I’ll definitely say something after the reception, I told myself as Joe took a selfie of us both, our heads squeezed together with St Paul’s Cathedral in the background. Then the Strand. Then Piccadilly Circus. Lots of selfies, in fact. A whole camera full. My eyes were shut in most of them: I’d closed my eyes to imprint the smell of him, and the feel of the side of his face against mine.
*
The speeches were very sweet, and quite short, and thankfully in English; then Helen and Wynn cut the cake, which Delphine had covered in tiny fondant daffodils, and we all went out into the courtyard gardens to chat and enjoy the late afternoon sunshine.
‘That was the nicest wedding I’ve been to,’ Joe said, chasing the pigeons off the wrought-iron garden seat so we could sit down.
‘Wasn’t it? They really fit together. And yet,’ I was feeling quite indiscreet by now, ‘Wynn is so not the kind of guy I expected Helen to marry.’
‘No?’
I shook my head. ‘This time last year, if you’d told me she’d give up dangerous, strung-out chefs to marry a Welsh dentist just a tiny bit shorter than her, who likes walking outside for no good reason …’
We watched the new Mr and Mrs Davies doing the rounds of Wynn’s family. The aunties and cousins were hugging Helen, and she was laughing and blushing. Loved, I thought. She looked loved. That’s what she and Wynn had in common; they loved each other. And, different or not, their lives would grow together around that.
‘It’s like I said, people change,’ said Joe. ‘Doesn’t mean you weren’t right then, just that we grow. It’s natural. Move on. Don’t cling to what suited you in the past, focus on who you are now. It’s obviously working for Helen.’
I studied my glass because I was terrified that if I opened my mouth, I am in love with you would come streaming out.
‘If you mean Dominic, I’m well over him,’ I said instead.
‘Good,’ said Joe. He looked at me, eyes crinkled against the sun. Sunlight is his natural background, I thought. Sun and blue skies. ‘Good.’
I thought he was going to say something else, and my heart was up in my chest, when Amy, one of the weekend receptionists, approached us, looking apologetic.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Rosie, but there’s one of your brides to see you? She says you’re not expecting her, but could she have a quick word? She’s been trying to call you today, and left a couple of messages.’
‘Oh. I didn’t get any.’ I turned my phone back on, and it started bleeping.
‘What? Did you turn your phone off for Helen’s wedding?’ Joe pretended to look shocked. ‘The ultimate compliment!’
‘Of course I turned my phone off.’ I looked up at Amy; I had missed calls from about seven different brides. ‘Who is it? Did she give you her name?’ I mentally flipped through the brides it could be: most of them lived in London – it might be Cressida Connor. She’d been on the phone most of this week, wanting me to sack the bridesmaid refusing to get her hair cut to match the other three.
‘No, she wouldn’t give a name at all.’ Amy paused. ‘She was wearing big shades. Like she didn’t want me to recognize her.’
At that I knew immediately who it was. Emily. My pulse skipped. Brilliant! This was the best possible wedding for her to see – I could slip her in, show her round, and maybe introduce her to Helen and Wynn. Helen would love that.
‘Where is she now?’ I asked.
‘I took her to your office,’ said Amy. ‘With a cup of tea.’
‘Great! Oh …’ I panicked. Had I turned the Bridelizer round before I left? And, more to the point, had I taken the photos of Flora Thornbury with devil horns and a moustache off the filing cabinet?
No. I hadn’t. Joe had been throwing Otto’s sponge darts at her yesterday.
I shoved my glass at Joe. ‘I’ll be two seconds.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I won’t let Helen toss the bouquet without you!’
I dashed back into the hotel, down the corridor, and burst into the office, wishing I’d tidied up last night.
‘Hello!’ I opened the door and saw a woman standing by … the Bridelizer.
‘Oh, my God, this gave me a shock!’ hooted Emily. ‘I saw Magnus and Chloë and I thought, what didn’t they tell me?’
