Do Not Disturb

by Bagshawe, Tilly

  He still regretted the way things had ended between them. With hindsight, he could see he’d overreacted. What the hell had he been thinking, taking love life advice from Lucas of all people? Lucas, who wouldn’t know true love if it bit him in the ass and whistled Dixie? It was like asking Donald Trump for a lesson in humility. He’d have liked to have had the chance to say sorry, at least. But the moment for apologies had long since passed. Sian probably wouldn’t even remember him. And anyway, he had Bianca now.

  Even so, he’d lost count of the times he’d sat in front of his screen at work, struggling to compose a suitably casual e-mail, congratulating her on her writing and just saying hello. But he always lost his nerve before he pressed send.

  “Ben!” Nikki crept up behind him and made him jump. Why were all the women in his family cursed with voices that sounded like pneumatic drills boring into bedrock? “What are you doing hiding in here? We all want to talk to you about Bianca. You needn’t think you’re off the hook.”

  “Heaven forbid,” muttered Ben, shutting the paper like a guilty teenager caught fingering a porno mag, as he walked into the other room to face the inevitable music.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A FEW DAYS later, in a restaurant overlooking the Seine, Lucas leaned back in the comfort of his padded Louis XIV chair and inhaled deeply and luxuriantly on a Gitane. His temporary move to Paris had provided a perfect excuse to take up smoking again. In fact, without his pack a day of lethally strong French cigarettes, he doubted he would have made it through the stress of the last two months.

  Hotel construction was always hell, but French contractors were a unique breed of nightmare. The union regulations here made Ibiza look like a walk in the park, and the local officials took more bribes in a week than your average banana republic dictator saw in a year. But somehow, after untold sleepless nights and near misses, they’d pulled the thing off. Luxe Paris was open for business.

  Come to think of it, “they” was probably pushing it. In Ibiza, Connor had shown a token interest in proceedings, but he’d been against the Paris hotel from the start, leaving Lucas to carry the can completely solo. Not that he minded. He preferred to work alone and was finding Armstrong’s worrywart tendencies increasingly annoying. The business was taking off faster than either of them had imagined, and global interest in the Luxe brand was already building at a satisfyingly robust pace. But while Lucas sprinted to meet these challenges, full of optimism and energy, Connor hung back in the shadows like a nervous old woman, muttering about the dangers of overextending and the importance of sticking to the business plan.

  If it carried on much longer, Lucas would have to start scouting around for a new backer, although buying Connor out wouldn’t be easy. But for now, sadly, they were still in this together, and he struggled to hide his irritation over lunch, as Connor regaled him with one self-aggrandizing anecdote after another.

  “Do you enjoy your meal, messieurs?”

  The shy, very young waitress serving them blushed as she presented their bill. Lucas, for one, welcomed the interruption to Connor’s interminable monologue and smiled at her warmly. But Connor was annoyed.

  “I’ve had better,” he said gracelessly. “But don’t worry, love. I always tip pretty waitresses, no matter how crap the chef.” He winked and, pulling out a wad of large bills, allowed one to flutter down onto the table like a falling leaf, as if to indicate how little it meant to a man as rich as himself.

  “Oh, non, non, monsieur.” The girl shook her head. “C’est trop. Is far too much. I bring you change.”

  “It’s nothing,” leered Connor. Reaching around, he groped her ass so blatantly the poor creature jumped a mile. “Now take it and skedaddle, all right, gorgeous? Before I get carried away.”

  Lucas felt his fists twitching. Jerk. It was all he could do not to lean over the table and slam Connor’s boorish features down on the wood so hard his nose would break. But he managed to restrain himself. Until he had another partner lined up, he needed Connor.

  “So,” Connor smiled, unaware anything was wrong. “The Herrick’s been nominated in the Relais Chateaux rankings. D’you see that? Apparently it’s a two-horse race between them and the Post Ranch for the number one spot. I bet your mate Anton’s pleased.”

  Lucas inhaled even more deeply on his cigarette and struggled to keep his temper. To Connor, his rivalry with Anton and Petra had always been a big joke. But this was one subject about which Lucas would never see the funny side.

