The Honeymoon Hotel (28 page)

This was actually
nicer
than going on a date, I thought, flicking through the opening credits. I wasn’t stuck in an overpriced restaurant, being forced to make conversation while trying not to make eye contact with all the other couples. I didn’t have to eat any squid, or think of anything amusing to say about the menu.

Best of all, I could now watch the whole of
The Killing
without Dominic complaining about the errors in the translation even though he didn’t speak Danish, or making sarky comments about the plot.

That alone, I thought, happily topping up my glass, was worth the price of the box set.

*

The problem with Danish crime dramas, it turned out, is that you really have to concentrate on the subtitles. After two episodes, I was so focused on the subtitles that I wasn’t prepared for the unexpected movement in the very outer corner of my eye-line, exactly like a Danish murderer sneaking up on an unsuspecting victim.

‘Aaaargh!’ I squeaked involuntarily.

My heart gave an almighty thud and I jumped off the sofa as if it were on fire, while the remaining wine in my glass arced up, and then down in a perfect curve over the carpet.

‘What the hell is going on?’ yelled a familiar voice. ‘Urgh! I am covered in – Jesus, what have you done to your hair? And Jesus Christ! Your face! Are you all right?’

I stared, panting, at Joe. He was wearing his running clothes.

‘I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you were on a date,’ I said accusingly.

‘No, I said I was going out. I’ve been out, for a run, now I’m back.
You
were the one on a date.’

I could feel myself going red under the face mask. ‘Did I say that?’

‘Yes.’ He glared at me. ‘You did.’

‘But … I heard you in the bathroom.’

‘Well, we’re not the only people who live here.’

I felt a bit ill. I’d just sat and listened to my boss, singing in the bath and applying deodorant.

There was an excruciating pause, and then a wry smile twitched the corner of Joe’s mouth. ‘I guess you’ve been out and come back too?’

‘That’s right.’ I lifted my chin and a few flakes of dried mud peeled off. ‘It was … a cocktail date. Finished early.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Joe. ‘So, what are you watching?’ He picked up the DVD box. ‘Oh, is this that Scandinavian murdering thing everyone’s been talking about? I’ve been meaning to watch that. Mind if I join you?’

I realized, belatedly, that having dismissed Helen’s offers of
Hamlet
, we were, in fact, settling in to watch Danes killing each other, and wondered if Joe had noticed too.

He didn’t show it if he did. ‘Brilliant … Want me to ring the kitchen and see if they’ll do some room service?’

‘Why not? It’s only their busiest night of the year.’ Joe really had weird blind spots about the hotel business.

‘Brilliant.’ He rubbed his hands, then said, ‘Don’t take this personally, but do you think you could go and wash whatever you’ve got on your face off? I don’t want to feel like I’m watching it
with
the murder victim.’

I narrowed my eyes at him. Comments like that were probably a good thing. They reminded me that, despite the more frequent flashes of sensitivity, he was still the same fundamentally irritating Joe underneath.

*

I’d got up and was heading towards the bathroom to rinse my hair and chip away the remains of the facemask when I heard him call, ‘Rosie?’

‘What?’ I braced myself for some comment about my ‘skin condition’.

Joe gazed at me from where he was standing beside the wall-mounted
phone. He looked embarrassed and conspiratorial at the same time. ‘We won’t tell Helen, will we? About the … dates?’

I paused. ‘Well, technically …’ I stopped.

‘What?’

Should I say it? I heard my own voice in the flat. ‘Technically, we are on a date. Of sorts. I just can’t tell her who with. And neither can you.’

There was a pause; then a slow smile broke over Joe’s face.

‘Secret date,’ he said, and pointed at me. ‘I like your thinking.’

My stomach did an unexpected loop, but then I was
very
hungry.

*

Kevin sent up a pizza with parma ham, mozzarella and extra sarcasm half an hour later, and Joe and I polished off a bottle of wine and four episodes of
The Killing
. He was a much better co-watcher than Dominic.

