The Honeymoon Hotel

by Hester Browne

  *

  Fortunately – or not – I wasn’t the only one who’d crawled in to work under a cloud.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, and please don’t say it,’ Helen warned me when she let herself into the honeymoon suite at half past eleven. I was giving it my final inspection before Matt carried the lovely Tabitha over the threshold later, but I was doing it quite slowly. My head throbbed, and I had to fight a strong urge to curl up on the soft bedspread.

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that,’ I replied.

  ‘Good.’ She handed me the plastic box of handmade chocolates and fresh mint fondants for the glass bonbon dishes. Helen looked as if she’d had about as much sleep as I had.

  ‘But I have to say it at some stage,’ I pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t be much of a best mate if I didn’t, would I?’

  ‘You can’t say anything to me that I haven’t said a billion times already to myself all night.’ Helen sank onto the chaise longue and gripped the pleated cushion to her chest. ‘I can’t ignore it any more. The man is a complete hole. He didn’t even have the guts to admit that Joe knocked him out. He claims he must have had anaphylactic shock from the olives. And then he disappeared all night while I rang his phone over and over. I still don’t know where he is. Oh, God.’ She buried her face in the cushion.

  I pulled out the chair from the dressing table and sat down opposite her. ‘Have a champagne truffle,’ I said, offering her the Tupperware. ‘I can always send down for more.’

  Helen’s hand reached out and took three tiny gold-leafed truffle balls without looking, and shoved them all in her mouth at once. That was a bad sign. Her self-control when it came to the hotel’s plentiful free chocolates was normally steelier than the Forth Bridge.

  I pulled the cushion away from her face. Her eyes were red, and her up-do had lost its confident swoop. It was wilty, like her mood.

  ‘Helen,’ I said gently. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She braced herself. ‘Tell me what I need to hear.’

  I took a deep breath. I knew she wanted to hear Seamus was a maverick genius, unbound by society’s bourgeois rules, but I couldn’t do it. Not this time. Not even if it meant getting a faceful of ‘Dominic is an arrogant prick’ in retaliation.

  ‘Seamus does not deserve you,’ I said. ‘He should be proud to be your boyfriend, but he treats you with no respect at all. I mean, if he wants to look like an irresponsible prat, that’s fine, but to show you up like that, in front of everyone you work with …?’ I spread my hands out. ‘He’s too old to carry on like that, anyway. There’s a time limit on leather trousers.’

  ‘I know,’ Helen groaned. ‘But I can’t control his behaviour, can I? I’m not his mum. And he was under a lot of pressure, what with the award, and work, and—’

  ‘Helen, listen to yourself! Forget him, it’s about you,’ I said. ‘Is this really making you happy? In any way at all? Is that how a man’s supposed to treat his partner? Don’t you think you deserve better? Because I do.’

  What I didn’t say was that it had been Joe’s reaction that had made me realize just how bad things had got. It kept coming back to me, when I was lying on the sofa: Joe’s contempt. The polite way he’d apologized to Helen for having to knock out her boyfriend. The curt nod to Dominic, when Dominic had been joking even before Seamus came round. In fact, seeing the whole night through Joe’s eyes had been sobering. I wished Joe hadn’t first met Dominic when Dom was being … well, a bit of an arse himself.

  I didn’t like the Dominic Joe had seen. It was hard to persuade myself that that Dominic was someone I wanted to move in with.

  ‘And you can say it back to me,’ I went on crossly. ‘I have no idea what Dominic was thinking, posting that review. It’s like he’s got some sort of psychological problem, that he needs to do these stupid things to get attention.’ I helped myself to a truffle, and wiped a few specks of dust from the dressing-table surface. ‘I sometimes wonder if his mother left him on his own a lot as a baby. I wouldn’t blame her if she had.’

  ‘That sounds like an excuse to me, too.’ Helen raised an eyebrow. ‘And did he apologize for showing you up?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He’d looked sorry. ‘Well, no. He sort of …’ My voice trailed off. I couldn’t lie to Helen, not when she’d been honest with me about Seamus. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  She looked at me, and we both knew. This had to stop.

