The Honeymoon Hotel (21 page)

Joe. I was so stunned that I didn’t even care. I let him steer me away from the grumbling party guests, out of the ballroom towards the kitchen. It was much cooler outside the throng of the party but my ears were still ringing.

He shoved through the swinging doors to the clattering, white-tiled cacophony of the hotel kitchen, and gave me a little shake to wake me up.

‘What happened?’ He shook me again, gently. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve had a stroke. Oh, God! Are you allergic to something? There were peanuts in that satay dip …’

Joe sounded so much like Laurence then that I nearly
laughed, in that detached way you do when you’ve had a total bolt from the blue and your brain is determined to think about anything at all other than the thing that caused the shock.

‘Rosie? Speak to me.’ The concern in his face snapped me back to reality.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not till I knew if it was true or not. ‘That guy just knocked my arm. I’ll be right back out. Once I’ve cleaned up. I just … I just need to check something.’

I rushed to my office on legs that felt like someone else’s. I had to think consciously about each step to stop myself running, and my knees wobbled with too much energy.

Siri … Doesn’t he have a girlfriend …

I shut the door behind me, and jabbed at my computer, searching for Dominic’s column, hunting through the results for the one about this Swedish place. Part of me was desperate to find they’d made a mistake, that it had been someone else’s review. Dominic wasn’t the only food writer on the paper.

But there it was. ‘Dominic Crosby visits Stockholm on Ecclestone Place.’ Eight days ago. He’d given it two stars out of five; mediocre was Dominic’s worst insult, because it hadn’t even been bad enough to inspire him to creative sarcasm.

My eye skittered over the text, searching for the word
Betty, Betty, Betty
.

Right there, in his column, for everyone in London to read.

‘… my dining companion, the lovely Betty, chose oysters with dill dressing, which I hoped boded well for our evening to come. Fortunately, they were as succulent as a fresh Swedish milkmaid …’

I stared at the screen, my face burning, though inside I felt icy cold. I’d noticed now and again that another Betty cropped up at restaurants I hadn’t been to, but I’d always assumed it was so Dominic could use up the jokes of mine that he hadn’t had room for in other columns. I knew he’d been taking other colleagues out for meals, but it hadn’t even dawned on me that there could be another Betty – off-page, as well as on it.

Succulent
. Was that an in-joke? The way
pleasant
 – my ultimate non-comment – was with us?

Something inside me curled up and died. Hot tears blurred my vision. How could I not have noticed? How?

I stood for a moment, willing time to stand still so I could work out what to do, but my brain wouldn’t function. It felt as if it was covered in treacle.

The walkie-talkie in my pocket buzzed; it would be Gemma, wondering where I’d gone. The next lot of canapés needed to go out, then more drinks, then the speeches and the Big Surprise.

The Big Surprise. Sally the editor was – at her request – going to be flown onto the ballroom floor from a cunning place of concealment in the fake Gotham skyline to present the paper’s awards. I’d had proper theatre flying-harness fitters setting it up in the ballroom all yesterday. It was going to make the best photo opportunity ever.

Suddenly, it really didn’t matter. Nothing did.

My eye fell on my Bridelizer and its collage of happy couples. The stupid irony of it. The whole point of my insane work schedule had been to get my promotion so Dominic and I could
start
our
happily ever after. I’d been working hard, sure, but it had been for
us
. Our flat. Our future.

I’ve got to find him
, I thought, desperately wanting to have got it wrong.
I’ve got to give him the chance to tell me it’s all just gossip. Journalists gossip all the time. It’s what they do
.

I hurried out of the office, and back towards the sound of the party in the ballroom, sidestepping another couple of Supermen and a Barack Obama, and dodging round clumps of guests until I saw Dominic holding forth in a corner with two girls dressed as policewomen. Neither of them looked Swedish, but they were gazing up at Dominic with flirty Christmas-party eyes. An hour ago I’d have been pleased my man was so popular; now I just felt sick.

He smiled when he saw me and made a
more drinks!
gesture over their heads.

I marched over anyway.

‘Hey there, waitress, we need some more champagne over here!’ He winked, wickedly, and they giggled. ‘Katie, Heather, this is Rosie, the organizer of this wonderful party.’

‘And also his girlfriend, Betty,’ I said, with a too-bright smile. ‘In the column!’

