Chapter 13
THREE TABLES WERE LAID in the dining room that night. (Very slowly, by Audrey, who forgot to put out the water jugs despite being asked five times.)
On the first table were Chloe and Leonard, who’d arrived for their two-night stay that afternoon with five suitcases. Chloe looked like someone who modelled bikinis on Instagram. Leonard looked like the sort of man who’d go out with someone who modelled bikinis on Instagram: square head, muscled, potentially unable to string full sentences together.
On the second table were two women from Esher, Liz and Tina. They did not look like bikini models; they were large and red-faced and every few seconds one of them erupted into hoots of laughter.
The guest for the third table hadn’t come downstairs yet. While Maggie and Jamie were shopping in the village earlier that day, it transpired that the American woman on the phone was the assistant to an American man, who’d arrived early and had somehow managed to check in with Audrey.
Audrey had started relaying this information as soon as Maggie returned from the village but she’d quickly cut her off: ‘Audrey, I’m sure it’s fine. I don’t mind whether it’s a man or a woman or a unicorn as long as they pay the bill. Can you help Jamie with the shopping?’
Three courses made, Maggie was now standing over Chloe and Leonard’s table answering questions about the menu.
‘What does this say?’ asked Chloe, pointing at the starter.
‘Duck croquettes,’ replied Maggie.
Chloe tossed her blonde hair extensions over her shoulder and squealed with laughter. ‘That’s a relief because I thought it said dick, didn’t I, Leonard? Didn’t I say I thought it said dick croquettes? But duck, gorgeous , I can eat duck.’
‘Great, and if you’re fine for drin—’
‘What’s this one?’ Chloe moved her finger down the page to the main course.
‘Sea bream, which is a white fish, pan fried, and it comes with ratatouille and tomato coulis.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Sea bream?’
‘No, the other thing. Rat?’
‘Ratatouille?’
‘Yeah. Is that rat? I’m not eating rat.’
‘No,’ Maggie replied, wondering if hair extensions affected the brain, ‘it’s vegetables, like a vegetable stew, with courgettes and aubergines.’
‘Thank God for that. Didn’t I say, Len, that I thought it was rat? Because they eat all sorts here, don’t they? Snails and horse and such. And then the dessert …’
‘Is chocolate tart,’ said Maggie, glancing at Leonard, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’d been practising the proposal line over and over again in his head so he didn’t forget it. It was only four words, he kept telling himself, ‘Will you marry me?’ But they were quite important words and he felt clammy with nerves. And his suit was too tight around his thighs. And the ring box was bulging in his right pocket and he didn’t know when to give it over to one of the staff to put in the dessert. Leonard didn’t want them to lose it, but also he wanted the moment to be perfect. Proposing in real life seemed much more stressful than it looked in films.
He reached for his napkin and wiped his forehead as Maggie moved to the other table of guests.
‘Evening, ladies, are you OK for drinks?’
‘I’d love another Champagne,’ said Liz.
‘And me,’ said Tina.
‘Not a problem. And do you have any questions about tonight’s dinner?’
‘No,’ said Liz, ‘sounds grand. But can we have a gander at the wine list?’
‘Absolutely, I’ll send the waitress out.’
Maggie hurried back to the kitchen where Jamie was chopping parsley.
‘Where’s Audrey?’
He nodded at the back door.
‘Audrey? Can you take Liz and Tina another glass of Champagne? And the wine list?’
No reply.
‘And take the water jugs out?’
‘I’ll do the water jugs,’ offered Jamie.
He ferried them through while Maggie plated up the croquettes, carefully placing each one beside a fistful of bright-green lamb’s lettuce, before drizzling them with cherry reduction. And when he returned, she nodded at the plates. ‘Can you take these out?’ she asked, before smiling to herself. It was like the old days when they were twenty-somethings, sweating in the Soho kitchen.
As Maggie unwrapped the bream, Audrey reappeared through the back door.
‘Good of you to join us, can you take the Champagne through to the two ladies, please?’
Audrey trudged back from the pantry, holding a bottle of fizzy water.
‘No, Audrey! Not water!’
‘You say water, Maggie. And now I get the water but you say Champagne!’
‘I said water before but now I need yo—’
The kitchen door crashed open to reveal Jamie holding a plate of croquettes. ‘Don’t need this one, the guest isn’t down.’
‘Where the hell is he? I need to get the fish on. Audrey, yes, exactly, well done, that’s the Champagne. Please can you go and give the two women another glass and take them the wine list at the same time?’
‘Maybe he’s dead?’
Maggie looked up from the fish. ‘Jamie!’
‘It happens in hotels, doesn’t it, statistically?’
‘It’s never happened here.’
‘Your aunt died here.’
‘That’s different.’
‘And Whitney Houston died in a hotel.’
‘Again, I wouldn’t say that’s exactly the same.’
‘Want me to go up and knock on his door?’
‘No, it’s all right, I know which room he’s in. Do you mind getting this going? I’m pan frying it.’
‘Easy. And do you want a drink?’
‘Not until dinner’s over,’ Maggie shouted over her shoulder, hurrying towards the staircase. It was her rule: no drinking until service was done. Unlike her aunt.
She took the stairs two-by-two but, just before she knocked on the door, her hand froze. What if he was dead? That was all she needed. A hotel that was nearly a million euros in debt, a photographer arriving the next day and a corpse in Juniper.
She was being ridiculous.
Maggie knocked lightly on the door.
No answer.
She tried again, slightly harder.
No answer.
‘Hello? I’m sorry to disturb, but dinner’s served. If you want any?’
No reply.
‘Hello? Are you OK—’
‘I don’t want any dinner,’ came a low, American voice.
‘Oh, OK,’ she replied, taken aback by his abruptness. ‘Can I bring anything up? Can I get you a drin—’
‘No, nothing, like I just said.’
Maggie frowned at the door. There was abrupt and there was plain rude. ‘OK, I’ll just … leave a plate out so come down if you fancy it.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t need dinner. I need to be left alone.’
Her frown turned to a scowl of outrage. What an asshole .
‘Alive?’ asked Jamie when she reappeared in the kitchen.
‘Alive but an asshole.’
‘Just my type,’ he replied, stepping back from the oven. ‘Bream looks good.’