  ‘We deserve so much better.’ Helen got up and stepped towards the French windows overlooking Green Park. That was another of our catchphrases. If our two-woman Bad Boyfriends Club had a motto, it would be that, in Latin. Over a pair of crossed kitchen knives, rampant.

  ‘We do,’ I said, but this time, I actually meant it. ‘Helen, Seamus isn’t worth your time. There are much, much better men out there for you. Dump him. Please.’

  There was a long pause, in which I knew she was thinking, Ditto, dump Dominic. He’s just as bad.

  She stood there, holding the heavy gold curtain tieback, and staring out at the park like a woman in a painting.

  Then she turned, and her eyes were sad but determined.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s what Joe said.’

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Helen set her lips flat. ‘And he was right. You’re right. I’m going to do it. I’m going to take anything he’s left at my flat round to his tonight while he’s doing the dinner service, and leave him a note.’

  ‘Tonight? Even though we’ve—’ I stopped myself just in time.

  Helen glared at me. ‘Were you going to say, “Even though we’ve got a wedding tonight?”’

  I was. Busted.

  ‘Um, no? I was going to say … um, what about your things?’

  ‘He can keep them. I still haven’t got the smell out of that spare duvet I lent him. Anyway, I’ve got the world’s smallest studio flat. I need to dejunk.’ Helen dumped the truffles into the Lalique dish on the dressing table and the mints into the bowl by the bed without her usual care for Delphine’s confectionary work. ‘It’ll take me half an hour to get his stinky Converse out of my hall and into a bag. And don’t worry about the wedding – I’ll only be out an hour and I’ve got cover.’

  ‘I wasn’t worrying about the wedding,’ I insisted. ‘I wasn’t, honestly. Who cares about the wedding? You’re way more important than any wedding.’

  Helen tossed her head, and I knew she was fighting back tears. She never cried in public. She’d told me it was one of the promises she’d made to herself when she decided at fifteen to model herself on Grace Kelly.

  ‘It’s just … it’s just a bit ironic, isn’t it?’ she said, biting her lip hard. ‘That we always seem to be making these fairy-tale weddings for everyone else, while we get stuck with complete losers.’

  ‘But that’s going to change,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘That’s changing as of now.’

  Helen gave me a long, questioning look, and then went downstairs to yell at some kitchen porters.

  *

  Tabitha and Matt were getting married in a church in Chelsea and coming to us (in a red London bus with a white ribbon on the front) for their afternoon tea reception, followed by dancing in the ballroom, and then the first night of their honeymoon upstairs in the suite.

  I enjoyed arranging weddings in the hotel – there was something really satisfying about hitting the various timings in the ceremony spot-on – but an evening party, with a live band and candlelight and guests in black tie, brought an old-fashioned glamour to the whole place. The corridors seemed to come to life in mood lighting, beckoning guests down to the main event. Tabitha and Matt had met at a salsa dancing class, so they’d booked an excellent band for the evening, and asked all their guests to wear clothes ‘to let their hair down in’.

  I checked that everything was on track in the ballroom, then went back to the Palm Court where the wedding party would be arriving for the afternoon tea reception in about an hour. Delphine had surpassed herself
with the pastries today and made about five hundred mini scones, which were to be eaten with the little pots of jam I’d spent hours relabelling the previous evening. There were four types of loose-leaf tea in battered old solid silver pots, two champagne cocktails named after the bride and groom, one non-alcoholic sparkler, and a wide variety of tiny, crustless sandwiches and fondant fancies arranged on tiered silver stands.

  Four catering staff were busy laying the tables with the meticulous afternoon-tea settings, and I was pleased to see Joe hovering around them, asking them questions.

  ‘Hey, Rosie,’ he said when he saw me walk in. ‘Maybe you can tell me – why do these guys have to use a ruler to do the table settings?’

  ‘So the cutlery and the plates are in the right place,’ I replied, surprised that he had to ask. ‘It makes everything look symmetrical.’

  ‘But it takes ages, right?’

  Joe sauntered over and helped himself to one of the shell-pink fondants on the top tier of a cake stand, and I smacked his hand.

