‘… Peter was, of course, a complete gentleman and insisted on offering Svetlana his jacket to cover her … embarrassment, shall we say.’
‘Woooooaaaarrrrrggggh!’ went the ushers, looking doorwards in anticipation of the big surprise.
I can’t describe to you the relief that was rushing through my veins when the doors remained firmly closed. It was divine intervention. Thank God for slippery carpets, I thought, gratefully, and edged towards the door to get rid of the problem before it started howling in agony.
Steven glanced at the door. I made a decision and turned off the microphone on the table. His loud voice carried on for a few words before he frowned, confused; and then, all at once, what sounded like machine-gun fire filled the air, and the doors burst open.
Oh, God, what fresh hell was this?
I should have guessed. It was Ripley. Ripley in her tap shoes, tapping out whatever the Morse code for save me from this colossal cock-up was, on the original parquet floor of the restaurant.
Everyone’s heads spun.
‘Happy feet!’ yelled a shrill voice. ‘I’ve got those happy feet!’
Tap tap tap tap tappitty-tappitty-TAP.
The blood that had drained from my head now returned with a vengeance as Ripley, her blonde curls bobbing, jazz-handed her way right up to the top table. From the outside, she looked angelic – white frock, pink cheeks, blue eyes. Inside, I knew from experience, she was more Tinie Tempah than Shirley Temple.
But on the positive side, I thought, everyone had forgotten about Steven’s X-rated best-man speech. The two vicars were actively cooing.
The doors burst open again, and Joe rushed in. He’d changed into a suit, I noticed, and his hair was ruffled in the style so beloved of male models posing with children.
‘There you are, you naughty … oh no! It’s a wedding!’ He looked round with charming, Hugh Grant-ish mortification.
Ripley, annoyed that the limelight had shifted, did a burst of manic tapping that caused two guests to clutch at their hearing aids, and finished with a ta-da move. I noticed that she was carrying one of the pretty orange nosegays from the row-ends of the seating outside.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Joe explained. ‘Ripley saw the bride, and thought she was so beautiful that she just had to come and give her some flowers. You naughty girl,’ he added. ‘Interrupting is extremely bad manners.’
‘Aww,’ chorused about a third of the female guests in unison. Although I think they were actually fawning over Joe, not Ripley.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tam’s broad shoulders appear behind the glass door, stoop down, then reappear with a white sheet-covered lump over his shoulder. A pair of Perspex platforms dangled from under the sheet. I would never ever question Laurence’s habit of recruiting security staff from the Special Services again.
Steven watched in horror as his surprise vanished over Tam’s shoulder, and his thread of his speech evaporated, all at the same time. While all attention was on Ripley and Joe, I caught Steven’s eye and did that two-finger-prong, my eyes, your eyes gesture. Something else that Tam had taught me. He shrank back.
‘I’m so sorry we interrupted your speeches,’ said Joe, turning so Ripley could hand over the makeshift bouquet and tap her way out. ‘Can we send in some champagne as an apology?’ He signalled to the waiters, who immediately began refilling glasses.
At that moment, I could have hugged him. Actually hugged him and his ridiculous, overly dramatic, irresponsible gestures.
‘To the bridesmaids,’ I said loudly, and everyone automatically stood up and raised their glasses.
‘To the bridesmaids!’
Steven looked confused, and the two bridesmaids looked slightly peeved that they hadn’t got their full compliments, but I motioned for the waiting staff to come out again with more champagne and fresh glasses, as well as coffee and tea, and in all the confusion, no one seemed to have noticed that the wedding had fast-forwarded by twenty minutes. Or at least, if they did, they were all too polite and relieved to comment.
Joe and Ripley were detained by the table of elderly relatives, all of whom wanted to chat to the angelic blonde child and her delightful male nanny, but after about five minutes of freestyle charm, Joe swung Ripley up onto his shoulders, to keep her happy feet off the floor and our eardrums intact.
As he turned to leave, he gave me a quick wink and mouthed, okay?
