Chapter 11
‘But why? How?’ My instinct is to run after the coach.
I don’t want to be treated any differently.
We’re supposed to be a team. One big happy family.
Well, except for the poor musicians who are herded into the Premier Inn everywhere we go.
And their coach doesn’t have a toilet or TV screens or a drinks service.
And they don’t get anywhere near the pay that we singers do.
But apart from that, we’re all in it together.
Now it seems only Luke and I are in it together.
Segregated from the rest. ‘There must be some mistake. Quick, call Dolly. Tell them to come back.’
Luke gives me a sheepish smile. ‘Well, I’m happy to stay here.
It’s an amazing hotel. There’s a spa. A music room for practising.
A private dining room. Massage therapy treatments.
Hot tubs. Serene grounds to walk in. We are here for three nights, remember?
Back-to-back shows can be very demanding. This place has everything we need.’
I gulp. It certainly does have everything.
As I cast my eyes around, it has everything that a couple of loved-up, randy honeymooners could possibly need.
The place is positively oozing charm and lavish decadence.
And it would be a complete first for me.
Liam is always saying I should step out of my comfort zone.
And this is as far from a comfortable, budget hotel as you can get.
Once we’re checked in, the concierge shows us to our rooms. Big old wooden doors creak open as we pass along ancient corridors lined with warm, plush carpets and stone walls.
Windows offer peeks of the beautiful grounds and glimpses of York Minster as we walk along.
Talk about atmospheric. This place is fit for kings and queens.
No wonder Luke seems to fit right in. We come to an abrupt halt.
‘Your room keys, madam. And sir.’ He holds out two old heavy metal keys, each with a leather-covered key ring embossed with the hotel logo and room number in gold leaf.
Our rooms are right next to one another.
‘When the luggage arrives, freshen up, and we’ll take a tour of York together before lunch. There’s something you must see,’ Luke says, disappearing into his room with a loud creak as the door shuts behind him.
I glance at the concierge. He must be used to wandering dignitaries issuing orders. Well, I’m not. I won’t be bossed around by anyone. Especially not handsome co-workers with a potentially hidden agenda.
‘Maybe,’ I say to the closed door. ‘I’ll see how I feel.’
The concierge smiles politely as my words hang in the air, and he walks me into my room.
Oh. My. God.
The walls are lined with expensive-looking mustard wallpaper with beautifully drawn branches, flowers and brightly coloured peacocks.
Bookshelves line the main wall on either side of a grand fireplace.
A huge deluxe four-poster bed dominates the room with gleaming walnut pillars and soft silk drapes at the head.
It is like something out of a swanky wedding magazine.
‘Are you sure this is the right room?’
The concierge says nothing but walks over to the bookshelf to the right of the fireplace and presses on it.
I see that it is not a bookshelf but a secret door leading to a very sumptuous en suite.
It has a huge, deep, free-standing copper bath in front of a massive sash window overlooking York Minster.
What an incredible view. I’m drawn to the neat rows of bottles.
Expensive hair and skin products line the shelves.
Piles of fluffy white towels tower beside the bath.
More soaps and potions sit by the large double sink.
The smells blooming out are incredible. It’s like wandering through Fenwick’s perfume counter.
I feel like running a hot bath just so I can pour them all in and soak in the expensive bubbles.
‘The rest of your luggage will arrive imminently and be unpacked for you,’ says the concierge. ‘Anything you need, just ask.’
As soon as the concierge has gone, there’s a knock at my door.
It must be the porter with my luggage. I will ask him if all the chocolates by the tea and coffee machine are free because they are from an artisanal chocolatier and must cost a fortune.
Ditto the bathroom things and ditto the minibar.
I have no idea. I also need my dress dry-cleaned and ready for tonight now that Dolly is not here to sort things out for me.
I pull open the door, expecting to see a trolley with my cases, but Luke is leaning casually in the doorway, slightly unkempt, messy hair, an unnecessarily sexy air about him.
‘Room okay?’ he asks, casting his eye around.
I will stop him in his tracks. There’s no way I have time to go exploring. Not when I have a Vegas pre-moon to organise on top of everything else. He’s about to step across the threshold when I yelp, ‘Ready to go?’