I laughed manically – I’d had to put a decoy photo up, which had taken ten minutes to take, thanks to their squabbling about whether Magnus needed to put his arm around Chloë – while taking in Emily’s very, very different appearance. The long black wig she’d worn in all our FaceTime conversations was gone; her real hair was a chestnutty crop that brought out the perfect heart shape of her pretty face, and her skin was porcelain-smooth, if not as pasty as it had been under make-up. She was dressed in a simple green sundress and little make-up beyond some peachy lip gloss, but she had a special aura about her, that Hollywood specialness that I guessed made her glow onscreen.
It was a bit surreal seeing Emily Sharpe in my office, sounding all normal, which is probably why I said the very stupid thing I did. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you without your horns.’
Emily laughed and clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘And the wig! Don’t forget the wig! I feel so weird without it now. Like half my head’s missing! Listen, is it all right? Me dropping in like this?’
‘You’ve picked a great time,’ I assured her, gesturing towards the door. ‘We’re actually in the middle of a function right now. My best friend’s having her reception in the courtyard gardens.’
‘Your best friend!’ Emily looked aghast. ‘Sorry! Am I taking you away from it?’
‘Not at all. Helen’s our restaurant manager, she’d love to meet you.’ I led her down the corridor, talking as we went, and Emily slipped on her big shades, so as not to attract too much attention to herself. ‘She’s having an afternoon tea in the palm court, then a private party in the hotel cocktail bar, which we’ve also arranged for your guests.’
‘With the bespoke cocktails? I love that idea! Missy was all, “Oh, you have to make sure they’re non-alcoholic,” but Ben and I were like, “Are you kidding? At that hotel where Ava Gardner tied one on with Frank Sinatra in secret? Gin us up, baby!” Oh, wow, this is so Great Gatsby! Or High Society!’
We paused at the long doors that led from the shady arched hall into the gardens, so Emily could enjoy the full impact of the scene playing out: the white-clothed tables of glasses and silver cake trays, the string quartet playing in a bandstand by the rose garden, Helen moving gracefully among her guests in her ivory column dress, all the grannies enjoying tea from proper china cups.
I felt very proud of the Bonneville at that moment.
I caught Helen’s eye as she stopped to talk to Joe, and beckoned her over.
‘This is Helen who sent the tasting menu?’ Emily said excitedly. ‘The one that made Chloë break her Paleo diet? Don’t tell Chloë I told you that, by the way! I am so excited to meet her!’
Helen was walking over with Joe, and he was staring at us. I widened my eyes at him to stop staring – I didn’t want him to draw attention to Emily.
But he carried on staring, which was really unlike him. Even on the rare occasions that he recognized a celebrity at a wedding, he made a point of pretending he didn’t know who they were.
‘Congratulations!’ Emily held out her hand to shake.
‘Is this …?’ Helen looked at me, then at Emily, and seemed confused.
‘Helen, this is Emily,’ I said proudly. ‘She and her fiancé will be getting married here on June the twelfth.’
‘What? Not Tweedledum and Tweedle-Shut-Up – oh, sorry, hello!’
‘Hello! Oh, sorry, this is so rude of me, one second.’ Emily lifted her sunglasses to shake Helen’s hand, and then I really noticed her eyes for the first time. Even without any make-up, they were incredible: the deep green of wine bottles, or forest leaves. Eyes that could break a heart with one glance and stay with you forever.
Wow, I thought, dazzled. Proper film-star e
yes, like Liz Taylor or Sophia Loren.
Something brushed past me, and I realized it was Joe. Even as Helen and Emily were shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries about the shrimp dip, Joe’s face had set into the grimmest expression I’d ever seen, and he marched off without even saying hello.
‘Joe?’ said Helen, but he was gone, his linen suit vanishing into the depths of the hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I think, deep down, I knew why Joe stormed off the second Emily slipped off her sunglasses, but part of me hoped there was another reason. A really good one, maybe something to do with a forgotten taxi or … or …
I was struggling.
‘Helen, I’ve got to pop back into the hotel for some paperwork,’ I improvised quickly as my heart pounded in my chest. Not in a good way this time. ‘Would you mind showing Emily your gorgeous cake?’
