Do Not Disturb

by Tilly Bagshawe

  “Lucas Ruiz makes my flesh crawl,” said Honor, smiling. “How was that?”

  “Very clear.” The deep, familiar male voice from behind her sounded distinctly amused. “No feedback at all, was there, Megan?”

  Lucas, looking disheveled and unshaven, marched straight over to their host and kissed her on both cheeks before taking his seat next to Honor with an infuriatingly cocky grin. With his creased shirt and baggy jeans, he looked more like an Abercrombie model after a hard night’s partying than a professional hotel manager. Honor could clearly smell the stale alcohol on his breath.

  “You’re late,” she hissed.

  “I know,” he whispered back. “I got held up.”

  In fact he’d been held up since six o’clock last night by Cassandra, an old acquaintance from his Ibiza days whose husband worked on Wall Street but was conveniently away on business for a few days. It was rare that he got an excuse to spend a night in the city, and he’d certainly taken full advantage of his chance to play hooky. Apart from a couple of one-night stands with frustrated Hamptons housewives, Lucas’s sex life had been pretty barren of late. Running into Cassie again had been a chance too good to pass up, even with today’s head-to-head with Honor looming. Although in hindsight, perhaps the second bottle of bourbon hadn’t been the smartest idea in the world.

  “My guests today are Honor Palmer and Lucas Ruiz.”

  Before they could exchange any further pleasantries, Megan was already into her introductory spiel and the green off-air bulb had switched to a threatening red.

  “For those of you who are new to this story, they are the protagonists at the heart of what’s being dubbed the Five-Star Wars, a battle for supremacy between two great Hamptons hotels: the world-famous Palmers and the new architecturally acclaimed Tischen hotel, the Herrick. Honor, Lucas. Welcome.”

  “Thanks, Megan,” they chorused in unison.

  “It’s a pleasure to be here,” added Lucas.

  “Perhaps we could start with you, Lucas,” Megan purred.

  Honor noticed with rising alarm the way she dipped her head and fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly when speaking to him. She obviously still wanted him. What kind of a one-sided savaging had she let herself in for?

  “What was behind the decision to open a rival hotel so close to a great name like Palmers?”

  “Well, of course, that was Anton Tisch’s decision, not mine,” said Lucas smoothly. “I’m merely the humble manager.”

  He looked pointedly at Honor, who rolled her eyes. Lucas didn’t even know how to spell humble.

  “But without wanting to speak for Anton…”

  “…you’re going to.” Honor couldn’t resist.

  “I was going to say,” said Lucas, stiffly, “that while we both think Palmers has a rich and wonderful history, the hotel business has changed profoundly since its heyday. Today’s guests expect more. They aren’t prepared to put up with substandard service for the privilege of staying somewhere well known.”

  “There’s nothing substandard about our service,” Honor shot back testily.

  “You see, this is part of the problem,” said Lucas. “Miss Palmer has chosen to take personal offense where none was meant. Opening a Tischen in East Hampton was purely a rational business decision, aimed at meeting the changing needs of the luxury hotel market.”

  “What I take offense at,” said Honor furiously, “is Mr. Ruiz’s repeated implication to journalists that I cynically manipulated my father’s illness for personal gain by taking over the running of Palmers. What you said in your Vogue interview in May was an out-and-out lie.”

  Lucas shrugged. “Not according to your father it wasn’t. He was quoted only months before he passed as saying that you had ‘robbed him blind.’ I believe those were his exact words. He also went on record, saying ‘my daughter is dead to me.’ I’d say that was pretty clear, wouldn’t you?” Leaning back in his chair, he looked Honor right in the eye and gave his knuckles an audibly satisfying crack.

  Fifteen love to Lucas.

  Winded with pain, Honor took a few seconds to respond. When she’d taken over at Palmers, she’d deliberately avoided reading the press reports, knowing how misinformed and poisonous they were bound to be. Having to hear Trey’s confused, hurtful words for the first time now, on live radio, and from the mouth of her sworn enemy, was like taking a sucker punch to the stomach. For one hideous moment she thought she might be about to cry. But with an effort, she pulled herself together.