  “When are we gonna get that kind of recognition, eh?” Connor delighted in pushing his buttons.

  “When you toss me enough money to buy off the judging panel, you clueless fuckwit,” was what he wanted to say. But he settled for a more straightforward lie.

  “I’m not interested in the Herrick,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette so violently that it snapped in two. “They’re welcome to their five minutes of fame. Relais Chateaux don’t know their ass from their elbow, anyway.”

  In fact, ever since the nominations were published last week, Lucas had been consumed by a rage so violent he could barely sleep. Not that he wasn’t enjoying his own fair share of recognition: if Anton was the industry’s god and Petra its queen bee, then Lucas was without doubt its favorite prodigal son. Word was spreading that Luxe Ibiza and now Luxe Paris were the hot new vacation destinations in Europe, and with only fifteen rooms apiece, competition for prime-season bookings was fierce. The Ibiza hotel’s waiting list already read like a Who’s Who of the European A-list, and Lucas had no doubts that even the notoriously sleepy Relais Chateaux would catch on to their success eventually.

  But with the Herrick up for the number one spot, his own success suddenly lost all its sweetness. Nor had it escaped his notice that all but one of the names in the top five were American hotels. Conquering Europe was no longer enough. He had to claw his way back into the US market and blow Anton Tisch out of the water for good.

  As much as it preoccupied him, returning to the States remained a frightening prospect. Anton had seen to it that his name remained mud in the US industry. Going back would be tough, no question. He couldn’t afford to fail a second time.

  “I tell you what,” said Connor, still determined to get a rise out of Lucas before their meal was done. “That Russki bint’s no slouch in the looks department. I’d do her over Honor Palmer any day. Here, take a look.”

  Reaching into his briefcase, he handed Lucas a copy of the latest Robb Report, open at a three-page feature on the Tischen Group. In the section devoted to the Herrick was a small sidebar mentioning Palmers, with an accompanying head shot of Honor. Set beside it was a much bigger picture of Petra, Rosa Klebb–like as ever in a severe black suit, standing in front of the Herrick. She had her arms spread wide in a “Look at me! This is all mine!” pose, and her thin, Slavic lips were wrenched up at the corners in a stiff attempt at a smile. If she was trying to look welcoming, she failed miserably. She looked like Jack Nicholson’s Joker, only creepier, and with Carol Brady hair. How Connor, or indeed anyone, could fancy her was quite beyond Lucas.

  To the right of her picture, she’d given a quote about Anton (“my mentor”) that was so grovelingly sycophantic Lucas had to look away. His eyes were drawn instead to the small picture of Honor.

  What a change! Although it was only a head shot, she looked unrecognizable from the boyish, spiky-haired virago he remembered. In a pale-lemon silk blouse, with her dark hair now grown out almost to her shoulders and cut in soft, feathery layers around her face, she was suddenly all woman. The razor-sharp cheekbones were as unforgivingly beautiful as ever, but the light tan and smattering of freckles she’d acquired over the summer made them somehow less regal and forbidding. And was that a pearl necklace she was wearing? The last time Lucas had seen Honor, she might just about have stretched to a signet ring but otherwise had an allergy to jewelry almost as strong as her aversion to makeup and feminine clothes. Had it not been for those narrowed, emerald-green cat’s eyes, b
attle-ready as ever, he wouldn’t have believed it was the same girl.

  Her new look wasn’t the only thing that drew his attention. He’d always suspected there was a vulnerability lurking behind Honor’s bravado. Now, in this picture, he could actually see it for the first time. There was something bravely tragic about her, like the Polish cavalrymen charging hopelessly on horseback against the incoming German tanks; or the brave Southern soldiers making their doomed stand against the Yankees at Gettysburg. It was a miracle Palmers hadn’t folded by now, battered by scandals, then drowned by the tidal wave of the Herrick’s success. But it hadn’t—not yet, anyway. Somehow, like a lone, desperate shipwreck survivor, Honor had managed to keep the place alive. He found himself wanting to reach into the page and rescue her and wished more than anything that she didn’t still believe that he was the one who’d betrayed her and Tina.

