Jane sniffs. 'Nice hotel, is it?'
'Yes,' I reply, not offering any further information.
'And why isn't Jamie with you?'
'He had to go up yesterday for a meeting with our agent, Jane. We told you that.' About four times, as I recall. Jane is well aware of why my husband isn't with me today, but if she admitted it, she wouldn't be able to say the following:
'Ah, I see. It's such a shame he couldn't be with you. I almost feel like he's being kept away from me, because of all this book stuff.'
She says book stuff but she means me, of course. As far as Jane is concerned I am directly responsible for everything that denies her the chance to fuss over her successful child.
I try my hardest to smile without cracking my make-up. 'Well, the book business keeps us busy,' I say.
'Yes. It does seem to.'
Jane pauses, and squints at my face. Here it comes.
'I see you're still having trouble with that spot. Did you try the cleanser I recommended?'
Sometimes, I wish I'd never met Jamie Newman.
'I did Jane yes. It has helped.' With the spot that is, not with the removal of fake tan, unfortunately.
'Well, keep going with it. I'm sure it'll clear up soon.'
'Thank you.' I'm trying very hard not to grit my teeth. I am resolutely failing.
'Bye bye, Mum!' Poppy says from below. I can't be sure if she's deliberately trying to break the tense atmosphere, but I wouldn't put it past her.
I bend down and administer a kiss to her forehead. I really do hate to leave her behind like this, but these idiotic book launches leave no room for a hyperactive seven-year-old girl. 'Be good for Grandma,' I tell her. 'Dad and I will be back tomorrow afternoon.'
Her eyes widen. 'Can we go for KFC!?'
'That stuff isn't good for you, Pops.'
Her little face crinkles up. 'But I love it.'
I hesitate, then smile and nod. 'Yes, of course we can honey.'
This is another prime example of parental guilt leading to an over-indulged child, but I just don't have the time right now to argue with her - damn me and my stupid highfalutin' job.
I kiss Poppy again and stand up. 'Thank you for taking care of her, Jane.'
'My pleasure, Laura. It's the least I can do as a good and caring Grandmother.'
There's a veiled insult there, I just know it, but my watch says three o'clock, and I have to get going. I issue another goodbye to them both and walk back to the car. Kyle sees me coming, stops playing Angry Birds, and fires up the Audi's engine.
As the car pulls away, I wave at my little daughter, who waves back at me from the doorway. Right now I would cheerfully trade a night dressed in an evening gown for an evening in pyjamas with my little girl in front of the TV. Even if it did mean that Jane was also there, pointing out how many blackheads I've got.
I didn't tell Jane the name of the hotel we would be staying at this evening. It might have sent her into apoplexy.
The Dorchester is the type of hotel I would never stay at if I had the choice, because I am not insane. This is not necessarily an opinion I hold due to how expensive it is, but simply because its levels of poshness are so beyond my sphere of experience that I can't possibly have a nice time staying in it, for the constant fear of looking completely out of place.
'Nice hotel you're staying at, Mrs Newman,' Kyle the driver remarks as we pull up to the expansive front entrance.
'Yes!' I say, rather too quickly. 'It was the publisher’s idea, not mine!' I add just as fast, making sure to let Kyle know that I am not a complete arsehole.
The car door is opened by a middle-aged man, dressed like an extra from My Fair Lady. He offers me a million pound smile from under his large peaked green cap, as he beckons me out of the vehicle. 'Good afternoon, madam,' he says, trying his best to get into my good books, but failing miserably for the use of the word 'madam'.
'Afternoon,' I reply and get out of the car in as demure a fashion as I am able to. Being demure is not entirely possible in a pair of faded jeans, hooded duffle coat and high heels, but I give it my best shot anyway.
