Honeymoon Suite

by Wendy Holden

  ‘And you’ve paid for it all,’ Rachel added.

  Nell turned her exasperated gaze on her friend. ‘It’s not the bloody décor. And I don’t care whether I’ve paid for it. I just can’t stay here, full stop.’

  ‘Hey, less of the bloody, thanks. There are children present.’

  ‘I’ve heard people say bloody before,’ interjected Juno, with a meaningful look at her mother.

  Nell reddened guiltily. She shouldn’t, she knew, have spoken so sharply. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s just impossible for me to stay here.’

  ‘And why would that be?’ Rachel asked, a touch impatiently.

  Every reason, Nell thought. She was now convinced that she had only decided to marry Joey because of what Fake OutdoorsGuy had done. Joey was mainly to blame, obviously, but it was the man in the Apples and Pears who had driven her into his arms.

  Explaining all this to Rachel would be too painful, though. After what Rachel had witnessed at the register office, describing her online romantic misadventures would be just too humiliating.

  Nell decided to throw herself on Rachel’s mercy, with an open-ended appeal. ‘I just can’t bear it,’ she declared, turning wide, pained eyes to her friend and injecting into her voice all the drama she could summon. ‘Surely you can understand? With the wedding not happening and everything? Being here is just . . . agony.’ She ended with a sigh, and drooped her head pathetically.

  But Rachel wasn’t buying it. ‘Yes, well, going back at this time of night will be pretty agonising as well,’ she said tersely. ‘We’re all exhausted and Juno’s about to have a bath. We haven’t eaten either. And I’ve been drinking.’ She raised a hand holding a half-drained glass of pink champagne. The bottle it had come from lolled in a silver bucket on a side table. ‘This is my second.’

  Before Nell could marshal a contrary argument, Rachel disappeared into the bathroom. Any further conversation would have to be shouted over the rushing water. The enormous claw-foot tub, a miracle of hydro-technology, had a long, rectangular single tap rather than two separate ones. A sheet of water slid out like Niagara Falls.

  Nell drifted to the bedroom’s diamond-pane window and stared hopelessly out. It was evening now and the pretty little village buildings were thickly painted with the golden brush of sunset. Their details were beautiful: barley-twist chimneys, scalloped roof-tiles, castellations, balconies. Nell, however, could not appreciate any of it.

  He was downstairs!. Here, in the very same hotel. How that could possibly be the case she couldn’t imagine. She had last seen him in London, and at a south-west-bound station too. So it was doubly unlikely that he would be up here in the Midlands. And yet, indubitably, he was. Presumably with that horrible harridan.

  Well, she would obviously have to stay here tonight. But no more than that, Nell promised herself. Tomorrow, Rachel and Juno would be returning to London and she would go with them. Hopefully Rachel would let her stay in Gardiner Road while she found herself another flat.

  Although . . .

  Flashing across Nell’s mind came the idea that she still might be able to stop the sale of 19a. She had signed nothing, after all. She could halt the whole proceeding, get her furniture out of storage and move back in there. She would call the estate agents about it on Monday.

  But the estate agents were, of course, Carrington’s. This flat business was only one of the messes Joey had landed her in. Calling them would be embarrassing; but did his colleagues even know about their relationship? It seemed that Joey had all sorts of lives, had told all sorts of lies.

  In the bathroom, she could hear Juno enquiring about the bidet.

  ‘The French use them for . . .’ Rachel began.

  ‘For?’ prompted Juno, as the normally frank Rachel hesitated.

  ‘For washing their socks in.’

  Nell snorted, in spite of herself. It made her feel a little better and she reminded herself that, while she hated to think she and Fake OutdoorsGuy were under the same roof, there were ways of avoiding him. She and Rachel could stay in the suite and have room service. It looked good, judging from the empty plate of Juno’s Rachel had put outside the door. There was no need to go downstairs at all.

  ‘Why are the towels all black, Mummy?’ Juno was asking now.

  ‘They’re not. Some of them are hot pink.’

  ‘Hot? How hot? Too hot to touch?’

