Do Not Disturb

by Tilly Bagshawe

  “In a way, it must be liberating, though, isn’t it?” asked Bianca, taking another sip of her vodka lime and soda, the models’ drink of choice. “Being able to write what you want. Set your own agenda.”

  She had no makeup on, her hair in a ponytail, and was wearing a simple white tank top and jeans. But despite this every man and most of the women in the room were mesmerized by her, craning their necks to catch every word that fell from her goddess-like lips.

  Sian tried hard not to be jealous, but she was only human.

  “Kind of,” she said. “But you never really set your own agenda. Editors always get to call the tune, whether you’re freelance or in-house. That’s the nature of the business.”

  “What are you on about, now?” said Paddy, wrapping a long, skinny arm around her shoulders and kissing her tenderly on the top of the head. “Not work, I hope. We’re supposed to be having fun, babes. Remember?”

  Ben, who couldn’t help but notice the kiss and the affectionately proprietorial arm, felt a knot forming in his stomach. He really must pull himself together and grow up.

  When Sian had called him from the police station that day, his elation was hard to describe. He’d thought about her so often since they’d parted and wanted to make amends for so long for his idiotic behavior in America. But, of course, he’d been too chicken-shit to make the first move. Then out of the blue came her lovely singsong voice on his direct line, not only calling him, but actually needing his help. It was the perfect chance to put things right. And he had. At least, he thought he had.

  So why was it still so awkward between them? If she really had forgiven and forgotten, why did she still avoid his gaze whenever he looked at her? And why, despite immediately taking to Paddy, did Ben find himself suffering repeated, strong urges to strangle the guy with his own shoelaces every time he touched her?

  “What you need is one really good story, to make your name,” said Bianca to Sian. “Something all the papers’ll be lining up to buy.”

  “Yeah,” said Lola, picking up a sliver of raw scallop with her chopsticks and dropping it adoringly into Marti’s mouth. “A scoop.”

  What I need is a boob job, thought Sian, looking miserably from Lola’s ample cleavage to Bianca’s, then down at her own flat-as-a-pancake chest. She’d made an effort tonight too, in a flowing red dress from Top Shop and the patent black leather boots that Paddy called her Fuck-Me Specials. She had been feeling quite pleased with her look until first Lola and then Bianca rocked up looking like Lindsay Lohan and Angelina Jolie, respectively. No wonder Ben kept giving her that weird look. He must be thanking his lucky stars he’d traded her in when he did. Talk about an upgrade.

  “Speaking of good stories,” said Marti, tearing himself away from Lola for a nanosecond, “did any of you guys read about the fire at Palmers hotel? I heard a rumor that Honor Palmer might have done it herself, for the insurance.”

  “No way,” Lola shook her head vehemently. Though still not Honor’s biggest fan, ever since she’d eavesdropped on the conversation with her father at Minty Burnstein’s wedding, she’d stopped viewing her as the scarlet woman. Instead, she’d redirected her anger equally between her old man, for his rank hypocrisy, and Lucas, for his vindictiveness in going to the press about the affair. “Honor may be many things, but she’s not an arsonist. That hotel was her life. There’s no way she’d torch it. Not in a million years.”

  “Well, someone doesn’t like her,” said Marti. “It was almost certainly arson.”

  “Maybe it was Lucas,” said Lola, only half joking, raising an eyebrow at Ben. “He hates her guts. And he’s certainly vicious enough.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Ben mildly. He understood Lola’s hostility—after the shoddy way Lucas had treated her, he could hardly blame her—but she was wrong about this. “He doesn’t hate Honor. Not deep down. And he’s got better things to do with his time than run around starting fires.”

  “Oh, of course it wasn’t Lucas!” laughed Bianca, who didn’t know his history with either Lola or Sian and had always gotten along well with him. “He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he, Ben? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The two other girls caught each other’s eyes and giggled.

  “If Lucas has a vendetta against anyone, it’s Anton Tisch,” said Ben, chasing a sliver of tuna around his plate with a chopstick he had no idea how to use. He hated Japanese food anyway. Bloody rip-off. “And may the force be with him, I say. That man has single-handedly blown a hole in my business the size of the Grand fucking Canyon.”

