Meet Me at the Honeymoon Suite

CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2015

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available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

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entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008119393

Version 2015-06-29

As this is the final book in the series I’d like to take this opportunity to say a massive thank you to my amazing editor Charlotte, who has bailed me out of more head-crashing-on-desk moments in the past five years than I care to think about. Thanks also to all the team at HarperImpulse . With HI anything goes really, in terms of ideas, and that has made writing for them great fun.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

Also by Charlotte Phillips …

Charlotte Phillips

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

Amy straightened the grey jacket with the pink piping, the standard uniform for the Lavington Hotel, London, still unfamiliar against her skin after only a few days’ wear. She adjusted the name badge pinned to her lapel.

Amy Wilson – Wedding & Events Manager, it said in glossy black letters.

The M-word. How long had she been waiting to have that job title? Years of playing second-fiddle as she worked her way up from trainee via a string of provincial three-star chain hotels, doing the hard graft to pull together business meetings, courses, then later charity dinner dances, Christmas parties and weddings while someone else took the credit.

Now she was at the Lavington, the position of her dreams having dropped out of the blue into her lap via a word-of-mouth tip off. It almost felt like being headhunted. The Lavington had been left in the lurch when her predecessor had walked off the job without so much as a by your leave, and by lucky chance Amy happened to go way back with the Head Bar Manager here. They’d waited tables together one summer in the distant past. A word or two in the right ear from her friend and the job was as good as hers. To be fair, the Lavington did have its back against the wall, but that didn’t detract from the fact that she was ready for this promotion. Had been ready, in fact, for years. This was her chance at the big time. This was an up and coming boutique hotel in a fashionable area of London with its quirky décor and a sprinkling of celebrity guests beginning to lend it a bit of kudos. It was a world away from the motorway junction hotel chain she’d spent the last few years in, organising endless cheap as chips buffet events while the manager bandied the phrase ‘squeeze that margin’ about.

Still, she might have the badge but the job wasn’t quite hers – not yet. There were hoops to jump through in the form of a three month trial period. Not that she intended to need it. She knew all eyes would be on her this weekend for the first wedding of the season, one half-planned by her predecessor before her swift unexpected exit. It was up to Amy to fine tune those plans and pull the weekend off seamlessly.

With enormous effort she reined in the squiggling butterflies of excitement in her stomach as she walked down the thickly carpeted hallway toward the lounge bar where a welcoming choice of champagne or fruit juice should be set up and ready to go for the…she ran a sensibly short, nude-lacquered fingernail down the page on the top of her clipboard…Pemberton Wedding.

Pemberton.

Her quick pace faltered momentarily as the name sent a curl of nostalgia folding through her. Here was that mental stutter that has the ability to stop you in your tracks when you hear a name that takes you back to the past. Not that far into the past in this case. It had been just over a year since Luke Pemberton had left her in the back of beyond that was Purton, Wiltshire. What had seemed a happy enough relationship that would one day be taken to the next level had been stopped in its tracks when he’d had a job offer that meant moving away.

It was only the briefest of mental stutters.

Amy resumed her steady tread down the hallway, secure in the knowledge that whatever Pemberton happened to be getting married here in the plush surroundings of the Lavington, it most definitely wasn’t Luke Pemberton, formerly of Purton. Because Luke Pemberton didn’t do serious relationships. He’d made that crystal clear when he ended things between them. He was a free spirit who couldn’t be tied down – he had far too many ambitions and dreams to follow first. And when he did eventually decide to settle (probably when he was drawing his pension) it most certainly wouldn’t involve the need for a worthless piece of paper.

Luke Pemberton didn’t believe in marriage. Any more than Amy Wilson believed in happy ever afters.

Amy entered the quiet lounge to a comforting surge of relieved satisfaction when she saw the silver trays of champagne flutes just waiting to be filled and the platters of posh nibbles that were lined up at one end of the glossy bar as per her explicit instructions. A perfectly-turned-out contingent of waiting staff should be along imminently.

