Do Not Disturb (43 page)

The Burnstein wedding was the first big social event she’d agreed to attend since last year’s scandals. Her first instinct when the stiff white invitation had landed in her in-tray at Palmers was to decline, the same way she’d declined everything else she’d been invited to since her affair and Tina’s tape were made public. But a series of things had made her change her mind. Firstly, the Burnsteins and the Palmers had been friends for generations. Honor had been friends with Arabella, Minty’s elder sister, since elementary school in Boston and had known the bride since the day she was born. Secondly, Billy Malone, her ex-professor, ex-lover, and dear friend had been staying with her at Palmers the week the invitation arrived and had read her the riot act about chickening out.

“Listen, Howard Hughes,” he told her sternly. “This whole recluse shtick has gotta stop. If you’re not careful you’ll wind up
sleeping in an oxygen chamber and telling people that your cats are like your children. Go to the damn wedding, OK?”

But the deciding factor was when yet another old friend from Boston had called to assure her that Devon and Karis Carter, who also knew the Burnsteins, would be in Asia that weekend and would categorically
not
be going.

Even so, she thought, wondering if the flash of aquamarine Manolo heel visible beneath the hem of her flared pants was too much, today was gonna be an ordeal. All the questions, the curiosity veiled as sympathy, the stares…she was dreading it.

Since the very public end of her love affair with Devon, Honor’s self-confidence had been at an all-time low. She could understand him wanting to protect his family. After all, she’d devoted all her energies to trying to protect Palmers from the fallout (for all the good it did her). Even she could see that saving a hotel was hardly on par with saving a marriage.

But nothing had prepared her for the brutal way he had simply exorcised her from his life, overnight. Once the worst of the storm had died down, she’d waited for him to make contact. She wasn’t expecting hearts and flowers. A simple “how are you coping?” would have sufficed. “Sorry” would have been even better. But what she got was deafening silence.

Because of all the furor about Tina, the story of their affair wasn’t allowed to die a natural death in the media. Every time Tina did another interview (which was every other week—the girl knew how to milk a story), Honor’s and Devon’s names would get dragged up again. Honor felt helpless. Her life, her private heartbreak, was being served up as the glacé cherry on the top of Tina’s self-made soap-opera sundae, for people to pick over at their leisure.

To make matters worse, article after article started appearing painting Honor as the scarlet woman, the manipulative home wrecker. Anyone would have thought she’d drugged Devon, clubbed him over the head, and dragged him into bed to rape him.

Not once did he defend her or lift a finger to contradict this impression in the press. Not once did he call. When the chips were down, he’d abandoned her and their relationship without a backward glance. And Honor didn’t see him for dust.

Now, six months later, she was over the heartbreak. Mostly. But she was still left with the nagging doubt that comes from having trusted, deeply, and been so terribly let down. She’d always considered herself to be a good judge of character. But clearly she’d been kidding herself. When it mattered the most, none of her so-called instincts had been worth a dime.

Which was a shame, because right now she needed those instincts more than ever. Things at Palmers were going from bad to worse, and she had no idea how to turn the tide. When the Herrick had first opened, she’d gambled on survival by differentiation and played the old-money conservative card for all it was worth. Up until the scandals broke, it had worked. But now her strategy had turned around to bite her. Palmers’ guests were the last people on earth to be attracted by notoriety. These were the sort of people who packed their kids off to rehab after one puff of a joint. As for sexual liberalism, most of them viewed even marital relations with distaste, never mind four-in-a-bed lesbian orgies and S and M shows caught on film. With her core client base leaving in droves, Honor had no choice but to change her tactics and go after the younger, hipper crowd more typically drawn to the Herrick. But to those people, Palmers was the last word in stuffy. It was a classic lose-lose situation.

The elevator came to a stop with a worryingly sudden jolt. But after a few nerve-racking seconds the doors glided open and Honor stepped out into the hallway.

