Meet Clara Andrews: A totally vacuous girl with a hangover... (8 page)

I take a half day on Thursday and head straight home to pack my things ready for tomorrow’s trip to Manchester. I already know what I am going to take, but I have a rather busy evening of pampering planned. You can’t turn up to a fashion exhibition with split ends, pasty legs and a chipped manicure, can you?

Slipping into the bath later that night, I enjoy the hot bubbles lapping at my shoulders, wondering which hotel Oliver has booked us in to. I apply a face mask and get to work exfoliating my legs. All this preening and polishing is hard work. Taking a sip of wine, I lie back down and enjoy the soak.

It must be a good hour later when I am finally done in the bathroom.

Making my way to the bedroom, I check my fake tan for streaks in the bright landing light. Taking my suitcase and laying it on the bed, I begin tossing in underwear and open my drawers in search of a pair of pyjamas. Pulling out a spotted shorts and vest set, I study it for a second before throwing it to one side and reaching for a black, lace sheath night dress instead. Telling myself that it’s not for any reason in particular, it’s just nice to look nice.

After chucking in a couple of pairs of heels, a few dresses and numerous accessories, I dump the case on the floor and take out my phone. A message from George flashes on the screen.

Hope you have a good time up North. Dinner when you get back? Xxx

Smiling to myself, I tap out a definite yes reply and plug my phone in to charge. Grabbing my wine, I throw myself down on the bed and procrastinate about the gorgeous George. I would love to introduce him to Lianna, to see what she thinks of him. Maybe we could double date with her and Dan. I have an image of all four of us clinking glasses and enjoying yummy food. I definitely need to set this up. Making a mental note to check diaries with Lianna after the weekend, I flip off the side light and snuggle down under the covers.

I must be under there for all of ten minutes before I start to sweat. How is it so warm at night when the daytime temperature is hardly in the teens? I really don’t want is to sweat this fake tan off all over the sheets. The last time that happened, I woke up looking like I had a bad case of hives. Pre-empting a fake tan disaster, I kick off the covers and try to lie as still as possible, opening the window, just in case.

The next morning, I dive out of bed at the first sound of my alarm and crank up the radio. I tossed and turned all night, terrified to drop into a deep sleep for fear of ruining my tan. Thankfully, the night air cooled down and after a quick five minutes in the shower, I have an even, golden tan. Result.

After putting rollers in my hair and making myself a coffee, I sit down and have a nosey through my Twitter feed. I don’t know why I bother with Twitter. Since when did it become the done thing to photograph every morsel of food before you eat? Everyone seems to have turned to a specialist food critic, if food critics covered Starbucks and Nandos.

Thinking of food, I wonder if I should have breakfast before I leave. We are getting the 8.50 train to Piccadilly station, so it would be a bit of a squeeze to fit in a bacon sandwich. Deciding that I will grab something on the way, I drop my phone into my handbag and make for the bedroom to finish off getting ready.

An hour or so later, I am dragging my case through the train station, trying not to fall over on my six inch wedges. I pass a Burger King and pause to take in the breakfast menu. Bacon, sausage, egg, decisions, decisions. Settling on a sausage and egg muffin, I fumble around for my purse and join the queue. Glancing around as I wait for my order, I wonder where Oliver is. We had arranged to meet outside platform nine, but as far as I can see, he isn’t here yet.

Taking a bite out of my sandwich, I head over to the platform and take a seat on a rather cold, hard bench. Why is fast food always better in hindsight? I take a couple more bites before chucking it into the bin. That was revolting. I glance at my watch and scan the station in search of Oliver.  He better not be late, I don’t fancy sitting here all morning waiting for the next train.

I am about to go in search of the toilets when I spot him, making his way through the crowds of people in a skinny, black suit. I stare for a moment, confused as to why he is so dressed up. He looks a walking Armani advert and by the stares he is getting, I am sure every other female in the building would agree.

‘Hi,’ Oliver smiles and props his suitcase up against mine.

‘Hi, what’s with the suit?’ I look him up and down as he sits down on the bench.

‘You like it?’ He brushes some invisible dust off his shoulder and winks.

I smile back, feeling rather uneasy. What is he up to?

‘Don’t look so worried! Relax.’

In an attempt to change the subject, I pull my suitcase around towards me and fumble around in the zipped compartment.

‘I have our tickets in here somewhere.’

‘Don’t worry about it. We won’t be needing them.’

‘Of course we will need them. I don’t know how things work in America but in the UK, you need a ticket to get on a train.’