All she needed to do was turf out the dark-haired bloke in the jeans who was currently leaning over the bar and scrutinising the bottles on the backlit shelves at the rear. In one hand he brandished the hotel wine list, which he’d obviously swiped from one of the tables. Drink sales rep or stray hotel guest, she really didn’t care which, she only cared that he was ruining the first impression for the most important wedding party she’d handled thus far in her career. Amy glanced around, frowning. The bar attendant was nowhere in sight.

‘Excuse me, sir?’

She crossed the lounge at speed, eyes ticking off sparkling glassware and beautifully displayed flower arrangements as she went. She reached the bar as he turned to face her and wasted no time in pasting on her standard professional I-mean-business smile.

‘I’m afraid this lounge is reserved today for a private function, sir,’ she said. ‘Coffee or drinks can be ordered in the lobby, or there’s a second bar further along the hall.’

‘You know you could up your game considerably by serving a welcome cocktail,’ he said, totally ignoring her. ‘Fruit juice is just so heavy and unimaginative as a non-alcoholic option these days.’ He waved a hand at the line of bottles on the counter. ‘How about something light and refreshing like elderflower cordial? And straight champagne is so bog-standard and predictable. I’d do a twist on it. A Kir Royale, perhaps. Got to make sure you use Crème de Cassis, though, no cutting corners with syrups. Or perhaps a Bellini.’

He might as well have been speaking a different language. She stared at him.

‘A what?’

‘Champagne base again, but blended with fresh ripe peaches. Delicious and a real show stopper. Or you could use raspberries if you prefer.’

He had perfect chiselled cheekbones and blue eyes that creased at the corners as he smiled at her expectantly, as if in some laughable universe she would ever scrap the requested drink plan of the bride and groom on nothing more than the whim of a passer-by. She shook her head lightly to get it back on track. Her instincts were clearly right: bloody drinks rep. If she gave the slightest hint of encouragement he’d no doubt launch into his sales spiel.

‘Look, you really need to make an appointment with the Head Bar Manager,’ she said, knowing perfectly well how exasperated Conrad would be if she referred some random wine rep to him, but prepared to do anything to get rid of him, pronto. ‘The Lavington doesn’t accept unsolicited sales visits.’ She had no idea if this was true or not and neither did she care as long as he vacated the lounge right this second.

He grinned broadly.

‘Sales visits,’ he repeated.

‘I could have a quick word with Reception and see if they can help you.’

Anything to get him out of here in his tatty jeans and T-shirt-beneath-jacket ensemble.

‘That’s very kind of you…’ he took a step into her personal space and scrutinised her name badge ‘…Amy Wilson, Wedding and Events Manager.’

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to stop a smile bubbling up. Hearing the job title out loud gave her an inner tiny squee of satisfaction.

‘It’s this way.’

She made a move toward the double doors.

Owen Lloyd gazed after her, amused. Having arrived early, he’d been doing a quick recce of the hotel bars before the party started. From what he’d read in the press, the Lavington Hotel was becoming quite the celebrity hangout, and although he liked to think he already had hip and trendy London Cocktail Bar sewn up, it didn’t hurt to keep your eye on what the competition was up to. Now within five minutes of meeting the wedding manager he had apparently managed to inadvertently land himself a sales pitch. Who knew what he might achieve given another five minutes.

At the very least, she was extremely cute to look at with her Miss Professional attitude and sparring with her was much more fun than making a mental note of the Lavington’s range of house wines.

‘Shame not to have a drink first,’ he called after her, not moving an inch.

She turned back to him. She had honey-coloured hair that didn’t want to be pinned up, with soft tendrils escaping to curl around her face, and wide hazel eyes, currently sporting an expression of exasperated disbelief. There was a sprinkle of freckles covering her nose and a pink blush rising high on her peaches and cream cheekbones that perfectly matched the piped edging on her uniform.

He nodded toward the array of drinks on the bar.

‘Like to join me? I could even get behind that bar and mix something a bit more interesting if you like.’