Helen read my face instantly. ‘I’d love to!’ She smiled. ‘Emily, would you make my husband’s year and come and say hello? He is such a fan of the Dark Moon series….’
I let Helen lead Emily towards the cake table, then I scurried into the hotel. It was very quiet, and I could hear my pulse beating in my ears as I peered in room after room, trying to find Joe.
I eventually tracked him down in the empty lounge bar, knocking back a large whiskey in one of the heavy crystal glasses. He was leaning on the polished oak counter, his head in his hands, and with his rumpled suit and even more rumpled expression, I couldn’t help thinking Joe had a sort of old Hollywood air about him, too.
Oh, God, I was so out of my league with these beautiful people, and their beautiful, dramatic, stupid lives.
‘Are you all right?’ I started, as calmly as I could. ‘It’s just that that lady out there is the most high-profile client I will probably ever have, and you’ve just barged past her as if you’re on Dynasty.’
Joe didn’t turn around, but refilled his glass instead. It was as well Dino wasn’t around to stop him going for the best scotch.
‘Of course I’m not all right. You know exactly who that is,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you could do that to me. Either of you.’
I gaped in confusion. I was getting a strong feeling of déjà vu here. Between my outrage and Joe’s furious man-sulk, we’d gone back to the bridal suite where we’d met. I didn’t want to see that Joe again, angry and defensive, and a stranger to me.
‘As far as I know, that’s Emily Sharpe, the actress. What else should I know?’
Joe’s face was ashen. ‘That’s the girl I told you about. The one I was in love with, who I thought was in love with me, and who dumped me and vanished. And she’s decided to get married in my family’s hotel, as if I needed my nose rubbed in it any more, and you’ve been arranging her wedding behind my back.’
‘How the hell was I supposed to know that?’ I protested. ‘You never even told me her name!’
‘I did!’
‘You didn’t!’ I was hurt and outraged to think he could think I’d be cruel. ‘And I think I’d have remembered if you’d included the small detail of her being a Hollywood actress!’
‘Everyone in LA is a Hollywood actress. You stop believing it after a while.’ Joe slammed his glass back on the counter and reached for the bottle again, but I grabbed his arm.
‘Please, you can’t honestly think I’d do that to you,’ I started, but he didn’t want to listen.
He shook my hand away. ‘Whatever. You know now. You arrange Emily’s wedding and have a lovely time with her. The whole lot of you can just fuck off.’
I stared at him, hurt and surprised and with disapointment surging through me, then I turned and went back to Emily, and my best friend’s wedding.
*
Arranging weddings prepares you for some awkward moments – I’ve never known a bride who didn’t throw at least one totally irrational fit about something completely random, like spoons – but having to pretend Joe had just ‘had an urgent phone call’ threw me so much that I struggled to get through the next hour with Emily Sharpe.
Half of my brain was focused on giving this VIP bride a magical tour of the place she’d chosen to get married in. Emily wanted to hear all the romantic old stories, and kept asking more and more questions about the famous guests, the secret tunnels, the renovations. She even made me promise I’d smuggle her and Benedict in for the Farewell to the Year, if they flew back in time.
Meanwhile the other half of my brain was going round and round in circles, trying to work out whether Joe was right and I should have worked this out ages ago.
I’d have had to be a mind reader. I’d assumed Joe’s girl was some Californian beach bunny, but why would she be? He knew lots of expats out there, they all hung out together and ate Walkers crisps, he’d told me so. I hadn’t spotted her reddish-brown hair under the wig she’d worn for all our calls, and the Google photos I’d seen of her showed her with every kind of hair for various different small parts she’d had.
But it was Emily’s beautiful eyes that were the giveaway, I thought, as she swept around the marble bathroom, gasping in delight at the original fittings. Normally I’d have been thrilled to see someone adore the hotel as much as I did, but I could only think about Joe. My heart lurched when I remembered his face as he’d described her on Valentine’s Day. I could see what he’d seen reflected in all the mirrors: thickly lashed green eyes that you would remember all your life, eyes that would make you look a million miles away when you told someone about them years later. Because they weren’t just beautiful; they were kind and intelligent and funny.
