Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) (15 page)

I don’t know what time I go to sleep but it feels like about five minutes before my alarm goes off. I drag my eyes open and groan, then force myself out of bed and into the shower. I meet Laura as I come out and she looks red-eyed and tired too.

‘We shouldn’t have had that wine last night,’ she says, heading into the bathroom.

‘Tell me about it! Taxi’s due in fifteen minutes.’ I think I’m going to feel awful, but as soon as I’m dressed in jeans, a sloppy T-shirt and a sharp dark green blazer and biker boots, I feel good again. A drink of water helps clear my head and just as Laura is bringing her bag into the hall we hear the beep from the taxi outside the flat.

‘Let’s go, sister!’ she says, her eyes bright.

‘You betcha!’ I smile back. This is fun already. I can’t wait for the adventure to begin.

We make the airport in excellent time because the roads out of London are deserted at this time of the morning. We’re excited and desperate for coffee by the time we arrive but we decide to check in first so that we can go through security and settle down in the departure area for a bit. We’re going to have a good hour or so to wait – plenty of time to have breakfast and browse in duty-free.

At the check-in desk we hand over our passports and cases. The woman behind the desk checks everything over, taps things into her computer and scans our passports. Then she looks up and smiles at us. ‘Good news, ladies. You’ve been upgraded.’

‘What?’ Laura exclaims.

‘Yes. Congratulations. You’re flying first class to JFK.’

‘Oh wow!’ Laura gives a little jump of pleasure and excitement.

‘Why?’ I say with a frown.

The woman looks at me, evidently surprised by my reaction. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. It’s just what it says on the computer here. You’re now first-class passengers. You wait for your flight in the first-class lounge.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ asks Laura as we make our way to the VIP lounge. ‘Aren’t you excited that we’re upgraded? I’ve never travelled first class before!’

‘Of course I am,’ I say as heartily as I can, not wanting to spoil her pleasure. But the truth is, I’m a little upset. I can sense someone’s hand in this, and I feel as though my private trip has been invaded. I was proud that we were doing this alone. Now we’ve been given a little bonus that we’ve not earned or paid for.

Unless it’s just your lucky day . . .

Yeah, right!

The first-class lounge is nice, though. We take full advantage of the delicious food and steaming coffee on offer, then curl up on the sofas with a range of magazines to while away the time till our flight is called. When it does, we’re ushered through carpeted corridors and on to the plane before anyone else, turning left as we go on board. In first class, the luxury is in stark contrast to the cramped conditions in economy: vast comfortable seats that can be turned into beds at any time, a packet of expensive-brand toiletries plus slippers, masks and even a pair of silk pyjamas in case we want to change into something comfortable. And that’s before we’ve begun playing with our personal entertainment systems or ordering whatever we want from the menus.

‘I could
live
on here!’ Laura says ecstatically. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been so lucky.’

The pleasure on her face softens my hostility towards whoever decided to do this for us. Maybe it’s not such a bad gift. The problem is that I suspect Andrei is behind it and that makes it hard for me to enjoy it. He’s got a way of making me accept things from him that I don’t really want: nights in hotels, expensive dresses, jewels – and now this.

Relax,
I tell myself as the plane begins to taxi down the runway.
There’s nothing you can do about it. And in New York, you’ll be far away from Andrei. Just enjoy.

Chapter Nine

When we arrive at JFK it’s only mid-morning, and we get another burst of energy as we head off the plane, through passport control and out into America. It feels simultaneously familiar from all the movies and shows I’ve watched that are set here, and foreign, with the strange accents and different feel to the place. I’ve never felt so British. Laura and I have planned to get a yellow cab into Manhattan but as we exit the arrivals lounge, I’m startled to see my name being held up on a card by a black man in a dark suit and peaked cap.

‘Look, Beth!’ Laura nudges me at the same moment. ‘That’s your name!’

‘Miss Villiers?’ The man smiles at me. ‘How are you? I’m here to take you and your friend to your hotel.’

‘What?’ I say, suspicious again. ‘Who booked you?’