‘No I would not like to join you.’ she snapped. ‘This room is reserved for-‘

‘A wedding. I know. You said. It all looks perfect.’

‘I can’t believe I’m getting sucked into an argument about drink choice. The guests will be arriving at any moment.’ She flung an exasperated hand out. ‘A wedding is, by its nature, a logistical nightmare. My position here hinges on there being a classy, beautifully welcoming atmosphere to get the weekend off to the perfect start. I simply cannot have random members of the public or salesmen wandering in wearing jeans and criticising the drink choices. Weddings and champagne go together. It’s that simple. Gin and Tonic just doesn’t cut the celebratory mustard.’

‘I didn’t say Gin and Tonic,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m talking classy, palatable, funky celebratory cocktails that get the guests talking. Champagne is so overdone.’

He reached for one of the bottles.

‘Put that down!’

He spread his hands, unable to stop a grin. She was wound up like a coiled spring.

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’

‘For Pete’s sake, how many times. Even if I didn’t have a gaggle of wedding guests turning up at any moment, I. Am. On. Duty.’

‘So am I,’ he said. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

She stared down at his hand as he held it out towards her.

‘Owen Lloyd,’ he said. ‘Best Man. At your service.’

‘You’re the best man?’

Oh just bloody perfect. She looked him up and down in his casual jeans-and-jacket combo.

‘No need to sound so surprised. It’s just a bit of partying with a speech thrown in.’

She opened her mouth to point out how utterly pivotal that role actually was, particularly in light of the fact the Lavington was hosting not only the wedding but also respective hen and stag nights for the bride and groom, but speech was sucked away by the sound of excited chatter as more guests entered the room. She turned immediately to greet them, pasting on a professional smile that faded as quickly as it arrived.

What the hell? She almost blurted.

The reality of the situation bit her squarely on the arse as she stared across the lounge. The champagne bottles, the glassware, the bloody annoying best man all suddenly melted into insignificance against the shock that fell through her stomach. She glanced back at her clipboard again, just to check she wasn’t having some insane nightmare. Then back up. Nope, he was still there.

It bloody WAS Luke Pemberton. The wedding on which her dream job hung and Mr Marriage-Phobic from her past was the bridegroom.

In half a dozen strides he was across the bar and clapping an arm around her stiff shoulders.

‘Babe! Long time no speak!’

She gaped at Luke in shock.

Somewhere in the course of the past year his accent, always working class, had somehow become more exaggerated. His reddish hair was in a thick mop style, Oasis circa 1995, and he wore drainpipe jeans, a slim-fit jacket and (most unbelievably) sunglasses, which he now removed.

‘I hardly recognised you,’ he blared, as if she’d had a head transplant rather than just aged twelve months or so.

‘Me either,’ she said. ‘You look very…er…Britpop.’

From the corner of her eye she registered Owen Lloyd grin broadly from his place next to the bar.

‘How the bloody hell are you?’ Luke shouted. He gave her no time to reply. Everything was spoken a couple of notches louder than strictly necessary, as if he were addressing an audience. ‘It’s so great to see you. I’m getting married!’

He took a skipping step forward and waved jazz hands, as if he were making an announcement on stage. Amy blinked at him.

He took a step to one side and from behind him ushered forward a blonde girl with big hair and a slender figure that somehow coexisted with an enviable pert cleavage. Behind them, a slow trickle of wedding guests began milling into the room and heading straight for the drinks trays.

‘This is Sabrina. My fiancée.’

The blonde met her gaze with narrowed eyes.

‘Angel, this is Amy,’ Luke said. ‘Just someone I used to know from my home town.’

Sabrina’s eyes instantly widened at the lack of competition and she offered a perfect white smile that could not possibly be natural.

‘Great to meet you,’ she said, holding out a perfectly- manicured hand, the nails painted a glossy shade of black cherry.