  “He was ill,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. “He didn’t know his own mind when he said those things.”

  In that instant she looked so small and pale and vulnerable, even Lucas felt a stab of guilt. But Megan wasn’t about to let him dwell on it.

  “Lucas, you can understand, presumably, why Honor would feel emotional about her father, and a hotel that has been synonymous with her family name for over five decades?” said Megan.

  “Of course,” said Lucas. “But, you see, this is another difference between us. Being a woman, and naturally more emotional…”

  “Oh, because all women are overemotional, I suppose?” interrupted Honor angrily.

  “No,” said Lucas patiently. “I’m not talking about women in general, I’m talking about you.” He addressed her directly. “You were born into the sort of wealthy, privileged background most people, people like me, can only dream about. You’ve never had to work to get where you are. That sense of…entitlement…is that the right word in English?” he asked Megan coyly.

  “It could be,” said the host.

  “Well, it’s reflected in your attitude to business, to competition.”

  “How?” said Honor. “That’s an outrageous accusation!”

  “Well, let’s take your guest list,” said Lucas. “Talk about elitist. Tell me, are people without titles actually permitted to book into Palmers?”

  From that point on the interview degenerated into little more than a mud-slinging match, albeit one that made for damned good radio. Honor accused Lucas of sexism, narcissism, and of cynically playing his “poor Spanish farm boy made good” card to try to glean public sympathy, when all he was really doing was buying and bribing his way into a community that didn’t want him with Anton Tisch’s limitless money, and doing his best to bully her out of business.

  Lucas hit back that Honor was not just a snob but a racist who was terrified of competition. “Name one black guest staying at Palmers today,” he challenged her. “Just one!”

  By the time Megan had finished her summing up and thanks and the light had once more switched from red to green, Honor had already ripped off her headphones and was storming furiously toward the elevator lobby.

  “Hey, come on.” Reaching her right before the doors opened, Lucas put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be a bad sport. Admit it, you kind of had fun in there. Like a little terrier with a bone.” He shook his head from side to side and made growling noises, but Honor looked far from amused.

  “This may be a game to you, Lucas,” she said, still shivering in her thin top. “But it’s my life. My family. Although obviously family isn’t a concept that means much to a guy like you.”

  The smile died on Lucas’s lips. Wedging his body in the door, he stopped the elevator doors from closing.

  “You know nothing about my family,” he said, glaring at her with eyes that were suddenly quite murderous. “You know nothing about the real world at all, you spoiled little beetch.” As always, when he was angry, his Spanish accent became more pronounced. “My mother has lived hand to mouth all her life.”

  “Spare me the sob story,” said Honor coldly. “Sell that shit to one of your bimbos who’s stupid enough to buy it.”

  “Maybe I’ll try your sister,” said Lucas nastily. “I don’t doubt she’s stupid, but at least she looks like a fucking woman.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Honor, feeling herself blushing. She was still horribly sensitive abou
t her physical appearance.

  “It means I wouldn’t be surprised to find you’ve got a bigger dick than your boyfriend,” said Lucas, twisting the knife. “Maybe you should think about Karis Carter and her kids before you go preaching to other people about family values.”

  The blood drained from Honor’s face. “You know what? I’m getting tired of your fucking insinuations. If you have something to say about me and Devon, why don’t you come right out and say it?”

  “Because I don’t have to,” said Lucas. “That’s why. Because you know. And I know.”

  Stepping back, he allowed the elevator doors to creak slowly shut.

  Back at Palmers, Sian Doyle was examining her reflection in the grimy, cracked mirror of the communal staff bathroom.

  “Shit,” she sighed. The shadows under her eyes were as deep purple as overripe plums, and her complexion, pale at the best of times, was so washed out with exhaustion that she looked as white as one of the hotel sheets that she seemed to spend her life washing.

  Delving into her makeup bag for some concealer—screw Touche Éclat, she needed fucking industrial-strength whitewash to cover those eye bags—she set about trying to make herself look presentable. Tonight she was going to her first Hamptons house party with Rhiannon, another girl from work. It wouldn’t work to turn up looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead.

