Chapter 3
It’s official, alarm clocks and hangovers are mortal enemies. They can never be friends.
Josh: Did you get in okay?
I’d had three hours of sleep. Not great, not terrible. I could probably survive the day on that.
‘Why?’ I said into my pillow, my disgustingly acidic breath making me want to gag.
It would have been a much calmer evening if I had just had that one cup of mulled wine with Josh, as we said we would.
But then one turned into two, as my embarrassment over insulting the busker overcame me.
And then, open to suggestion through the headiness of alcohol, I was convinced by Josh to go to Heaven after all.
Needless to say, my Friday night was not spent clipping my nails in my hotel, but singing ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ with two drag queens and a BDSM enthusiast. The chains were great for percussion.
Groaning, I peeled myself off the bed. Last night’s clothes clung to me like a bad decision, and I desperately needed a shower and any kind of hydration.
Shrugging off the straps of my dress, I shuffled around the room collecting my washbag and a slightly damp towel from the back of a chair, waiting for my dress to fall before I reached the bathroom.
I still had tights on and, with a hangover-induced lack of care, I hooked a finger into an already trashy ladder and ripped them off me Hulk-style.
If this were a romance novel, it might’ve seemed sexy, but in reality – panda eyes down to my chin – it was nothing short of vulgar.
The shower lasted longer than usual – I needed it – but, by the time I stepped out, I felt marginally human again.
By 7.30, I was dressed in a classic Evie Frost ensemble: black jeans with flower patches hand-sewn onto the back pockets, an extra-fluffy jumper that shed like a nervous cat, and for a festive – if unprofessional – touch, a Santa hat with diamante sparkles.
You couldn’t miss me in a crowd, even in Christmas-mobbed Leicester Square.
I grabbed my phone, holding it up in selfie mode.
‘Good morning, my lovelies! Today is a very exciting day – it’s the first of many tech rehearsals,’ I said, channelling my inner Anna from Frozen.
‘I’ve got a great feeling about today, and I can’t wait to take you along with me.
So, without further ado, let’s get going!
’ I saved the video, popped the phone into my bag, and promptly downed a bottle of water, two paracetamol, and rubbed a liberal dose of menthol headache balm onto my forehead.
‘Good morning!’ The hotel receptionist greeted me at the front desk as I came downstairs with my oversized handbag and my gaze deep in my phone, looking at today’s itinerary.
‘Morning, Andy!’
‘Busy day ahead?’
‘Yes. Lots more guests arriving for the holidays today.’
I paused at the exit to face him. ‘Good luck! I hope they’re not humbug.’
He chuckled. ‘I hope so too.’
I stepped out of the automatic doors and emerged onto the street.
London in the early morning had a specific kind of magic.
It was too early for the masses to have descended into the city centre, but there was an air of anticipation.
Porters and security guards were setting up signs outside the National Gallery, artisans and chefs were arranging their festive stalls in nearby Trafalgar Square, and a street sweeper was whistling ‘Step into Christmas’ as he picked up crisp packets and beer cans with his grabber on the corner of the road.
‘Morning!’ I shouted, as I pulled out my headphones – which also acted as earmuffs – and walked past, taking a quick video of my surroundings. The sweeper looked up, startled by my cheer.
As I made my way from St Martin’s Lane towards the Strand, I slipped on my headphones and hit ‘Play’ on my signature Christmas playlist. Wham!, Mariah Carey, the Ronettes, and Brenda Lee crooned into my ears as I hummed down the street.
I had plenty of tasks to tackle before meeting Pim at the Savoy at 9.
00. First, her dry-cleaning, then breakfast, followed by a quick trip to the newsagent’s for her essential reading material, as she can’t eat breakfast without the latest news from gossip magazines, despite me showing her time and time again how to use Instagram.
The dry cleaners weren’t technically open for another two hours, but years of working for someone like Pim had taught me to make inconvenience feel worthwhile.
And I found a genuine smile, an easy-to-deal-with attitude, and a generous tip was more than enough to make people feel comfortable doing the odd favour for a relatively well-known figure, even if they were really just dealing with me.
I might have seemed to pop up out of nowhere, but being polite, grateful, and mindful of people’s time went a long way, and I genuinely enjoyed getting to know them.
As I approached the shop, the dry-cleaner was already outside, cigarette in hand, smoke curling into the frosty air.
‘Aha! You’re late,’ he said, glancing at his watch. It was 8.05.