  “Aww,” said Sian archly. “Down to your last five hundred mill, are you? Poor thing.”

  Ben blushed, and she instantly regretted being so flippant.

  “Well I think Tisch is dreadful,” said Bianca loyally. If she’d picked up on the awkwardness between Sian and Ben, she didn’t show it. “He makes himself out to be this charitable, caring guy, but he treats women like shit. And what he did to poor Lucas was unforgivable.”

  This was a bridge too far for Lola.

  “Poor Lucas? Are you kidding me? The guy entrapped a woman into making a porno in his hotel, then released the video on the Internet! Not to mention what he did to me and my family. I’m sorry, Bianca, but he deserved to get fired, and then some.”

  Realizing belatedly that she’d stepped on a land mine, Bianca shut up.

  “Lucas has always said Anton was behind that tape,” said Ben bravely. He knew that both Sian and Lola would happily order Lucas’s head on a plate if it were on the menu, but felt an obligation to try to stick up for a mate.

  “Yeah, well. He would, wouldn’t he?” said Lola. “Anyway, can we not talk about that asshole? I’m trying to enjoy my meal.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Marti.

  For a few minutes the conversation drifted on to other matters, chiefly fashion and whether Bianca could be prevailed upon to consider wearing one of Lola’s designs to a big fashion-week party. But Sian’s mind was still stuck on the previous topic.

  “It is interesting about Tisch, though,” she piped up after a while.

  “What is?” said Paddy, not really listening. “Does anybody else think this black cod tastes like shit?”

  “Well, he’s this mystery figure, isn’t he?” said Sian, ignoring him. “He has a public image, like Bianca said, and it’s all good, even though people actually know a lot of the bad stuff.”

  “Like him not paying child support,” said Bianca angrily.

  “Exactly,” said Sian. “Why hasn’t that damaged him?”

  “It has, to a point,” said Ben. “But he’s rich as Croesus and famously litigious. The media are afraid of him, I reckon. Plus he’s so bloody secretive, I doubt his own mother really knows him. But I agree, there are plenty of things about him that don’t add up.”

  “Like?” asked Sian.

  “Well, like how the hell he keeps persuading my clients to leave Stellar, for a start. And why he went after Lucas the way he did. I mean, without opening up the whole Lucas debate again, what significance is a little guy like him to a global player like Anton? It’s like a blue whale hunting down a lone pilot fish. It don’t make sense.”

  “Doesn’t make sense, darling, not don’t,” Bianca corrected him.

  Sian tried not to feel pleased when Ben shot her a dirty look in return.

  “Maybe that’s your scoop, babes?” said Paddy to Sian. “Dig up some proper dirt on Anton Tisch and every paper in the land will want to hire you.”

  “I’ll write you a check myself if you nail his slippery German arse,” added Ben with feeling, “but it won’t be easy.”

  “Thanks,” said Sian sarcastically, “but I don’t want your money.”

  Ben bit his lip. Note to self: must remember to rip out tongue when you get home.

  “Shhhh now, Siany, don’t upset him or he might not pay for dinner,” said Paddy, in a stage whisper that made everyone laugh. “Heaven knows none of the rest of us can afford this place.”

  After d
inner Ben and Bianca drove straight home, while Marti and Paddy decided to walk into Soho together and find a late-night bar, leaving Sian and Lola to share a cab.

  “This feels just like the old days,” said Lola, kicking off her Jimmy Choos and putting her bare feet up on the fold-out seat in front of her. “You and me, cabbing it home together. Before the boys came on the scene.”

  Sian smiled.

  “You know, Ben really is such a nice guy,” Lola went on blithely. “He hasn’t changed a bit. Fuck knows what he sees in Lucas, but I guess he’s entitled to one fatal flaw. Bianca’s sweet too, don’t you think?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that, after three years, Sian might still be harboring any romantic feelings toward Ben, especially now that she seemed so settled and happy with Paddy.