  ‘It’s just the name of the colour.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hey, Nell,’ Rachel was calling from the bathroom. ‘Why not go down and get a table for supper? I’m starving.’

  ‘Downstairs?’ Nell was dismayed. ‘Wouldn’t you rather stay here and have room service?’

  There was a cackle from the bathroom. ‘Are you joking? After what you said about the decoration? All that pink and black would put me off my food.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Nell began.

  ‘Besides,’ Rachel swept on from the bathroom, ‘Juno wants to go to sleep and it’s been ages since I had a proper grown-up evening in a restaurant.’

  She had no choice, Nell saw. She would really have to go downstairs and get a table.

  On her way down the twisted stairs to the lobby, she fought to persuade herself she had been mistaken. That it was someone else she had seen. He hadn’t been with the harridan, for one thing. And he hadn’t seemed to recognise her. She wasn’t sure he had even seen her.

  But such efforts were in vain. There was no doubt that the person downstairs was the man she had opened her heart to in Paddington Station. The one who had driven her, disastrously, towards Joey.

  Kegs, the establishment’s boutique restaurant, was full of busy diners. Nell hesitated, as instructed, by the ‘Wait Here To Be Seated’ sign. Feeling conspicuous, she studied the lobby carpet – a tasteful seagrass weave – so as not to catch anyone’s eye. And in particular the eye of Fake OutdoorsGuy. If he was sitting at one of the tables, he could easily look up and see her.

  Jason appeared and greeted her effusively. ‘Mrs Simpson!’

  ‘Miss,’ Nell forced herself to smile bravely. ‘I never got married, remember?’

  Jason was disappointed. So the two ladies really were just friends and not the role models he sought. He snapped into smooth professional mode. ‘A table? Yes, of course. This way, please.’

  Nell took a deep breath and followed the manager through the restaurant. A quick, nervous look round reassured her that all the eyes meeting hers belonged to smart middle-aged couples. There were no long-haired young men in T-shirts.

  But the sight also reminded her of the many financial brochures that were her clients, and the dreary inevitability of returning to this work. The clients had all been told she was taking a week’s holiday; she had not given the real reason. Which was just as well, as it hadn’t been the reason after all.

  Nell decided to make absolutely sure. Jason, the manager, was fussing with menus and flicking napkins about.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she asked, trying her best to sound casual.

  ‘Of course, madam.’ Jason smoothed the napkin over her lap.

  ‘There was a young man in the hotel this afternoon . . .’

  Jason knew who she meant immediately. There were, after all, few young men at the Edenville Arms. Early days as it was, it was already obvious that the client base was the silver pound.

  ‘Dark hair, jeans?’ he supplied, secretly dismayed at this conclusive evidence that Miss Simpson was heterosexual.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Nell took a deep breath. ‘He’s not – staying in the hotel, is he?’

  Jason interpreted her tremulous tones as ones of fragile hope. He had to hand it to her; she was resilient. To be giving a strange young man the glad eye the same day she’d been stood up at the altar was impressive. Talk about getting back on the horse.

/>   She was, so far as he could see, still wearing her wedding outfit: a slightly muddy minidress teamed with rather dirty white boots. Her make-up was smudged, perhaps intentionally, and her hair was equally equivocal. Either it was the kind of tangle that was deliberately fashionable, or was the result of being out in a hailstorm. It seemed to have wilted flowers in it.

  But how to answer her question? He thought for a minute. Adam Greenleaf was not staying in the hotel as such, but he was staying on the estate. So in a sense, Nell and he were under the same hospitality umbrella. ‘Indeed,’ Jason said.

  He was perturbed to see an expression of absolute horror on the young woman’s face. ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, leaping from her seat, scattering his napkin and knocking over a glass which, fortunately, was empty. A few diners at nearby tables looked round.

  The hotel manager’s eyes widened, but, consummate professional that he was, he moved swiftly to control the situation. ‘I meant, indeed, he’s not staying here,’ Jason amended quickly.

  ‘Not staying here?’ Nell felt floppy with relief.

