Wedding Night
Page 75
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“Sir,” says Hermes in alarm. “I do not use the guest entrance, I use the kitchen entrance—”
“I don’t care which bloody entrance you use!” Ben practically yells. “Just go! Get out! Vamoose! Scram!” He’s batting Hermes toward the door as though he’s a pest, and Hermes is backing away, looking terrified, and I’m watching from the doorway, the duvet wrapped around me, and all three of us jump violently as the doorbell rings. Ben stiffens and looks around as though suspecting a trick.
“Sir.” Hermes is composing himself. “Please, sir. You permit I answer the door?”
Ben doesn’t answer. He’s breathing heavily through his nostrils. He glances at me and I give an agonized shrug. The doorbell rings again.
“Please, sir,” repeats Hermes. “You permit I answer the door?”
“Go on, then,” says Ben, glowering. “Answer it. But no cleaners. No turndown service, no turnup service, no champagne, no fruit, and no bloody harps.”
“Very good, sir,” says Hermes, eyeing him anxiously. “You permit me.”
Hermes edges past Ben, into the lobby, and opens the door. In sweeps Nico, followed by the six workmen from last night.
“Good morning, Mr. Parr, Mrs. Parr!” he breezes. “I trust you slept well? A thousand apologies for last night. But I have good news! We have come to change your bed.”
13
LOTTIE
This can’t be happening. We’ve been turfed out of our own honeymoon suite.
What is wrong with them? I’ve never seen such an inept crew in my life. They unscrewed the legs of one bed, shuffled it round, and lifted it up and pronounced it too big, then Nico suggested they screw the legs back on and start again … and all the time Ben was simmering to a boil.
At last he started yelling so loudly, the workmen gathered protectively around Nico. To his credit, Nico kept his cool, even when Ben started brandishing the hair dryer. Nico asked if we would please leave the suite while the workmen were operational and perhaps we would enjoy a complimentary à la carte breakfast on the veranda?
That was two hours ago. There’s only so much à la carte breakfast you can eat. We’ve been back to the room to get our beach stuff and there are still people in there, all peering at the beds and scratching their heads. The room is full of bed legs and headboards and a super-king mattress propped up against the wall. Apparently it’s the “wrong kind of bed.” What does that even mean?
“How hard can it be to swap a couple of beds?” says Ben with a furious scowl, as we head toward the beach. “Are they morons?”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Ludicrous.”
We pause by the entrance to the beach. It’s quite something. Blue sea, golden sand, rows of the plushiest sun beds I’ve ever seen, white umbrellas billowing in the breeze, and waiters hurrying around with drinks on trays. Any other day, I’d be salivating at the sight.
But there’s only one thing I want right now. And it’s not a suntan.
“They should have given us another room,” says Ben for the hundredth time. “We should be suing.”
As soon as they asked us to leave, Ben requested a substitute room, and for one heavenly moment I thought everything was going to work out after all. We could disappear into a spare room, have a wonderful morning together, emerge in time for lunch.… But, no, Nico wrung his hands and said he was devastated and mortified but the hotel was fully booked, could he offer sir a complimentary hot-air-balloon ride instead?
A complimentary bloody hot-air-balloon ride. I thought Ben was going to throttle him.
As we’re pausing by the towel stand, I become aware of a presence lurking. It’s Georgios. Where did he appear from? Has he been following us? Is this all part of the service? I nudge Ben, and he raises his eyebrows.
“Madame,” says Georgios gravely. “May I help you with your towels?”
“Oh. Um, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I don’t really need help, but it would be rude to tell him to go away.
Georgios collects two towels and we follow a beach attendant to a pair of sun beds facing the sea. Lots of guests are already ensconced, and there’s a smell of sun cream in the air. Waves are washing gently onto the beach. This is fairly blissful, I have to admit.
Between them, the beach attendant and Georgios are laying out our towels with military precision.
“Bottled water.” Georgios sets a chiller on our table. “Should I open the cap for madame?”
“Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll have some later. Thanks so much, Georgios. That will be all for now. Thank you.” I sit down on a bed, and Ben takes the other. I kick off my flip-flops, peel off my caftan top, lean back, and close my eyes, hoping this will give the message to Georgios. A moment later a shadow crosses my eyelids and I open them. To my disbelief, Georgios is neatly straightening my flip-flops and folding up my caftan.