  “I guess,” said Sian, without a shred of enthusiasm. “Yeah, she’s OK.”

  In fact she wasn’t thinking about Bianca, or even Ben. (Though later, in bed, she’d spend several hours torturing herself by picturing the two of them making love.) Right now, her head was full of Anton Tisch. There were too many things about him that didn’t smell right. For the first time in months, she felt her journalistic curiosity stirring groggily back to life.

  Tomorrow, she’d do a little digging. She wouldn’t spend too long on it; maybe a couple of hours on Google. There was probably nothing in it, after all. But she didn’t have much else going on. And who knew? Maybe it’d be worth a look.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE 2.7-BILLION-DOLLAR WYNN Las Vegas was the most expensive hotel and casino ever built, anywhere in the world. Nine-foot floor-to-ceiling windows in each of its 2,700 bedrooms looked down over a spectacular view of the strip. Guests could choose between twenty different in-house restaurants, shop in the hotel’s full-scale designer mall, or indulge themselves at the spa or on the world-famous golf course. They could even buy themselves a Ferrari to tour around town at the dealership downstairs.

  Like all the big Vegas hotels—the monsters, as Trey Palmer used to call them—the Wynn aimed to provide a world so complete that once you stepped inside its glass doors, you’d never want to leave.

  But Honor did want to leave. The hotel, the city, the conference. If only she’d remembered to pack her ruby slippers.

  This January’s conference at the Wynn was the IHA’s biggest ever. Some sixteen hundred hoteliers from all over the globe were attending, as well as academics, journalists, investors, chefs, construction companies—anybody who was anybody in the hospitality industry.

  Right now, as Honor was all too acutely aware, she was officially nobody in the hospitality industry. With the police still no nearer to solving the Palmers arson riddle—they’d interviewed Danny Carlucci and his cronies numerous times but hadn’t been able to pin so much as a parking ticket on any of them—her insurance money remained stuck in offshore permafrost. Realizing that it might be years, if ever, before she saw a penny of her claim, she’d decided to throw all her energies into plan B: finding a private investor to fund the rebuilding.

  The first thing she did was recontact Baz Murray, the Australian magnate who’d been so keen on an alliance with Palmers a few months ago, before disaster struck. But having been a guest there when it caught fire and narrowly avoiding being burned to a crisp himself, he’d understandably lost his enthusiasm for the place.

  Which was what brought her to Vegas, armed with high hopes and the PowerPoint presentation she’d spent her entire Christmas vacation putting together, which included a fabulous set of computer-generated architect’s images of what the new Palmers might look like.

  At first she’d wanted to recreate the place exactly as it had been, down to the last bent nail and crooked door frame. But she soon realized that idea owed more to nostalgia than good business sense. Tina was right about one thing. The fire had provided her with an opportunity. An opportunity to start again, without any of the structural problems that had had her eating through money like a Biblical plague of locusts, and without the ghosts of her father and grandfather watching her every move disapprovingly from the rafters.

  The new Palmers would be Honor’s creation—a chance to make her own unique mark on her family history. She would maintain the period charm, of course. The sense of history and tradition that had become synonymous with her family name. But shabby chic would make way for real chic; down-at-heel, faded gentility would be replaced by a more confident, assured, quietly monied ambience. There would be none of the vulgarity and bling of the Herrick. And none of the spa-like hippyishness of Luxe. Palmers would once again become a bastion of understated American wealth and privilege. No one knew how to create that better than Honor.

  On the plane ride up to Vegas, she must have looked at her own presentation twenty times, awash with confidence and excitement. How could investors not buy in to her vision, backed as it was by a brand name far too enduring to be destroyed by any fire? Soon, everyone would be talking about the new Palmers and how it had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the old.

