Do Not Disturb

by Bagshawe, Tilly

  Down on the beach, a gathering crowd stared in horrified silence at the inferno, held back by more police as well as the natural barrier of smoke and heat. Like a zombie, Honor joined them, unable to speak or move as a third fire truck pulled up and its occupants began pumping yet more water at the blaze.

  She didn’t know why they bothered. It was clearly too late. Rushing around like red-suited termites, the firemen reminded her of desperate parents, trying to give mouth-to-mouth to an already-dead baby. Her baby. Next to the thirty-foot flames, which roared and leaped and licked the sky like the forked tongues of some giant lizard, their puny jets of water and foam were as ineffectual as water pistols in a volcano. Palmers was already a charred skeleton. The fire had consumed her alive, like a flesh-eating virus.

  “Hey. Hey, you! What are you doing?”

  One of the spectators, a middle-aged man watching the drama with his family, shouted out as Honor slipped through the police lines and ran kamikaze-like toward the hotel.

  She couldn’t hear the man, or anything other than the wild beating of her own heart. All she knew was that some force outside herself was pulling her forward, oblivious of the searing heat and choking fumes that poured down her throat and into her lungs like poison. Closing her eyes, she stumbled blindly on.

  “Over there!” The man grabbed hold of one of the firefighters and pointed. “Some crazy girl just ran into the building. Look!”

  “Where?” yelled the fireman.

  “Over there!”

  Within seconds, he and two of his buddies were inside. Thankfully, Honor hadn’t made it more than a few feet into what used to be the kitchens, so they spotted her almost at once. Dragging her outside, disoriented and barely conscious, they handed her over to the waiting paramedics.

  “Shit. It’s Honor Palmer,” Honor could hear one of them saying.

  “Miss Palmer?” asked a second voice. “Honor, can you hear us?”

  But before she could tell them that she could, the voices, and everything else, had gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE NEXT SIX weeks were the worst of Honor’s life.

  Confined against her will to a recuperation ward in Southampton Hospital (“I assure you, Miss Palmer,” said Dr. Reeves, her consultant, firmly, “if I catch you trying to discharge yourself one more time, I’ll have you committed. Do you understand the damage you’ve done to your lungs?”) she spent the bulk of her days having increasingly circular, frustrating conversations with the insurance agents, who were determined to link what happened to the hotel’s substandard wiring, despite hard forensic evidence that it had not been an electrical fire.

  “Why do you keep asking me these questions?” she complained, for the hundredth time. “The police report was clear; it was arson.”

  “Our investigators have yet to determine that,” said the charmless girl sent to interview her. She couldn’t have been much over twenty-one but had already developed the hardened, cynical manner common among her profession. She was dressed all in black, like a particularly unsympathetic funeral director. “And even if they do, the fact that you failed to bring your electrical wiring up to code, despite repeated warnings, may well prejudice your claim even if it was arson. Which we dispute,” she added with a smile that made Honor want to rip the clipboard out of her hands and ram it down her scrawny, heartless throat.

  Thankfully, the police were more sympathetic, although their sympathy had yet to translate into progress.

  A few days after the fire, an earnest cop had shown up by her bedside, armed with a long printout of questions.

  “Do you have any enemies, Miss Palmer?” he began gently. “I know it’s difficult. But can you think of anyone who might want to cause you or your family harm?”

  Honor laughed bitterly. “How long have you got, detective?”

  The cops seemed quite certain that the fire had been set deliberately, and it wasn’t a case of some careless guest forgetting to stub out their cigarette. But despite a list of possible suspects as long as the East Hampton telephone directory—disgruntled former employees, business rivals, embittered lovers—there were actually very few people that Honor could imagine going to such extreme, criminal lengths to hurt her. She thought briefly of Karis Carter, but quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous. If Karis were the crazed, vengeful type, she’d have acted long before now. Who else? Her greedy cousins, the Fosters, were too stupid, not to mention gutless. Lise wouldn’t have had the energy or the foresight to start a fire. Besides, she was so plastic she’d probably be terrified of melting, like the wicked witch that she was.