Kyle has got my suitcase out of the boot, and he places it next to my feet with a flourish. I go to take the handle at exactly the same time as the My Fair Lady reject. We're both so swift and determined to be the one to get purchase on the suitcase that his hand inadvertently covers mine, and for one fleeting and excruciatingly awkward moment, I'm holding hands with a tall grey haired doorman in a jacket with more buttons down the front than is strictly necessary. 'Sorry!' I tell him, and whisk my hand away. I just can't get used to this level of personal service. The last time someone took my suitcase on the way into a building I was about to give birth.
'Not at all, madam,' Peaky says with that same ingratiating smile.
'Goodbye Mrs Newman,' Kyle says. 'Have a good time at the party.'
'Thanks Kyle!' I blurt, grateful for the distraction from the embarrassment of unintentional handholding. 'Bye!'
Kyle gives me a smile and makes his way back to the driver's seat. Peaky takes a firmer grip on my suitcase and holds out a hand towards the hotel lobby.
I try my best to return the million pound smile, acutely aware that mine is probably more like three items for a quid in Poundland, and make my way towards the entrance.
The Dorchester's lobby couldn't be more opulent if you fired the Queen into it with a bazooka, and I spend a few minutes idly gazing round at the marble columns and chandeliers, as the concierge sorts out my reservation on his computer. Peaky has thankfully been replaced with a much less terrifying young Indian man called Muresh. His grey porter's outfit is far easier to deal with than Peaky's enormous green buttoned down jacket and rigidly pressed trousers. I don't need Muresh's help of course, I can yank the suitcase along quite happily myself; but this is a swanky London hotel, and by Christ, in swanky London hotels you will obey the rules - and allow another human being to carry your suitcase, no matter how perfectly healthy and able you are to do it yourself.
'You're in room 216, Mrs Newman. Your husband's been enjoying the room since yesterday. He went out a bit earlier, but told me to tell you that he'd be back around the time you checked in,' the whip thin concierge says, handing me the electronic room key. 'Muresh will show you the way.'
'Thanks very much,' I tell him. The concept of Jamie 'enjoying' a hotel room conjures up all sorts of disturbing imagery, but I push it to the back of my mind as I feel my suitcase whisked away from my side.
Muresh, a man so practiced at this stuff he can probably do it unconscious, is already beetling off down a long corridor so ostentatious you'd have to reload the bazooka and shoot the rest of the royal family down it.
I take off in hot pursuit.
Muresh calls the lift, and in no time at all, I'm being whisked upwards. The little Indian man has obviously gone to the same institute of smiling technology as Peaky, as he also gives me a million pound grin while classical music wafts out of the hidden elevator speakers.
I try to smile back, but it dawns on me that I don't know if I have any cash in my purse, and the smile dies on my lips.
This is a disaster.
Poor old Muresh will quite rightly be expecting a tip for his services, and I don't know if I have any bloody money on me with which to supply him with one. I can't exactly start rummaging round in my handbag right now; it would look tacky as hell. I'll just have to wait until we reach the room and hope I've got an adequate amount to satisfy him.
The walk down the corridor to my room is now an exercise in tension and anxiety. I'd like to admire the vastly expensive fixtures and fittings, but all I can picture is Muresh's disappointed face when I have no tip to give him.
He pauses outside the door to a room and indicates to me to pass him the electronic room key.
Oh good grief, this is just ridiculous now. Pulling my suitcase along is one thing, making me stand there like a twat while he performs the simple task of opening a hotel room door is quite
another.
'Don't worry, I can do it!' I tell Muresh and leap forward, key in hand. I confidently swipe it through the card reader before my porter has a chance to object.
Bzzt, goes the reader, and a red LED lights up on top of it to indicate the key card has not been read properly.
I have another go.
Bzzt.
And another.
Bzzt.
Muresh tries to take the key card from my hand. 'Please,' he says, almost imploring.
'No! No! I can do this!' I assure him, and try the card again.
Bzzt.
'Oh, for fuck's sake,' I mumble angrily under my breath.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
'Please!' Muresh repeats, a little more frantically.
I suck air in over my teeth and hand him the card. Muresh offers me the patented Dorchester smile, turns the key card around the other way, and swipes it through the reader.
