The Honeymoon Hotel (8 page)

Today was the first time all the bridesmaids, ushers and families on both sides had met, with some having flown in just that morning. I’d suggested having the dinner, held in our private dining room, a few nights before the wedding – Stephanie’s preparation timetable didn’t allow for it happening any sooner anyway – just in case there were any tricky issues, but for once even I couldn’t see a single cloud in the nuptial sky.

I was so confident that all arrangements were in place that once I’d welcomed Stephanie and Richard to the drinks reception, I let Laurence ‘steal me away’ for half an hour to explain how to make his printer work. By the time it was happily spewing out his latest medical forms (I tried not to look), the party seemed to be well under way with Gemma and the bar staff in charge.

‘Is everything okay with the Millers?’ I accosted Gemma as she went past with a depleted canapé tray. I had my file of final ideas with me, just in case Stephanie wanted to discuss
anything, but this was meant to be a relaxing evening. The fun part of the wedding prep.

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Happy with their rooms? Did they get the Welcome to London packs I left for them? With the Oyster cards?’

‘Loved them. Mrs Miller wants to thank you herself later.’

I beamed. ‘Good. And the Hendersons?’

‘Drinking like they haven’t seen water in weeks. But that might be because the ushers are starting to spill the beans about the stag do.’

‘I’d better get in there,’ I said. ‘Don’t want them to think we’ve abandoned them!’

‘No worries, Joe’s in there with the drinks.’

I stopped, my hand on the door. ‘Joe? I didn’t know
Joe
was involved tonight?’

Gemma looked harassed. ‘You’d gone off to deal with whatever you were dealing with, and I needed to get the canapés. He was passing so I just asked him—’

‘I was only in Laurence’s office, Gemma! Why didn’t you come and get me?’ My palms were going clammy.

‘The door was shut! And I had to let Helen know that Stephanie’s mother’s on some new diet and can’t eat the main we requested for her after all, and you told me not to leave the party unattended in case they needed something so … I asked Joe to go in there and keep an eye on things.’

I made some swift mental calculations. Joe had attended the first part of our rehearsal that afternoon – who stood where, who said what, who passed the hankies to whom, when the
music started, that sort of thing – but he’d started to look sceptical when Stephanie wanted to rehearse the perfect kiss moment for the videographer, so there was no unflattering light bounce off Richard’s bald head. At that point, I’d dispatched him to the kitchen to be briefed by Helen about catering rehearsal dinners. He hadn’t come back, but by then it was five o’clock, so I’d assumed he’d sloped off.

‘Don’t worry, he knows who everyone is,’ Gemma went on. ‘And he’s good at chit-chat.’

‘Is he?’

She looked at me as if I were stupid. ‘He’s Laurence’s son! And he’s obviously had loads of practice with American mothers. When I left, Stephanie’s aunt was asking him if he’d been to Downton Abbey and he was giving her some spiel about boarding school.’

‘And that was all?’

‘She was eating out of his hand. Not literally.’ Gemma squinted at me. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got your knickers in a twist about Joe for. He’s fine.’

Mollified, I pushed open the door, but the scene that greeted me wasn’t the happy celebration I’d spent a week crafting.

The champagne was out in the silver ice buckets, and the Ella Fitzgerald album was filling the awkward silence, but going by the drawn faces and anxious knots of guests, it looked more like a funeral than a pre-wedding party.

Joe was nearest the door, holding forth to Zara, one of the bridesmaids, about wedding name badges, something he’d brought up at the rehearsal and refused to let go.

‘… makes complete sense, because how else are you supposed to remember who everyone – oh, hello, Rosie.’

‘Hello, Rosie.’ Zara’s eyes were wide. ‘Have you seen Stephanie?’

Something in her tone set off alarm bells. ‘Not yet,’ I said, trying to keep my own voice neutral. ‘Why? Is she wearing that gorgeous dress she said she was saving for this evening?’

‘Er, no,’ said Zara. ‘She vanished about ten minutes ago, and no one knows where she is. She’s not in her room. Joe here was the last person who saw her.’

We both turned accusingly to Joe, who helped himself to a passing canapé as if he were a guest, then said, ‘What?’ through a mouthful of puff pastry.