Amy shook Sabrina’s hand politely and swallowed hard to clear the dry indignant sensation that constricted her throat. Just someone I used to know. Could he be more dismissive? Rising resentment mingled with amazement at Luke’s clothes and attitude. What the hell had happened to the guitar-mad but totally normal guy she’d known?

‘Are you still in the same job?’ she asked him. ‘Session musician wasn’t it, for that recording studio.’

He stared at her aghast.

‘Babe, you mean you haven’t heard? I landed a recording contract. It must have been massive news back home.’

‘I haven’t been back home for a while,’ she pointed out. ‘I managed to land a job here. I live in London now and I’m so busy. I’m obviously not in the loop.’

He nodded as if it came as no surprise to him that she wasn’t hip to what was going on in the entertainment industry. It seemed that he’d left her behind in Purton because boring old Amy Wilson didn’t fit with his guitar ambitions once they climbed a smidgeon higher than playing the local pubs. Not that he’d bothered to tell her that of course, instead it had been all excuses about focusing on his work and not wanting to be tied down.

Sabrina excused herself and headed for the bar. As she watched, Owen Lloyd handed her a flute of champagne, his eyebrows raised in a vague impression of disapproval, undoubtedly because it wasn’t some kind of uber-modern cocktail.

‘Good news on the job,’ Luke said, and she snapped her eyes back to him. He gave her a cautious half-smile. ‘Sorry things didn’t – you know – work out between us. Back home I mean.’

‘So when did you decide that marriage was for you after all?’ she said before she could stop herself, because he’d been so utterly adamant back in the day. ‘An outdated institution, you said. ‘No need for a piece of paper, you said.’

Luke shrugged, as if a total about-face was no biggie at all.

‘It’s just… right,’ he said slowly, as if it was hard to properly capture with words.

She stared over his shoulder at the empty doorway and swallowed hard to try and clear the constriction in her throat.

The implication of that was clear of course, and she’d known it for years before she even met Luke Pemberton: Amy Wilson was obviously just wrong.

Things didn’t work out because he’d been filling in time with her while he awaited a better offer. The real question here was, why was she even surprised? Being the also-ran was the story of every facet of her life involving the regard of other people. Past relationships, home life, work colleagues, in all situations she had been the warm-up act. She’d laughably thought that her relationship with Luke had bucked that trend a little. It hadn’t felt like she’d fallen short because he’d made it clear that their break-up wasn’t down to her. Nothing personal, babe. Settling down just wasn’t on his agenda. Commitment wasn’t a part of his psyche. Except it turned out now that with the right girl, it was.

She was the wrong girl. Again. And you’d think she’d bloody well be used to it by now.

‘Forget it,’ she said. Now she’d had the chance to collect her thoughts there was no way she was going to let him know she was remotely bothered. ‘We’ve all moved on, Luke. I’ve got this amazing new management job…’ she waved her hand to take in the lounge, now buzzing with guests ‘…the last thing I’m interested in is a relationship with anyone.’

He looked relieved.

‘I’m glad, babe. Because it was – you know – fun. No hard feelings, right?’

Fun? She’d wasted a year of her life sitting in minging pubs out of misplaced loyalty. Fun wasn’t the word she’d have chosen.

‘Absolutely,’ she said. She kept her voice coldly neutral. ‘It never happened.’

To make it clear she was so not bothered, she came at him in full-force work mode.

‘Right, my aim here is to interfere with your weekend as little as possible while at the same time making the whole thing run like clockwork. I’m on call 24-7, so if I’m not in the immediate vicinity then Reception can page me. Nothing is too much trouble.’

He nodded his approval and she congratulated herself on her professionalism, pleased that her tried and tested life formula, perfected over time, now held firm even in the face of this new confirmation of her inadequacy: the three no’s, as she’d come to think of them: no emotion, no personal involvement, no distractions. This was a job and bruised feelings did not belong in it. She would treat Luke exactly like any other client.