‘Sorry you’re having such a crap Valentine’s Day,’ he said, when the fourth episode ended. ‘Pizza and DVDs with your annoying intern.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ The wine and the pizza had made me mellow. ‘It’s better than last year. Anglo-Afghan fusion in Old Street, and an argument with the chef about whether calling cocktails after weaponry was in bad taste. We left in a taxi, but I remember feeling relieved at the time that it wasn’t a police car.’

‘Ha.’ I liked Joe’s laugh. It was more of a snort than a giggle.

‘How does this rate on your Valentine’s Day scale?’ I asked.

‘Hmm. This time last year I was drinking mimosas and playing pool with the most—’ He stopped, and looked at his empty glass. Then he filled it up again.

My chest felt hollow. I hadn’t expected him to say that. I’d expected him to say something about parachuting naked across the Grand Canyon for the fun of it. So there had been a girl. Of
course
there had.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘With the most …?’

Joe stared at his wineglass.

‘I won’t tell Helen,’ I added. ‘I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. You have to be round here. Who were you playing pool with?’

Joe hesitated a few seconds, then said, ‘With the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. We met at a party on the beach. It sounds cheesy, but I remember thinking she was just like a mermaid. She had the most amazing hair …’ Joe mimed long, wavy hair, a lost expression on his face. ‘I remember thinking it was just like the bonfire, red in some lights but blonde and darker as well. Damp where she’d been swimming in the sea. Everyone out there’s tanned, but she was pale, with freckles on her arms. She was the only girl at the party who wasn’t wearing a tiny bikini, but no one was looking at them, just at her, in her long white dress …’

Something tugged inside me – I wasn’t sure what it was. Jealousy? It was the way he was talking about her. As if he could see her right now, in here, with us. Not jealousy of her and Joe, just of the impression she’d made on him. I longed for someone to talk about me like that.

‘And did you talk to her?’ I half-joked.

‘Of course I talked to her.’ Joe was miles away, on the beach. ‘She was funny. And she had the most incredible eyes. Green eyes.’

‘And what happened?’

‘She told me she’d never been surfing, so I offered to teach her. We went surfing, we went hiking, we did everything together.’

‘And then?’

There was a longer pause. ‘And then she finished with me.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was all going really well, we were spending loads of time together, every day, and then suddenly –
prttph
.’ He made a flat gesture. ‘I’d been planning a trip, we were going to go surfing, and she just … said she couldn’t do it. Never saw her again. Blocked my calls, everything. No idea why.’

I wanted to ask her name, but Joe looked so hurt that I didn’t feel I could.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said instead. ‘But it sounds incredible. Better to have loved like that for however long it lasted than never to have experienced it at all.’

He glanced over. ‘Thanks.’

‘Does it help to say next time it’ll be easier?’

‘No,’ he said, shortly. ‘You don’t get over something like that.’

‘Oh, you do.’

He tipped his head to one side and regarded me cynically. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Rosie, but the fact that it only
took you a few weeks of extreme to-do listing to get over Dominic suggests that he didn’t have quite the same impact. This was life-changing.’

‘Dominic isn’t the only person who’s broken my heart.’ I lifted my chin.

Joe sat up straighter.

‘I’ve been jilted,’ I said. The wine was making me honest, and I didn’t like the implication that I hadn’t known Real Love. ‘Right at the altar. In front of nearly everyone I knew, and I got over that. So I reckon you can get over a beach romance.’

Joe had started to argue back as he topped up my glass but at the word
jilted
his hand wobbled, and he turned back to look at me in surprise.

‘What? You were jilted? How? Who? I never knew that. Were my mum and dad there?’

‘Of course they were there. Everyone was there. That’s generally how weddings operate. Vows in front of everyone you know.’

Joe handed my glass back to me with a different expression on his face. He looked curious but sympathetic. ‘Want to tell me what happened?’

I shrugged. ‘The usual. College boyfriend. Proposed at twenty-four. Local church. Fiancé decided at the last minute that he couldn’t go through with it.’

‘And?’

