The Honeymoon Hotel

  ‘On New Year’s Day?’ Gemma raised an eyebrow. ‘About sixty quid away.’

  ‘Oi! Don’t take advantage of the fact that Joe’s clearly forgotten where everything is in London,’ I warned her. ‘You live in Clapham, not Cheltenham.’

  Joe laughed and added another tenner.

  ‘Are you sure?’ She looked between us. ‘This isn’t some kind of management test? Am I supposed to say, “No, Rosie, I’ll stay here till the place is spotless”?’

  I was shocked. ‘Of course not! What kind of insane slave driver do you think I am?’

  ‘Don’t answer that.’ Joe gave me a funny look, then turned back to her. ‘It’s a thank-you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a great job tonight. Great teamwork.’

  Gemma stifled a yawn. ‘It was fun, wasn’t it? Way more fun than weddings.’

  ‘But you love weddings,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re less stressed-out at events like this,’ she said, then looked a bit embarrassed. ‘I mean, not that you’re – I mean, you just seemed to be enjoying – that’s not the right word either, um …’

  ‘She knows what you mean,’ said Joe, before I could summon up a response. ‘Now, get on home.’

  Gemma waved and dashed out. She had glitter all over the seat of her skirt and what looked like a tinsel tail. I decided not to say anything.

  I walked across the empty ballroom, trying not to notice how shabby it was under the bright lights. A few chipped gold chairs would have to go back for a respray, and the curtains weren’t quite as plush as they’d seemed from a distance. That was the best bit about being a guest, I thought: you left with the illusion of the night intact.

  ‘I’d love to come to this as a guest,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ I waved a hand towards the glitter ball. ‘So I could enjoy it properly. See it as it’s meant to be seen.’

  Something about the atmosphere tonight had fizzed with romance. I’d noticed one couple at the table nearest the ice feature who’d nearly melted it with their obvious chemistry. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her all evening. She’d glowed with that fluttery delight of knowing something was starting, new possibilities and promises flickering into life. They’d flirted from the first champagne cocktail, never moving from their seats, gazing into each other’s eyes; then when I looked over at midnight, their chairs were empty. They’d left.

  I wondered if I’d meet them again, booking their wedding in the same ballroom where they’d met. My heart ached with envy.

  Stop it, Rosie.

  ‘Come on – sit down for ten minutes.’ Joe waved a bottle of champagne at me, dripping chilly beads of water from the ice bucket. ‘Have a glass of this. Someone’s opened it – shame for it to go to waste.’

  I started to argue, then gave up. I was tired. I needed the lift a glass of champagne would give me. ‘Go on.’

  Joe wandered over to the stage where the band had been playing Sinatra classics all night, and pulled himself up on it with a groan. ‘Ah, that’s better. Now, finally. A drink.’

  He wiped the champagne bottle with a linen napkin, and I realized he was about to swig straight from the neck.

  ‘What? No, wait.’ I hunted around until I found half a tray of unused champagne coupes tucked away under the grand piano. Someone had shoved them too far to reach easily, so I had to half-crawl under it to get them, and when I looked up, Joe was watching me with his half-amused expression.

  ‘Do you always have to do things the most difficult way?’ He waved the bottle. ‘I don’t have anything you can catch, you know.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I held the coupes out so he could pour the champagne, which he did with a deft turn of the wrist – as you’d expect from someone who’d grown up in a hotel. ‘It’s doing things properly. I want to start this year as I mean to go on. With a bit of style.’

  Joe raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he took the glass I was offering, and I sat myself down on the stage next to him. We stared out at the dance floor, and I wished I’d turned the lights down. They were chasing away the ghostly magic.

  Good, I reminded myself. It’ll make you tidy up quicker.

  ‘So what are your New Year’s resolutions?’ Joe asked.

  ’Oh, you know. The usual. Work harder. Lose weight. Buy a flat. Get Dino to give me his martini recipe. How about you?’

  ‘All the above. Plus run a marathon.’

  I laughed awkwardly, not sure if he meant it.