  Staring at the tiny picture of her face, thousands of miles away, he suddenly had a revelation. It wasn’t only Palmers Honor was fighting for. It was the whole way of life that the hotel represented. A quieter, gentler, more decent way of life. A way of life that the likes of Anton and Petra and Connor Armstrong didn’t understand. He hadn’t understood it either, back in his own Herrick days. But he did now. The irony was that in a way, it was the same magic that he was trying to create with his Luxes, albeit in a different vein. A magic that the global chains like Ritz-Carlton and Tischen were intent on destroying, no matter what the cost.

  “You all right?” Connor’s Americanized drawl broke his concentration. “You’ve gone all comatose on me.”

  “I’m fine,” snapped Lucas. “I’m reading.”

  Against his better judgment, he turned back to Petra’s interview.

  I really can’t claim much credit for our success this year, she told the reporter. Anton Tisch is a genius. His hotels sell themselves.

  Jesus. She had her forked tongue so far up Anton’s anus you could probably see it when he opened his mouth.

  My only real challenge was to rebuild our reputation and relationships locally, she went on. I don’t want to remind people of the way my predecessor behaved, she said, reminding people. That’s not what the Tischen Family is all about. But I think the trust is slowly coming back. I know Honor Palmer. We get on well.

  Lucas choked on his espresso at that. Everybody in the business knew that Honor and Petra loathed each other.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Connor, retrieving his magazine before Lucas sprayed coffee all over it. “Before I go, I want to talk to you about that interview in the Times.”

  “What about it?” said Lucas.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think you should do it.”

  Lucas pulled out another Gitane and lit it. “Sorry,” he said. “Too late. I spoke to the journalist this morning.”

  After the flurry of interest in Luxe Paris, a writer for the London Times had asked for a no-holds-barred interview with Lucas. They were going for the rags-to-riches angle, focusing on his impoverished childhood. But Lucas had dropped heavy, enticing hints that he also wanted to discuss his “feud” with Anton Tisch, and it was this aspect that worried Connor.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he growled. “Why didn’t you discuss it with me first? You know how litigious Tisch is. Please tell me you didn’t bang on about your ridiculous conspiracy theory and Anton being out to get you.”

  “It’s not a conspiracy theory,” snapped Lucas, losing his cool. “It’s a fact. That bastard set me up, and he’s been out to destroy me ever since. Why do you think he hired Petra as my replacement?”

  “Because she’s good?” said Connor. “Because he wanted to get his leg over? I don’t fucking know. So what did you say?”

  Lucas took another long drag on his cigarette.

  “I may have mentioned my intention to open another Luxe in America. And I may possibly have said that it would piss all over the Herrick when we do open.”

  “What! Why?” spluttered Connor, his florid face turning an even deeper shade of puce. “We’ve discussed this, Lucas. I am not going to be bullied into overextending our franchise just because you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about Anton bloody Tisch. The US was never in the business plan. We are not opening there, and that’s final. You’ll have to call the journalist and retract it.”

  Lucas shrugged. “Fine. I’ll call him.”

  He had no intention of doing any such thing, but he didn’t have the energy to debate the issue with Connor. In any case, there was no point. Today’s lunch had crystallized his decision once and for all: he needed a new partner. Connor Armstrong had served his purpose, but he didn’t have the vision to carry the Luxe brand to the next glorious stage in its future. And he was a dickhead.

  There was a global conference coming up in the new year, in Vegas. He’d scout around for a suitable new backer there. In the meantime, he had enough work on his plate in Europe to last him a lifetime, not to mention the small matter of finding a suitable site for Luxe America.

  As he’d told the Times journalist only a few hours ago, East Hampton had a good ring to it. After all, the town was crying out for at least one really world-class hotel…

  A few days after Lucas’s lunch in Paris, Honor ducked into the East Hampton market, grateful for the blast of warm air that enveloped her as she slipped through the automatic doors.

  “Good grief, it’s cold out there!” She smiled at the checkout girl, who smiled back. “Can you believe it’s still only October?”

  “Gonna be below freezing tonight, they said on the radio,” said the girl. “Better bundle up.”

