but of a rather different kind. It was the kind of quivery glow you keep an eye on, in case it decides to start throwing punches.

  ‘Rosie,’ he grunted, seeing me. ‘Howya?’

  ‘I’m well, Seamus, thanks,’ I said, and after an awkward moment, leaned forward and deposited a kiss on his stubbly cheek. He smelled of whiskey, soap and smoke, with a piquant top note of garlic.

  Helen had talked him into a dinner jacket, but she hadn’t managed to get him to shave or comb his hair, although that might have been deliberate, because it added to his general rock-star air. Or maybe he was looking more rock-star than usual because Dominic had appeared behind him like the Ghost of Awards Ceremonies Past.

  In contrast to Seamus’s sexy dishevelment, Dominic’s rather old-fashioned features made sense when he was wearing a bow tie, and his broad shoulders were made for eveningwear, which he loved. He’d have worn an opera cape if I’d let him, but with his current beard there was a real risk he’d be mistaken for a passing music-hall magician.

  ‘Good evening, Seamus!’ he said. ‘I see they let you out of the kitchen?’

  ‘Hey, Dominic. ’S good to seeya. Been a while,’ Seamus grunted back. ‘Fun times.’

  A pause descended between us. As I might have said, Seamus wasn’t one for the unnecessary chat.

  ‘Shall we go to our table?’ Dominic suggested. ‘By which I mean, can we? I can’t avoid the canapés much longer, and every time they go past I feel sorry for them. They’re curling up in embarrassment all on their own.’

  ‘Did you feed him that line?’ Helen murmured as we made our way to the table, but I just smiled serenely.

  (Yes. I did.)

  *

  Our table – thanks to Laurence’s open-handed attitude to being seen at events like these – was in a ‘good’ part of the room: not too far from the stage and not too close to the loos. We were entertaining two of my key events contacts – Shirin, a florist, and Charlie Nevin, a wedding photographer – plus a posh wine merchant called Josh, whom Helen wanted to get some better deals from, and Mimi, the travel journalist who’d written the lovely feature about dream bridal suites,
starring the Bonneville. She was also a ‘huge fan’ of Dominic, so that made two of them.

  Dominic was brilliant at events like these. He had endless funny stories and a lot of gossip, but he was generous at drawing the other guests into conversation, and soon we were all chatting away merrily, apart from Seamus, who’d put on shades halfway through the first course and only came to life when Dominic began deconstructing the ‘tower of aubergine three ways’.

  ‘Two ways would have been plenty,’ he said, lifting it on the tip of his knife. ‘Three ways is just making a point.’

  ‘There’s only one way to cook aubergine,’ Seamus growled. ‘Bin the slimy feckers.’

  ‘Well said, my friend.’

  I risked a side glance at Helen. She was smiling at Posh Josh the wine merchant, but her eyes kept sliding to Seamus and Dominic, and when she saw me looking, we exchanged a secret glimmer of relief.

  This was what all those late nights and gluey-eyed early mornings were for, I thought, beaming at Helen and Dominic. Me and my best mate, at our table at an awards dinner, with our handsome, successful boyfriends who were both nominated for awards …

  I felt a sharp pain in my shin; Helen was kicking me under the table. I’d slipped my high heels off, but Helen never did, and she always wore pointy ones.

  ‘It’s Seamus’s category!’

  ‘And now to one of the most important categories of the night – Young Chef of the Year …’

  ‘Is that someone’s phone?’ asked Shirin anxiously. ‘I think I can hear a phone.’

  ‘No, I’m sure everyone’s got their phones turned off,’ said Dominic sanctimoniously. ‘Out of respect. To the company.’

  Obviously, it was my phone. To be fair, I had it on vibrate, but it was vibrating against the metal tape measure I always carried in my handbag.

  Everyone pretended to look appalled, even though I refused to believe for one second that they’d turned theirs off, and I pretended it wasn’t mine for a couple of loud buzzes, but then I had to cave in. It was part of our promise to Bonneville brides: that, like the AA, someone would be on call 24/7 for any breakdowns.