‘One more thing, Ames,’ he said, giving her a winning smile as she made to walk away. ‘If you could just keep schtum about our…thing…when you talk to Sabrina, you’d be doing me a massive favour.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Avoid the hassle, you know how it is. Cheers, babe.’ He gave her a wink and a thumbs-up sign and sloped off to join the party.

She stared after him. So that’s what it had been between them. Fourteen months of her life that she wouldn’t get back and all along it had been a thing.

CHAPTER 2

There’s nothing like a wedding – a celebratory gathering of people you supposedly know really well – to remind you that you may have been neglecting your place on the social radar.

He might be Luke’s best man, but Owen had no clue who at least half of these people were. Then again, the Luke he knew from childhood who’d crashed on his sofa for a couple of weeks some months ago, seemed to have morphed into some kind of pseudo-celebrity since his band had been offered a deal, with a rock star wardrobe and a gang of hangers-on to boot. Owen made dutiful conversation with whoever approached the bar while he swept the room in vain for someone he knew, a member of Luke’s family perhaps. The room buzzed around him with a party atmosphere.

It was supposed to be an honour, wasn’t it? Your childhood friend getting in touch out of the blue to ask you to step up to the plate as his wing man for the most important day of his life. The thought that not necessarily meant to be the life and soul of this party, but at least to be engaged in it nagged at him. Instead he needed to make a conscious effort to keep his mind from wondering how things were going right now at his newest bar in Chelsea, despite the knowledge that he’d delegated all managerial duties for the weekend across his entire business. It could operate perfectly well without him for a couple of days.

Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to switch off.

Unable to avoid overhearing Luke’s blaring voice from feet away he picked up that the cute events manager also knew Luke from way back, not that Owen had ever encountered her before. He was sure he would have remembered. And from the look on her face the Luke she’d known was AWOL too. As he watched she glanced over at the bar.

The waiting staff had turned up but Amy was needed. Urgently by the look of the bartender, who was unable to fill champagne flutes faster than they were being snapped up by guests in full-on party mode. There was a measure of relief in being slammed back into work. She shoved the hideous sensation of not-good-enough to one side and gritted her teeth hard. The job. That was what was important right now. She was acting Events Manager here. The M-word was in her job title without the qualifying word ‘assistant’ for the first time in history. Yet another let down from her past could not be allowed to affect that.

As she’d honed her working ability, if not her whole lifestyle, by separating all emotion from practical arrangements, focusing on work was the most natural thing to do in this situation.

She manoeuvred her way through the throng of wedding guests and headed straight for the bar to check on the drinks.

‘So you know Luke?’

She glanced sideways. Owen Lloyd was standing next to her, one elbow leaning against the bar, that same shrewd smile still on his face.

‘He’s just someone I used to know from my home town,’ she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. The dismissive way Luke had described her really stuck in her craw. Not that she had any feelings for him now. Months of throwing herself into work and a fresh start move to London had put things into perspective. She was over him.

She still had the right to feel affronted.

So what had happened between them had been a bit of fun. A time-filler. Her mind now insisted on trotting out a succession of scenarios that bore this out. He’d kept up a full-on social life with his mates while dating her, never really including her in that social circle at all. She’d met his parents only once, by accident in the street. There had been no meet-the-parents Sunday roast for her. They’d never holidayed together nor even planned so much as a mini-break. The examples rolled through her mind on a loop. Her bruised feelings were her own stupid fault for reading things into the situation that simply weren’t there. His insensitivity however, was undeniable.

‘We dated for a while back in the day,’ she clarified, noticing that Owen was watching her intently. ‘It was nothing serious.’ Now wasn’t that the truth.

The bartender was still refilling glasses and Amy moved behind the bar to help, grabbing one of the champagne bottles and inexpertly wrestling with the cork, imagining it was Luke’s neck. The bloody thing refused to budge and she grappled with the bottle and forced her thumbs behind the cork.

‘You’ll take out one of the chandeliers if you do it like that,’ Owen said, taking it from her before she could protest. ‘Hold the cork and twist the bottle,’ he said. The cork popped gently out and he filled a couple of flutes before handing it to the bartender.