  ‘Hang on, I’m sorry to do this,’ said Joe, slipping off the stage. ‘But I’m going to have to turn these lights down. Just for ten minutes.’ I was surprised at how romantic he was being; then he added, ‘They’re making my contact lenses dry out.’

  ‘Just for ten minutes,’ I agreed, trying not to let him see how relieved I was. ‘I don’t want to fall asleep.’

  After a moment or two, the harsh halogen light dimmed until only the soft light of the chandelier remained, turning the room from yellow to a gentle grey.

  The glitter ball was still spinning lazily and I watched it cast a shimmering net of lights over the room, now draped in a more flattering velvety shadow. Opaque diamonds tumbled over the white-clothed tables, over the huge angel wings made from hundreds of calla lilies, and across the empty dance floor.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Joe, undoing his bow tie as he made his way back across the floor. Even he looked better now, dishevelled rather than tired, black-and-white, not colour. I sipped my champagne and felt the welcome bubbles trickle into my bloodstream.

  ‘So,’ he said, hoisting himself easily back up. ‘Your New Year’s resolutions. What are they really?’

  ‘I just told you.’

  ‘Yeah, sure you did. What do you really want to achieve by this time next year?’

  ‘You’ve been back in the UK for months now. Have you still not worked out that direct questions are considered a bit rude over here?’ I said, not entirely joking.

  Joe smiled and topped up his glass. I covered mine with a hand. ‘How else do you get to know people if you don’t ask questions? I mean, you don’t have to answer, not if it’s something like take over the hotel and start a cult in the laundry rooms. Come on. What do you see happening this year, for you?’

  The new year. It stretched out in front of me like a mountain path, winding upwards in a series of weddings and Monday morning meetings and direct debits. Not a mountain path with handrails, or steps either. One with a misty summit, and I had no map and the wrong shoes. I wobbled at the thought of climbing it alone. No Dominic. No flat to hunt for together. No parties, no newspaper column, no chance to make a name for myself with a huge Reporter party …

  I blinked, hard, and the words burst out of me into the darkened room, directed more to myself than to Joe. I’d based my life round Dominic more than I’d realized. From now on, I was doing it myself.

  ‘I’m going to make my target,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get the promotion, and I’m going to use the raise as a deposit on a flat of my own.’

  ‘Whoa, wind back there,’ said Joe. ‘Your target? And what promotion?’

  I took another long sip of champagne. It was very good champagne. It was nice to drink it in this glamorous, quiet place. ‘I did a deal with Laurence this summer, before you arrived. If I achieve certain goals in the events department by the end of June, he’ll consider me for the general manager’s job.’

  ‘Will he now?’

  ‘Yes.’ I wasn’t sure from Joe’s tone whether he’d assumed he’d be in line for it. I wondered whether he knew Caroline had told me about her plans for him.

  ‘And how near are you?’ he asked. He paused. ‘Guess that business with Stephanie Miller cancelling can’t have helped. Sorry.’

  ‘No, it didn’t. Thanks for that.’ Should I tell him the details? I wasn’t sure I should. The only people who knew about my deal with Laurence were me, Caroline and Laurence, and I didn’t know how the other heads of department would take it if th
ey found out.

  ‘Come on, I won’t tell anyone,’ said Joe. ‘You must be doing all right. Dino was telling me he had to double the bar stock orders, because of all the weddings you’ve booked in this quarter.’

  ‘We’re ahead of target,’ I admitted. ‘Flora’s wedding makes up for Stephanie cancelling, because of the extras she’s booking, but it’s really more about generating publicity, as much as the money. I’ve been getting dozens of calls from people who’ve heard she’s having her wedding here. Our private dinner bookings are way up, and the afternoon tea’s really taking off.’

  ‘Wait till the dress gets out,’ said Joe. ‘There are three designers in the frame. One of them will be a big surprise, apparently.’ He wiggled his eyebrows in mock excitement, then laughed. ‘She thinks I’m joking when I have no idea who she’s talking about.’

  I felt a surge of gratitude. I was very tired, but dealing with Flora would be a whole other tiredness on top. ‘To be honest, Joe, you’re the one making that happen, not me. You’re so patient.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t mind. Flora’s quite sweet once you remember that six years ago she was a foot taller than everyone she knew at Downe House and was called Roadrunner.’