  ‘I’ve touched it now,’ he pointed out through a mouthful of cake. ‘Don’t worry, we can juggle the others round … there. You can’t tell.’

  I frowned. I didn’t have the energy for this today. ‘Karen? Did Delphine send up any spare cakes? If you could … thanks. Joe, leave the cake alone and come and check the seating plan with me.’

  ‘How’s Helen today?’ asked Joe as I handed him Tabitha’s printed list and examined the board of elegant hand-calligraphed cards.

  ‘Helen?’ I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to discuss Helen’s private life with Joe. It wasn’t as if he really knew the long and complicated background …

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘after that drunken fool Seamus made a show of you all last night.’

  I blanched. Although that was the size of it. ‘She’s fine. Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Stop being so English. I wouldn’t be fine. Did she give that prick his marching orders, or what?’

  I stopped running my pen down the neat list, and turned to him.

  Joe was looking at me, and he seemed genuinely ticked off. ‘I don’t mean to sound rude … You know what? I do mean to sound rude. What on earth is a woman like Helen doing with an idiot like that? I couldn’t believe the way he treated her.’

  ‘Well, you only saw a tiny snapshot,’ I began, but Joe shook his head.

  ‘That’s all I needed to see. The body language was enough. Helen stoops when she’s with him – have you noticed?’

  Body language. He’d be telling me their star signs were wrong next.

  I wasn’t sure why I felt so defensive. Maybe because you haven’t noticed how she stoops? asked a voice in my head. Because you should have said something before now?

  And because I wondered what was going through Joe’s mind when he’d been looking at me and Dominic?

  ‘He is a bit shorter than she is,’ I said, and I really didn’t know why I said that, because now he’d pointed it out, I realized I was furious that Helen stooped when she was with Seamus. And she wore awful flat shoes and pretended they were better for her feet when I’d seen her run the length of Piccadilly in heels.

  Joe made a dismissive noise. ‘I don’t get how she’s so in control of that kitchen, and yet puts up with such crap from someone like him. Why do women do that? She’s so far out of his league it’s painful. You’re her best friend. Surely you’ve said something before now?’

  ‘Of course I have. But I’ll pass on your feedback,’ I said, crossing off items on my list a bit too hard. ‘But apart from that, did you enjoy your evening?’

  ‘Don’t be snarky. I’m just trying to understand here because I really like Helen and I hate to see her upset like that.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘I don’t go in for physical violence, but jeez, the guy’s a hard one not to punch. Why isn’t she with a nicer man? Talk to me, Rosie.’ Joe pulled my clipboard towards him, and made me meet his eye. ‘You’re the couples expert. Am I missing something?’

  His expression was genuinely baffled, and I felt flattered – sort of – that he thought I’d have any insight into the mystery of Seamus’ appeal. ‘You tell me. I’m not a couples expert. Far from it.’

  ‘Apart from the weddings you organize all day, every day.’

  ‘Look, Joe,’ I said, with a sigh, ‘for what it’s worth, I agree with you. Seamus is an arse, Helen deserves better, and personally, yes, I hope this is the final straw. But kitchens are a high-pressure environment. Tensions run high. You make allowances. Maybe she’s made a few allowances too many.’

  He gazed at me as if he was considering whether to say something or not.

  ‘Go on.’ I folded my arms. ‘Say it. You’re going to anyway.’

  ‘Again, I don’t mean to be rude, but is your boyfriend always like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like … he has to explain everything to everyone else because they don’t understand things quite as well as he does?’

  Joe had only spent about fifteen minutes in Dominic’s company, yet he’d unerringly zeroed in on one of Dominic’s worst habits, one that always set my teeth on edge. I felt the part of me that had softened towards Joe ice up again defensively.

  ‘Not always.’ I moved a spare flower arrangement off the table and marched away to replace it in the florist’s box. ‘Only when he’s with people who need to have things explained. Can we stick to the task at hand? Guests are going to be arriving soon. Oh, God, what now?’