‘I must have loosened it,’ she said irritably.

‘You seem tense,’ he commented.

‘I am not tense. I’m never anything but calm. There is no room for emotion in wedding organisation. That’s the key to making these things running smoothly.’

She would make this weekend happen perfectly for Luke as if he was a complete stranger. Which actually in some ways, he was. She still couldn’t get over the image change.

She heaved an extra tray of champagne flutes from a storage shelf below the bar, forcing her mind to stay on task instead of doing what it wanted, which was to process this new and depressingly predictable slant on her past. There she’d been, considering herself to have one serious relationship under her belt, and the reality was that it had been no more than an overly long and inconsequential fling. Well what a perfect fit for the rest of her life thus far. She squared her shoulders and glanced around the lounge, noting carefully the lack of guests with an empty glass, checking the trays of canapés didn’t need a top up. Guests stood or sat at tables in cosy groups. There was a general buzz of upbeat conversation and laughter. Things were going fine so far.

Guest satisfaction was always at the back of her mind, and she turned to Owen, who was watching her, and pasted on a polite smile. It occurred to her now that she’d dated Luke for over a year and not only had she never met the person he’d chosen as his best man, she’d never even heard of him. It was becoming clearer and clearer that things with Luke had, in his eyes at least, never been anything more than casual at all. Had she wanted to believe that she, Amy Wilson, could sustain a long-term secure relationship so much that she’d been blind to reality? She passed a hand over her eyes, trying to think straight.

‘How do you know Luke? Are you one of his…’ she coughed pointedly, ‘…more recent friends?’

The word shallow teetered on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t use it. She began stocking extra silver trays for the waiting staff, holding each new flute up to the light and giving it a final polish before it was filled. Never letting the champagne run out was one of her standard rules. Nothing irked the guests like a badly-stocked free bar.

‘Actually I’ve known him for years.’

She stopped mid-polish in surprise.

‘Really?’

He took a sip from his own champagne glass.

‘Our parents are old friends. We used to holiday together as kids, then we lost touch for a few years when I moved away. We met up again when he needed somewhere to crash for a while a few months back when he first moved up to London.’

‘But you’re not from Wiltshire?’

‘Not that far from there actually. My parents own a farm near Bath. It’s been in our family for years.’

Farmer? She looked at him doubtfully. The expensively cut dark jacket worn over a designer graphic T-shirt. She could pick up the light, crisp and definitely expensive scent of his aftershave. He didn’t remotely fit her idea of the farmer stereotype.

‘Crops?’ she said for the sake of conversation.

He shook his head.

‘Dairy. It’s a family affair. My father runs it, my brother works on it.’

Owen could hear the stiffness in his own voice and made a conscious effort to iron it out. Family loyalty worked both ways. They might have felt affronted that he didn’t want to join the family business but he couldn’t stop the resentment at their lack of interest in his own venture.

‘And what about you? You don’t look like you’re in milk.’

He grinned.

‘That’s because I’m not. Not unless it’s mixed with alcohol anyway. I’m in the drinks industry.’

Her smile lit up her face. He found he didn’t want to look at anything else.

‘I’d never have guessed. Sales rep?’ There was a note of triumph in her voice.

He pulled a mock-offended face.

‘Please! After all the effort I made to wow you with my drinks knowledge. I own a chain of cocktail bars.

A surprised pause and then she smiled her approval.

‘I’m impressed.’

He held her gaze firmly in his.

‘Good.’

Amy’s stomach gave an unexpected warm cartwheel that took her completely by surprise and she found her eyes lingering on his instead of cutting away instantly. Heat began to creep slowly up from her ears towards her cheeks.

Just what the hell was she doing?