‘And my dad had to stand up and tell everyone it was off, and that they should go to the reception and eat all the food because it was paid for.’ I paused. ‘When we got to the reception, I’m
afraid I told everyone to hit the bar hard, because Ant was paying for that, and they’d got his credit card details.’

‘Oh.’

I managed a wonky smile. ‘I’ve never seen my mum that wrecked before. She kept saying, “I’m doing this for you, darling”, and throwing back another cherry brandy. We had to drag her off the dance floor in the end.’

‘There was a
disco
? At your non-wedding?’

‘Why not? The DJ had already set up his gear. Did it for nothing in the end, as a goodwill gesture, because everyone was roaring drunk and up for a good time.’

Joe looked impressed. ‘Good for you.’

‘Well, what else was I going to do?’ I fell silent, remembering. When it hit me the next day, the blankness was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I couldn’t breathe. Mum nearly called an ambulance.’ I pressed my lips together. ‘Every day it hurt a tiny bit less until now … now I just think, thank God I didn’t marry a man who didn’t want to marry me. Because that’d be worse.’

I was staring at the fireplace but I wasn’t seeing the four-bar electric fire. I was seeing Anthony. His dark hair, his wire-rimmed glasses, his familiar tall shape in a crowd. Every wedding I’d arranged had pushed the memory, and him, a bit further away. I realized with a shock that I couldn’t remember exactly what colour his eyes were. I knew they were blue. Ish. Bluish-grey, but I couldn’t picture them. Not like Joe could obviously still see this woman’s eyes.

I was going to ask him her name when he suddenly reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze.

‘Sorry if I sounded flippant just then. I didn’t know. It’s amazing that you’ve got over that.’

‘What else could I do?’ I turned to look at him so he could see how true that was. ‘Everyone knew. And they all knew I planned weddings for work, too. Ho-ho.’

‘So you didn’t become a wedding planner to work through your issues?’

‘I was, and still am, an events manager,’ I pointed out. ‘So enough with the armchair psychology, thanks. The point is, you get over it. You move on. You’re a slightly different person, but that’s fine.’

Joe sighed. ‘I think you only get to meet one person who affects you like that. One big wham in the heart.’

‘But, Joe—’ I started, feeling oddly affronted.

He looked me straight in the eye. ‘What?’

God, he was handsome. Especially with this new vulnerability in his blue eyes. Really blue, with tiny golden flecks around the iris, and those long lashes that …

We both heard the front door at the same time, and I jumped so hard I nearly spilled my wine.

Laurence strolled in, looking very pleased with himself indeed. When he saw me and Joe on the sofa, his expression immediately changed to that of a guilty schoolboy.

‘I thought you two were going out,’ he said. ‘Separately, of course …’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And now we’re back.’

‘What time do you call this?’ Joe asked, tapping his watch.
‘Bit early for the disreputable bridge sharks to throw you out, isn’t it? If, of course, that’s where you were? Eh?’

I thought Laurence looked shady – and much as I’d have liked to continue the conversation with Joe, that seemed like a good cue for me to excuse myself.

‘I’m off to bed,’ I announced. ‘Good night, one and all.’

No one, but no one, needs to hear the post-mortem of their boss’s Valentine’s Day.

‘So, what do you think?’ I asked. ‘Move the bank of seating to position A, under the cherry tree, like
this
, or B, nearer to the fountain? Like
that
?’

‘A,’ said Joe. ‘If you put older guests too near a water feature, it might have unfortunate consequences. Weak bladders and all that.’

I hadn’t even considered that. Typical that it was Joe’s first thought. ‘Hmm. You don’t think there’s a risk of petals falling on people, or birds in the trees … you know?’

‘I know what I’d rather have, given the choice between some petals in my hair and Auntie Doris having to go
now
.’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Thanks for that image,’ I said, and moved the seating back under the tree.

I had to squeeze an extra forty guests into Marianne Trelawnay’s wedding at the end of the month, thanks to almost her entire social circle assuming their invite meant ‘plus one’ and her being too wet to tell them otherwise. I’d made a model of the courtyard out of an old shoebox to try to visualize it better, something Joe had laughed at until he realized I was deadly serious.