‘Joe?’ I said pleasantly, steering him away towards the door. ‘Can I just borrow you for a moment to talk about … dinner?’

When we were out of earshot, I dropped the pleasantness. ‘Where’s Stephanie gone?’ I hissed. ‘Is she all right? Has someone said something to her?’

By ‘someone’ I really meant ‘you’.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. One minute she was fine, the next she was all …’

‘All what?’

‘All ashen-faced. A bit sick? Kind of like she’d eaten magic mushrooms.’ Light dawned in his face. ‘Oh, man. Is she into that kind of thing?’

‘No! Of course not!’ My voice rose into a squeak; my bat sensors were detecting a code red. A proper meltdown. ‘Stephanie’s a corporate lawyer!’

‘That means nothing.’ Joe arched his eyebrows. ‘You would not believe the types I took to the Burning Man festival. Some of them were senior—’

‘Please don’t tell me.’ I raised a warning hand. ‘I haven’t got time to get annoyed about people I don’t know.’

I scanned the room with a grin plastered to my face. I didn’t think for one second that Stephanie had taken anything stronger than the cocktail of vitamins and supplements she’d been chugging for the past year, but … the canapés? Had there been something in the canapés? Some of the sous had been talking about some mushroom festival they were going to in France. They wouldn’t be … Surely Kevin wouldn’t …

Apart from the clear looks of anxiety on her family’s faces, there didn’t seem to be any immediate signs of vomiting or sickness among the guests.

‘Although I suppose I might have …’ Joe stopped.

I snapped my head back. ‘What? Did you say something to Stephanie?’

‘Nothing!’

‘It can’t have been nothing,’ I hissed furiously. ‘It must have been something.’

Joe raised his hands and dropped them as if he couldn’t even remember, but I kept glaring until he sighed and admitted, ‘I just asked her where she was planning on going for her honeymoon.’

‘Her honeymoon,’ I repeated slowly. Innocuous enough. ‘Where
are
they going on honeymoon?’

‘Some boring art tour of Florence. And I said, “Why? You can
go to Florence any time. This is your chance to share an adventure! Why not go to one of those private beaches in Koh Samui and dance on the sand in bare feet, and swim naked in the sea at midnight, or drive across the desert, or try something neither of you have done before, make your own history. Live a little.”’

‘And?’ I had a weird sensation in my chest: it was simultaneously sinking yet fluttery, like lead butterflies crashing away in there. Stephanie was a classicist, a traditionalist, my ideal Bonneville ‘family pearls and old lace’ bride. She loved old things, like Florence. ‘She told you not to be such an old hippie – that there’s some amazing art in Florence?’

‘No. She said that she’d never swum naked anywhere, and I said, “Seriously, man, you should, it’s mind-blowing,” and she said that Richard wasn’t a swimming-naked guy, but …’

‘And, and?’ I made furious
hurry up
gestures with my hands. Stephanie’s parents, two ushers, and the maid of honour all had their phones out and were texting and frowning at the same time. Would a phone amnesty make me look a bit totalitarian, I wondered. Would it be
too
bad to demand everyone put their phones into a box I could lock in my office?

Joe gazed at me. ‘Well, Stephanie said that she’d actually looked into swimming with dolphins on their honeymoon because she’d always wanted to do it, but Richard had said that was exploitative – which I kind of agree with, but anyway – so I said, “Don’t
you
ever get to choose where you go on holiday?” …’ He paused. ‘And she said no. And that’s when she went kind of quiet.’

We stared at each other, and I fought the temptation to throttle him.

‘Brilliant. And five seconds later, she leaves the room and no one knows where she is,’ I hissed. ‘Are you sure that’s all you said?’

‘Well. I might have … asked her if she really wanted to spend the rest of her life with someone who thought swimming naked was unhygienic,’ Joe admitted, reluctantly, but at the same time rather
smugly
.

I shoved the file into his hands and ran out of the room. I didn’t even care who saw me. All I could see was a forty-thousand-pound wedding collapsing in slow motion like a four-tier cake with its props kicked out.