On the sixty-fifth floor of Number Thirty Rockefeller Plaza, the Rainbow Room restaurant with its incredible views, sky-high ceilings, and revolving dance floor was the epitome of classic New York chic. It was unashamedly old-fashioned—more Rat
Pack than
Sex and the City—
but then Honor would happily take Sinatra over Carrie Bradshaw any day. Clearly the Burnsteins felt the same way.

On a good day you could see every square inch of Manhattan from up here. But today the March clouds hung low and heavy over the city, and what would have been the view was smothered in mist.

Honor sighed. What a shame.

“I’d offer you a glass of champagne, ma’am.” An elderly waiter in white tie appeared at her side. “But I’m afraid the service is about to start. Perhaps you’d like to slip in quietly at the back?”

He was a kind man, with that part-of-the-furniture air about him common to staff in grand old restaurants. Honor suspected he’d worked here his whole life.

“Oh, no! I thought I was early,” she said. Glancing at her watch, she realized belatedly that it had stopped. Damned antiques. “I can’t believe I’m late for a wedding! Maybe I should just wait it out. I’d hate to cause a scene.”

“Wait it out? You mean, miss the ceremony?” The old man looked horrified. “Nonsense, my dear, we can’t have that. Come with me. I’ll slip you in there without a fuss.”

Inside the anteroom-cum-makeshift-chapel, Lola was suffering from a serious attack of the giggles.

“Kick me!” she hissed at Sian, her mouth twitching at the corners. “Pinch me. Do something. I’m gonna lose it in a minute, I swear.” But Sian wasn’t faring much better herself. She was too busy biting back her own mirth to help Lola. The service was so unutterably corny, it could have been made by Orville Redenbacher. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from a high-society New York wedding. But it definitely wasn’t this.

First, the bride had arrived in a dress so over-the-top wide it couldn’t fit through the specially built rose archway. After much red-faced pushing and tugging, she was forced to reverse while the arch was dismantled, with the organist gallantly playing “Here Comes the Bride” throughout the entire five-minute charade.

“Whoever designed that dress should be shot,” Lola whispered in Sian’s ear, as poor Minty, flushed as red as the roses in her bouquet, finally made it to the altar. “She looks like a poodle that swallowed a hand grenade.”

That comment marked the start of the girls’ giggling fit. But it was the vows that really finished them off. Both bride and groom had written their own.

“I love you like the stars love the moon,” intoned Stavros, the groom, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed as he said it. Minty, by contrast, gushed so enthusiastically through her own efforts she had the entire chapel wincing: “I am you. You are me. We are one,” she bleated.

“She sounds like a frikkin’ perfume commercial,” giggled Sian.

“Smells like one too,” said Lola. “The poor rabbi must be about to pass out. Death by Eternity asphyxiation. I bet that’s a medical first.”

Quite apart from the hilarity value, Lola was glad she’d decided to come, and even gladder that she was here with Sian and not Igor the Ego. Nick had bailed at the last minute, an added bonus—apparently the world of global e-commerce would grind to a shuddering halt if he took one weekend off—but her parents had braved the gossips and made it. Sitting two rows ahead of her and Sian, Lola could see that they were actually holding hands, which made her feel strangely but deeply happy. Having said that, her dad looked anxious. He’d lost weight, and hair. The last six months had clearly taken their toll on him, not that he didn’t deserve it. But her mom seemed much, much better than
she had the last time Lola was home. She was no longer skeletal, but attractively slender, and her cheeks had finally regained some of their former color and glow. It was good to see. “Hey.” Sian leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Check it out. Two o’clock. Superman can’t keep his eyes off you.”

Lola glanced across the aisle to her right. A tall guy, she guessed in his early twenties, with a shock of jet-black hair and glasses that were indeed
fully
Christopher Reeve, flashed her a fifty-megawatt smile, which she returned.

“He’s cute,” said Sian, nudging her in the ribs.