  I’d put my phone on the table, and it was making the text-alert noise and sidling its way dangerously towards a clingfilmed platter of blinis, like a fish out of water.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Joe, and he’d grabbed it before I could stop him. I hoped it was Dominic texting something nice, ideally that he’d called in at the estate agents and picked up the details I’d asked him to find, but of course it wasn’t.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Joe, looking at the message.

  ‘Don’t tell me. It’s Flora, and this time she wants a thunderstorm, but only in the Palm Court.’

  ‘No, it’s from Mum.’ Joe thrust the phone at me. ‘For you.’

  The text was from Caroline:

  Thanks for guest list: introduce Laurence to Sally Markham! Ex-matron boarding school, probably very handy with cod liver oil, etc. C

  I bit my lip and blushed. ‘Um, yes, pretend you didn’t see that.’

  ‘Rosie! Is it ethical to supply guest lists to outside parties?’ Joe enquired. ‘Especially when that party has a record of enforced blind dating on her male family members?’

  ‘You know about that?’ It slipped out before I could stop myself.

  ‘Not officially. But yes. Mum’s another one who can’t stop micro-managing other people’s lives.’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘Don’t you start dancing to her tune.’

  My cheeks went pink. ‘It’s called taking an interest. And I’m not – oh, why am I even discussing this with you?’

  Joe raised his palms in a gesture of despair. ‘Because that’s what living in a hotel does for your boundaries. It completely messes with them. Watch out for that.’

  ‘Rosie!’ Gemma dashed in, waving the special pink phone reserved for really, really demanding brides. The ring tone was set to ‘Crazy’ by Gnarls Barkley; Gemma tried to change it to ‘I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do’ by Abba every so often, but Helen always changed it back.

  ‘It’s her!’ she whispered, looking simultaneously thrilled and terrified. ‘Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!’

  ‘Calm down, Gemma,’ I said automatically. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Flora Thornbury,’ she squeaked. ‘Actual Flora Thornbury!’

  ‘Is there a pretend Flora Thornbury?’ asked Joe.

  I made a don’t wind her up face, but he held out his hand. ‘Give it here,’ he said. ‘I bet I know what she’s calling about.’

  ‘No, I should take it.’ I reached out my hand towards Gemma. ‘I’m her wedding co-ordinator.’

  Gemma loo
ked uncertainly between us. The phone went into another burst of ‘craa-aaa-aazy’. I made a mental note to change it. It probably wasn’t very professional.

  Joe gave me a quizzical look. ‘Do you want to hear about how Flora can’t decide between Borneo or Kenya or Necker Island for her honeymoon? Because that’s what the last hour-long conversation was about.’

  ‘Wow,’ breathed Gemma.

  ‘Just don’t get her back on the stag weekend,’ I warned him. ‘No poles.’

  ‘No poles,’ agreed Joe, and took the phone from Gemma’s hot hand. ‘I had a better idea, anyway – a bush survival weekend in Dartmoor, where Alec tracks them with his laser-sighted … Joking. I’m joking! Hi, Flora! How are you?’

  ‘Is that really Flora Thornbury?’ Gemma whispered as Joe strolled off towards the grand piano, dappled in the sunlight falling through the blinds.

  Yes,’ I said. I watched him, chatting away with a charming smile on his handsome face, helping himself to unguarded cakes during the long gaps where Flora was talking.

  Part of me was very irritated by the easy way he’d commandeered the biggest-budget and potentially most useful contact I’d ever landed; part of me was relieved that I didn’t have to listen to Flora agonizing over her luxury honeymoon when I hadn’t had a holiday in years; and the tiniest part of me was secretly envious of the ease with which he did it all. Now that his initial grumpiness had worn off, Joe’s real personality was starting to emerge. I’d grudgingly come to realize that he said what he thought, not because he was an arrogant sod, but because he didn’t see any point in being anything other than himself.

  That’s what you got when you inherited charm from both sides of your family, as well as a hotel and two sets of blond genes.

  I snapped back to the task at hand. I didn’t have the luxury of charm, hotels, or genes. I’d have to work for all my breaks, and in a way, that was better, wasn’t it?

  ‘Right, Gemma,’ I said briskly. ‘I need to find the place card for Mrs Sally Markham …’