It took Lucy all of approximately four seconds to haul herself out of the manky bed, somehow grab her clothes and shoes from last night and get the hell out of Dodge. Christ, could this really be happening to her, she wondered, head pounding and tottering uneasily in heels as she did the long, slow walk of shame out of the dingy, two-star hotel that was more like a glorified hostel in a rough end of town, and scoured round trying to find a taxi.
This was the kind of carry-on she got up to in her early – her very early twenties, for feck’s sake! In a parallel life, she was supposed to be a happily married woman living in her beautiful home with a loving husband who adored her and maybe even a family of her own by now – not waking up in some kiphole of a hotel room with some bloke whose name she couldn’t even remember! Was this really what her life had become?
Worst of all though, the morning ahead was due to be crazy busy for her; she was shooting a commercial for some highly overpriced tooth whitening gel stuff and needed to be absolutely on the ball, efficient and looking every inch the job. But one good look in her little compact mirror told her she wasn’t near up for it.
She should have been more professional, she was someone who always prided herself on at least that. She should have known better. A lot better. But then last night, she hadn’t given two shites, had she?
Needless to say, the whole shoot was an unmitigated disaster from start to finish. The clients weren’t happy, the photographer was royally pissed off and as for the make-up artist? Lucy could have sworn he physically clutched his hand to his heart like a matron in an Ealing comedy, clad in twin-set-and-pearls circa 1950, when she’d eventually pitched up for work.
‘Can you at least try and make me look human?’ Lucy had pleaded with him groggily.
‘Ehh … just so you know,’ he’d said snippily, taking in how wiped-out and banjaxed she looked, with saggy, pimply skin and eyes more bloodshot red than blue. ‘This is a make-up brush here. Not a magic wand.’
Lucy felt it in her waters that it was only a matter of time before a call was put into her booking agent, to complain about her. Who wouldn’t? If she’d been the client, she’d have complained about herself too.
And to make matters worse, lo and behold, this was the very weekend she was scheduled to book in at that bloody divorce hotel. This evening was check-in. First time she’d have to be in the same room as Andrew since … well, she couldn’t bring herself to think about that one. Not when she was still so completely woolly-headed and ropey, it physically hurt to even try to put two coherent thoughts together.
But thank God for Bianca, that was all she could say. After Lucy had crawled back home after work, her kind-hearted pal took one appalled up-and-down look at her and shook her head in despair.
‘Oh Lucy, what have you done to yourself?’ she said, horrified. ‘I don’t want to know what happened between you and that French guy last night, but Jesus, you pull one more stunt like that again and the agency will fire your ass so fast, you won’t know what hit you.’
‘Don’t,’ Lucy groaned, her body physically aching all over. ‘Sorry, but I can’t listen to this. Not now …’
‘Into that shower immediately!’ Bianca ordered, ‘and I’ll put on some coffee to pour down your throat. Over my dead body are you going in to face Andrew in that sorry state. You’re about to head into the most intense weekend of your life and you need to be firing on all cylinders for this! Don’t worry, I’ll give you a lift into the hotel myself.’
‘You really don’t have to –’
‘Yeah, right, like you’re in any fit state to argue with me. If I put you in a taxi right now, you’d probably conk out in the back seat or else tell the driver to take you to the first bar you see. Jeez, the smell of stale booze off your breath! How many did you have last night anyway? And for God’s sake, do something with your hair! You need to let Andrew see you looking like a million dollars, so he’ll realize what he’s been missing out on! Sorry for the tough love, but the state of you now, the man will take one look at you and think he had a lucky escape. So what are you standing there waiting on? Into the bathroom, now!’
In absolutely no condition to argue, Lucy did as she was told and half an hour later, was clambering into the passenger seat of Bianca’s car, feeling if not exactly back to normal, then at least a tiny bit more human. Except of course now she was obliged to sit and listen to one of Bianca’s well-intentioned ‘little pep talks’.