I was abruptly struck by how different he seemed. Not the scruffy, over-earnest beach bum Joe I was used to; he looked like a confident, tanned adult. A dad, even. For the first time I understood why Helen gave him that dopey smile whenever he walked in. And Gemma. And Delphine, come to think of it.
He scrubbed up surprisingly well. And that had been quick thinking. A bit crazy, but … it had worked. A faint glow of something warmed me. Gratitude. And a bit of admiration. Joe had just saved me from a really, really embarrassing wedding moment.
I smiled back, and nodded. Thanks, I mouthed, and I really meant it.
Joe winked again, Ripley stuck her tongue out at me, and they left me to finish off Natalie and Peter Lloyd’s reception – and to check that Steven hadn’t done anything to the going-away car.
(He had. But I managed to get Sam the concierge to wash it off in time.)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Christmas officially started at the Bonneville when the ten-foot fir tree arrived in the foyer on December 1, followed almost immediately by Laurence’s annual warnings about the dangers of pine allergies and needle drop.
Traditionally, all the staff decorated the tree overnight; the branches were hung with the hotel’s original silver-glass baubles and gold stars, and smoked salmon sandwiches and champagne were brought out at 2 a.m., with an official ‘switch on’ performed by Laurence as soon as we’d got all the lights working. But this year Christmas had been at the forefront of my mind since the summer, mainly because I was in sole charge of organizing the biggest corporate event I’d booked so far – Dominic’s paper’s Christmas party. More to the point, if this went well, it was almost bound to lead to a lot more work for me, since the paper ran two awards of its own, and the guests for the Christmas party included loads of corporate sponsors, all of whom regularly needed venues for parties, conferences, and sundry other entertaining requirements.
This year’s theme of the London Reporter’s Christmas bash was heroes and villains, a choice that Dominic informed me had been made in order to allow the editor, Sally Jackson, to fulfil her childhood fantasy of dressing up as Wonder Woman and strutting about in a cape.
‘She’s been sending out bloody dress-code memos since October,’ he told me over one of our quick shared breakfasts. ‘Dictators and religious figures are banned, as are any costumes that might constitute sexual harassment or health and safety infringements. And that’s just the first page of the party rules.’
‘Look, she can do what she likes.’ I sipped my coffee; I was skipping toast – I had a breakfast cupcake-tasting at half past eight. ‘I’m excited to be organizing an event with a decent budget, a buffet, and no one ending up in tears because someone’s wearing the same dress as them.’
‘You say that now,’ said Dominic darkly. ‘There are going to be awards. If I don’t get best costume, I’ll make sure someone’s crying.’
Like most of the smart-arses on the editorial team, Dominic had chosen the ironic option for his costume, and was going as Man Who Invented the Chorleywood Bread Process, i.e., the system that had mechanized mass-production of bread, which Dominic held personally responsible for ‘all those boring bastards who claim to be gluten-intolerant and bore on about bloating until you want to punch the trapped gas out of them.’
‘Is it a costume, though? I still think you should go as Blackbeard or something more in the spirit of things,’ I said. Armed with the paper’s generous budget, I’d already spent hours sourcing actual Hollywood props for the ballroom. I’d got hold of spiderwebs, dry ice machines, a TARDIS … Most of it was lo
cked in Laurence’s flat to stop any of the staff finding it and staging their own superhero battle scene.
‘First rule of fancy dress: always wear black tie and add one witty extra,’ he reminded me. ‘In this case, a butter knife in my top pocket and some Rennie’s antacid tablets.’
‘But your beard’s such a great starting point. Rasputin? Bluebeard? I mean,’ I added selfishly, thinking I might be able to fulfil a private fantasy here, ‘you’d look great in a pirate costume …’
‘Rosie, you’ve got to remember there’ll be photographers there.’ Dominic helped himself to more toast, and the last of the butter. ‘The last thing you want is some photo of you doing the rounds dressed as Robert Mugabe. Those are the ones that always resurface just when you don’t want them to. Ask Prince Harry.’
‘I very much hope there will be photographers,’ I said. That was why I’d secretly splurged my emergency money on a flattering new dress for myself, and intended to make sure the photographers snapped evidence of me in it.