  There was a suggestion that Tina’s former Mafia connections might have had something to do with it, but as far as Honor could tell, this was a theory based more on a lack of any other leads than on anything more concrete. Not even the policeman who’d suggested it seemed particularly convinced.

  Honor had had to be physically restrained by two nurses when the cop informed her that her insurance company had hinted to the police that she herself should not be considered above suspicion.

  “They simply asked us not to formally close any avenue of inquiry at this stage,” explained the hapless officer. “To be fair to them, it’s no secret that your business was in some trouble financially at the time the fire occurred.”

  “So what?” Honor was practically foaming at the mouth. “You think I torched my own hotel? Palmers was my life! There were people in there, for Christ’s sake. Guests, staff. Friends of mine. It’s a miracle nobody lost their life.”

  As with previous tragedies in her life—her mother’s death, the feud with Trey, being abandoned by Devon—the worst part for Honor was the feeling of utter helplessness. It wasn’t just Palmers that had burned to the ground that day. All her hopes for the future had perished with it.

  Tina finally stopped by the hospital for a visit a week after Honor was admitted. She’d been too busy partying up a storm in Manhattan to come any sooner.

  “So what’ll you do?” she asked, devouring the bunch of seedless grapes she’d brought for Honor while flicking through a gossip magazine. “Go back to Boston?”

  Secretly, Tina was rather enjoying all the drama. The Palmers fire was the most fun she’d had since the sex tape came out. Talk show producers were once again beating down her door for interviews, and photographers tailed her whenever she went out for coffee. It was fabulous! Plus, with Honor incapacitated in hospital, it fell to her to show the world just how the devastated (but plucky) Palmer sisters were coping with the tragedy. No one could turn a sob story into TV gold better than Tina.

  “I guess I will go back to Boston. For now,” said Honor, wincing as the nurse changed one of the dressings on her arm. As well as serious smoke inhalation, she’d suffered extensive burning to her arms and hands and had already undergone one skin graft. She’d never known pain like it. “But as soon as I’ve screwed my goddamn money out of these insurance leeches, I’m coming back. I’m gonna rebuild Palmers just as she was. Brick by brick.”

  “Really?” Tina put down the magazine and looked at her skeptically. “You don’t think maybe the fire was a sign? You know, like, time to move on? Open a new chapter in your life? Just think of all the things you could do with that insurance money.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Tina. “Whatever you want. Move to Paris. Buy a fuck-off yacht. Give it to charity. Who cares?”

  Honor looked horrified.

  “The only thing it’s a sign of,” she said grimly, “is that someone’s determined to run us out of town. But they picked the wrong family to mess with. Palmers will be back, and it’ll be bigger and better than ever.”

  Tina wasn’t the only one who felt her sister’s obsession with rebuilding the hotel might be a sign of mental instability.

  “She won’t let it go,” she told Dr. Reeves. “I’m actually worried about her. She’s turning into a fucking fruit loop.”

  “I wouldn’t quite put it
that way,” said the doctor. But he was also concerned about his patient’s state of mind. So far Honor had been unable to give the psychiatric team any explanation for why she’d run into a blazing building on the brink of collapse when she already knew there was nobody left inside. She denied being suicidal and claimed her mind had simply gone blank. But combined with her frequent outbursts of temper and repeated attempts to check herself out of the hospital long before she’d made a full recovery, these delusional fantasies about reopening Palmers as early as next year were a real cause for concern. Anyone could see it wasn’t going to happen.

  At long last, one crisp, late-November morning, Honor’s release day dawned. She still wore bandages on her arms, and it would be two more weeks before she could risk taking a proper shower. But otherwise, save for a lack of exercise, she was in good health, and Dr. Reeves had run out of excuses to force more rest on her.