  ‘Was she?’ I turned to him, and he nodded. ‘She told you that?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘It’s like I said – if you don’t ask people stuff, how can you make the day what they want? It’s inevitable that you get to know them. You’re feeling your way round their dreams. Or you should be, if you want to help them experience what they really want.’

  I felt he was making a bit of a point there, so I pressed my lips together and gazed out at the elegant room in front of us.

  ‘Isn’t this a magical place?’ I said. ‘A ballroom after midnight. All the ghosts, the secrets.’

  ‘I take it you’ve never seen The Shining then?’ he said.

  ‘Ha,’ I said. ‘Funny. You’re so lucky to have grown up somewhere like this.’ I watched the mirror ball spinning. ‘It must have been amazing as a kid – the corridors, the smells, the mechanics of it all behind the scenes. You’re a real-life Eloise.’

  ‘It was cool having a pool in the basement, and you could always get a milkshake, but other than that …’ He took a sip from his glass. ‘I was away at school for most of it. And I don’t know it did my parents’ marriage much good.’

  ‘But they both loved this place.’

  ‘They did, you’re right. But it meant there were always three people in the relationship, Mum, Dad—’

  ‘And the hotel.’ I knew Laurence had taken Caroline for granted. I’d never really thought about it from the boys’ point of view, though.

  ‘She’s a very demanding mistress, Lady Bonneville,’ said Joe ironically.

  ‘A special one, though?’ I waved a hand towards the dance floor, caught like an old photograph in luxurious grey and lilac shadows, with flashes of white from the flowers. ‘It’s more than just a hotel. It’s like … living in a bubble of history. Your family history.’

  ‘I guess one good thing you can say is that they both worked too hard to have affairs. I’m amazed Mum and Dad found time to have me and Alec.’ He topped up my coupe. We were getting through the bottle very quickly. ‘I know Dad would love me to take over, but …’ He shrugged. ‘I never want to let anything take over my life that much. It’s not healthy.’

  Doh. Of course that was why Joe didn’t want to work here, I thought, with the clutch of embarrassment that really obvious realizations often bring. Was that why he’d left the country, rather than be guilt-tripped into working in a hotel that he associated with his parents’ marriage collapsing?

  We said nothing for a moment or two; then Joe said, ‘Was that a factor, with you and Dominic? This place taking up too much time?’

  The directness of the question didn’t surprise me by now. It might have been the fact that we weren’t looking at each other, and the room was dark, or that the past few days watching mindless telly with Joe at the end of our shift were all combining to blur the boundaries between on and off-duty, here in the half-light.

  ‘Probably,’ I admitted, with a shiver at hearing myself say something aloud that I’d only thought before. ‘But Dominic had weird hours, too, when he was on a deadline. It wasn’t like he clocked off at five. He liked the fact that we were both night owls, you know, that we understood the same industry.’

  ‘But he was more important than work, surely? You loved each other.’

  I stared at my feet, swinging against the edge of the stage. Sensible mid-heel almond pumps. Not the sort of shoes a woman of my age should be wearing on New Year’s Eve. I should be wearing sky-high platforms. Sparkly stilettos. Golden sandals. Sexy, flirty shoes. I pried the left one off with my right toe, then did the same on the right, and they clattered to the floor.

  That was better. I could see my scarlet pedicure glinting through my tights. Sensible tights. Helen had given me the pedicure for Christmas, ‘to cheer me up’. And it had, sort of.

  The silence between me and Joe was growing but it wasn’t uncomfortable. I could feel him sipping his champagne next to me, his lips on the delicate glass. I wondered if he was looking at my toes and seeing a glimpse of the scarlet pedicure under the sensible tights.

  I realized I wanted him to see that. To see I wasn’t always To-Do List Rosie. I wondered if he’d noticed my red toenails around the flat, the way I knew about the little tattoo on his shoulder.

  ‘Was Dominic Mr Right, though?’ asked Joe. ‘Really?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and there it was, out there. ‘No. He wasn’t Mr Right.’