  But the minute she checked in at the Wynn, her chutzpah deserted her. The sheer scale of the place made Palmers seem like a dollhouse, one of a million little white clapboard nothings viewed from a passing plane, a mere dot on the landscape. And the first few days of the conference had done nothing to lessen her sense of insignificance. Almost all the seminars were big-picture stuff, with titles like Globalization, Branding, and Expansion or Debt Restructuring in the High-Interest Era. There was no opportunity for the sort of face-to-face schmoozing that Honor needed to do if she was going to bag herself a suitable backer. Even if there had been, she seemed to be the only person here with business on the brain. Everyone else, from the grandest CEOs to the lowliest MBA students, seemed to want to spend their free time at the roulette tables and/or checking out the local strip joints. Even the women. Star-spotting was the other leisure activity of choice, and the Wynn was like a physical incarnation of the pages of People magazine. Honor had no interest in celebrities and avoided casino floors much as she would the gates of hell, but even she had already clocked Ben Affleck and Nick Lachey wandering around in the lobby. She’d even shared an elevator with Lisa Marie Presley, much good it did her.

  She couldn’t remember feeling so out of place anywhere since the age of twelve, when her father had forcibly enrolled her in ballet school in Boston, hoping to knock the tomboy out of her. She’d spent every class sulking in the corner in jeans and Doc Martens boots, while the other girls pirouetted around her in their fluffy pink tulle and organza.

  Unfortunately, sulking wasn’t an option now. Not if she wanted to rebuild Palmers. As much as she hated Vegas, she had to get involved.

  Today was day four, and so far the only approach she’d had was from the odious Bruce Austin, a big cheese over at Hilton. He’d sidled up to her during the lunch break, wrapped an unwanted arm tightly around her waist, and suggested with a wink that she might like to give him her presentation “in private…if you know what I mean.”

  “Thanks, Bruce,” she’d replied stiffly, trying not to stare at the way his beer belly was bursting through the buttons of his shirt at the bottom or the sweat patches the size of dinner plates under his arms. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather choke to death on my own vomit.”

  She was desperate, but she wasn’t that desperate.

  It was evening now, and all the seminars were over. Honor headed for the largest of the Wynn’s numerous cocktail bars, sorely in need of a drink. Plonking herself down on an empty stool, she tried to blot out memories of the day. As if Bruce’s clumsy come-on hadn’t been bad enough, the afternoon lecture turned out to be a two-hour drone-a-thon from the owner of a Swiss group of motels. It was so boring she’d actually nodded off in the middle of it and slipped ignominiously from her seat onto the floor. She was woken not by the fall, but by the deafening laughter of the delegates around her. Not her finest hour.

  “Scotch on the rocks, please. Better make it a double.”


  “You got it.”

  The barman, a wannabe actor with the same perfect features and toothpaste smile as all the other staff at the Wynn, jumped to her request. She had to admit, the service here was excellent. When the drink arrived she took a big, thirsty gulp, but regretted it when she felt the alcohol scorch her throat. Soon she was coughing and spluttering like a TB victim. At the very moment she expelled a mouthful of amber liquid through both nose and mouth across the polished top of the bar, like a whiskey sneeze, Petra Kamalski sauntered into the bar with a bunch of Tischen Group acolytes, all of them male.

  Great. That was all she needed.

  “Honor.” Smiling evilly, Petra walked toward her. In a bright-red Chanel suit and matching ruby heels and lipstick, with her peroxide hair gleaming on the top of her head like a tight, white helmet, she reminded Honor of a toy soldier, so much so that she half expected her to click her heels together and salute at any moment, possibly shouting “Sieg Heil!”

  “What a surprise to see you here. Reliving old times, are we?”

  “Get lost, Petra,” said Honor, wishing that her eyes and nose weren’t still running like faucets from the burning liquor.

  “Now, now,” chided Petra. “There’s no need to snap. You seem stressed, my dear.” She was clearly enjoying herself. “Perhaps you’d like a cigarette? Although I’m sure Mr. Wynn would appreciate it if you remembered to put it out in an ashtray when you’re done.”

  With an effort, Honor smiled thinly and let this not-so-veiled reference to the Palmers fire pass.

  “Hey, boys,” Petra called over her shoulder to her gaggle of groupies. “Can anyone offer Honor Palmer a light?”

  Much sniggering broke out. One crony tossed Petra a lighter, which she made a great show of flicking open, waving the naked flame under Honor’s nose.