“I don’t care which bloody entrance you use!” Ben practically yells. “Just go! Get out! Vamoose! Scram!” He’s batting Hermes toward the door as though he’s a pest, and Hermes is backing away, looking terrified, and I’m watching from the doorway, the duvet wrapped around me, and all three of us jump violently as the doorbell rings. Ben stiffens and looks around as though suspecting a trick.
“Sir.” Hermes is composing himself. “Please, sir. You permit I answer the door?”
Ben doesn’t answer. He’s breathing heavily through his nostrils. He glances at me and I give an agonized shrug. The doorbell rings again.
“Please, sir,” repeats Hermes. “You permit I answer the door?”
“Go on, then,” says Ben, glowering. “Answer it. But no cleaners. No turndown service, no turnup service, no champagne, no fruit, and no bloody harps.”
“Very good, sir,” says Hermes, eyeing him anxiously. “You permit me.”
Hermes edges past Ben, into the lobby, and opens the door. In sweeps Nico, followed by the six workmen from last night.
“Good morning, Mr. Parr, Mrs. Parr!” he breezes. “I trust you slept well? A thousand apologies for last night. But I have good news! We have come to change your bed.”
13
LOTTIE
This can’t be happening. We’ve been turfed out of our own honeymoon suite.
What is wrong with them? I’ve never seen such an inept crew in my life. They unscrewed the legs of one bed, shuffled it round, and lifted it up and pronounced it too big, then Nico suggested they screw the legs back on and start again … and all the time Ben was simmering to a boil.
At last he started yelling so loudly, the workmen gathered protectively around Nico. To his credit, Nico kept his cool, even when Ben started brandishing the hair dryer. Nico asked if we would please leave the suite while the workmen were operational and perhaps we would enjoy a complimentary à la carte breakfast on the veranda?
That was two hours ago. There’s only so much à la carte breakfast you can eat. We’ve been back to the room to get our beach stuff and there are still people in there, all peering at the beds and scratching their heads. The room is full of bed legs and headboards and a super-king mattress propped up against the wall. Apparently it’s the “wrong kind of bed.” What does that even mean?
“How hard can it be to swap a couple of beds?” says Ben with a furious scowl, as we head toward the beach. “Are they morons?”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Ludicrous.”
We pause by the entrance to the beach. It’s quite something. Blue sea, golden sand, rows of the plushiest sun beds I’ve ever seen, white umbrellas billowing in the breeze, and waiters hurrying around with drinks on trays. Any other day, I’d be salivating at the sight.
But there’s only one thing I want right now. And it’s not a suntan.
“They should have given us another room,” says Ben for the hundredth time. “We should be suing.”
As soon as they asked us to leave, Ben requested a substitute room, and for one heavenly moment I thought everything was going to work out after all. We could disappear into a spare room, have a wonderful morning together, emerge in time for lunch.… But, no, Nico wrung his hands and said he was devastated and mortified but the hotel was fully booked, could he offer sir a complimentary hot-air-balloon ride instead?
A complimentary bloody hot-air-balloon ride. I thought Ben was going to throttle him.
As we’re pausing by the towel stand, I become aware of a presence lurking. It’s Georgios. Where did he appear from? Has he been following us? Is this all part of the service? I nudge Ben, and he raises his eyebrows.
“Madame,” says Georgios gravely. “May I help you with your towels?”
“Oh. Um, thanks,” I say awkwardly. I don’t really need help, but it would be rude to tell him to go away.
Georgios collects two towels and we follow a beach attendant to a pair of sun beds facing the sea. Lots of guests are already ensconced, and there’s a smell of sun cream in the air. Waves are washing gently onto the beach. This is fairly blissful, I have to admit.
Between them, the beach attendant and Georgios are laying out our towels with military precision.
“Bottled water.” Georgios sets a chiller on our table. “Should I open the cap for madame?”
“Don’t worry. Maybe I’ll have some later. Thanks so much, Georgios. That will be all for now. Thank you.” I sit down on a bed, and Ben takes the other. I kick off my flip-flops, peel off my caftan top, lean back, and close my eyes, hoping this will give the message to Georgios. A moment later a shadow crosses my eyelids and I open them. To my disbelief, Georgios is neatly straightening my flip-flops and folding up my caftan.