‘And I don’t know what we’re going to do about the meal,’ I said, staring at my second model, this time of the restaurant. ‘I can’t put forty people on their own in the private room. It’ll look like she’s making a point about their eating habits.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Or you could have a cup of tea, call Marianne, and tell her that she might have to do her reception as a buffet. She won’t mind. People mingle more when they’re standing up. Unclench, Rosie.’

‘Unclench? What does that even
mean
?’ I asked irritably.

‘It means, stop with the control freakery. Do you want me to call Marianne?’

Since he’d talked Flora down from twenty-six bridesmaids to a more manageable eighteen, Joe seemed to think his negotiating skills were on a par with the UN.

‘It’s all under control. Isn’t it about time you went to meet Jean for your bed-making master class?’ I enquired. ‘As I remember, your hospital corners could do with some one-on-one instruction.’

‘Eleven o’clock, she said.’ Joe checked his watch. ‘I’ve got another ten minutes. Anything else you’d like some help with? Or should I just leave you here to chillax?’

I glared at him. He knew I was busy. He only said
chillax
because he knew I hated the word almost as much as I hated
unclench
.

There was a brief knock on the door, and Gemma appeared round it.

‘Ah, just in time!’ I said. ‘You can have the casting vote. Would you rather sit under a tree or next to a fountain?’

‘Or would you rather stand, with a glass of champagne to take your mind off your shoes?’ Joe added.

‘Ignore option C,’ I said.

But Gemma didn’t come steaming into my office as usual, even though there was a glass cake stand of Delphine’s smallest cupcakes on the table, ready for Sadie Hunter’s cake testing later on. Instead, she hovered by the door, and seemed to be hopping from foot to foot.

I frowned. ‘Gemma, come in, there’s a draught.’

‘And we need to know urgently about these seats,’ added Joe. ‘Or else Rosie’s going to call Marianne and make her sack some guests.’

Gemma twisted her face up, then blurted out, ‘Something’s happened that I think you should know about but I don’t really want to be the one to tell you, but I don’t want you to find out from anyone else so I guess I’ve got to tell you but I
really
don’t want to.’

‘Here we go,’ said Joe. ‘Someone’s asked to have “Angels” by Robbie Williams as their first dance. Rosie’s going to have a meltdown, because it’s not on her approved list, and then stage an intervention.’

I gave him a withering look.

‘Oh you two, you
love
a good panic,’ he said. ‘I’ve noticed. No wedding’s complete for Rosie McDonald unless something goes a bit wrong so you can swoop in and make it all perfect.’

‘Do I look as if I’m panicking? The silver lining of my constant clenching is—’

‘Buttocks you could bounce a pound coin off?’

‘No, it’s that I am across all problems before they happen. And I’m very calm about it.’ I turned back to Gemma.

To be honest, I wasn’t that calm. I just wanted to prove a point to Joe. I was already mentally rifling through my messy cupboard of secret panics.

Buttocks you could bounce a pound coin off?
I felt a delayed-reaction blush spread across my face.

‘Rosie, it’s …’ Gemma glanced at Joe. ‘It’s about Flora.’

Joe leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. ‘Oh, well, then it’s fine. I know what it’s about – which social media platform to launch the wedding countdown on. I’ve dealt with that. Hashtag NoSweat. Hashtag WellDoneJoe.’

Gemma didn’t reply. Instead, she looked slowly between both of us. ‘You haven’t seen the papers yet?’

Laurence was the only member of the staff who had the luxury of perusing a fresh copy of the
Daily Mail
with his morning coffee, while the rest of us sprinted round like headless chickens running his hotel. ‘Of course not. I haven’t had time.’

Gemma slowly passed me Laurence’s copy of the paper.

‘“House Prices to Rise in Central London,”’
I read off the main headline. ‘“
Duchess Kate’s Bikini Body”
 – do I have to read this entire rag? I’ve got things to do.’