‘I’ve no idea, ma’am,’ he says politely. ‘I just do what my boss tells me.’

‘Beth,’ hisses Laura, ‘this is probably part of the first-class service!’

I’m not so sure. I stare at the driver. ‘What’s your company? Does the airline book you?’

‘All sorts of people book us, ma’am, I can assure you we’re completely reputable. Now, would you ladies like to come this way? The limo is waiting.’

‘A limo!’ Laura exclaims, her eyes bright.

I hesitate. This is probably fine. It’s probably part of the service. Where’s the harm? ‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly. He takes our luggage and we follow as he leads us out to where a long square-nosed limousine is waiting. We slide into leather seats, the driver loads our luggage and then we’re off, heading out onto a motorway and towards the famous Manhattan skyline. I try to put my negative feelings to one side and just enjoy it as Laura chatters away about our plans for the rest of the day. I must be one ungrateful woman if I can’t enjoy being treated to the finer things in life – but I can’t help wishing that whoever it is would just butt out of it and let me get on with things in my own way.

It takes about an hour to get to Manhattan and crossing the bridge onto the island itself is a thrilling moment. The sky is a cool unblemished blue and filled with icy sunshine. The temperature is very cold but that only adds to the wintry, Christmassy glamour of the city. As the limo proceeds up the famous grid-patterned roads, we gaze out, drinking in the sights of the busy city, pointing out landmarks we recognise, and thrilling to the numbered names of the streets. We’ve chosen a modest hotel in midtown, one that’s close enough to the action that we can walk just about anywhere, but which is still in a reasonable price bracket. The photos online showed a pleasant, rather old-fashioned place, and we’ve booked a small twin room, which is all we need.

I’m surprised when we come to a halt on East 57th Street in front of a very glamorous hotel, an elegant building that soars up into the sky. A doorman comes over and opens the car door but I’m leaning forward and knocking on the glass partition between us and the driver. He lowers it.

‘Where on earth is this?’ I demand. ‘This isn’t our hotel!’

‘This is the Four Seasons, ma’am,’ replies the driver. ‘This is where I’ve been told to bring you. I understand you have reservations here.’

‘Well, we don’t!’ I exclaim. ‘Our hotel is on Lexington Avenue. Please take us there at once.’

The doorman is standing there baffled, obviously waiting for us to get out. Laura is half in and half out, listening to the conversation with anxiety in her eyes.

‘Do I understand, ma’am, that you don’t want to stay at the Four Seasons?’ The driver shoots me a quizzical look over his shoulder. I can tell he thinks that this is just plain weird.

‘That’s right. We’re at the Washington on Lexington Avenue.’

‘Beth . . .’ Laura is looking at me as the driver shakes his head in disbelief.

‘Laura, we didn’t book the Four Seasons and while it looks amazing we can’t pretend that this is part of the first-class flight. I don’t think they go that far. Someone is being way too generous and I don’t like it. I want to go to the hotel we chose together.’

I can see from Laura’s face that she knows this is the right thing to do, no matter how enticing the luxury being dangled in front of us. She sits back in her seat. ‘Okay. Let’s go to the Washington.’

‘Thank you, you can close the door now!’ I say to the doorman, and he obeys, evidently confused and having understood very little of what’s just gone on. I have a feeling that there aren’t many people who react angrily to being brought to the Four Seasons.

The driver sighs and heads off into the busy Manhattan traffic and, fifteen minutes later, he draws up in front of a much smaller, more modest red-brick hotel.

‘Here you are, ma’am,’ he says, ‘just like you wanted. This is the Washington.’

‘It looks fantastic,’ Laura says stoically, though I can tell she’s yearning a little for the glamour of the other hotel.

‘It’s just what we need – and what we can afford,’ I say firmly. ‘Thank you, driver, you can drop us here.’

A few minutes later, we’re standing at the reception desk in the traditional-looking lobby. It’s not exactly the last word in New York chic but it’s very cosy with its patterned rugs and brass light fittings. The man behind the desk is neatly turned out with gelled-down hair and elegant hands. He’s checking our reservations.