  ‘The young man to whom you refer is definitely not a guest in this hotel.’

  ‘He’s not, um, staying locally, though?’ Nell made herself ask. She braced herself for the answer.

  Local, Jason was thinking. Was Bess’s Tower local? It was right at the other side of the estate. For many people round here that practically counted as a foreign country. ‘Not so far as I know, madam.’

  He was rewarded with a smile from his guest. ‘Good. Thank you. Um. Can I see the wine list, please?’ Now all that was over she needed a large glass or three.

  She was halfway down the first one and feeling much better when Rachel appeared, beaming, in the dining room. She had changed out of her vintage Dior and was wearing a smart black dress which was scarcely less elegant. She had fantastic taste, Nell thought, aware of the eyes following her friend. Aware, now, too, of her own grubby outfit.

  ‘Juno OK?’ she asked, as Rachel sat down.

  Rachel was pouring herself a glass of wine. The candlelight played on her vivid little face. ‘I’ve left her tucked up with Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? She’s having a lovely time.’

  ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Nell said warmly. Juno’s tastes may not be those of other children her age, but Nell liked her all the more for it. Juno was definitely her own person. More her own person, in fact, than practically anyone Nell had ever come across.

  Rachel’s smile widened. ‘I’m glad you think so. Most people think she’s odd. You know, with her Agatha Christie fixation and everything.’

  ‘Well, I guess that came in useful,’ Nell admitted, thinking of the phone call to Carrington’s. It had been an unquestioningly impressive piece of detective work. Painful though they were, Juno’s discoveries had shed some light on the Joey mystery. Enough to make Nell not want to probe further when she called the agent’s on Monday.

  A handsome, bearded waiter had appeared to take their order. ‘Today’s special is pan-fried scallops with blasmatic drizzle and Maris Piper shepherd’s pie infused with sake.’ He pronounced it to rhyme with ‘hake’.

  Rachel stared up at him. ‘Infused with what?’

  The boy grinned. ‘Some sorta Japanese wine. You drink it ’ot.’

  ‘We’ll have one of each,’ Rachel said. ‘They sound lovely.’

  The waiter, looking gratified, went off. Rachel was so kind, Nell thought. It was one of her most striking characteristics. Hopefully she would be kind about what Nell now planned to ask her.

  ‘Erm, about going back to London. Can I come back to London with you tomorrow? I thought that maybe I could sleep on your floor.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Rachel said mildly, not looking up from the menu. ‘I would, but I’ve got the painters in. They’re keeping all their stuff in my box room.’

  Nell stared at her disbelievingly over the table. That Rachel would not meet her eye increased her doubts. This was the first she had heard of painters. It sounded like an excuse.

  ‘It would only be for one night. I’m going to take my flat off the market. Move back in downstairs.’

  If she had thought this would please Rachel, she was wrong. Her friend’s face was a picture of indignation. ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not?’ Nell was puzzled. It was her flat, was it not? Mingled with her surprise was hurt. Didn’t Rachel want her back? They could take up where they had left off. Develop their friendship.

  ‘Because I met the couple who’d put the offer in. I didn’t want to say before, because they’re this couple of lovey-dovey newlyweds.’

  ‘Oh?’ Nell was at a loss to see why she, of all people, should sympathise with lovey-dovey newlyweds.

  ‘They’re really sweet and they said 19a was their dream home. They’d looked all over London and they were so glad to find it.’

  Nell frowned. ‘But I’ll be homeless if I sell it to them.’

  Rachel met her gaze steadily. ‘It’s not their fault, what happened to you.’

  Nell felt her insides twisting in irritation, as well as jealousy. How could Rachel side with a couple of anonymous drippy lovers against her? But there was something in Rachel’s face that warned her to leave the argument for now.

  However, she was going back to London tomorrow, Nell resolved, whatever her friend thought to the contrary. She’d just stay in a hotel. And if Rachel wouldn’t give her a lift, she’d get the train.