‘I was letting you have a lie-in,’ I replied, following him into the shop, where his perpetually bored teenage daughter perched on the counter with three large dry-cleaning bags draped over her lap.
‘Here you are,’ he said, sweeping the bags off her knees and gesturing to her to get down. She rolled her eyes and slouched into the chair behind the counter.
‘You’re a dream,’ I said, juggling the weighty bags while fumbling to open my phone’s card function to tap his machine.
‘When should I expect the next lot?’
‘Probably the day after tomorrow. She’s going shopping and she hates wearing clothes others might have tried on until they’ve been properly cleaned.’
He tore the receipt from the machine and handed it to me with a bemused shake of his head. ‘You know what we call that kind of person? A diva.’
‘I thought you had heard of Pim Hardcastle.’
He smirked, pausing to hold the door open for me. ‘Until the day after tomorrow then.’
‘You can catch up on some sleep in the meantime,’ I said, shifting the bags.
‘Me? How about you?’
‘Wouldn’t that be nice.’ I waved awkwardly and made my way further down the Strand to a tiny bistro tucked into a side street.
Its front was dark and uninviting, the closed sign still firmly in place, so I slipped round the back.
Like the dry cleaners, I had spent some time coaxing my way into the kitchen of a well-rated, family-run restaurant, reliant on light-hearted humour and easy-going discussions about my time in Greece to make the owners feel excited about cooking for the one and only Pim Hardcastle.
A goods-in door was open. Over my headphones, I caught snatches of a Greek rock band blasting from within the kitchen.
‘Michalis!’ I called out. ‘Michalis!’
The sous-chef looked up mid-grill, spatula in hand.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, flipping the halloumi expertly. ‘You here for breakfast?’
‘For Pim’s breakfast. She said what she had last time was…’ I hesitated, translating Pim’s passable and filling into something more complimentary. ‘Delicious. The cheese pie with nuts and honey?’
‘Sfakianopita.’
‘That’s the one.’ I hoped it was the one. I may have spent three sunny months living in a hostel with a fantastic view of the Acropolis, but I had never mastered the basics of the beautiful Greek language.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said, turning back to the stove.
‘Fabulous. I’ll grab her coffee and come back.’
‘Got it.’ He reached for the volume knob, already tuning me out.
Michalis wasn’t the chatty type, but he did love a compliment.
After discovering his restaurant during a Pim-mandated quest for the best Greek food in London, I’d charmed my way into early-morning kitchen privileges with lavish praise and hefty tips.
It turns out money and flattery really can open doors.
Pim’s coffee order was mercifully easy to fetch: a blisteringly hot, skinny caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso from Starbucks. The line was non-existent at this early hour on a weekend, sparing me the usual commuter chaos.
On the way back to the restaurant, with the coffee in one hand, dry-cleaning draped over my arm, and my oversized handbag balanced precariously on my shoulder, I ducked into a newsagent’s to gather the necessary literature that Pim expected every morning.
Somehow, I managed to stack them onto my already overflowing load.
There was no way to record this portion of my morning with all the items in my hands.
Back at Achilles & Sons, Michalis was waiting with a Styrofoam box in one hand and the card reader in the other.
‘Thank you so much.’ I tapped my well-worn phone and added the breakfast to my tower of burdens.
Balancing everything, I headed down the Strand towards the Savoy.
Thankfully, the walk wasn’t as far as, say, crossing Central Park or the Opéra district in Paris.
The familiar sight of the hotel was like a finish line, and I practically collapsed through the revolving doors, greeted by the ever-efficient bellman, who immediately relieved me of my load.
‘Morning, Miss Frost,’ Tony, the doorman, said with a nod, echoed by Charles, the concierge.
‘Good morning!’ I said breathlessly, handing over everything but the coffee to the bellman. ‘Charles, did the plate and cutlery make it to Pim’s room?’ Even with a hangover, I had a good feeling about today and no amount of hard work was going to dampen my spirits.
‘They’ll be on a trolley outside the room.’
‘Wonderful, and would it be possible to book a taxi for 9.40? We need to get to the Southbank Centre at 10.00 on the dot.’
‘I’ll organise that for you now,’ Charles said, reaching for the phone.
‘Amazing, and can you…’
‘I will call up to Miss Hardcastle’s room at 9.20 to say the car has arrived,’ he finished smoothly, cutting me off with a knowing smile.
‘Brilliant, you’re a gem.’ Pim never left her room on time, ever.
‘Thank you, Miss Frost.’ His eyes flicked to my sweater, his expression warming. ‘Fantastic jumper.’