‘Joe, let’s have one of the waiting staff check for any empty glasses on the tables,’ she said loudly to the bartender, to make it clear to anyone watching as well as to herself that she was still actually working, even if it felt an awful lot like flirting all of a sudden. She really ought to make her excuses and move away from this man with the crinkly blue eyes and the stomach melting smile. But it was somehow just so nice to have a tiny smidgeon of male attention thrown her way after today’s reaffirmation of what her life experience had been telling her for years - that she was most certainly nothing special. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do – (which somehow made it seem even more appealing because where had doing the right thing actually got her in the last twenty four years) – she resisted the sensible urge to go and give the honeymoon suite a final check before the bride moved into it and instead got right back on with the conversation. A few minutes’ ego-boosting time-out couldn’t possibly hurt. In fact, it could even be seen as therapeutic. And there was still plenty to do here on the front line.

She opened the glass washer and began to move spent glasses from the top of the bar into its shelves.

‘So you were brought up on a farm,’ she said, wiping trays. ‘How does someone make the leap from farming to cocktail bars? The two things couldn’t be more different.’

He’d heard that exact sentiment so many times before. Was it any wonder he was reluctant to make family visits when they were underpinned by negativity? Not that he had time to schlep back home whenever he felt like it, you didn’t build a successful business by taking time off.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘My parents are completely mystified by me. They think I must be some kind of throwback because I couldn’t think of anything worse than taking over the family mantle.’

He could hear the flip sound in his own voice. It was easy to make it sound light-hearted. In reality it had been anything but. He thought for the hundredth time of the flabbergasted response from his father when he’d first touted the idea of doing anything other than stepping into his shoes when the time came.

‘It’s a very routine-based life and a massive tie,’ he said. ‘Up at four-thirty every day of the week for milking. Massive emphasis on cleanliness so major daily hygiene routines to keep to. Hard graft that doesn’t end until early evening and on top of that the constant battle for income with milk prices being driven down. It’s not an easy life.’ She looked slightly surprised at his outburst and he paused, aware that this stream of justification for his decision was still as much for himself as for anyone else. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work but that just wasn’t for me.’

‘Hard work doesn’t have to mean backbreaking physical graft,’ Amy remarked, opening a carton of orange juice and filling a few glasses. She knew that only too well. The hospitality industry was no picnic. She was constantly on her feet, the hours were unsociable and she was dealing with Joe Public, who could never see the bigger picture. If they’d paid for a weekend away, or a wedding or an event, they couldn’t care less if your supplier let you down, or a car was delayed, or if there’d been a double booking by an inept minion of a receptionist. Over Owen’s shoulder she signalled to a nearby waitress to come and refresh her dwindling drinks tray. ‘It can’t have been easy to launch a business from scratch but you’ve obviously made a success of it.’

‘The hours can be tough, I’ll admit,’ he said. ‘This weekend is a bit of an exception for me. I’d normally check out at least one of the bars, making sure everything’s running to plan. I’ve got managers in place but I’m forever on call.’ He glanced at his phone on the edge of the bar, never far from his reach. So far it had been silent. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve taken this much time out actually. I kind of feel constantly like I should be somewhere, as if I’m missing something. It’s ridiculous. I’ve spent so long building the business up that it becomes impossible to switch off. May I?’

She stared as he reached for the carton of orange juice and topped up his champagne glass with it.

‘Bucks Fizz,’ he said, as she raised eyebrows. ‘Very eighties, but what can I do? You rejected my peach Bellini idea.’

He’d managed to elicit a smile, even if it was an exasperated one. He noticed that her eyes sparkled when she did that.

‘Since you mention being forever on call, there’s a hundred things I ought to be doing right now instead of chatting to you,’ she said.

He leaned in close to her.

‘So let’s play truant together,’ he said.

She smiled at him, tilting her chin up a little as she did so. It gave her a very cute expression that made his pulse pick up lightly.

‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I only started working here a week ago. The previous wedding manager was sacked and they needed someone to take over at short notice. I happen to know one of the senior staff here and they suggested me. Big break, right?’ She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘At least it will be if I can pull off the trial period.’

‘You’re on probation?’

She nodded.