  CHAPTER 23

  Even to the disenchanted Dylan, Bess’s Tower, in its woodland clearing, looked like something out of a fairy tale. Built of pale stone, it was a tall, narrow fort formed by a quartet of towers that stood closely together like a group of pencils standing on end.

  The pencils were fitted with leaded windows on three floors and were capped at the top with decorative lead domes. Between the front two pencils, at the base of the building, was a small, white, arched wooden door with black iron fittings. Rising up between the domes on the roof was a flagpole.

  The way up to the tower was via a narrow tarmac road that wound blackly between the green trees. As Dylan had ascended he had noticed that visitors thinned out considerably once the terrain started to rise. The tourists tended to stay close to the cafés and shops, which was no doubt how the estate liked it. There were a few brave and energetic souls on the lower slopes, but once you got as high up as this, you were on your own.

  He had not expected anything as dramatic as the building standing in the clearing at the end of the track, and now, as he parked his car, he felt a faint but nonetheless definite leap of excitement.

  He was pleased to see that, sitting at the top of the shallow flight of stairs leading to the front door, was a jute shopper. This, presumably, was the ‘Countess’ hamper, chosen at random from the catalogue of holiday cottage catering options Jason had pressed on him, including a private chef. The estate had jumped to it, Dylan thought approvingly, to get the hamper up here so quickly.

  He found the key safe and liberated the key. The white wooden door opened into a small hall. A pine dining table had some yellow roses in a vase. Everything was very clean. To the left was a plain stone fireplace, and a door led from the right into a kitchen. Dylan could see units and a mixer tap silhouetted against a lattice window. There was a pleasant, spicy scent of pot-pourri in the air.

  Closing the front door behind him, Dylan felt a welcome sense of safety. He put the shopper on the table and went into the sitting room. A fire was made up ready for lighting in the fireplace; spills of newspaper poked between a neat pile of coal and there was a woven basket beside it filled with logs.

  There was a pink velour armchair in one of the corners; Dylan went to it and sat down. Branches nodded outside the windows; their shadows and that of the criss-cross leading, cast by a fitfully gleaming sun, moved on the whitewashed wall. It was soothing to
watch. Dylan felt peaceful, and his head heavy. Within minutes he was asleep.

  What seemed like minutes later, he awoke. But several hours had evidently passed; the shadows were on a different wall and the light was a different colour. Formerly white and bright, it was now a rich amber. The sun was setting.

  Hungry, Dylan unpacked the hamper he had left on the table. The ‘Countess’ contained a surprising amount: a bunch of sausages of stupendous fatness, smoked bacon in thick, lardy slices, a loaf of white bread, a bag of perfectly ripe tomatoes, butter, milk, tea and coffee. Further delving revealed fruit scones, a small pot of jam and a packet of biscuits, all with labels bearing the estate logo. There was also a box of a dozen eggs, a bottle of white wine, a bag of cashew nuts and a plastic-sealed joint of boiled ham. Plus a pork pie and a small jar of ‘The Earl’s Favourite Green Tomato Chutney’.

  Dylan went into the small but functional kitchen. Every surface shone and sparkled. He pulled out a pan and placed on it some rashers of bacon. It was the sort that, cooked long and thoroughly, made superlative bacon sandwiches; he could dip the bread in the sizzling fat. And the tomatoes. He sliced them, stuck them under the bacon, and put the whole lot under the grill.

  Then he set off to explore the bedrooms. Downstairs, reached by two twists of a shallow spiral flight, was a room with two white single beds, each with a pale blue cushion and a small pile of pale blue towels.

  At the bottom of each bed was a vintage varnished pine trunk and on the wall was a large framed sepia photograph of a great line of children in pinafores and knickerbockers.

  The first floor was reached via three twists of the spiral staircase, with its banister of rope attached to the wall with iron rings. The main bedroom contained a double bed topped with a peculiar headboard of contorted branches. The adjoining bathroom had a shiny new white bath with, above it, the broad silver head of a power shower. The loo was drum-shaped and of a black plastic material, faintly iridescent. As Dylan entered the room, the lid rose of its own accord and tinny classical music started to play.