The ladies’ powder rooms at the Bonneville were more elegant than most hotel bedrooms. Each one was decorated in period hand-printed wallpapers and scented with fresh flowers; this one, downstairs near the spa, was a delicate china blue with black-and-white floor tiles and big grey marble sinks, with fluffy hand towels and Jo Malone hand cream.

And a huge mirror decorated with scrolls, in which I could see my own panicked face. I couldn’t see Stephanie’s face because she was locked in one of the cubicles. I could hear her sobbing, though, so I had a fairly good idea of what it would look like.

‘It’s fine, Stephanie,’ I kept saying. ‘Honestly. Whatever it is, we can work it out. I promise.’

I’d almost given up hope and was about to text Jean to come down from housekeeping with her motherly bosom (and her secret key for all the cubicles), when the door finally opened and Stephanie appeared. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her miserable expression didn’t go with her chic Diane von Fürstenberg dress and red-soled pumps. She looked guilty and scared, like a little girl.

‘Is everybody talking about me?’ she asked in a broken voice.

‘No, of course not,’ I lied. ‘I said you’ve just gone to check on the surprise. I didn’t say what the surprise was.’ I paused, then added, ‘Don’t worry, we always have a cake for an emergency surprise.’

Stephanie’s lip wobbled as if she were about to burst into tears again. I guided her towards the velvet loveseat in the corner, sat her down, and passed her the box of tissues.

‘I’m really sorry if Joe said something to upset you,’ I began. ‘He’s not used to dealing with weddings, he doesn’t really understand how stressful …’

Stephanie shook her head. ‘He didn’t upset me.’ She took a shuddering breath and covered her mouth, then pressed her lips together. ‘Joe put something into words that I realize now I’ve been thinking for a long time.’

I didn’t know how to respond to that: I couldn’t imagine Stephanie having an unarticulated thought. She was one of the few people I knew who spoke in complete and legally binding sentences. It was hard to think what
Joe
could have unlocked in her meticulously ordered brain.

‘It’s Richard.’ Stephanie turned her mascara-smeared eyes towards me, and I had to brace myself not to flinch at the panic in them. ‘He’s boring.’

‘Richard? No, he’s not boring,’ I started, but she grabbed my hand.

‘He is. He’s really bloody
boring
. We’re boring together. We’re a boring couple! I’ve been trying to ignore it, but something Joe said really made me confront it. What kind of
boring
man wants to go to art galleries on his honeymoon? What kind of man doesn’t want to swim naked with his girlfriend – because of hygiene issues?’ Her voice was getting higher and higher.

‘Well, I’m not sure my boyfriend would really want …’ I had to stop there. I
could
imagine Dominic wanting to swim naked. As long as it was a very exclusive and private beach, I could absolutely see him roaring with glee as he charged down the beach, discarding clothes over his head like an excited bear as he hit the waves. It was
me
who didn’t fancy it much.

‘Well,’ I amended, ‘swimming naked isn’t everyone’s …’

Stephanie fixed me with a scared but exhilarated gaze, and the grip on my hand tightened. ‘Rosie, I have to call off the wedding.’

The words went through me like a knife. Literally like a knife. Sharp and cold and very painful. I tried to speak despite the sensation of bones grinding in my hand. Stephanie was very nervous, and she had the bride’s grip already.

‘I understand why you might feel a bit … frazzled,’ I said. ‘This is a very emotional day for you. Getting the families together, going through the ceremony … Don’t let a little wobble about the honeymoon spoil things. You and Richard are a
wonderful
couple. You’re going to be
so
happy together.’

Think about Richard. Does he have any idea you’re planning to humiliate him in front of everyone he knows?
I bit back the words.

But Stephanie wasn’t listening; her eyes were glassy. ‘Are we, though? What comes after the wedding? I feel as if I’ve just been on an escalator towards this weekend – the flowers, the dress,
the diet – and I can’t get off till we’re at the top. No one’s ever stopped me to ask if I’m really sure, not until now.’

‘But you were going to wedding classes!’ I reminded her. ‘You must have discussed it there?’

We’d been to wedding classes, me and Ant. We’d worked through conflict resolution, role-played family Christmas bust-ups over in-laws, been very honest about our emotional deal-breakers. Well, I had been, anyway. Anthony had been quiet on the topic. Something twisted inside me. I’d been with Anthony since the night of my nineteenth birthday at college, and yet I hadn’t known him at all, not when it came down to it.