‘Yup. For a couple of months. They don’t put the word ‘probation’ or ‘on trial’ on your name badge – it makes the guests nervous. But all the same, the job isn’t really mine. Not yet. I know how the industry works. I need to make a great impression from the outset or the post will be put out to agencies before I can turn round. I need this weekend to be a raging success because all eyes are on me.’ She straightened her jacket and nodded at him. ‘And playing truant with you would be madness.’

He shrugged and picked up his glass again.

‘Sometimes a moment of madness makes life interesting, don’t you think? All that work and no play. And other clichés…’

He held her gaze in his own and her stomach gave a very slow and delicious, and extremely ill-judged flip. Probably because a moment of madness had absolutely no place in her life. Amy Wilson did not do madness. She did organisation, conscientiousness and hard graft. She’d learned at the age of seven that she couldn’t rely on other people to provide her with security. If she wanted a steady and worry-free life that wouldn’t be snatched away from her when she least expected it, she would have to get it herself.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath while the stomach skipping subsided. He really had flirting down as an art form. Then again, she supposed if you spent the majority of your life keeping customers happy from behind a bar, flirting was probably as natural to him as breathing.

‘Tempting though it is to just chat with you all day, I need to get back to it,’ she said. ‘I have to check in with the kitchen and make sure the honeymoon suite is all set before Sabrina makes her way up there.’

It was the oddest detached sensation, talking about Luke’s wedding to someone else. As if their time together had happened to someone else. She glanced at the happy couple across the room, Luke looking like some kind of stereotypical rock god, a drink in one hand and his stick-thin model wife in the other.

Think of them as just any other random couple, that was the way to do it. Think rationally, not emotionally. Remove any partiality and just get on with the job.

She took a deep breath and turned to head for the lobby.

Owen experienced an unexpected faint twist of disappointment as she walked away. He was old hat at conversations in bars – it was part of the job. The key being to listen and let your customer talk about themselves. He realised as he looked after her that for once he’d failed on that front - she knew more about him after ten minutes than he did about her. How had that happened? Bloody hell, was he so starved of interaction that wasn’t work-related that he’d blabbed his life story to the first person who asked?

He liked her. She was funny. And she was also work-obsessed. Maybe that was it - God knew he could relate to that. Without any support from his family, setting up his business from scratch really had been a solitary hard graft. He glanced around the lounge at Luke’s social circle, of whom he knew perhaps ten. His parents hadn’t been invited. Ditto any friends he remembered from his childhood. The room was full of music industry wannabes, models and hangers-on. The kind of people he was happy to have as clientele in his bars. That didn’t mean he wanted to pass the time of day with them. The weekend suddenly yawned dully ahead of him.

‘Have a drink with me later,’ he called after Amy on impulse. ‘We can toast independent workaholism.’

She turned to smile back at him.

‘I would. But I’ll most likely be working.’

CHAPTER 3

A half-hour discussion with the chef responsible for tomorrow’s wedding breakfast and Amy headed for the stairs confident that all was on track in the kitchen, and thinking through all the plans in place for tonight. This evening the wedding party would split into stag and hen groups. Sabrina and her girlfriends would spend the evening being pampered in the Lavington’s lavish spa. According to her predecessor’s notes, the groom had elected to organise his own stag night, off the premises, simply returning to the hotel at the end of the night. At least that was one thing less to worry about.

More guests were due to arrive tomorrow for the ceremony. Between then and now, Amy would be able to grab the occasional break but otherwise she needed to be on call the entire time in case there were any problems. To make things easier she was staying on site herself this weekend, in one of the sparse rooms in the staff quarters. Watchword: basic. Not a fluffy white bathrobe or basket of complimentary toiletries in sight.

Unlike the Lavington Hotel’s luxury honeymoon suite.

The door was on the third floor at the end of a thickly-carpeted corridor with fluted glass wall lamps that gave the light a soft and smoky quality. No glaring fluorescent strip lights here. The perfect romantic ambience before you even got inside the suite. She pushed the keycard into its slot.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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