  I had to face it: Dominic’s reluctance to share his social life should have told me something. And the way he got so uncomfortable around weddings, and the way he … I flinched inside. The way he never told me he loved me unless he was hammered. I was a flatmate. With benefits. And I was lucky to have got out before we signed the mortgage.

  ‘Well, then you’re a step nearer finding the right Mr Right.’

  I snorted. ‘Aren’t we a bit old for believing in Mr and Ms Right?’

  Joe went to refill his glass but the bottle was empty. He shook it, then put it down on the stage.

  ‘You don’t think there’s one perfect person out there for you?’ he asked, without looking round.

  ‘No. I think there are lots of people out there who could make you happy. But not one single perfect person. You’d drive yourself mad, like all the crazy girls I see every day who think if they don’t get the exact shade of lilac for their colour scheme, their marriage is doomed.’

  ‘You’re very unromantic for a wedding planner.’

  ‘Events planner.’

  ‘Events planner, whatever. Have you never imagined getting married yourself?’

  The room was so intimate, the light was so low, the champagne was so comforting and Joe’s voice was so gentle, that I nearly said yes. Yes, I have been engaged. I was very nearly married. I got as far as the big pillar behind the vestry, within five minutes of ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ starting up. I had the blue garter, the bouquet ready to throw, the table plan, the list of presents at John Lewis that all had to go back.

  All that rose up in my head like a conga line of rowdy guests. I hadn’t thought about my non-wedding in ages. I’d managed to stack up lots of other stuff in front of it.

  I wondered, in horror, whether Laurence or Caroline had said something about it to Joe. He’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t he?

  I mentally restacked all the other stuff in front of that embarrassing tableau: work, hotel, bouquets, deadlines, Dominic.

  Dominic. I stacked more stuff in front of him: Flora Thornbury, Laurence’s target, Caroline’s projects. I was failing badly on that front.

  I liked Joe. I didn’t want him to know about that Rosie.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘What about you?’

  I assumed Joe would say no, too, but he didn’t reply, and when I turned my head to see what his face was doing,
he was staring out across the empty dance floor. He looked lost, and there was a flash of vulnerability that took me by surprise.

  ‘Sorry,’ I started, at the same moment that he said, ‘I think if you meet that perfect person …’

  We both stopped talking, awkwardly.

  ‘And have you?’ I prompted, struck by an equally unexpected pang of … something.

  Joe didn’t reply. The glitter ball carried on turning, and I wondered if I’d touched on something too personal. Maybe it was too close to his parents’ marriage. I’d never thought what it must have been like for Joe and Alec in the middle of it all. Living in the flat with Joe had tipped my perceptions of the hotel on their side; I was starting to see an off-duty side not just to Joe but also to the Bonneville. I was seeing a home, not just my place of work.

  Then he jumped off the stage, and I was jerked back to reality.

  My head swam as the manic activity of the last few days caught up with me all at once. ‘Shouldn’t have had that last glass of champagne,’ I said thickly.

  He held out a hand. ‘Come on, Cinderella.’

  ‘Are you asking me to dance?’ I joked.

  I didn’t know how to dance, but I would have, in that moment. Joe in his dinner jacket, his bow tie undone, his hair rumpled, standing there in black-and-white, like a partygoer from the 1979 Farewell come back for one last turn round the dance floor.

  He gazed up at me, and my stomach did a slow, drunken loop. In a nice way.

  ‘No, you idiot, I was giving you a hand off the stage, since you seem a bit tipsy,’ he said. ‘Did you want to dance? We could …’ He made twisting actions – joking, ungainly. Not romantic waltzing ones. The moment burst and vanished like a soap bubble.

  Romantic waltzing ones? I could feel my face turning red. Why had I thought that?

  ‘No need, I’m fine.’ I lowered myself to the floor and felt around, rather too carefully, for my shoes. My boring shoes.

  ‘You know what your New Year’s resolution should be?’ said Joe.

  Suddenly I really wanted to go to bed. To fall into the spare bed upstairs and not think about any of the unwelcome wedding-guest thoughts now barging around my subconscious.