  Though it pained her to admit it, Taneesha had been dead right about the drudgery of hotel work. Working at Palmers had sounded glamorous on paper, but the reality was endless, mindless hours spent stripping and making beds, carrying loads of laundry so heavy that she’d developed permanent backache, and scrubbing out other people’s filthy bathrooms. For such rich and supposedly upper-class people, the Palmers guests had some pretty disgusting habits.

  Most nights she finished work too tired to even think about going out. On the rare evenings she forced herself to make the effort, she usually regretted it once she saw the prices in the upscale East Hampton bars. Three bucks for a Diet Coke! How could anyone afford to live here? As for networking, so far the closest she’d come to rubbing shoulders with any celebrities was glimpsing Princess Mette-Marit of Norway across a crowded breakfast room and picking up wet towels from Tina Palmer’s bathroom floor. Hardly the sort of life-changing interaction she’d been hoping for. Washing her hands, she began foraging for a clean towel among the dirty heap by the shower. Man, this bathroom was a dump. Palmers itself was idyllic, its polished oak floors and candlelit corridors overflowing with vases of lilies and jasmine and dog rose, but the staff quarters, tucked away behind the garages at the rear of the hotel (right next to the garbage cans—nice) were horribly cramped. Segregated by sex, the girls slept three to a room, with two rooms sharing a single, poky bathroom. An ancient and very temperamental shower took up most of the space, leaving only one tiny wall-mounted cupboard for toiletries. Needless to say this didn’t go far among six teenage girls, and the overflow of makeup, tampons, and other feminine detritus littered every available surface, including the floor.

  “Borrowing” Maxine’s eyeliner and mascara (her own had mysteriously gone missing days ago) Sian finished her makeup and, untying her hair from the tight bun she always wore at work, ran back into her bedroom to get changed.

  Hmmm. What to wear?

  The party was at some big-shot investment banker’s house, one of the many ten-million-plus beach properties that Sian rode past every weekend on her bike rides. The actual owners were a couple in their sixties, but tonight’s bash was being thrown by their son, a waste-of-space playboy called Alex Loeb. At least, Sian imagined him to be a waste of space. Like 90 percent of the girls going tonight, she’d never met him. But Rhiannon assured her there was an open-door policy for all passable-looking females under twenty-five. Even washed out and exhausted as she was, Sian figured she still just about fit into that category.

  Rummaging through her meager options—she hadn’t brought many clothes, and half of what she had was either dirty or totally inappropriate—she pulled out a short red cocktail dress and her one pair of high-heeled shoes. They were beige suede and fraying at the toe and didn’t really go with the dress, but as the only alternative were flat brown open-toed sandals, it couldn’t be helped. Pulling the dress up over her nonexistent hips, she slipped on the heels, spraying herself liberally with Rive Gauche and tipping her head upside down to give her long, dark hair a little more volume. Then she pulled open the wardrobe door and took a final, self-appraising look in the full-length mirror.

  Not Angelina Jolie, perhaps. But not bad. A passable Lois Lane, anyway. And in Sian’s book, that was more than good enough.

  Nick Carter straightened his Hermes tie, brushed the telltale traces of powder from the tip of his nose, and headed back downstairs to rejoin the party. If you could call this tedious collection of nobodies a party.

  He’d known Alex Loeb all his life, in the way that the kids of all the rich Hamptons families knew one another—that is to say, socially and superficially but with no real connection beyond a mutual desire to party at their parents’ expense. Alex was the better part of a decade Nick’s senior, but their paths still crossed every summer. Devon Carter’s son could be relied upon to turn up at social events with at least two or three top-notch women on his arm; and Alex—in previous summers anyway—had a reputation for throwing the wildest, most extravagant parties, in a town where “thou shalt indulge thyself” was considered the eleventh commandment.

  Unfortunately, though, so far tonight’s effort had been distinctly lackluster.