‘Now you just remember everything we talked about and you’ll be absolutely fine,’ Bianca told her from the driver’s seat. ‘Keep your head held high and don’t forget the whole reason you’re here in the first place. Andrew Lowe and that family of his as good as destroyed you. God, it makes my blood boil every time I think about it …’
Not in fact, what had happened at all, at least only the tip of the iceberg. There had been so much more to it than that. Still though, Lucy nodded along and made ‘umm’ noises when appropriate, barely listening to a single word of Bianca’s advice, even though she only meant well. Couldn’t. Not today, not now. Not when all she wanted to do was crawl back under the duvet, knock back a glass of Merlot and tell the rest of the world to feck off.
‘And after all the misery his family made you suffer through, where did you end up?’
Pretty safe to say this was a rhetorical question.
‘Heartbroken and living out of a suitcase, that’s where! So this is it, love. You’ve got one single weekend to right a lot of wrongs and you can’t under any circumstances mess it up. And of course, it’s no harm to make sure you look utterly fabulous at all times and act like you’re in a good place and moving on with your life. Remember what Ivana Trump so famously said?’
‘Which was …?’ said Lucy, not looking at her, instead, desperately trying to freshen up her make-up in the tiny little passenger seat mirror.
‘Well, when she divorced The Donald, her advice to all women was “don’t get mad, get everything”. Now I hate to sound mercenary, and it goes without saying that you’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like, but the hard cold fact is that you can’t live the rest of your life with no home to call your own. It’s not fair on you. You’ve got to give serious thoughts to splitting Andrew’s assets.’
‘Ehh, can I remind you that my soon-to-be-ex is about to be declared bankrupt? The man has nothing to split with me except debt and more debt!’
Even at that, Lucy shuddered to think how much worse things had got for Andrew since she last saw him. Sure, he’d once been wealthy, but he was a banker and a senior member of the Board at the Irish Banks Organization, which was basically how all their troubles had started. And it had been almost two months since they’d had contact of any kind. So how much further had his life free-fallen since then?
It broke her heart not being able to speak to him, but she’d been advised to communicate via her solicitor now, a Rottweiler of a woman who wanted to run all kinds of background searches on Andrew to see if he’d any hidden assets abroad. Big waste of your fecking time, Lucy had told her time and again, till she was blue in the face.
Firstly, even if he did, you can bet Alannah and Josh would have got their greedy paws on it by now and secondly, was it really worth all the bloody hassle? Anyway, Lucy had supported herself since the age of fifteen. And apart from a few recent blips, she hadn’t done too shabbily, now had she? Yeah, sure she wasn’t as young as she was, and maybe she wasn’t looking as fresh as she’d once done. But she was still well known and was still offered modelling gigs, even if they weren’t coming in as thick and fast for her as they had done back in her heyday.
Lucy was smart though, streetwise in the way the business went, and knew it was only a matter of a few short years at most before the tabloids starting labelling her ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. She’d had a good run, but snapping at her heels were another new crop of younger, hotter, fitter twenty-somethings wanting nothing more than to elbow her out of the way and move in on her turf.
/> Modelling was a piranha bowl of an industry like that and Lucy knew she was doing really well to still get offered work at all, at the grand old age of thirty-one. So, with grateful thanks to her booking agent, Lucy had lately started to diversify a bit.
She still had her regular slot on Good Morning Ireland! and now she’d been given her own newspaper column too, in the weekend pullout section of The Chronicle, advising anxious mothers of the bride about what upcoming Spring/Summer trends were, or else giving seventeen-year-old debs a few tips on the best (read: cheapest) places to shop for their big night.
Not that there was huge money in any of it, but cash-wise at least, Lucy was somehow managing to keep her head above water. And she needed to earn, badly. Because of what had happened, she’d seen her entire world crumble right before her eyes and was frankly prepared to get a job stacking the shelves in Tesco rather than ever have to live through that humiliation again. Ever.
‘Now you just hear me out, babes,’ Bianca was still insisting, as they whizzed down the Stillorgan dual carriageway on their way into town. ‘And try to keep a businesslike head on you. You’ve got to protect yourself money-wise and this is the weekend for you to do it. It’s only fair and it’s now or never. Remember, you poured all of your own savings into your beautiful home and you got absolutely nothing out of it, only grief and more of it!’
