Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (3 page)

The walk down the corridor to my room is now an exercise in tension and anxiety. I'd like to admire the vastly expensive fixtures and fittings, but all I can picture is
Muresh's
disappointed face when I have no tip to give him.

He pauses outside the door to a room and indicates to me to pass him the electronic room key.

Oh good grief, this is just ridiculous now. Pulling my suitcase along is one thing, making me stand there like a twat while he performs the simple task of opening a hotel room door is quite another.

'Don't worry, I can do it!' I tell Muresh and leap forward, key in hand. I confidently swipe it through the card reader before my porter has a chance to object.

Bzzt,
goes the reader, and a red LED lights up on top of it to indicate the key card has not been read properly.

I have another go.

Bzzt.

And another.

Bzzt.

Muresh tries to take the key card from my hand.
 
'Please,' he says, almost imploring.

'No! No! I can do this!' I assure him, and try the card again.

Bzzt.

'Oh, for fuck's sake,' I mumble angrily under my breath.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

'Please!' Muresh repeats, a little more frantically.

I suck air in over my teeth and hand him the card. Muresh offers me the patented Dorchester smile,
turns the key card around the other way
, and swipes it through the reader.

Bing!

Green light.

Bugger, fuck and
twateration
.

Muresh has the decency not to look at me, and simply rolls my suitcase into the room. As he does, I catch a glimpse of my home for the next 24 hours and fall instantly in love. You should never stay in a hotel room that looks nicer than your own house. Nothing good can ever come of it.

My delight is slightly tempered by the fact that Jamie got here a day earlier, and has ruined the place somewhat by liberally sprinkling his clothes and electronic entertainment devices around it with no regard for the carefully thought out
feng
shui
.

Muresh plants the suitcase neatly next to the wall and turns to give me another smile, this one tinged with a healthy degree of expectancy.

This is the moment I've been dreading. Will I make
Muresh's
day? Or will I have to see his face crumple in a barely concealed mixture of disappointment and loathing?

Let's see what I've got in my purse, shall we?

Hmmmm
.

So, which do you think would be worse? Giving Muresh the £2.36 I have in very small change, or a book of 12 first class stamps - with two and a half stamps left in it (Jamie is always too rough with those things). How about the picture of the three of us taken on the Gold Coast two days before we left, or my library card - which was out of date seven years ago?

I panic, and give him the change and the book of stamps, figuring that they have enough face value to bring his tip above the £3 mark.

For a fleeting second, Muresh looks like someone has just taken a shit in both his hand
and
his mouth, before he covers up his disgust magnificently.

'Thank you so much,' he tells me, through a barricade of shiny white teeth. Translated:
'Wow, thank you very much. I bet two quid in coppers and some stamps was a real stretch for you, what with that job as a successful writer. I had JK Rowling in here the other day and she only stumped up £1.73 and a chocolate frog.'

Muresh decides to throw a return insult back in my direction by picking the book of stamps out of his hand with two pinched fingers and handing them back to me.

'Thanks?' I offer, which is not the usual response you make after having a tip rejected, but in these dire circumstances, there is little else I can do.

My towering shame is given relief when Muresh backs his way out of the room, shutting the door as he goes. I hear him stamp off down the corridor, no doubt to go tell every other member of the Dorchester staff that the woman in room 216 is a right bitch, so feel free to spit in her breakfast and forget to leave fresh towels.

For the first time that day, since I discovered I was a banana, I am left gratifyingly alone. A swift look at my watch tells me it's coming up to 6pm, so I'd better get a wiggle on. According to the text Jamie sent me in the car on the way up, another chauffeur driven car will be here in an hour to pick us up for tonight's shenanigans, which gives me fifteen minutes to shower, ten minutes to get dressed, twenty minutes to agonise over whether I should wear the bolero jacket or not, and just quarter of an hour to reapply foundation to all the bits I need to, and put on the rest of my make-up.

Aaargh
!

It'll be close, but I think I can just about make it happen - if I'm very lucky and pray to the dressing up fairies hard enough.

The shower is wonderful, and I sacrifice five minutes dressing time for continued use of the massage function. This results in a rather hurried donning of underwear, tights and evening gown, but I get away with just one small ladder on my right thigh and a couple of bent teeth on the dress's zipper.