Bing!
Green light.
Bugger, fuck and twateration.
Muresh has the decency not to look at me, and simply rolls my suitcase into the room. As he does, I catch a glimpse of my home for the next 24 hours and fall instantly in love. You should never stay in a hotel room that looks nicer than your own house. Nothing good can ever come of it.
My delight is slightly tempered by the fact that Jamie got here a day earlier, and has ruined the place somewhat by liberally sprinkling his clothes and electronic entertainment devices around it with no regard for the carefully thought out feng shui.
Muresh plants the suitcase neatly next to the wall and turns to give me another smile, this one tinged with a healthy degree of expectancy.
This is the moment I've been dreading. Will I make Muresh's day? Or will I have to see his face crumple in a barely concealed mixture of disappointment and loathing?
Let's see what I've got in my purse, shall we?
Hmmmm.
So, which do you think would be worse? Giving Muresh the £2.36 I have in very small change, or a book of 12 first class stamps - with two and a half stamps left in it (Jamie is always too rough with those things). How about the picture of the three of us taken on the Gold Coast two days before we left, or my library card - which was out of date seven years ago?
I panic, and give him the change and the book of stamps, figuring that they have enough face value to bring his tip above the £3 mark.
For a fleeting second, Muresh looks like someone has just taken a shit in both his hand and his mouth, before he covers up his disgust magnificently.
'Thank you so much,' he tells me, through a barricade of shiny white teeth. Translated: 'Wow, thank you very much. I bet two quid in coppers and some stamps was a real stretch for you, what with that job as a successful writer. I had JK Rowling in here the other day and she only stumped up £1.73 and a chocolate frog.'
Muresh decides to throw a return insult back in my direction by picking the book of stamps out of his hand with two pinched fingers and handing them back to me.
'Thanks?' I offer, which is not the usual response you make after having a tip rejected, but in these dire circumstances, there is little else I can do.
My towering shame is given relief when Muresh backs his way out of the room, shutting the door as he goes. I hear him stamp off down the corridor, no doubt to go tell every other member of the Dorchester staff that the woman in room 216 is a right bitch, so feel free to spit in her breakfast and forget to leave fresh towels.
For the first time that day, since I discovered I was a banana, I am left gratifyingly alone. A swift look at my watch tells me it's coming up to 6pm, so I'd better get a wiggle on. According to the text Jamie sent me in the car on the way up, another chauffeur driven car will be here in an hour to pick us up for tonight's shenanigans, which gives me fifteen minutes to shower, ten minutes to get dressed, twenty minutes to agonise over whether I should wear the bolero jacket or not, and just quarter of an hour to reapply foundation to all the bits I need to, and put on the rest of my make-up.
Aaargh!
It'll be close, but I think I can just about make it happen - if I'm very lucky and pray to the dressing up fairies hard enough.
The shower is wonderful, and I sacrifice five minutes dressing time for continued use of the massage function. This results in a rather hurried donning of underwear, tights and evening gown, but I get away with just one small ladder on my right thigh and a couple of bent teeth on the dress's zipper.
Bolero related agony is far worse than I thought it would be, given that I look super cute with it both on and off. In the end, practicality wins the day, and I decide to wear it, given the fact it's February and three degrees outside.
So now it's just the matter of the foundation and make-up.
Still, I managed to do it pretty fast this morning, so all I have to do is be confident, controlled and liberal with application, and I should be fi -
Where's the fucking foundation?
I rummage around my expansive make-up bag, but no foundation is to be found. I then frantically up-end the bag into the sink, but still no foundation is to be seen.
The next thing up-ended is my handbag onto the chair... then my suitcase onto the bed... but still no luck.
A grisly, awful realisation hits me.
You left it in the bathroom at home, you silly bitch.
I can picture the large tube of skin salvation right where I left it - stood next to the toothpaste and sun cream in my bathroom cabinet, a good eighty miles away from me and my yellow tinged skin.