‘Let me see about Duchess Kate’s bikini body?’ said Joe, but before he could grab the paper, Gemma took it back and began flicking through the pages. She didn’t have to go far before she folded the paper and handed it back.

My eye travelled down the page – it was the gossip column
bit in the middle, the part with all the non-stories about people being spotted in a new (free) car, or ‘sharing a joke’ with someone (represented by the same agent) at a party thrown by a PR company.

‘I can’t see what – oh, it’s Flora.’

A familiar dazed smile beamed up at me, surrounded by a very familiar mane of tousled blonde hair. It was Flora, in a skinny white trouser suit and no shirt, clutching a glass of champagne in one hand and the fiancé in the other. Milo was wearing a bright blue suit, thankfully with a shirt, and a very smug grin. Even smugger than normal.

‘Oh, is this about that new contract she’s got with M&S?’ I said. ‘I heard about that. That’s a really nice suit she’s wearing, very Bianca Jagger—’

‘Er, no,’ said Gemma. ‘Read the article?’

‘I know, I saw the headline. “
Wedding Bells for Model Bride Flora”
 …’ I read. ‘I told her to mention her wedding whenever she could. “
Lingerie model Flora has been engaged to millionaire art dealer Milo McKnight for nine months
,” yadda yadda, “
Plans for a glittering celebration in a top London hotel
,” very good, well done, Flora! Although you could have got our name in. Yadda yadda …’ My eye continued skimming, then stopped.

Oh.

‘Yadda?’ suggested Joe.

You could have heard a pin drop in the office. I could actually hear Gemma trying not to breathe too loudly.

I carried on reading, on autopilot. ‘“
So friends and relatives were
taken by surprise when the leggy beauty announced that … she and Milo had tied the knot in Manhattan’s exclusive Tribeca Rooftop….”’

I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, the paper was still there, and when I looked closely, so was Flora’s enormous wedding ring.

Black spots appeared in front of my eyes and I felt faint. Flora had got married. All our plans, all my spreadsheets … The Bonneville’s wedding of the year wasn’t going to happen. Nope. I couldn’t process it. It was too big.

I probed the problem. My totals, the cancellations, the abrupt loss of all the useful publicity tumbling in our direction …

Yes, there it was. It hit me all at once.

Oh, my God, Flora has cancelled her wedding
.

I made a choking noise and Gemma flinched.

‘Bloody hell!’ I roared. ‘I knew Flora would be a handful from that first meeting, but I never thought she’d do this. I thought she’d just wear the wrong dress, or sack her bridesmaids and get her dog to walk her down the aisle, or something bloody
kooky
but this …’

‘Calm down, Rosie,’ said Gemma automatically, then looked as if she regretted it.

I spun round to face her. ‘How can I calm down? This is my entire year’s work going down the drain here.’

‘
Your
work? What about
my
work?’ Joe swung his feet off the desk. That was how cross he was. ‘I was the one who had to explain that we couldn’t put an ice rink in the ballroom, or get Nelson Mandela to conduct the ceremony because he was dead.’

I stared at Joe, surprised by the venom in his voice. I’d
expected the ‘calm down’ thing from him, too, but instead, I have to admit it gave me a flicker of pleasure to see the corner of his mouth twitching.

Good.
Good
. Now he knew how I felt most of the time.

‘Does this mean they’re not getting married here then?’ Gemma asked anxiously. ‘Didn’t we sign contracts?’

‘We did sign contracts, but all that means is that we keep the deposit,’ I said clearly – not that I was trying to see what it would take to make Joe crack. Not at all. ‘It’s four months in advance, so she’s not liable for much. We can’t make them get married here.’

‘But they could have a, what do you call it? A celebration of the vows here, for their London friends?’

Gemma really was feeding me the lines beautifully. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, enjoying the sound of Joe doing ‘woman in labour’ breaths through his nose in a yoga-ish way some guru had probably taught him on a beach. ‘I’m sure Flora will want to celebrate with her friends much sooner than that.’

‘Oh no.’ Her eyes were perfectly round. ‘Are we going to lose loads of money?’