Oliver reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a small envelope. He pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me.  I drag my arm from the depths of my case and take it from him. It’s a ticket, well actually its two tickets, first class to Manchester.

‘But we already have tickets? And there’s no way Marc would approve first class on Suave.’

‘Suave haven’t paid for them. I have.’

I stare at him, my heart beating faster than I ever knew possible. Just as I am about to question what the hell is going on, a smartly dressed steward appears in front of us.

‘Mr. Morgan? Would you like me to escort you to your seat?’

My jaw falls open and I try to regain composure. How does she know his name and why on earth would she be escorting him onto the train? Oliver stands up and beckons for me do the same. Scrambling to my feet, I grab my case and follow him onboard. Turning left instead of right gives me a small thrill. We walk to the end of the aisle and stop at a luxury booth. The steward sees us into our seats before disappearing behind a thick, maroon curtain.

I slide onto my seat and try to hide my growing smile.

‘This is amazing! Why have you done this?’

He shrugs his shoulders as a different steward approaches our table.

‘Your champagne, sir.’

Oh. My. God.

I must be on my third glass of Moet when the carriage attendant returns with a trolley full of yummy food. Without saying a word, she begins piling our table with salads, smoked salmon, scones and a lovely new bottle of ice cold champagne. Oliver thanks the steward and discreetly slips her a wad of notes.

‘I could get used to this!’ I drain the contents of my glass and pick up a small salad pot.

‘You still haven’t given me a reason why you have done this?’

‘I like to travel in style.’ Oliver refills my glass and pulls a salmon baguette towards him.

I am tipsy enough to want to probe further, but nowhere near drunk enough to have the balls to do it. It has been a long time since I took a trip up to Manchester. My Dad used to drag us back up there all the time when I was younger, but it has been years since I last visited. I can’t believe we are nearly there! Two hours travelling time is insanely fast. I remember being squashed in the back of Dad’s hatchback for hours on end, with only Mum’s revolting cheese and pickle sandwiches for company.

An announcement over the speakers informs us that we are thirty minutes from our destination.

‘I’m just going to run to the toilets.’ I push myself to my feet and hold onto the seat so I don’t fall over.

‘No problem, one more for the road?’ He points to the remaining champagne.

‘I better not. It’s not even noon and we are meant to be working!’ I can’t help but let out a little giggle as I make my way to the toilets, hoping that I don’t look like Bambi on ice.

If you would have told me a month ago that I would be sitting in first class, sipping champagne with a hot American designer, I would never have believed it. Slipping into the toilet cubicle, I check out my reflection. I really hope Oliver isn’t planning on wearing a suit the entire time. If he is, I am going to have to do some serious shopping. Oh, what a chore.

A short while later, the train pulls to a stop and once again we are escorted off. We grab our cases and look for around for a taxi rank. Manchester is a lot busier than I previously remember. The station is packed with people running in every direction, phones clutched to their ears, balancing coffee cups and folders. As we wait in the taxi queue, I suddenly remember that I have no idea where we are going.

‘Did you manage to change the hotel? It’s just that I still have original accommodation booking in my case.’

‘Oh, I changed the hotel. What the hell was that place Marc booked? Travelodge? You would have to pay me to stay there.’

I stifle a smile and check my phone is still in my back pocket, having a mini heart and attack when I momentarily can’t feel it. Oliver nudges me as a taxi pulls up and begins loading our cases into the boot.

‘Where to?’ The stocky, bald taxi driver asks in a thick Manchester accent.

Oliver walks around to the driver’s window and mumbles something that I don’t quite catch. Smiling, he holds open the taxi door and I climb on to the back seat. I fasten my seatbelt and stare out of the window at the busy high street, watching the hundreds of people buzzing in and out of shops, laden with glossy bags.

The taxi pulls out onto the road and I cling on to my seat for dear life. Why is it universally accepted that taxi drivers do not adhere to the Highway Code? We fly down the high street before taking a left and coming to a hard stop at a set of traffic lights.  I glance over at Oliver who is snapping away at pretty much everything. He catches me looking and aims his camera in my direction.

‘No! I hate having my picture taken!’ Covering my face with my hands, I turn back to the window.

‘Come on! Don’t be such a baby!’ He wrestles my hands away until we are interrupted by the driver, who slams his breaks on unnecessarily hard.

‘The Valentina.’

‘The Valentina?’ I stop dead and spin around to face Oliver.

Before he can answer, the taxi door swings open and a porter holds out his hand.

‘Mr.Morgan, Miss Andrews, welcome to The Valentina.’