Oh my word! I didn’t even want to go exploring with him, but I feel that’s a better option than him coming into my room. My bedroom. Where there’s a huge four-poster bed everywhere you turn.
Luke bows elaborately. ‘As you wish.’
Like this is somehow my idea? I am panic-deciding instead of being more focused and standing my ground. I have a million things to do and not much time to do them.
I lock the door behind me. I will sort the dry cleaning out later.
And the shopping for the Las Vegas outfits.
And the research for the pre-moon spree will have to be done after the performance tonight.
Things will have to be booked in advance, so I need to check in with Nancy about which nights we are singing and where, so that I can book restaurants and VIP areas for us.
I will also have to check that we will be allowed into America looking like porn star versions of Barbie and Ken. The list is endless!
‘Okay, what did you want to show me? But make it quick because I have things to do,’ I say, sounding a bit like an ungrateful brat.
I see a hurt expression cross Luke’s face.
‘Sorry,’ I quickly apologise. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.
I guess I’m still on edge. It’s not every day you’re accused of…
being in a love triangle. In the national newspapers.
It’s just all been a bit surreal.’ I chew my lip as I study him.
Suddenly, the weight of the past two bonkers days and the next few bonkers weeks that lie ahead falls heavily onto my shoulders.
Luke remains quiet for a while.
‘I’m truly sorry you’ve been dragged into this. I’d like to explain.’
‘Sure,’ I inwardly sigh. I’m not sure in the slightest. The more personal distance we can keep the better. ‘Okay.’
* * *
A short while later, Luke and I are wandering through the cobbled lanes of York, taking in the sights, the beamed architecture on wonky old houses and shops that are centuries old and straight out of Harry Potter.
The place is so charming and atmospheric that I forget he has yet to explain himself.
I am catapulted back to a time when my parents first brought me here.
We had such fun finding the many cat statues that dot the rooftops and chimneys.
‘Did you know some of the cats date back to medieval times?’ Luke says, catching me staring at one of the cats on the eaves of a shop as I’m lost in thought. ‘Supposed to scare off rats and pigeons, but I like to think they are there to bring good luck.’
That’s what my mother once told me. A warm image of her hugging me pops into my mind. I can almost feel her arms around me.
‘How come you know York so well? Do you live here in England? Have you been with the Sinfonia long?’ I’m curious to know. ‘I can’t trace any Norwegian accent.’
‘I’ll tell you over lunch,’ Luke says with a warm smile.
‘I am starving,’ I say. ‘I skipped breakfast.’
‘Also, probably my fault,’ he says. ‘Bet you didn’t think these classical tours would be so full of drama.’
‘Or scary Maestros. What is his deal?’
‘Ah, Krzystzof. He’s not without his own salacious gossip either. The tales I have heard about him!’
I have to admit, Luke is very easy company. Maybe I have been too hasty to judge. Maybe the frisson between us is all in my head. Maybe he views me as nothing more than a platonic co-worker that he once saved from being flattened by a bus.
‘Seeing as it is such a lovely day, would you like to take lunch al fresco?’ Luke asks.
‘Lovely,’ I say. The more open and public the space, and the more platonic, the better.
‘The hotel has great private dining options.’
Gawd. I’m about to protest politely when he qualifies his statement.
‘In case there are press lurking around with microphones,’ he says, gazing about. ‘You can’t be too careful.’
It sounds too reasonable to object to, so I walk with him back to the hotel.
When we reach reception, he asks for the summer house private dining.
We are shown through the elaborate grounds to a glass gazebo with a beautifully made-up dining table for two.
Ornate flowers weave in and out of strings of lights strung up around the antique-looking brass and glass structure.
The menu is as exquisite as the surroundings.
Once we have ordered elaborate-sounding salads containing quail eggs, pomegranate seeds and mozzarella pearls in a cress and cucumber foam, Luke picks up his napkin and gently shakes it out.
I find myself doing the same. I sit up straight and try to appear interesting and posh.
This whole place is a bit much and has me on edge.
‘Wine?’ he says. ‘Just a tiny drop to cleanse the palate?’
I really shouldn’t, but I feel nervous around him now that we are enduring what many would call intimate fine dining for two. Plus, I’m still vaguely haunted by that rude dream I had last night that he featured pretty heavily in.
I nod. ‘Just a small one.’