Did they smirk? Every face seemed to be smirking at me. My hands clenched involuntarily into fists.

‘Dominic, can I have a word?’ I tried to keep my voice light.

‘I thought you didn’t like being introduced as my girlfriend,’ he muttered as I pulled him to one side.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You didn’t like introducing me as your girlfriend.’
And now I knew why. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘What? Now?’ He glanced around.

‘Yes, now. It’s – what?’

Gemma had popped up at my side. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded. ‘You need to tell Dino to bring up more champagne. We’re running out. This lot are drinking like water’s been rationed.’

‘Can’t Joe do it?’

She looked surprised. ‘You’re the one with the final say.’

‘Well, I’m telling you to tell him to … to just do it. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘Rosie, it’s okay, you go and—’ Dominic started, but I pulled him back.

‘This is important,’ I insisted, but Gemma was still waiting. ‘Not you, him! Champagne, go on!’ I flapped her away.

Dominic drained his flute without a care in the world. ‘Is it about that business earlier?’

My stomach lurched. ‘What business?’

‘One of your temps threw a tray of hamburgers over the managing director and the sports editor. Dashed off, didn’t apologize. I thought you should know about her, so you can sack her, then give her a pat on the back from the rest of us.’

I stared at him, and suddenly a wave of recklessness crashed through the numbness. ‘Who’s Siri?’

Dominic’s brown eyes moved from side to side.
Exactly the way the books claim cheating eyes move
, I thought, as my heart broke. ‘What, on the iPhone?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Siri on the media sales team.’

‘Oh, Siri.’ His reaction said it all: too measured, too careful. ‘That Siri. She’s, um, just someone I know from work …’

‘Hi, Rosie, sorry to interrupt, but can I have a word?’

‘Oh, God, what now?’ I groaned.

Joe was hovering awkwardly at Dominic’s shoulder. ‘Hi, er, Dominic.’ He raised a hand in greeting, then turned to me. ‘Rosie, Gemma says you’ve given her permission to get more champagne out of the cellar. Is that right? I don’t want to get—’

‘Yes!’ I squeaked. ‘Yes, it’s fine. Just do it! Go!’

He looked at me, jiggling his eyebrows in that
Are you okay?
face semaphore. I semaphored
Please sod off right now
as politely as I could, then turned back to Dominic.

I gave up on subtlety. ‘What’s going on with you and Siri?’

‘What?’ Dominic tried to laugh.

‘You took her for dinner at Stockholm.’

‘She’s Swedish!’ he protested. ‘I wanted to get her professional opinion on the meatballs! Why? Who’s said something?’

It was bluster. I knew he was bluffing from the evasive look in his eyes. Anger and humiliation rushed through me.

‘Stop trying to be funny,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not one of your readers. I’m your
girlfriend
. Supposedly.’

And then Dominic’s shoulders dropped, and he shrugged as if resigning himself to saying something he didn’t want to. ‘Rosie,’ he began, and I had to fight the temptation to put my hand over his mouth to stop him going any further.

Oh, my God, this is it
, I thought, teetering on the brink of everything changing.
This is me, getting dumped, at someone else’s Christmas party. By a man in ironic fancy-dress
.

‘So I took another girl out for dinner.’ He spread his hands as if it was too obvious to explain, and had to raise his voice above the sound of Madonna on the sound system. ‘You’re always working. I can’t go to these places on my own, it looks far too obvious. Professionally, I mean. As a critic.’

My heart cracked inside my chest. The worst thing was, I knew he was right. I did work unsociable hours. But so did he. And he said he didn’t mind.

‘So you were just doing it for the sake of your career?’ I said incredulously.

‘Look, it’s not like you and I were—’ Dominic stopped.

He and I were what? Going to get married? Were serious? Were going anywhere?

‘What about the flat?’ We were planning on making an offer on a flat. We’d even been to John Lewis to look at curtains!

Dominic’s eyes shifted again. ‘It’s a flat, isn’t it? Somewhere to live. It’s not … marriage.’

I felt as if he’d punched me. For me it had been
more
than that. I stared at him. No words would form in my brain.

‘Hi, guys! Can I get a photo? Say cheese, Dom! Ha-ha-ha!’