Would Ant have gone nudie swimming? I honestly didn’t know.

Maybe that should be on the list of topics to discuss with the vicar.

Stephanie gave me a weary look. ‘Rosie, have you ever been to a wedding class? They ask you questions about who’ll put the trash out. Whether you should be getting married or not tends to be a given. Besides, they want you to finish the course, you pay by the session.’ She slumped back against the arm of the loveseat. ‘Joe’s the first person – the only person! – who’s ever asked me if I’m absolutely sure, and … I’m not. I’m going to have to call it off.’

As Stephanie said that, my brain divided into two halves like one of those arty split-screen films. One half was panicking about saving this wedding, getting my client calmed down and back into the wedding schedule.

The other half was wondering if Anthony had had a similar
conversation with an unknown Joe the night before
our
wedding. And if so, what had been the tipping point for him? He’d never actually told me specifically, just that it hadn’t felt right.

The thoughts flashed across my mind like tiny headaches. Had it been our honeymoon? It was going to be New York. Was that boring? Was I too dull? Had the thought of a lifetime with me made him freeze with panic?

It didn’t matter, I told myself, pushing the ache away. Ant was abroad now, he had a new life, and so did I. And thank God I hadn’t married him. I’d never have met Dominic, for a start.

‘Rosie?’ Stephanie’s voice dragged me back to the moment. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘We’ll fix it,’ I said, automatically, and grabbed her hand. ‘It’ll be fine.’

Bloody, bloody Joe
, I thought, as both halves of my brain united in making a contingency plan to save Stephanie Miller’s rehearsal dinner from turning into someone else’s horrified anecdote.

*

‘Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself,’ I said to Joe under my breath, as Mr and Mrs Miller finally staggered out of the hotel lounge bar, discreetly holding each other up, thanks to the treble brandies Dino had been pouring down them while Richard and Stephanie ‘talked’ in the room I’d found. Not the bridal suite, obviously. Or the one with the view over the courtyard where they were supposed to be getting married at the weekend. I’d sent Gemma out to get the gold chairs moved, just to be on the safe side.

‘I am pleased,’ Joe replied, with the pained yet smug regret I recognized from the rare occasions when Laurence’s midnight appointment with Dr Google had turned out to be correct. ‘I’ve saved them both from a potential jilting, and the family from a massive nuclear fallout.’

‘No, the nuclear fallout is going on now,’ I informed him, gesturing tersely upwards. I
hated
the word
jilting
. ‘In several rooms. Two sets of parents blaming themselves, then each other, for Stephanie’s cold feet. Several best friends squabbling over whether Steph’s been seeing someone else. A groom wondering what else he’s done because it can’t just be about Florence. And meanwhile, is the wedding going to go ahead? It’s a major booking, in a peak weekend slot! Not just the wedding, but the guests’ rooms, the bar takings, the extra staff …’

‘So you’d rather she got married to someone she didn’t love?’ Joe looked astonished. ‘For the sake of your spreadsheet?’

I blushed furiously. It was exactly what I meant … and it wasn’t.

‘No!’ I took a deep breath. Joe was still my boss’s son. I shouldn’t project my own experiences onto this. ‘We take our wedding planning very seriously here, and of course we do everything we can to make sure we fulfil the bride’s and groom’s dreams, but it’s a
service
. It’s not our job to get involved in their relationships. We’re here to provide hospitality, not amateur psychotherapy. It’s none of our business. Good night!’ I added in a brighter tone, as a couple of Stephanie’s guests stumbled out of the bar and slunk past us towards the lifts. His hand on her bottom suggested that they were oblivious to anyone else around.

The usher jumped, and the bridesmaid bumped into him. Joe and I smiled back in unison, and they waved and mumbled self-consciously.

‘Sympathy and whiskey cocktails are a dangerous combination,’ muttered Joe, still smiling.

‘As are high heels and hotel carpet,’ I muttered back.

And pre-booked rooms and attractive friends of friends in black tie, I thought. Well, if they weren’t going to get the chance to have a drunken indiscretion at the wedding …

‘Good night!’ said Joe with a wave; then he turned back to me with a furrowed brow and a much less friendly tone.