  “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to get you to go somewhere peaceful and continue your recuperation?” he asked.

  He’d stopped by her room to formally discharge her and was dismayed to find Honor hopping about impatiently, rechecking her long-completed packing. She was itching to get on the phone to her lawyer and see what could be done to pressurize the insurers, but she didn’t dare turn on her cell phone in front of Dr. Reeves in case he ordered her back to bed again. Secretly she was terrified that the horrible girl agent was right and she had voided her insurance by putting off that electrical work. Then she’d be ruined, and it would all be her own fault.

  “Nope,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “There’s nothing you can say. So don’t even try.”

  Watching his patient fidgeting, the doctor smiled. She’d gained a little weight during her stay, but it suited her. In a coral-pink cashmere dress that clung to her like a second skin, you couldn’t miss the fact that her small apple breasts had swelled into grapefruits, and the cheeks that had looked so sunken and hollow when she was first admitted were now fuller and rounded with health. When she’d first arrived in her scorched sweatpants, she had looked so skinny and angular, making love to her would have been like sticking your dick into a fistful of thistles. This new, softer, smiling Honor was really much more alluring.

  “Your friend’s here to pick you up, by the way,” he said, signing the requisite papers and dragging his thoughts back to the professional matters at hand. “And please let him carry your suitcase. None of your feminist nonsense today, all right? Don’t even think of overexerting yourself.”

  “Friend?” Honor looked puzzled. “What friend?”

  She hadn’t asked anybody to pick her up, other than the car service that was coming to take her to the airport for her three o’clock flight to Boston.

  “Hello, Honor.”

  She spun around. For a moment she thought the good doctor must have slipped something into her water and she was hallucinating. For there, leaning against the doorway looking lean and tanned in a blue open-necked shirt, with his raven curls so long they were almost at his shoulders, stood Lucas.

  “We’re good now, thanks Doc,” he said, shaking the doctor’s hand as he ushered him out. Honor could see that in his other hand he held a small bouquet of peonies, her favorite flowers, although Lucas couldn’t have known that.

  “I’ll take care of her from here.”

  “Make sure you do,” said the doctor, jovially. “She’s a handful, this one.” And with a last smile at Honor, he was gone.

  Annoyingly, for the crucial first few seconds, Honor was too flabbergasted to get a single word out. But inside her mind was racing.

  What the hell was Lucas doing here, looking like a rock star just back from a relaxing break in the Maldives, while she looked pale and pasty and…in fact, screw all that, what the hell was he doing here, period?

  “I’m calling security,” she spluttered.

  “Now that’s not very welcoming, is it?” said Lucas, his upper lip curling in amusement. “Aren’t you at least going to put these in some water first?”

  “No.” Snatching the peonies, Honor flung them on the bed. “Thank you,” she added, automatically. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m leaving. Right now. I have a plane to catch.”

  Ignoring Dr. Reeves’s express instructions, she picked up her heavy case and began struggling toward the door. But Lucas was too quick for her. Placing a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder, he prized the suitcase easily from her grip.

  “You heard the doctor,” he said bossily. “You’re not to lift anything. I’ll do it. Nice dress, by the way. And the long hair’s a big improvement.”

  Honor erupted. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” she demanded. “If you came to gloat, consider it done already, OK? Get the hell out of my face.”

  “Why would I come to gloat?”

  He cocked his head to one side like a confused puppy. If Honor didn’t know what a scheming, self-obsessed bastard he was, she might almost have found it endearing. As it was, his feigned innocence only fanned the flames of her fury.

  “Because my hotel is gone,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears despite herself. “Because you’ve got what you wanted at last.”

  Lucas put down the suitcase. “This is not what I wanted,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah. Right. Whatever,” said Honor.

  “Maybe it was once, years ago. But not anymore.” He looked up, willing her to believe him, but she glared implacably back. “I was in town anyway, scouting out possible sites for my new Luxe—”

  “That’s great for you,” said Honor bitterly.