  Honor shivered at the thought. With the electrics at Palmers now on their very last legs—“borrowed time” was how the last engineer to inspect the system had described it—she’d been trying to use the central heating as little as possible in the public areas, relying instead on open fires. Happily, the guests all much preferred this arrangement, but if this cold snap continued she’d need more than pine logs to keep out the chill.

  Unfortunately, time wasn’t the only thing that Honor had borrowed recently, in her increasingly desperate attempts to shore up the hotel. The scandals of three years ago had hit the business hard, and she was now remortgaged up to the hilt. New hotels like the Herrick could get away with a high guest turnover and expected to see different faces around the poolside every season. But Palmers relied on her regulars, families who returned to the hotel like clockwork every summer and Christmas. When they started defecting, as they did in droves after Tina’s sex tape, Palmers’ profits went into free fall. Thanks to a relentless and bravely fought rearguard action, Honor had managed gradually to claw some of these deserters back. But it was a long and arduous process, and in the meantime Anton was pouring money into the Herrick like Croesus, funding ever more indulgent facilities—an Olympic-size mud bath was his latest folly—making it harder and harder for her or anyone to compete. How could Palmers not look tired and shabby when up the hill Petra was offering diamond-dust facials and eight-handed massage in his-and-hers Polynesian love-pools, whatever the hell they were.

  Things had been tough for Honor on the personal front too. Her affair with Devon, not to mention Tina’s sex-and-drugs shame, had shaken sleepy East Hampton to its judgmental, Republican core. Only now, three years later, was Honor finally beginning to be accepted again.

  A number of circumstances had conspired to help ease her back into the social fold. Firstly, Devon had rented out his Hamptons summer home and decamped to Boston for good, so he and Karis weren’t around to remind people of what had happened. Last Honor heard, they were still together and (outwardly, at least) happy. They’d even bought a new place on Martha’s Vineyard, where Devon was apparently already busy reinventing himself as a local politician and general all-around good guy. Good luck to him. Thankfully, his wannabe-Kennedy fantasies weren’t Honor’s problem anymore.

  Secondly, Palmers was visibly struggling, and everybody loved an underdog, particularly a homegrown one. Th
irdly, and perhaps most importantly from Honor’s point of view, there was the Petra factor.

  Whatever she might have told the Robb Report, the Herrick’s new manager was in fact universally loathed by the locals. Many of the older generation were simply anti-Russian: the “poor Ron Reagan would be spinning in his grave,” “once a commie, always a commie” brigade. But even the younger, more broad-minded Hamptonites rapidly took against Petra’s frosty, regal bearing, not to mention her complete disregard for the local community and its wishes.

  She’d made things worse at one of the few local events she’d deigned to attend—a charity auction on behalf of the Make-A-Wish foundation—by refusing to join Honor in auctioning herself off to local businessmen as a double date.

  “Come on, Ms. Kamalski.” Walt Cannon, the rotund, sweet-natured former mayor who was organizing the event tried to egg her on. “It’s just for fun. And remember, it’s all for the kids in the end.”

  “I’ve already made a donation,” said Petra haughtily. “A generous one, I might add. I’m afraid prostituting myself to men I don’t know is not my idea of fun, Mr. Cannon. I’ll leave that sort of thing to Miss Palmer.”

  From that remark on, it was open war between Honor and Petra, and the town knew whose side it was on. With the Wicked Witch of the West installed up the street, it was inevitable that Honor would eventually be reinstated as Dorothy, albeit a morally tainted one. Her new, more feminine style helped too. It was so much easier to feel protective toward a woman who looked like a woman and not a K.D. Lang–alike who might pull a jackknife on you at any moment.

  Unfortunately, it would take a lot more than local goodwill to save Palmers. Honor could no longer afford to keep topping up the hotel’s coffers from the family trust, especially not now that she had interest to pay on the whopping new mortgage. Lise, her wicked stepmonster, had successfully sued Trey’s estate last year for a bigger payout, swanning off to the Bahamas with her new tennis instructor boyfriend and a chunk of Honor and Tina’s inheritance. The judge must have fallen for her sob story. Either that or her gravity-defying new boob job, which Lise had displayed in court to great effect in a low-cut Roland Mouret dress. (Black, of course. She was mourning, after all.)