  Naomi Campbell was supposed to be here, with Puffy and the entourage of less famous (but much prettier) models that followed her everywhere. But of course, she’d failed to show, and she wasn’t the only one. Alex had invited a bunch of the other big names in town—including Mariah Carey, Formula One star Luca Fattorini, and George Hambly, the hot Hollywood sci-fi director—none of whom had put in an appearance. Besides a smattering of B-list actors and the usual crowd of anorexic Manhattan model-wannabes, tonight’s guests were the same tired old group of East Hampton hangers-on that Nick rubbed shoulders with every year. Even the coke that had cost him a small fortune to procure (“the hottest shit to come out of Colombia this year,” according to his dealer), had been disappointing.

  “There you are.” His sister, Lola, accosted him at the bottom of the stairs, looking as nonchalant as he was. “Have you seen Lucas yet?”

  Having gone to the effort of dolling herself up in her new A-line Marc Jacobs mini—the neon emerald green of the dress made her russet mane of hair stand out even more than usual and showed off her long, tanned legs to perfection—goddamn Lucas had decided to add his name to the long list of no-shows.

  “For the last time, no,” said Nick, rolling his eyes. “He’s obviously not coming. He must have decided to stay in New York for another night.”

  Like everybody else in town, the Carter kids had tuned into this afternoon’s NPR interview and heard Honor and Lucas ripping into each other like rabid dogs in the latest installment of the local soap opera. Thanks to the absence of all the promised celebrities, the radio clash was becoming the evening’s number one topic of conversation.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” said Lola. “You know how paranoid he is about spending time away from the hotel.”

  “Yeah, like you know him so well,” said Nick snidely. “You haven’t laid eyes on the guy since last summer.”

  Annoyingly, this was true. Lola had been staying with friends in Maine for the early part of the summer and had only gotten to East Hampton ten days ago. Having perfected her tan and lost seven pounds in preparation for seeing him again, she was itching to accidentally-on-purpose bump into Lucas and wow him with her new, more mature look. Devon, who’d been furious about their fling last year, had insisted that she break off all contact with him when she went back to Boston. Reluctantly, Lola had complied—there was no point fighting every battle, and she wanted to hold back her big guns for
the inevitable fight about her going to fashion school. But her dad couldn’t keep tabs on her twenty-four seven now that she was here. Sooner or later, her path and Lucas’s were bound to cross, and when they did, she had every intention of reseducing him.

  “Oh my God.” Belatedly clocking her brother’s wildly dilating pupils, she eyed him suspiciously. “Are you high?”

  “No,” Nick lied.

  “You’re supposed to be the designated driver,” Lola yelled at him. “I always have to drive; it’s not fucking fair.”

  “I am not high,” he insisted, in as self-righteous a tone as he could muster. “So don’t go squealing to Mom and Dad that I am, all right? I can drive.”

  “Hmm.” Lola sounded unconvinced. “Well, let’s go then, while you still can. This party blows.”

  Lucas clearly wasn’t coming, and some nerd had just put Billy Joel on the sound system. It seemed as good a time to leave as any.

  For once in his life, Nick was inclined to agree with his sister. But just at that moment, a gorgeous girl in a microscopic red dress sashayed into the room. She had the shy, coltish look of a genuine ingenue—obviously new in town—and was clinging tightly to the arm of her dumpy blonde girlfriend. “Actually,” he said, grinning wolfishly, “I think I might stick around a little longer.”

  Lola followed his gaze toward the red-dress girl.

  “Hey, don’t be an asshole, OK?” she said. “Leave her alone. She seems sweet.”

  She knew her brother’s reputation with women, and she also knew it was well deserved. One look at this girl’s PayLess shoes and plastic evening purse gave her away as a blue-collar out-of-towner, no doubt here for casual work over the summer. If she was looking for a rich, handsome prince to carry her off to his tower, she’d picked the wrong guy in Nicholas.

  “I’m not sure ‘sweet’ is the word I’d use,” said Nick, ignoring Lola and making a beeline for the girl. In his eagerness to introduce himself, he pushed straight past the chunky blonde.

  “Hi.” Grabbing the pretty one’s hand, he kissed it ostentatiously. “I’m Nick Carter. What’s your name, angel?”