  “I knew about the fire, obviously, but it wasn’t until I got here that I realized you’d been hurt. As soon as I heard, I came straight to the hospital. I wanted to say how sorry I was, and to see if there was anything I could do. You know, to help.”

  “There is,” said Honor, deadpan. “Drop dead.”

  Lucas sighed. Her feminine makeover clearly didn’t extend to her personality, or her language.

  “Do you really think I could ever forgive you, after what you did to me? Not to mention Tina?”

  “Oh, come on.” Lucas’s voice was rising with exasperation. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? Your sister’s tape had nothing to do with me. It was Anton. He set her up. He set us both up, can’t you see that?”

  “No,” said Honor stubbornly. “I can’t.”

  Lucas had been the enemy for so long, the idea of casting him in any other role was almost frightening. She must hold on to her anger or she’d be lost.

  “So what about leaking that story about me and Devon?” she challenged him. “You’re gonna tell me that was Anton too, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” said Lucas calmly. “It was. Jesus. You’ll be accusing me of starting that fucking fire next.”

  Honor narrowed her eyes. “Did you?”

  “No!”

  Not sure what to think anymore, she sank down onto the bed. All this arguing was beginning to tire her out.

  “You know, for a smart woman you can be incredibly stupid at times,” said Lucas. “Granted, I may have said some unpleasant things about you in the press when the Herrick first launched—”

  “May have?” Honor looked at him, incredulous.

  “Hey, you weren’t whiter than white either, you know,” Lucas reminded her. “So up yourself, so fucking self-righteous. My God! Anyone would think you had a divine right to the East Hampton market. You said some terrible things about me back then, too.”

  Honor simmered furiously but didn’t say anything. She supposed he might be very, very slightly right on that one.

  “I told you I’d keep my mouth shut about you and Carter, and I did. I wouldn’t have put Lola through all that crap on purpose.”

  “Right. Because you cared so much about Lola,” Honor shot back. “I could tell that the night I caught you in my hot tub with my sister’s head between your legs. That guy, I thought, is all about his girlfriend. Talk about loyalty. You were quite the gentleman.”r />
  “You know what?” Lucas sprang angrily to his feet. “Believe what you want.”

  He was through trying to convince her. He’d actually come here to bury the hatchet. Because he’d thought about her almost every day since he’d left. Because when he heard she might be seriously hurt, he felt like someone had kicked him hard in the stomach and wouldn’t stop. But there was no point offering an olive branch to Honor. All she wanted to do was beat him over the head with it.

  “I have a hotel to build,” he said, storming out.

  “Oh yeah?” Honor yelled after his retreating back as he disappeared down the corridor. “Well, guess what? So do I! Asshole. You haven’t heard the last of Palmers yet, you hear me?”

  But Lucas was already gone.

  Three thousand miles away in London, Sian sat at the table at Nobu, a fixed grin glued to her face, conjuring up mental images of the various tortures she would inflict on Lola later for suggesting tonight’s dinner.

  What in heaven’s name had possessed her to come?

  There were six of them at the table: herself and Paddy, who seemed to be having a grand old time swapping football stories with the boys and getting drunk on sake; Lola and Marti, who, as usual, spent most of dinner gazing gooily into one another’s eyes like a couple of half-wits; and Ben and Bianca.

  The dinner was intended as a thank-you to Ben for saving her ass after the whole Sir Jago Wells disaster. Once she’d finally plucked up the courage to call him, he’d gone to bat for her brilliantly, organizing a hotshot lawyer within an hour and calling her editor himself, threatening to take private legal action if the paper so much as thought about making Sian a scapegoat and denying responsibility.

  Thanks to his strong-arm tactics, she’d gotten away with just a warning from the police. But Simon, her editor, didn’t take kindly to being threatened. After three weeks of being given dead-end stories about Thames water or runaway guinea pigs, Sian took the hint and resigned from the News of the World. She was now back to freelancing again and absolutely hating it.