With an involuntary whimper I pelt back into the bathroom to see if I have anything that might do the job instead. In an ideal world I'd at least have some concealer knocking about, but damn the make-up companies for coming up with foundation so good that you don't need any these days.
In fact, the only thing that I have here in the sink that can be slathered right across my skin is the sodding £150 fake tan that got me in this mess in the first place.
With a cry of unholy rage, I hold the tub of sickening goo up in one hand and shake it angrily. This doesn't appease my wrath, so I throw it with all my might back into the bedroom - right at the soft, fluffy pillows in front of the headboard. I have the aim of a blind drunkard in a force ten hurricane though, so the tub misses the bed and strikes the bedside lamp instead, knocking it off the table. The lamp hits the carpet, crumpling the lampshade and blowing the bulb, while the fake tan continues its trajectory into the wall behind, where it smashes open, spraying thick blobs of the horrid muck all over the wall.
'Oh fuckery biggins!' I scream at the top of my voice.
It is at this moment the main door to the hotel room opens, and in walks Jamie Newman. Or rather, in walks a pale, grey shadow of what was once Jamie Newman. He's holding a Costa Coffee in one slightly shaking hand. 'Hey baby,' he says in a cracked voice as he walks in, 'Er... are you okay? I hope you managed to get checked in alri - '.
Jamie comes to a shambling halt when he sees me standing in the bathroom doorway, a look of combined shock and rage on my face. He then notices the broken lamp, and the blobs of fake tan that are beginning to slide down the wall towards the most expensive carpet either of us has ever stood on. 'What the hell's going on?' he asks in amazed horror, his bloodshot eyes widening. His face then crumples into confusion. 'Why is your face so yellow?'
I simply don't have the words. I just don't have the current mental capacity to form a coherent response. Instead, I look at the blobs of fake tan still sliding their way inexorably to the floor - and the triple digit cleaning bill that will inevitably be coming our way - and start to cry. Then my brain puts two and two together, and makes a rather inevitable connection.
I point an accusatory finger at my husband. 'You! This is all your fault!'
'What the hell have I done?'
'You... you bought me that bloody fake tan!!'
Yes Mum, I know it's a completely unreasonable thing for me to say, but in times such a
s these, when you've made a series of stupid mistakes that are no-one's fault but your own, it's vital for your own sense of self worth that you find a scapegoat as soon as possible.
This is the real reason why most women choose to get married.
Love you and miss you,
Your yellow daughter, Laura.
XX
Jamie's Blog
Tuesday 16 February
If I close my eyes and think very hard, I can picture the exact moment when the weekend started to go tits up.
It was on Thursday night, so not actually the weekend proper, but within spitting distance.
It was the fourth Jack Daniels and Coke.
Definitely the fourth one.
Not the third, because I'd had a big meal and there was no way just three Jack Daniels would send me down the slippery slope towards total inebriation - even if they were all doubles.
Nope, it was definitely the fourth.
I should have stopped as the liquid touched my lips, but instead I ploughed on, safe in the knowledge that somebody else was footing the bill. And, much like the top of the first rise you encounter on a rollercoaster, as soon as I'd swallowed a good half of the fourth Jack Daniels, I was cresting the rise and starting the fast plummet down towards Chundertown.
The plummet would end some three hours later, with me hugging the porcelain back at The Dorchester, and wishing I was a thousand miles away from my stomach contents.
It was all Craig's bloody fault.
My literary agent is Scottish.
Mash 'literary agent' and 'Scottish' together and you come up with 'functioning alcoholic'.
The man doesn't need an excuse to throw back enough booze to pickle the average sized human being, so it came as no surprise that he wanted to hold a meeting with me and my editor in a London restaurant famous for its enormous selection of alcoholic beverages.
Having known Craig for two years, I go to the meeting absolutely determined to stay sober for once. I do not want a repeat of the belly-dancing incident, no matter how much it made Laura laugh at the time.
Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Page 2