I spun round. There, right at the worst possible time, was the photographer. The one I’d imagined would take glowing photos of me and Dominic hobnobbing with the paper’s star columnists, propelling me and him into London’s media galaxy, and ensuring my bookings diary would be full for next year.

Instead of which it was crumbling in front of me.

‘Sod off,’ growled Dominic. ‘Before I make you eat that camera.’

‘Yeah, they said you’d be grumpy, mate! Just one shot!’ The
photographer took a quick snap – me looking stunned and red-eyed, Dominic snarling like an escaped armed robber, and, I later discovered when I saw it on the
Reporter
’s website, two random women, one staring gleefully at Dominic and the other gesturing towards me with her thumb as she filled her mate in on the goss.

*

It was Helen’s idea, to be honest. A voice at the back of my head said it was very unprofessional, but it was drowned out by the other voices in my head, most of which were wailing incoherently.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Helen kept saying as we stood at the back of the ballroom, watching Sally Jackson swoop down from the ceiling in her gold boots, to drunken whoops from the crowd. ‘I can’t believe he’d be such a
complete bastard
.’

I hadn’t said anything for an hour now. I couldn’t. I’d just smiled and cleared glasses and poured wine and generally gone on autopilot to such a scary extent that Joe and Gemma had summoned Helen from her night off at home to check that I hadn’t overdosed on some sort of drug that made you very, very normal. I was scared that if I opened my mouth, I’d start crying or yelling – I genuinely didn’t know which.

I hadn’t even noticed the envelopes; it had been Helen and Gemma who’d found them when they’d sat me down in the office to make me explain what had happened. Joe had suggested it, as a joke. Unfortunately, none of us was really in a joking mood, and Helen had made an executive decision to go through with it.

‘You can blame me, if you want,’ she’d said. ‘I only wish I could tell him in person.’

‘… award for Superhero of the Year goes to Kelly Hutchinson in the accounts department, for getting everyone’s bonus payments through on that Inland Revenue code before the loophole closed!’

Tumultuous applause.

Splitting up with Dominic wasn’t just going to break my heart, I thought dully, it was going to wreck any chance I had of taking on the
Reporter
’s entertainment portfolio. We could have hosted the
Reporter
’s Heart of London Awards. That alone could have put the hotel – and me – on the map, and led to who knows what other opportunities?

But you can’t forgive this, just for the sake of work
, I told myself.
What would that make you?

‘Dominic never deserved you,’ Helen went on. ‘Everything you said to me about Seamus is true about Dom, too. You’ll find someone way better than him.’

I closed my eyes and felt someone squeeze my shoulder sympathetically. I had a horrible feeling it was Joe. I didn’t want Joe feeling sorry for me. Up on the stage, Sally was still going. ‘And … the last award of the night! No, no, quiet, everyone. Shut up! I’m still doing the budget for next year, don’t forget!’

Instant silence.

‘For a middle-aged woman in blue Spanx, she’s got great crowd control,’ observed Gemma.

‘You can come and stay with me,’ Helen went on. ‘I’ve got a sofa bed. Just till you get sorted out.’

My eyes snapped open. The flat! The lease ran out in a few weeks. Where was I going to live now? I felt sick.

‘… this one’s for Villain in Superhero Clothing! And the nominees are … Marc Lucas, for the Couch to 5K Sports Desk Challenge, Karen Moore for the cat-hair birthday cake that gave the production department food poisoning …’

The guests went ‘OooOOoooOOOoohh!’ and I envied their happiness.

‘Actually, I’m not sure we should have done this,’ I said, suddenly gripped by common sense. ‘It’s not going to look very professional.’

‘Too late.’ Helen crossed her arms. ‘And he had it coming.’

I held my breath. This wasn’t going to burn bridges with Dominic and his media connections. It was going to blow them up.

‘… and the winner is … Dominic Crosby, for stealing all his best jokes from his girlfriend, and wearing the same underpants three days in a row when he can’t be bothered to put a wash in, and not actually knowing the difference between merlot and malbec.’

The room went wild. I should have felt triumphant, but I didn’t.

I was
definitely
single now. The most single wedding planner ever, at Christmas, at an office party, about to sleep on her best mate’s uncomfortable futon because she couldn’t face going back to a flat that had never really felt like hers. That had to be some kind of new tragedy record.