‘Oh,’ he says, looking at his screen with a frown. ‘That’s most unusual. Hold on a second while I check with my manager.’

Laura and I exchange glances.

‘What now?’ she murmurs. ‘Another upgrade?’

‘But no one knows we’re here,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell anyone we were staying in this hotel. Did you?’

She shakes her head.

The man returns with his manager, who has a neatly trimmed moustache and pale blue eyes. He smiles at us.

‘Good morning, ladies, how are you? There’s been a change to your reservation.’

I groan internally. Here we go again.

‘I’m afraid it’s been cancelled.’

‘What?’ I exclaim.

‘Cancelled?’ echoes Laura, her face falling in dismay.

The manager nods gravely. ‘That’s right. Cancelled.’

‘Please uncancel it,’ I say, trying to sound as imperious as I can. ‘We didn’t give any instructions to cancel, I’ve got my confirmation printout right here. We need our room!’

‘We can’t do that, I’m afraid, the room has already been rebooked and we have no other availability. It’s a busy time of year. I’m sure you understand.’

‘But . . .’ I can hardly believe my ears. How has this happened? ‘Where are we going to stay?’

The manager makes a beckoning gesture to a man standing by the door. ‘That’s all been arranged, so I understand. This car has been sent for you.’

The man comes up to us and takes up our luggage. ‘If you’d like to follow me, ladies.’

Laura and I exchange helpless looks. We don’t have any choice now. The Washington can’t give us a room even if it wants to. Outside, another limo is waiting for us. We climb inside this one, which is very similar to the last. Our new driver loads our luggage and then we’re off again. This time we seem to be heading away from midtown again, back the way we came. Then we’re in a different part of the city, away from the grid and into a more loosely gathered set of streets.

‘This is the Village,’ Laura says, staring out of the window. ‘I came here when I last visited. Definitely one of the coolest parts of town, much more arty and boho than the area around Central Park.’

‘I suppose that’s good,’ I say, watching the sights outside as they glide past the window. I’m still feeling cross that our plans have been interfered with like this. But why on earth would Andrei have booked us into the Four Seasons, cancelled our reservations at the Washington and then arranged another hotel? I can’t make it out.

‘I know you’re not happy about all this,’ Laura says tentatively. ‘But this is your Russian guy being generous again, isn’t it?’

I feel bad. From Laura’s perspective, a glamorous hotel and limos are amazing things to be enjoyed. She has no idea how Andrei has tried to control me and how much I resent him interfering in my life, even when the things he does look like wonderful, generous presents. Well, I’ve tried to reject this one but Andrei’s out-thought me somehow.

‘Sorry,’ I say to her with a smile. ‘You must think I’m a sour old killjoy. I just wanted to get away from Andrei’s generosity for a while and it seems that he isn’t going to let me.’

‘Maybe it’s not him,’ Laura suggests. ‘Maybe it’s Mark. An early Christmas present, or something.’

‘I suppose that’s possible. Caroline might have made the changes.’ I frown. ‘In fact, I might have told her we were staying at the Washington now I think about it.’

‘There you are then.’ Laura’s face clears. ‘It must be Mark. That’s good. We can enjoy it with a good conscience now, can’t we?’

I nod. I’m not convinced but I don’t want to spoil Laura’s fun.

The driver stops in front of a fashionable-looking hotel with a steep flight of steps into an amazing lobby.

‘The Soho Grand,’ he announces.

‘Wow!’ sighs Laura, her eyes shining. ‘I’ve heard about this place, I’ve always wanted to come here. It’s supposed to be amazing!’

‘Looks like we don’t have any choice,’ I say sardonically, as porters and doormen rush up to help us out and into the hotel lobby. I guess that we don’t look like high-end guests as the receptionist is friendly but cool until she types our names into her system with her perfectly manicured nails. Her eyes widen with quickly concealed surprise as she gazes at her screen and then she turns to us with a bright smile.