‘Do we have to go over all this again? I swear, my head is actually walloping …’
‘Are you honestly telling me that at his hour of life, the likes of Andrew Lowe doesn’t have all kinds of overseas bank accounts and pension reserves, that you don’t even know about?’
‘But even if he did, you can be sure the banks would have swallowed it up pretty fast, to cover all his debts! Not to mention the fact that Alannah and Josh would have got their paws into it.’
‘Stocks and shares you don’t know about? Some hidden bank account buried away in the Cayman Islands?’
‘That’s a laugh! Besides, I’ve already been through this with my solicitor. She ran a full search on him and I’m telling you, there’s nothing.’
‘Excuse me,’ Bianca said crisply, ‘may I just remind you of something, Lucy Belton? When you first met Andrew, you were this gorgeous, outgoing, confident young thing with the whole town at your feet. And in the space of a few short years, he took you from being that fabulous girl to someone who’s thin, miserable, effectively homeless, living in my spare room and grafting your arse off for every spare bean that comes your way. And what kills me is that none of it is even your fault!’
Lucy slumped back on the passenger seat and looked blankly out the car window as all the Friday evening rush hour traffic slowly inched past them. She was suddenly exhausted now, as the lack of sleep last night caught up with her.
‘Are you even listening to a word I’ve been saying?’ Bianca demanded. ‘You’ve gone very quiet all of a sudden.’
‘Yeah,’ Lucy sighed. ‘It’s just that …’
‘Just what exactly?’
‘Well … I didn’t marry Andrew for money, in spite of what everyone said about me at the time. At least, his first family certainly did. Do you remember how some of the scuzzier tabloids even made me out to be this gold-digger purely out for what she could get? But it was all complete horse shite. In spite of what they all said, I married Andrew because I was in love with him. End of. Absolutely nothing to do with what he had or what he didn’t have.’
‘So?’
‘So after everything he and I went through, why has it suddenly become about nothing but money now?’
*
Soon, far too soon for Lucy’s liking, here they were, pulling up outside the stately looking Georgian townhouse down Hope Street that looked absolutely nothing like a hotel from the outside. Hotels to Lucy meant flashy and gaudy, Vegas style, with valet parking, fountains in the front garden and usually a casino attached.
The kind of place she and Andrew used to stay in all the time, once upon a happier time. But this place was more like a posh lawyer’s office, except one where you slept over till you’d thrashed out a separation deal, with minibars in the rooms and flat screen tellies. Lucy had been here once before; she’d already checked.
It took every last ounce of her resolve to haul herself out of the car, as she gave Bianca a warm hug and told her she’d be sure to stay in touch, every step of the way.
‘Remember, I’m just on the other end of a phone if you need me!’ Bianca yelled out the car window before tooting the horn and driving off.
Bracing herself, Lucy forced herself up the stone steps to the front door, wheelie bag clattering after her and rang the bell. And then, just on cue, a car she recognized all too well pulled up outside.
A Volkswagen Beetle, one of the Celtic Tiger-y ones with a soft top. The roof was down and she almost froze on the step when she clocked that Andrew was in the passenger seat with Alannah driving. The girl had sunglasses on, with her hair tied back in a Hermès scarf and a silk floral top Lucy instantly recognized as Stella McCartney.
Jesus, a Hermès silk scarf? Stella McCartney? After everything Alannah had put them through, she was still driving around in a flashy convertible, wearing designer gear that Lucy knew for a fact you could only buy in Brown Thomas for a minimum of seven hundred euro? (She could price it to the nearest penny; but then, she’d appeared in their last fashion magazine spread.)
Feck it, feck it, feck it, she thought, frantically buzzing on the door again and again. Would somebody inside ever open the door, quick, before Andrew caught up with her?
But she was a heartbeat too late. In a blink, Andrew was out of the car and standing right in front of her, first time she’d locked eyes with him in months.