‘Let me get this straight. Are you really such a business robot that you care more about the takings than two people making a lifetime commitment to each other?’

‘I’m not a
business robot
,’ I protested. ‘You’re assuming I don’t care about poor Richard in there, not knowing what was going on with Stephanie. And then having to tell everyone he knows that it’s all off. You don’t know them! I do! They’re a perfectly well-matched couple.’

‘Obviously not,’ he retorted. ‘And why poor Richard? Surely it’s way better to cancel things now than have Richard end up with a wife who doesn’t love him, just because she didn’t have the courage to tell him he wasn’t right for her? If you ask me, it should be part of the wedding planner’s job – to check they really do know what they want.’

The knife was back, steely sharp under my ribs, taking my breath and my common sense away. A half-forgotten pain made me blurt out the words that leaped into my head.

‘Why is it any of your business?’

‘Because sometimes it’s easier for a stranger to be honest,’ said Joe, with an expression of humility that was a bit too Bono. ‘You have to be honest in life, Rosie. Yes, it’s sometimes hard, but it’s better to do this now than to get divorced in a year’s time.’

‘How on
earth
can you know that?’ I exploded. ‘Lots of people have pre-marriage wobbles. All brides do! It’s what happens when you spend four grand on a dress – it passes!’

‘That’s so English,’ snorted Joe. ‘Don’t talk about your feelings. Bottle it up.
It’ll pass
. Like love is some kind of virus.’

‘Viruses are forever,’ I snapped. ‘You’re thinking of a cold.’

I stepped back to let a waitress come through with a silver room-service tray. She ducked as she went, as if she might get punched.

‘See that? That’s a lovely room-service supper,’ I said, pointing at it before Joe could comment. ‘I asked the kitchens to send something up to Stephanie and Richard. A really nice comfort-food supper. Don’t say I’m cold, because I’m not. I care a lot about this hotel, and everyone we look after here.
A lot
.’

It all burst out more emotionally than I’d meant it to. Joe gave me a look that might have been about to turn into a question about whether I’d charged it to their room, but obviously something in my expression told him that was a bad idea. And I was pleased about that. It
annoyed
me to think he could be so wrong about my priorities.

He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said instead.

‘It has.’

An awkward silence spread between us. Joe seemed angry but not specifically with me. I was simmering inside, but not specifically with him.

Although, no – I
was
pretty annoyed with him. If Joe was going to start playing the armchair counsellor with every client I had, I wasn’t even going to make it to August in my job, let alone meet any targets.

It’s just for a few more weeks
, I told myself. And then I could pass him on to Helen or Dino, and he could give them grief about the fat content of the tiramisu or whether we should only serve spritzers to people who looked like they might be alcoholics.

The only problem was that I had Flora Thornbury and her mum booked in soon. There was no way I wanted Joe being ‘honest’ with Flora about her previous boyfriends or how she really felt about millionaire serial-fiancé Milo.

(Yes, I’d done my research.)

I was about to tell Joe, very calmly, that he needed to keep it buttoned from now on, when he disarmed me with a very charming smile. I hadn’t seen it before, and it took me by surprise.

‘How about a nightcap in the bar?’ he suggested. ‘Wind down a bit. I think Richard’s dad’s still in there. Seems like he wants some company now all the bridesmaids have turned in.’

The abrupt change in mood threw me. Joe seemed relaxed enough, but blood was still pounding through my veins like turbo-charged treacle. How could he just switch off like that?

‘I need to get home,’ I said tightly. ‘We can talk about this in the morning.’

‘Haven’t we talked about it already?’ Joe shrugged and smiled again, more encouragingly this time. ‘It’s done. I hear you. Tact. Be more English. Move on. Come on, let’s have a drink.’

‘It’s nearly midnight.’

‘What happens at midnight?’ He tipped his head. ‘Do you turn into a pumpkin? No, wait – it’d be something hotelly, right? Do you turn into a … room-service trolley?’

I wanted to be friendly too, but I couldn’t. The talk of jilting had scraped against an old wound, and it was impossible to get the primness out of my voice. I didn’t like things going wrong like this. I struggled with myself.