Taking in the ornate, champagne walls and rococo themed furnishings, I try not to spontaneously combust. The delicate gold swirls in the plush, burgundy carpet are brought to life by the furious twinkling of the beautiful chandeliers. Everywhere I look, I see wealth, glitz and pure luxury. I have heard amazing things about The Valentina, everybody has. I just never thought it would be as incredible as this. Things never are, are they? I watch in awe as Oliver checks us in, handing our luggage over to the bell boy who whisks them away in the blink of an eye.

‘Champagne, Miss Andrews?’ A beautiful, red haired woman holds out a tall, frosty flute which I accept with a grin.

‘Thank you very much!’ I smile over at Oliver and he beckons for me to follow him.

We walk through the stunning lobby and stop at an enormous lift. Glancing at my reflection in the glass, I can’t quite believe that it is me staring back. Me, here, at The Valentina! The lift doors pop open and we glide in, high on bubbles and adrenaline. The extremely professional porter stands in the corner, trying to be inconspicuous as we begin to shoot upwards.

The lift comes to a halt before the doors slowly sweep open and we walk on to the lobby. I call it a lobby, but there is only one door in front of us. Wait a minute? Why is there only one door? Where is my room? I am about to voice my concern when the porter opens the door and waves us both in. It is not often I am speechless, but I really am lost for words.

This is not a hotel room. It is the entire top floor of the building. Looking around breathlessly, I take everything in. There must be at least five doors leading off from the huge open plan space. A purple, velvet chaise longue is positioned in front of stunning floor to ceiling windows, which provide an amazing view of the city. Walking around the corner, I discover an incredible kitchen, complete with an island and a million gadgets. Most of which I have no clue what they are. A giant cream sofa is centred in the living space, adorned with velvet scatter cushions. I am just about to press my face up against the glass when I hear the door close with a bang.

‘What do you think?’ Oliver strides over to the window and shakes off his suit jacket.

‘I love it! It’s beautiful!’ I exclaim animatedly, ‘Where is my room?’

‘Good question.’ He walks away, pushing open several doors before calling me over.

Downing my champagne in one, I put my glass down and run over.

‘Oh my God!’ I can’t help but squeal as I run into the room and jump straight on to the four poster bed.

‘This is amazing!’

‘I am very glad it is to your satisfaction, Miss. Andrews.’

I cover my face with a cushion to hide my glowing cheeks.

‘I’ll leave you to get settled. I have made dinner reservations for seven. See you in the bar say, six thirty? He slips a door card on the dresser and closes the door without waiting for a response.

I push myself up and dig my phone out of my pocket. Lianna will never believe this, photos are a must. After snapping the bed, the view and everything in between, I pick up a leather brochure that is laid on the dresser. Shaking my head in disbelief, I decide that if there is a heaven, this is it. The Valentina offers more than you could ever dream of. It has two Michelin starred restaurants, an award winning spa, butler service, critically renowned cocktail bar, the list goes on.

Slamming the brochure shut, I pad around the room and slide open a heavy, granite door. A walk in wardrobe! I can’t help but notice that it is twice the size of my actual bedroom. How the other half live. I grab my suitcase and start to unpack. My three pairs of shoes, two dresses and a couple of pairs of jeans look ridiculous in the enormous space. I imagine filling the wardrobe with designer clothing, prestige handbags and vintage accessories. Lost in a world of silk and leather, my attention is drawn to a gold door knob at the far end of the closet. Puzzled, I push open the door and actually let out little snort.

The roll top bath, the sparkly, marble flooring, gigantic walk in shower. Just, wow! Feeling like Pretty Woman, I run my hand over the bath and pick up the tiny glass toiletries one by one. Fighting the urge to strip off and climb straight in, I close the door and go back into the bedroom. Leaning against the window, I watch the thousands of ant people buzzing around and suddenly feel rather tired. I don’t know whether it is the river of champagne I have drunk, or the fact that I have been awake since silly o’clock this morning, but I am truly exhausted.

Kicking off my shoes and fighting my way out of my skinny jeans, I pull on my night dress and tie my hair up a ballerina bun. Being here feels so surreal, I am tempted to phone Lianna, but I don’t want to burst my bubble with any connection to reality. Right now, I am in a dream land and I want it to stay that way.

Why did Oliver bring us here? There is definitely more to this than just a business trip. First the champagne train journey, then the impeccable suit and now this? I flop down onto the bed and stretch out my legs on what feels like a million thread count sheets. Actually, I don’t care. Right now, I really couldn’t care less.