A throbbing moment, where all Lucy could do was stare at him. He’d lost weight, she thought. And in that short space of time, he’d gone from slightly greying round the temples, to almost completely silver-haired. He was always so handsome, tanned and distinguished looking, yet now he was pale and gaunt, a shadow of his old self.
‘Hello Lucy,’ was all he said, dark eyes focused on her and her alone. Then with a hurt and puzzled look, he added, ‘Can you believe that we’re really here? That we’re actually doing this?’
The words caught in the back of Lucy’s throat and she tried hard to think of something to say in reply, but instead all she could do was stare back at him like a mute eejit.
Just then, Alannah tripped up the steps after them, pointedly ignoring Lucy and handing Andrew a small weekend bag.
‘You left this behind you in the car, Dad.’
‘Hi Alannah,’ Lucy managed to say, making a flash decision to try and be the bigger person here. Alannah turned to face her and for a split second, the two women locked eyes.
If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be standing here in the first place, Lucy thought furiously, a hot flush of anger suddenly flooding through her.
But you’re the one who’s about to be divorced, Alannah glared icily back. Which means one thing and one thing only.
I win.
*
Finally, finally, finally, the door was answered. Well, it probably only took a bare moment in real time, but to Lucy it felt like an eternity. It was the General Manager herself, a lovely, bright girl called Chloe who she’d met just once before, when she’d first come here to see whether she was a suitable candidate for what the hotel had to offer.
Lucy had liked her instantly.
‘Miss Belton and Mr Lowe, come in, you’re so welcome,’ Chloe smiled, and if she was surprised at them arriving together, her blank, professional face betrayed absolutely nothing. ‘Let me have your luggage taken up to your rooms for you. And just before we get you checked in, may I offer you a glass of champagne at the bar?’
‘Another time perhaps,’ Andrew said politely, though more to Chloe than Lucy. ‘And please forgive me, but I’m afraid I’ve got some emails I need to attend to urgently up in my room.’
Phew, Lucy thought, in
stantly perking up a bit. A drink was just what she needed right now and she’d relax and enjoy it all the more knowing Andrew wouldn’t be around. In fact, she wasn’t even sure how she’d get through the evening ahead without one.
Two minutes later, she was hopping up onto a barstool and gratefully accepting the champagne flute that an incredibly good-looking barman instantly poured out for her, with a wink and a warm smile.
Cheers, she said to herself, talking the fist delicious sip. Here’s to me. God knows what’s ahead of me this weekend, but as long as there’s a bar to hand, I’ll get by.
By the time she’d knocked back her first glass, she suddenly started to feel a whole lot better. The crippling embarrassment of this morning was fast fading into a dim, fuzzy memory.
But then mortification was a bit like a hangover, Lucy always found. The effects usually wore off as soon as you started drinking again.
Chapter Eleven
Jo.
Jo had been allocated a room plenty of losers would probably have given their eye teeth to stay in, but not her. Fortunately, she knew exactly what to do about it. Which was what she always did whenever room allocation wasn’t up to her usual standards. In one expert, practised move, she flipped open her MacBook Air, logged straight into her browsing history and clicked on the webpage she was looking for. And then efficiently began to type.
Ferndale Hotel, Fitzwilliam Square, Dublin.
Reviewed by WellTravelledBusinesswoman_777
See my other TripAdvisor reviews.
It was with high hopes that I booked into the Ferndale group’s latest addition to its firmament of stars earlier this evening. As a frequent traveller and indeed a member of the Leading Hotels of the World group, I’ve stayed in many other Ferndale hotels and can particularly recommend their Paris base; an oasis of calm in a bustling city, with five-star silver service and impeccable attention to detail throughout.
Sadly, the same cannot be said for its newest sister hotel here in Dublin. Firstly, like most well travelled members of the business community, when I check into a five-star hotel, it’s with certain expectations. When I request a south facing room on a high floor, away from the elevator, I expect to be allocated one. Similarly, when I go to the bother and trouble of pre-requesting a pillow menu, I expect it to be supplied. And thirdly, the welcome fruit basket that was placed in my room, was thoughtlessly placed right in direct sunshine, with the result that two mangoes and one pear have now turned completely brown. (See attached photos.)
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