Bolero related agony is far worse than I thought it would be, given that I look super cute with it both on and off. In the end, practicality wins the day, and I decide to wear it, given the fact it's February and three degrees outside.

So now it's just the matter of the foundation and make-up.

Still, I managed to do it pretty fast this morning, so all I have to do is be confident, controlled and liberal with application, and I should be fi -

Where's the fucking foundation?

I rummage around my expansive make-up bag, but no foundation is to be found. I then frantically up-end the bag into the sink, but
still
no foundation is to be seen.

The next thing up-ended is my handbag onto the chair... then my suitcase onto the bed... but still no luck.

A grisly, awful realisation hits me.

You left it in the bathroom at home, you silly bitch.

I can picture the large tube of skin salvation right where I left it - stood next to the toothpaste and sun cream in my bathroom cabinet, a good eighty miles away from me and my yellow tinged skin.

With an involuntary whimper I pelt back into the bathroom to see if I have anything that might do the job instead. In an ideal world I'd at least have some concealer knocking about, but damn the make-up companies for coming up with foundation so good that you don't need any these days.

In fact, the only thing that I have here in the sink that can be slathered right across my skin is the sodding £150 fake tan that got me in this mess in the first place.

With a cry of unholy rage, I hold the tub of sickening goo up in one hand and shake it angrily. This doesn't appease my wrath, so I throw it with all my might back into the bedroom - right at the soft, fluffy pillows in front of the headboard. I have the aim of a blind drunkard in a force ten hurricane though, so the tub misses the bed and strikes the bedside lamp instead, knocking it off the table. The lamp hits the carpet, crumpling the lampshade and blowing the bulb, while the fake tan continues its trajectory into the wall behind, where it smashes open, spraying thick blobs of the horrid muck all over the wall.

'Oh
fuckery
biggins
!' I scream at the top of my voice.

It is at this moment the main door to the hotel room opens, and in walks Jamie Newman. Or rather, in walks a pale, grey shadow of what was once Jamie Newman. He's holding a Costa Coffee in one slightly shaking hand. 'Hey baby,' he says in a cracked voice as he walks in, 'Er... are you okay? I hope you managed to get checked in
alri
- '.

Jamie comes to a shambling halt when he sees me standing in the bathroom doorway, a look of combined shock and rage on my face. He then notices the broken lamp, and the blobs of fake tan that are beginning to slide down the wall towards the most expensive carpet either of us has ever stood on. 'What the hell's going on?' he asks in amazed horror, his bloodshot eyes widening. His face then crumples into confusion. 'Why is your face so yellow?'

I simply don't have the words. I just don't have the current mental capacity to form a coherent response. Instead, I look at the blobs of fake tan still sliding their way inexorably to the floor - and the triple digit cleaning bill that will inevitably be coming our way - and start to cry. Then my brain puts two and two together, and makes a rather inevitable connection.

I point an accusatory finger at my husband. 'You! This is all
your
fault!'

'What the hell have I done?'

'You... you bought me that bloody fake tan!!'

Yes Mum, I know it's a completely unreasonable thing for me to say, but in times such as these, when you've made a series of stupid mistakes that are no-one's fault but your own, it's vital for your own sense of self worth that you find a scapegoat as soon as possible.

This is the real reason why most women choose to get married.

Love you and miss you,

Your yellow daughter, Laura.

XX

Jamie's Blog

Tuesday 16 February

If I close my eyes and think very hard, I can picture the exact moment when the weekend started to go tits up.

It was on Thursday night, so not actually the weekend proper, but within spitting distance.

It was the fourth Jack Daniels and Coke.

Definitely the fourth one.

Not the third, because I'd had a big meal and there was no way just three Jack Daniels would send me down the slippery slope towards total inebriation - even if they were all doubles.

Nope, it was definitely the fourth.

I should have stopped as the liquid touched my lips, but instead I ploughed on, safe in the knowledge that somebody else was footing the bill. And, much like the top of the first rise you encounter on a rollercoaster, as soon as I'd swallowed a good half of the fourth Jack Daniels, I was cresting the rise and starting the fast plummet down towards
Chundertown
.

The plummet would end some three hours later, with me hugging the porcelain back at The Dorchester, and wishing I was a thousand miles away from my stomach contents.