‘Yup. She had two whole floors of the hotel booked. And four parties.’

‘Two of them fancy dress,’ moaned Joe, almost inaudibly. ‘And a stag night.’

‘But the thing is, Gem,’ I went on sadomasochistically, ‘it’s not just about the money, it’s about the press coverage. And the hours and hours of planning and hassle, and the fact that we now have a vacancy on
the
prime wedding date that I could
have sold about a hundred times over – but which no one in their right mind is going to take because it’s far too short notice to plan an expensive wedding
now
.’

We looked at Joe. He was struggling manfully with himself, his broad forehead creased with the effort of trying to think positive and be forgiving and stay in the moment and all the other guff he liked to spout to me when I really didn’t need to be told to keep calm.

Gemma opened her mouth to speak, but I raised a silent finger.

After about thirty seconds, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘Argh!’ Joe buried his head in his hands. ‘All the time I was sourcing bloody snowdrops to bloom in bloody June at the exact moment she walked into the reception room, she was getting hitched on a New York bloody – bloody
rooftop
. In a horrible suit with no bra!’

The fashion thing surprised me. I didn’t know he cared about things like that. I pushed the glass bonbon jar on my desk towards him. ‘The big ones are mint imperials, and the little ones are ibuprofen.’

‘Hit me up.’ Joe stretched out a hand, and I put two of each into it.

‘But it’s not that bad, listen, she does mention us,’ Gemma said, reading from the paper. ‘“
I’ve loved planning my wedding at a top London hotel, but Milo said he couldn’t stand another four months of talking about table plans with my mum, so he swept me off my feet while we were here in New York!”
said Flora, the new face of Queen & Country lingerie.’

Gemma looked up. ‘Oooh, no. Her mum’s not going to like that.’

‘That’s her new son-in-law’s problem,’ I said, just as my phone started ringing. ‘We don’t do aftercare. Although I’m starting to think we should. Let me get this.’

I reached into my bag for my phone:
Julia Thornbury mobile
. Brilliant. I wondered if she’d called Laurence first and he’d passed her on to me.

‘It’s Julia,’ I groaned. ‘I wonder if she’s been waiting until this morning to tell me the news?’

‘Nope.’ Joe leaned over and dropped the call for me. ‘If I know Flora, Julia’s just opened the paper herself. In which case it might be wise to let her leave a message, and get back to her when we’ve all had a chance to work out what we think.’

I raised an eyebrow. He sounded much more businesslike and determined than normal. Quite masterful, in fact. ‘What? Not call her back at once and give her some peace and love?’

‘No,’ said Joe flatly. ‘Not on this occasion.’

I met his gaze. I wondered if I should feel thrilled or guilty that I’d finally beaten Joe down to my way of thinking.

‘Ten minutes,’ he said, reading my face. ‘And then I’ll give her some peace and love, if you can’t face it.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Gemma.

‘There’s not a lot we can do. We can’t force Flora to get married here,’ I said again. I got up and walked over to my Bridelizer, and yanked the photograph of Flora off the 20 June spot. She was the only one of my brides to have a professional picture, and it had encroached on poor Jessie Callum (May) and
Violet Hartley (July). They both instantly looked a lot prettier without Flora’s million-dollar face next to them.

‘There you go,’ I said, passing it to Joe. ‘You can draw a moustache on it.’

He started to say he didn’t want to, then changed his mind and got a black marker out of my pen-holder with unseemly relish.

I turned back to the chart and sighed. Flora’s gap, marked with a trace of Blu-tack, seemed enormous. I was never going to fill that space now. Anyone planning to get married on 20 June would have booked it months and months ago. Last year I’d had loads of enquiries for June, all with a hopeful ‘I expect you’re already full’ note, and I’d had to turn them down. No one had asked about June since September.

‘Oh …’ I said.

It still hadn’t fully sunk in. It probably wouldn’t for a few hours. Like when you stub your toe and your brain generously gives you ten seconds’ thinking time to consider exactly how hideous the pain’s going to be when it arrives.