That, I decided, as she finally jumped into her taxi with a folder of my notes, was the kicker. Emily Sharpe wasn’t just major league beautiful, the sort of girl you could never compete with; she was also genuinely nice.
I went back to Helen’s reception and struggled to hide the other thoughts beginning to worm their way through my gloom. Emily was nice, yet she’d blanked Joe when she’d met him just now. And, like he’d said, she’d arranged her wedding in his family’s hotel. Could you do that, if you’d really loved someone? But that was accidental, I reminded myself. Or was it?
My head was a swirling mess of arguing voices, and I was so distracted by them that I totally forgot to catch Helen’s bouquet.
‘Rosie!’ I blinked, and saw Helen standing in front of me, the bouquet back in her hands, and Wynn’s cousin Seren behind her, looking annoyed as if she’d recently been divested of a hard-won bouquet. ‘You weren’t ready,’ she said, pointedly. ‘I’m throwing it again, okay?’
Worse than that, when she forced me back into the centre of the line-up, and virtually shoved the flowers at me, I realized I didn’t even want it anymore.
*
It’s amazing how quiet a flat above a busy hotel can be when there’s just one miserable person in it.
Laurence was away for the weekend, and Joe didn’t come back that night. I couldn’t tell Helen what had happened because she was now on her honeymoon, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell Gemma, who didn’t even know about Emily and Ben in the first place. My mum wasn’t brilliant at relationship advice – she blamed herself for not guessing Anthony was planning to stand me up, and had refused to give any opinions on any romantic situation ever again, in case she called it wrong too. As for Dad, well. Where would you start?
The one person I wanted to talk to was, of course, the one person who wasn’t there.
I was sitting on the ancient leather sofa, not really watching the last of the Broadchurch box set Joe and I had started, when it dawned on me how much I’d come to depend on his company over the past months. The shorthand chats we’d had in the evenings about Laurence’s current ailments or the milk levels in the fridge. The in-jokes about our Chart of Box Sets, stacked up the side of the fireplace according to our ratings. He knew how I liked my coffee; I’d pulled his clothes out of the washing machine after three days to stop them getting mildew. We’d been living together. I knew more about Joe – not the facts of h
is life, but his quirks and moods – than I’d ever worked out about Dominic in the years we’d shared a flat. Some of it was irritating. Some of it was surprising. But every scrap of new detail made me want to know more about him.
One cup of tea after another went cold next to me as I hugged my knees and explored the aching hollowness pushing out from my chest to my whole body. I had to face it: this was the worst possible outcome. Not only had our friendship snapped, but he thought I’d gone behind his back to arrange Emily’s wedding, and he was still in love with her.
It stung, but I forced myself to hear it. Of course Joe was still in love with Emily. How could he not be?
I finally heard the door to the flat open on Sunday morning, while I was forcing myself to eat some toast in the kitchen. Inexpressible relief filled me. I jumped to my feet and tried to get all my thoughts in a coherent line; then Joe walked in, unshaven and bleary but sexily so, and the thoughts scattered like pigeons.
‘I’ve come to get a bag,’ he said shortly, before I could get a word out. ‘I’m going to spend some time at Mum’s. She’s running a conference, and she says she could do with a hand.’
‘Joe, please don’t be like this,’ I said. ‘Can’t we talk about it?’
‘What’s to talk about? It’s just work, isn’t it? I’m going to be working at Wragley Hall for a while. Forward any mail, you know where I am.’
‘You’d rather be with Alec and his homemade explosives than here?’
‘Yup.’
I followed him into his bedroom. Well, not into it. I hovered at the door as he shoved T-shirts into his leather holdall.
‘I honestly didn’t know,’ I insisted. ‘It was random – they were booked in at another hotel. It was Nevin who recommended us. Emily never mentioned you.’
He winced and I felt terrible, but in quite a complicated way.
The Honeymoon Hotel Page 35