It was all Craig's bloody fault.

My literary agent is Scottish.

Mash 'literary agent' and 'Scottish' together and you come up with 'functioning alcoholic'.

The man doesn't need an excuse to throw back enough booze to pickle the average sized human being, so it came as no surprise that he wanted to hold a meeting with me and my editor in a London restaurant famous for its enormous selection of alcoholic beverages.

Having known Craig for two years, I go to the meeting absolutely determined to stay sober for once. I do not want a repeat of the
belly-dancing incident
, no matter how much it made Laura laugh at the time.

Also, our editor Imogen is going to be there, and while I have a close enough relationship with Craig that I don't care if he sees me belly dancing on a table, the same cannot be said for Imogen. She's a nice woman, but is strictly all business, all of the time.

This is exemplified by the fact that when I reach the restaurant, she is already seated and waiting.

For once I'm actually on time, a fact I would be more proud of, had I been the first to arrive.

'Evening Imogen,' I say as I sit down in the plush leather booth by one of the arched windows that looks out onto the West London nightlife.

'Hello Jamie,' she replies with a tight smile. 'Did you get the email about the orphans I mentioned?'

For a moment I'm completely confused. Is Imogen asking me to contribute to some sort of charity effort? Or does she actually want me to adopt a couple of Sudanese refugees? I know Laura and I are doing alright these days, but I'm not sure Poppy would take well to -

Then my brain kicks into gear and I realise that Imogen is talking about a typesetting term for books, where the first line of a paragraph begins at the bottom of the page and looks a bit untidy. 'Yeah, yeah I got it. Tell them the changes are all fine with Laura and me.'

'Excellent,' she beams. You can tell that the world is a happy place for Imogen when people don't put up much of an argument.

'Have you been here before?' I ask, wanting to steer the conversation away from typesetting issues before my eyes glaze over - as they are wont to do in such circumstances.

'No. This is a first for me. You?'

If Imogen knew me well, she wouldn't have to ask that question. The chances of finding Jamie Newman in a restaurant called
Maruga
- famous for its enormously overpriced steak, aforementioned alcohol selection, and preponderance for attracting upper middle class twats by the thousand - are usually non-existent.
 
This is not a pond I am comfortable swimming in. But Craig's footing the bill tonight, so he gets to decide where we eat, I suppose. When he gets here, I'll have to ask him what
Maruga
means. I'm fairly sure it's the name of one of my old He-Man action figures, but I can't see them naming a plush London steakhouse after him, no matter how many points of articulation he had.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

You can always tell when Craig has entered the room, even if you're sat facing the wall with headphones on.

'I'm sat with them!' he roars at the maître d from the doorway. 'Those two over there!' he adds, pointing right at us. 'The table's booked under the surname Chambers!' You'd be forgiven for thinking that the maître d was either hard of hearing or foreign, given how loudly Craig is talking at him. Neither is the case though. The guy seems to be able to hear perfectly well, and his nametag says Brian.

Brian knows better than to engage with this Scots madman any longer than is necessary, and allows him past.

As Craig weaves his way towards Imogen and I, I can't help but notice how he seems drawn to the bar like a small planetoid caught in the gravity well of a passing black hole. People sitting at other tables shrink back a little as Craig passes them. He is six foot two and looks like he can toss three cabers at once. If he hadn't decided on a career in literature, a job as the model for the bloke on the shortcake tins would have been a no-brainer.

'Evening you two!' he says as he reaches us. Thankfully for our eardrums, he's managed to modulate the volume of his voice a touch. Off comes his black trench coat with a flourish, and before you know it Craig is sat next to me with the drinks menu in hand. 'Have you not ordered any booze yet?'

'Er, no.' Imogen replies. 'We were waiting for you.'

Craig waves a hand. 'Ah, you silly buggers. Never wait for a drink, that's what I always say.' He looks across the restaurant to a likely looking waitress. 'Hey love! Can you come over here and get us some drinks?!'

I cringe in my seat. The last time I tried to order a waitress over like that I ended up with minty discharge and utter humiliation. I simply don't have the build or demeanour to get away with it. Craig, on the other hand, channels a mixture of Sean Connery and Frankie Boyle on a good day, so he most definitely can.