For once, I wasn’t going to fade into the background: I wanted everyone to see me there. First, as the super-professional event organizer in control of every detail. This was a brilliant chance for me to step out of the shadows and really be noticed – by Laurence, as much as the clients.
But I also wanted to meet people as Dominic’s other half. We’d been living together for two years, I’d been in his column for just as long, yet I’d barely met any of his colleagues, thanks to our work schedules. If I wanted to make a name for myself as an entertainment consultant, I had to be out there during an event like this, meeting people, drumming up business for the new year, networking in a good way. And one thing you could guarantee about Dominic was that wherever the epicentre of the party was, he’d be in it.
In that sense, I thought, as I put another couple of slices of bread into the toaster for Dominic and gathered my own things together, this party was ticking quite a few of my to-do list boxes at once. And the best bit of all was that if I organized it properly, I’d be at work and spending time with Dominic. I’d doubled the temp staff to make sure of that.
‘Are you looking forward to it, darling?’ I asked him, as the toast popped up and I put it on his plate.
‘Absolutely.’ Dominic frowned at the empty butter dish, and applied double Nutella instead. ‘It’ll be a night to remember.’
*
Up until the afternoon of the Reporter party, things were going so smoothly that I even had time to book myself in for an emergency blow-dry in the hotel spa. But then, at half past three, it started to unravel.
Joe and Gemma arrived in my office together, like two plucky marathon runners crossing the line holding hands so neither of them had to finish last.
‘Don’t go mad,’ Gemma began, ‘but there’s been a miscommunication.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Joe gallantly.
‘No,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s probably my fault.’ But she spoiled the effect by rolling her eyes sideways to indicate that, yes, it was Joe’s fault.
‘Just tell me,’ I said.
‘The extra waiting staff you wanted for tonight’s party? Um, the good news is they’re booked,’ said Gemma.
‘And?’ I glanced between the pair of them.
‘Bad news is they’re booked for tomorrow night,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve rung round to try to get some extra bodies, but it’s Christmas. Everyone’s working.’
I suppressed a screech of panic. ‘But we’re already short-staffed!’
‘I know.’ Gemma looked noble. ‘So I’ve volunteered to come in. On overtime, obviously.’
‘And I’ll work too,’ said Joe. ‘Because I live upstairs and you’ll only come and get me anyway.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, doing frantic mental calculations. My visions of floating around making conversation slipped away; we now had six staff in total for the whole event – including me – to hand out canapés and drinks to a party of two hundred. Seven, if Dino had a quiet night in the bar and lent me his trainee bartender.
Joe flashed his best Boy Scout grin. ‘It’ll be fun! It’s a party – they won’t mind.’
‘Want to bet? Never come between a journalist and the drinks,’ I said through gritted teeth. I was definitely having that blow-dry now. My hair was going to need to be sprayed to within an inch of its life with Helen’s magic hairspray if I was going to withstand a party shift and still give the impression I was an unruffled organizing supremo.
As Joe and Gemma went to leave, I suddenly realized what Joe was wearing: in honour of the Christmas period, he had taken to sporting festive Hawaiian shirts whenever he could get away with it. Today’s had skiing Santas on them. It was like something a Beach Boy might wear for a joke.
‘Joe?’ I said. ‘You do have a dinner jacket you can wear tonight, don’t you?’
‘No, of course I – oh. Um, I think Dad’s got one, I’ll ask,’ he said, seeing my expression. ‘Don’t worry, Rosie. It’ll be fine. Just go with it. Cock-ups are life’s way of making things interesting.’
‘Do you have an infinite number of variations on that?’ I asked.
‘It’s because it’s true,’ he said calmly. ‘And one day you’ll come to realize that.’
Fortunately, at that moment my phone rang again, so I didn’t have to think of a polite reply.
*
As it turned out, apart from the staff crisis, and a minor Underground problem that made half the junior partygoers using public transport late, my meticulous advance planning meant the first hour of the party went off without a hitch.