“He is, isn’t he?” said Lola, grinning from ear to ear. This wedding kept getting better and better. “Sold to the girl who hasn’t got laid in a week.”

“A
week
?” said Sian, more loudly than she’d intended to, so she had to try to turn it into a cough when people turned around and glared at her. “Jesus. I haven’t had it since last summer. Oh my God. Speaking of last summer…”

“What?” said Lola.

“All right, now don’t freak out.” Sian laid a restraining hand on her arm in anticipation. “But Honor just walked in.”

“No!” Lola went white, and her lips pursed in fury. “She wouldn’t dare!”

For the second time, scores of people spun around to look as Lola raised her voice in indignation. One of them was Devon, who began by scowling at his daughter, but whose frown rapidly morphed into a look of purest panic as he caught sight of Honor, hovering at the back of the room like a ghost.

Lola looked around too and gave Honor a murderous stare. But she needn’t have bothered. Honor could see nothing but Devon.

This couldn’t be happening.

How could he be here?
How?
He was supposed to be in Asia. Regaining his composure, Devon looked away, leaving her staring at his broad, tuxedo-clad back. He seemed to have developed
a sudden intense fascination with the ceremony, which had reached the stage of exchanging rings. Only his stiffened shoulders and the tightness of his arm muscles as he gripped Karis’s hand gave away his inner emotional maelstrom.

Meanwhile, Honor’s own stomach was flipping cartwheels. If only she could sneak away! But the double doors had been firmly closed behind her, and opening them now would only cause more of a scene. There was nothing she could do but wait it out.

After what felt like an eternity, Stavros was finally invited to kiss his bride, and the vast, lacy meringue that was the new Mrs. Minty Pavlos swayed back down the aisle and out into the lobby. Bolting out of her seat, Honor tried to dash after her. But to her dismay, she found herself being collared by Arabella, the matron of honor, before she could make her escape.

“Oh, Hon, I’m so glad you made it. But my gosh, haven’t you gotten thin,” she said, hugging Honor tightly.

“I know.” Honor tried to smile. “It’s been a stressful year.”

“Well, sure,” said Arabella understandingly. “I was so sorry to hear about your dad. And, you know…that other business.”

“Thanks.” Honor looked longingly toward the exit, but now it was clogged with departing guests. Thankfully, Devon and Karis seemed to have already made their own escape.

“You bitch!”

Honor jumped as Lola, a vision of red-headed righteous indignation, stormed over and physically shoved her back against the wall.

“What on earth…? How dare you!” said Arabella, stepping between them. “What do you think you’re doing? This is my sister’s wedding, not a bar brawl.”

“I’m not talking to you,” hissed Lola rudely, lunging at Honor again. Her russet curls, which moments ago had been pinned into an intricately formal updo, now broke free of their restraints and started tumbling down over her shoulders like lava. In a
short green taffeta dress and no jewelry other than an exquisite pair of emerald-and-diamond drop earrings that swung wildly now as she flung herself forward, she looked scary but stunning. Somehow she also seemed much older than Honor remembered her. The innocent little girl of last summer, the kid that Honor had worried about Lucas Ruiz corrupting, had morphed into a fully fledged young woman.

“Lola, listen to me. I didn’t know your parents were coming,” she explained. “I was assured they were in Asia. Otherwise I would never have accepted the invitation.”

“Yeah, right!” spat Lola. “You fucking liar.”

Arabella Burnstein was a strong woman, but even she was having trouble containing the wildcat Lola as she scratched and clawed to get at Honor. She was very grateful when Sian arrived to help.

“Look, I’m sorry.” A visibly shaken Honor was close to tears. “I’ll go, OK? I’ll just go.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Arabella firmly. “You’re a guest here—
my
guest—and I’ll be mortally offended if you don’t stay for the reception. You haven’t done anything wrong, Honor.” She glared defiantly at Lola.

“Like hell she hasn’t!” Lola yelled back. “She’s done nothing but wrong. Bitch!”