'What would you both like?' he asks as the slightly stunned waitress makes her way over, in much the same manner as a puppy approaching a fully grown dog.

'A lime and soda water for me,' Imogen replies, eliciting the merest raise of a Craig Chambers eyebrow.

'I'll have a Diet Coke,' I say in a rather meek voice.

'You what?!'
Craig responds, eyes narrowing.

'I mean I'll have a Jack Daniels and Coke,' I say with a squeak.

'A double?'

'Yes?'

'Good man!'

Look, I know I sound pretty pathetic. You don't have to tell me. This is simply what happens when I’m confronted with males who are considerably more alpha than me. The unintended emasculation would bother me a lot more, were it not for the fact that Craig has secured Laura and I several lucrative publishing contracts, no doubt partly due to his explosive personality. There's every chance he just turns up at the publishers door and shouts at them until they agree to print the bloody book. I don't think he negotiates, so much as scares his opponent into submission.

I'm not complaining though. If my bank balance likes Craig Chambers, then I bloody well do too.

…even if it means drinking a double shot of Tennessee whisky before I've even had so much as a starter.

Fast forward about an hour and a half and we rejoin Jamie Newman just as that fourth double hits his stomach. It has followed garlic mushrooms for starters, eight ounces of fillet steak for main, and a chocolate brownie for pudding that was so sweet, I could almost feel the diabetes fairy tapping me on the back and coughing politely in my ear to get my attention. You'd think that lot would soak all the alcohol up.

Nope
. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Imogen had a tuna
niçoise
salad and some balled melon, while Craig basically ate everything else on the menu.

He has also drunk seven large measures of Glen Fiddich - but appears to be only mildly inebriated when compared to me.

I know I'm in trouble when the waitress brings around the coffee menu and it takes me a good twenty seconds before I can focus my eyes on it.

'So Jamie, how are you feeling about tomorrow night? Looking forward to it?' Imogen asks. Thus far this evening the conversation has largely been around the subjects of contract wording, production deadlines, marketing strategies, and other such dry topics, so I'm quite surprised to hear her come out with a question that's actually about such a squishy, non-business thing like
feelings
.

'
Hmmmm
?' I respond, my voice inexplicably rising in register at the end like a
swanee
whistle.

'The book launch? Tomorrow night?'

'Oh yes! Yes! I am... I am... '

I am what?
Happy about it?
Terrified? Lackadaisical? Insouciant? Borderline psychotic?

I leave the response hanging in the air, because if nothing else, I am far too fucking drunk to form a coherent sentence.

'He's really looking forward to it.
Ain't
you Jamie?' Craig interjects, and slaps me on the back with one broad hand. Such is the size of Craig's hand, and such is the strength of his friendly slap that I emit a loud burp in much the same manner as a newborn baby.

Imogen looks horrified, and even Craig's eyes widen under their bushy dark eyebrows. 'Better out than in, son!' he opines with a roar of laughter.

Needless to say I am disgusted with myself, even in my current foggy state of mind. Burping at the dinner table is reserved for when you're five years old or on a stag do. It is not something you do in a dinner meeting with two people you’re in business with. It's just not bloody professional.

The publishing industry is also a very small world, and I'm sure before the week is out, everyone in it will know that Jamie Newman is a galloping drunkard, with the table manners of a pig.

Some may argue that this would just make me like every other writer in the world, but that is beside the point.

I am hugely embarrassed, and want to leave as swiftly as possible.

Craig has other ideas though, and orders me an Irish whisky - the complete and total bastard that he is.

I sip this like it’s hot brown poison, until the clock hits 10pm.

'Well, this has been a lovely evening,' Imogen lies - unless she has a penchant for watching two men get shit-faced over medium rare cow parts. 'But I'm due in the office tomorrow at 8am, so had better be going.'

I take this as my opportunity to leave as well. 'Yes! I agree. I'd like to go get some sleep as I have to... '

Dammit!

I don't have
anywhere
to be tomorrow! I'm a sodding
writer
. Craig can quite comfortably keep me here until three in the morning, pumping booze into me, and I have absolutely no excuse to get out of it, other than the fact I'm a total lightweight.

'No problem, Imogen. It was nice to see you again,' says Craig, a man still capable of being perfectly charming even with a bottle of 15 year old single malt sloshing around in his guts. Bastard!