The guests arrived – including Dominic, looking brooding and magnificent and very un-bread-scientist-like in his black tie – and Dino’s bar team soon had the champagne cocktails flowing. I circulated with platters of tiny hamburgers and sausages and marvelled, not for the first time, how invisible a tray suddenly makes you at a party. Not one person made eye contact with me, so busy were they staring at the delicious nibbles and wondering what they should do with the cocktail sticks they were still holding from the teriyaki prawns.
Most of the guests didn’t even stop talking as I passed, which was fine: my plan was to go back and re-meet everyone once I’d ditched the tray, reapplied my lipstick, and found Dominic to introduce me properly to his colleagues. Catching juicy snippets of gossip as I hovered within grazing distance put some faces to names that I knew well.
What was particularly gratifying, I thought, was how many of them seemed to be talking about Dominic. He was obviously a bit of a star in the office and, unusually, everyone seemed to read his columns.
‘Have you read Dom’s latest review?’ said one rosy-cheeked bloke in a Superman cape over his navy suit to his companion as I hovered politely with my tray of honey-glazed cocktail sausages. ‘Bloody funny.’
‘Oh, totally bloody funny,’ his Batman friend agreed, dunking a chipolata into the hot sauce. ‘Have you read it, Angus?’
‘Which one?’ Angus was wearing a dinner jacket; I wasn’t sure what he’d come as. James Bond, probably. There were a lot of James Bonds. There always were at fancy dress parties. ‘The one about the oyster bar? Bloody funny.’
The oyster bar! I beamed to myself. That review featured my best Betty line yet – and Dominic had actually given me full credit for it, for once. I held my breath, hoping they’d repeat it.
‘No, the one for that Swedish place in Pimlico. The one Dom said should be renamed Snores-ga-bored. Hilarious. Guy’s a genius.’
They guffawed appreciatively. I made a note to tell Dominic, and started to move away to share the sausages with the next clutch of guests (two Catwomen and a Smurf), but Angus/James Bond put his meaty paw on my arm to stop me.
‘Lurk here for a moment, would you, darling?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of prime organic pork. ‘Missed lunch. Need to line the stomach a bit.’
‘No problem!’ I chirruped, but I needn’t have bothered; as far as they were concerned, I was just an extension of the tray.
Which was how it was supposed to be, I reminded myself. Unobtrusive staff. Plus, they might carry on talking about Dom, and maybe one of them might mention the hilarious witticisms of Betty Confetti and how she should really have her own column.
‘Was that Swedish place the one down by Ebury Street?’ Superman asked, and Batman wrinkled his forehead to think.
I almost chimed in with the information that it was closer to Ecclestone Place, but stopped myself. I hadn’t actually been to the restaurant in question, but I’d seen it on Dominic’s fridge list and had hoped we’d try it together: I liked meatballs. He’d gone one night when I’d been working late on a rehearsal dinner. After Joe’s intervention with Stephanie, I didn’t dare leave the bride unattended at a rehearsal dinner.
Batman nodded. ‘Yup. Good place for him to take Siri. She’d fit right in there.’
‘What, Siri from media sales?’
‘Oh, my God,’ groaned Angus. ‘Don’t tell me Dominic’s finally got his hands on Siri the Swedish stunner? The jammy bastard.’
‘More than just his hands, from what I hear,’ said Batman with a wink. ‘And there’s plenty to get hold of.’
I kept smiling because it didn’t register at first, but then suddenly it did. A cold chill spread over my skin.
Siri? Who the hell is Siri?
‘I don’t know how Dom gets away with it,’ Superman went on. ‘Well, I do. He’s so rude to them. They love it. And then there’s the free meals. No wonder girls are queuing up.’
‘You know what’s really outrageously clever?’ said Batman. ‘The way he puts Betty in the column. Covers a multitude of sins, if you know what I mean.’ And he winked again.
‘I do know what you mean,’ guffawed another.
‘Ha-ha! Sorry, Angus, not following. What do you mean?’
‘He means,’ Superman explained patiently, ‘that there are any number of Bettys. Mainly Siri at the moment but … well. Lots of meals, only one Dominic Crosby.’
The blood rushed up to my head, and I felt sick. I wanted them to stop talking, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop myself listening.
The Honeymoon Hotel Page 22
